The Shoot
By the Masked Writer
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The air in the arena was as thick as soup with smells of stale beer, cheap perfume, and a roaring, anticipatory lust. Two thousand pair of eyes, packed into the sweatbox of the old Grand Horizon, were here for one reason: to watch two beautiful, fragile creatures try to destroy each other. I, the Masked Writer, was the architect of this glorious little piece of modern theatre. They called me in because a simple spat wouldn’t do. This needed narrative. This needed a stage. This needed a main event.
It all began, as these things often do, with vanity and self-delusion. A wrestling-themed photoshoot for some high-end rag. Two long-limbed gazelles, Lyra and Tanya, posing in tights and boots, pretending to be warriors. The friction soon started. A misplaced elbow, a sneered comment about a girl’s “look,” and the delicate facade of professional camaraderie shattered into a million glittering pieces. Backstage, the threats were not of lawyers, as one would expect, but of physical violence, the kind they’d just been mimicking for a camera.
Their managers, real vultures these two, saw not a problem, but an opportunity. A media event. A feud. And who better to give it a script, a venue, and a villainous moniker than me? I gave them a three-week crash course with a washed-up old female grappler, a woman who taught them the shapes of wrestling if not the substance. She taught them the lock-up, the armbar, the full nelson and so on. She taught them how to fall, a lesson their slender frames absorbed with wincing reluctance.
Now, the lesson was over. The exam was about to begin.
The lights dimmed, and a single, blood-red spotlight hit the entrance ramp. The first note of a pulsing, angry synth track ripped through the noise. Tanya emerged. At nineteen, she was a vision of burgeoning womanhood, all long, flaming red hair that cascaded down her back and legs that seemed to go on forever. At 5'11" and 118 pounds, she was built like a reed, all elegant lines and no substance, cocaine chic they call it. Her attire was a cruel joke on the context: a crimson, one-piece swimsuit cut high on the hips and plunging at the chest, revealing more breastbone than actual breast, the material barely clinging to her slender frame. Her biceps, if you could call them that, were a mere 9.5 inches of pale skin stretched over delicate bone. She looked less like a fighter and more like a victim. The crowd roared, a primal sound of appreciation and anticipation. She slid into the ring, her movements graceful but she could not hide a certain unease.
The lights died again. This time, a jagged, industrial guitar riff screeched to life. The spotlight, now a stark, predatory white, found Lyra. She was twenty-two, older by a few years but infinitely more composed. Short, dark hair was slicked back from a severe, beautiful face. Her eyes, black and obsidian, scanned the crowd not with fear, but with a chilling disdain. She was an inch taller than Tanya, and every bit of her 120 pounds was wired with a nervous, aggressive energy. Her attire was a study in contrast: a matte black, vinyl-looking sports bra and matching short-shorts that left her long, sinewy arms and legs completely exposed. Her 10-inch biceps were a fraction more defined than Tanya’s, but they were still the slender arms of a fashion model. She walked like a panther with a lot more confidence than Tanya. She didn’t slide into the ring; she stepped up the stairs and through the ropes, her movements sharp, economical, and filled with purpose.
In the center stood Jack, the referee. A fifty-year-old man with a worn face and a belly that strained against his striped shirt. He’d seen it all. He knew this wasn’t about sport; it was about spectacle. I knew, and so did he, that his lax enforcement of the rules would be part of the show. He gave them the perfunctory instructions, which they both ignored, their eyes locked in a stare-down that crackled with genuine hatred. The bell rang, a sharp clang that was the starting gun for their mutual destruction.
After circling around each other like they were not sure what to do next, they finally met in the center with a clumsy lock-up. It was less a test of strength and more an awkward, grappling dance. Their slender fingers slipped against each other’s sweat-slicked skin. There was no power here, just a frantic, shoving match. Lyra, fueled by her spite, broke first, yanking Tanya forward by a handful of that red hair and driving a forearm into her chest. There wasn’t much power but a lot of meanness. Tanya stumbled back with a gasp, more surprised than hurt, a red patch already blooming on her pale skin.
The crowd roared its approval. They were already in a frenzy, half bloodthirsty and half sexually aroused.
Lyra pressed her advantage, herding Tanya into the ropes. She didn’t whip her; she simply pushed her, then grab her by an arme, turned her around and pressed down on Tanya’s neck with her forearm, choking her on the top rope. Tanya’s eyes went wide, her hands fluttering up to claw at Lyra’s arm, but there was no strength in her grip. Her throat was a delicate column, and the pressure was immense as Lyra, put one foot on the bottom rope, and placed a knee on Tanya's protruding shoulder blades to increase the pressure even further. Jack ambled over, administering a languid, four-count before Lyra released the hold with a shove. Tanya slumped against the ropes, coughing, a line of redness already marking her lily-white skin.
For the first five minutes, it was a pattern. Lyra, vicious and relentless, would land a flurry of weak, slapping punches. They sounded like wet fish hitting a counter, but on Tanya’s unprotected body, they left pink welts. An open-handed slap to the face echoed through the arena, stinging not just in impact but in insult. Lyra then tried an armbar, contorting Tanya’s skinny limb into an agonizing angle. She pulled back, her own shoulder shaking with the effort, her bicep straining uselessly. She had the technique but not the muscle. Tanya whimpered as if her arm was being pulled from its socket, and after a few seconds of excruciating pressure, Lyra’s own exhaustion forced her to release the grip.
But Tanya was not entirely a victim. A surge of adrenaline, a spark of self-preservation, fired within her. As Lyra lunged for another clumsy attack, Tanya sidestepped and drove a punch straight into Lyra’s solar plexus. It wasn’t a boxer’s blow, but it was solid, aimed perfectly, if by pure luck. The air rushed out of Lyra’s lungs with an audible whoosh. Her black eyes widened in shock, and she folded, clutching her stomach. For the first time, she looked vulnerable.
The crowd gasped, then cheered. The underdog had drawn blood.
Tanya, sensing a shift, scrambled to take advantage. She grabbed Lyra's arm and wrenched it behind her back into a chicken wing. Lyra gasped, her face pressed against the canvas. Tanya’s breathing was ragged, her slender body already trembling with the exertion. She pushed, trying to inflict pain, but her hold was weak. Still, it was something. She transitioned, trying to wrap her arms around Lyra’s waist and up for a full nelson. His long arms allowed her to easily join her hands behind Lyra's neck, but she lacked the muscles to maintain the hold. Her fingers kept slipping under Lyra’s frantic attempt to break the hold. For a moment, Tanya had it, her chin hooked over Lyra’s head, pulling back. It was an awkward, breathless position, but it put strain on Lyra’s neck and spine. Lyra grunted, her feet scrabbling for purchase on the mat.
But Tanya’s stamina was failing, a flickering candle in a hurricane. Her arms burned. Her lungs screamed. The hold dissolved as she sagged against Lyra, exhausted.
That was the opening Lyra needed. She exploded out of the flimsy hold, spinning around. The agony in her belly had been replaced by a cold fury. She could see the exhaustion on Tanya’s face, the way her chest heaved. Lyra apparently had a slightly better tolerance for pain and deeper reserves of energy. She knew she had her. She lunged at Tanya, shoving her and sending her crashing on the mat.
The next phase of the match was a systematic dismantling. Lyra’s movements became more precise, her meanness focused. As Tanya tried to get back on her feet, Lyra drove a series of short, sharp kicks into Tanya’s ribs. There was no thunderous impact, just dull thuds, the sound of a foot hitting a birdcage. Each kick made Tanya cry out, her body folding in on itself. Lyra grabbed a long white leg and twisted it into a leglock, her knee digging into Tanya’s hamstring. She leaned back, her whole body weight, meager as it was, focused on that one joint. Tanya hit the mat with her fists, in pain, not to submit, but out of pure frustration and agony. Lyra, again, couldn't maintain the hold for long, her back screaming in protest.
The fight became a portrait of their shared frailty. They both painfully stood up. Lyra went on the offensive again, grabbing Tanya’s skinny arm. A simple Irish whip sent Tanya careening hard into the turnbuckles. She hit the padded corner with a thud that seemed to rattle her very bones, and she crumpled to the mat, her long red hair a halo around her beautiful face, twisted in pain. Lyra, trying to follow up with a running move, tripped over her own feet and fell awkwardly, her elbow smacking the canvas. She winced, a jolt of sharp, unfamiliar pain shooting up her arm. They were an image of both gracelessness and suffering.
Yet, Lyra rose first, her face a mask of concentrated spite. She stalked the dazed Tanya, who was trying to pull herself up using the ropes. You could see the end was near. The crowd was on its feet, a hysterical beast demanding a finale.
Lyra measured her distance. As Tanya turned, groggy and disoriented, Lyra lashed out. It wasn’t a kick of trained perfection. It was a frantic, desperate swing of her long leg. The toe of her boot connected with Tanya’s jaw.
CRACK.
It was the sharp, brittle noise of bone meeting boot. Tanya’s head snapped back. A spray of blood misted from her lips. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. She lay sprawled on the canvas, utterly still.
A hush fell over the arena, followed by a roar so loud it shook the foundations.
Lyra stood over her, chest heaving, her own body a roadmap of aches and forming bruises. She was exhausted, her muscles screaming, but nearing victory was a potent painkiller. She saw her opening. Instead of a power move she couldn’t execute, she chose something simple, something final. She looked down at the fallen Tanya, a flicker of something—pity? triumph? —in her dark eyes. She took a deep breath, stepped over Tanya’s body, and jumped slightly, driving her knee down into Tanya’s chest.
It was a clumsy, graceless fall. Her knee landed with a soft, heavy thump across Tanya’s sternum, forcing the last bit of air from her lungs. Tanya’s body jackknifed slightly, then went limp.
Lyra didn’t hesitate. She hooked a leg, sprawling across Tanya’s inert form for the pin.
Jack, with the impeccable timing of a master showman, dropped to the mat. The slap of his hand on the canvas was like a drumbeat in the silent arena.
ONE!
SLAP!
TWO!
SLAP!
THREE!
The bell rang, its clang sharp and final.
Lyra was announced the winner. She rose to her feet, and Jack raised her arm. Her face was a mask of exhaustion and pain, but her eyes held a dark, victorious fire. Bruises were already purpling on her ribs and arms. Her lip was split. She was a wreck, but she was the victor. She looked down one last time at Tanya, who was just beginning to stir, her face a mess of tears, blood, and utter devastation. Lyra offered no hand, no word of sportsmanship. She just sneered, a small, cruel twist of her lips, and turned to climb out of the ring, leaving her beaten foe behind her.
I watched from my vantage point in the shadows. This was the story I had crafted. It wasn’t about wrestling. It was about seeing the beautiful things get bruised. It was about watching vanity be stripped away, layer by painful layer, until all that was left was the raw, weeping, and ferociously fragile truth underneath. The crowd got what they wanted. I had given them a myth made real. And as Lyra disappeared through the curtain and Tanya was helped from the ring, I knew this was a story that would be talked about for a long, long time.
Yours truly, The Masked Writer
End
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