[ThePurpleVixen]

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.

[Rowan Chance]

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.

[The Second City Wrestlerette]

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!

[ThePurpleVixen]

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.

[Rowan Chance]

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.

[ThePurpleVixen]

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 ...

[The Second City Wrestlerette]

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!".

[Vivianne]

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...

[Rowan Chance]

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."

[Lord Tantalus]

"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."

[The Second City Wrestlerette]

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."

[ThePurpleVixen]

"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."

[Rowan Chance]

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.

[The Second City Wrestlerette]

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..."

[RedEnforcer]

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?