[ThePurpleVixen]

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!

[ThePurpleVixen]

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

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.

[Rowan Chance]

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.

[Rowan Chance]

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.

[ThePurpleVixen]

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."

[RedEnforcer]

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.

[Rowan Chance]

"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.

[BustyTiffany35]

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.

[LilMishyRocks]

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.)

[Becca Blast!]

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!

[Katherine The Great]

"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'!!

[ThePurpleVixen]

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.

[Rowan Chance]

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...

[Lord Tantalus]

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.

[Emily Layne]

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!