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One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB

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Offline Lord Tantalus

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Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
« Reply #255 on: January 14, 2018, 09:13:45 PM »
She came to me crying, broken-hearted, and confused.

It was the perfect moment. The perfect moment to make her mine. Finally, once and for all.

She wanted something from me I'd denied her for years. Something to hurt you, Megan. To truly hurt you. And when I told her the price she had to pay, she hesitated. Looked at me with those beautiful dark eyes of hers and said, "I don't belong to anyone."

And at that moment, I knew she had lied. Lied to me.

She went running off into the night. Into the rain. And I waited. Patiently. Expecting her to return.

So, when a woman barged through my door, breaking the lock, I expected to see her. But it was you.

And you wanted the same thing. The Heart Breaker. The one thing you knew I never taught her.

I told you there was a price, and you said, "Name it."

I told you and you did not hesitate. You sat in my lap, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding the ring with heavy gloves. The ring was white hot and when it struck your skin, you screamed.

And I taught you the Heart Breaker. Because Rowan ran away. She ran away from greatness. She ran away from her own dream.

She wanted you more than she wanted me.

And I wanted to hurt her.

Later, I watched you use it. Saw her face twist into a mask of fear when she realized what it was you had done. And I watched her body tumble to the mat and remain still for the three count. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. Rowan went down. Not just because of the heart punch, but because it was you who did it. And that meant I had to have taught it to you.


And at that moment, my heart was tight in my chest. My emotions for Rowan swirling around my head. My student, my lover, my friend. Rowan Chance. Unbreakable Rowan Chance.

And watching her dismantle you in the second fall. My heart was tight in my chest. My emotions for you swirling around in my head. My mad poet, my friend...my love. Megan Punky Dow.


Now, I look at the two of you. You've outdone yourselves. This epic of blood, lust, love, and heartbreak. And you've made me a part of it. This crucial moment. It could have been the other way. It could have been Rowan dropping you with her piledriver over and over again, then propping you on the ropes, taunting me about my Foxglove Queen. But that isn't how it went. Almost, but... if not for that moment of weakness. I know it would have been the other way around.

And you've drawn me in at the end.

I am flattered.

I am honored.

I am...afraid.


I hide that last emotion as much as I can. Because now, you've demanded a thing of me that has always been with me. Red understands this more than most. The mask isn't important, it's what you do with the mask that matters.

You wear the mask.
You tear the mask.
You take the mask.

You... surrender the mask.

You want me to give it to you. You aren't taking it. You aren't tearing it.

You want me to surrender it. Give its power to you.

In exchange for Rowan Chance. The woman who ran away from me. Who ran through the rain, leaving me alone. Refusing me. Refusing me for you.

I could sit back down. Let you destroy her.

I could sit back down. Hold Lisa's hand and watch you destroy her.

I could sit back down. Smile as I hold Lisa's hand and watch you destroy her.

Destroy Rowan. The woman I...

Lisa's growl is behind me. She will learn why I do what I do now.

You count down to "Two."

Red growls at me. I was willing to give up my mask. Give up being the Enforcer. Give up my identity and my power here without being asked. How about you, you sunuvabitch?







...he's right. He's absolutely right.

I grab the railing and step over it, walking toward the ring. For some reason, security does not stop me.

I get to the apron and look up at you.

"My Foxglove Queen," I whisper. My hand reaches up for my mask. "I beg for the life of Rowan Chance."

And I remove the mask. Pulling it up over my face, letting my hair fall over my naked eyes. Looking at you, Megan, for the first time without it. Standing before Rowan for the first time without it.

And I hold it up to you.

« Last Edit: January 14, 2018, 09:14:13 PM by Lord Tantalus »
Seldom defeated.
Never merciful.

Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
« Reply #256 on: January 14, 2018, 09:27:59 PM »
I'm sure he won't do it. There is no way he'd give up his mask for a woman who left him, denied him, broke his h"WHAT?!"

My eyes grow wide, stomping my feet on the floor, wanting to dive in there over the ceiling after him, but...I'm frozen, shocked. Why would he do that? Why would he do that to me? Why would he do that...FOR ROWAN?!

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Offline ThePurpleVixen

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Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
« Reply #257 on: January 15, 2018, 09:02:39 AM »
This story would be so much simpler in black and white.

Our Fearless Heroine, being me, would have overcome the machinations of the Heartless Villainess - that's you, Rowan - and her Cruel Puppetmaster being Thomas, with his Vicious Side Piece watching. Hi Lisa.. Then our Heroine would have run off victorious into the sunset with her True Love, played by Gemma, and gotten drunk at the Crazy Horse with her Strong Silent Type friend - that's Red - and her Gorgeous Confidante, being Tiffany, and then they'd have watched as the gendarmes carted off the hapless Gin-Sot (that's Calli).

There's just a few problems with that somewhat idyllic scenario.

It's well past sunset.

My knee is so fucked I'm not running anywhere.

I've lost a bit too much blood to go drinking at the Crazy Horse.

And you two aren't perfect villains.

Thomas is clever, and funny, and darkly brilliant. He talked me out of hurting him when I really, really wanted to take his fucking head off. The only other fucking person in history who managed to pull that trick impressed me so fucking much that I married her. And as much as I hate what you've done to me and Rowan, Thomas, and as much as I hate what you've made her, and as much as I hate everything you stand for -

- I can't deny that I've written poems that only you've seen, Thomas. Like Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes only with more bloodshed and control issues. I've written you in the dead of night and in the quiet roar of mid-air miles above the endless Atlantic and in the hum of a bus rolling across the backfields to nowhere because even though I have money now I still like to take Greyhound when I'm touring the States. Old habits die hard. And you've written me, poems of darkness and fire I've read in starlight and sunshine.

So as much as I want you to be an ideal wicked king, Thomas, you're not. Look at you now. Sacrificing so much for love. For LOVE.

FOR FUCKING LOVE.

And my past with you, Rowan, dark and twisted and toxic as it has become, is one that no simple villain could have woven. You may be a caricature of evil now, but once you were ... once we ...

... you were my ...

fuck it

I look down at you, Thomas, seeing your bare face for the first time. Seeing the leather mask in your hand, peeled off you. Exposing yourself to me. To Rowan. To Lisa. To Red. To the whole fucking arena. I can hear Larry and Rick, speaking somewhere behind us. Some clever sound engineer has cut the announcers from the overhead so the Zenith can hear us, but they're still talking for the broadcast, talking about the unprecedented appearance of an unmasked Tantalus. Are your enemies seeking you out now, Thomas? Will they find your hidden home as I did? The gendarmes have drawn back, recognizing the perils of l'amour et guerre when they see it with a certain Gallic ease. Rowan is hung on the second rope with me balanced on her back, her face terribly pale under the mask of blood, her eyes glassy white. Her arms dangle just like a marionette's. I have my left knee folded on her back, my weight on her to keep her there, my right leg pulsing with pain, balanced with the toe of my boot barely dragging the mat, my arms draped over the top rope as I stare down at you.

So that's what you look like.

I smile, my Foxglove smile, sweet and heart-stopping, and I bring my left hand up and slowly lick Rowan's blood from my fingers.

The real problem with telling this story as a fairy tale is me, of course. I'm a fucking terrible heroine.

I'm a god-damn monster.

"What the FUCK," I snarl into the mic, pressing it to my lips so the grind of each word rasps painfully over the speakers. "- do I want with that fucking thing like THAT?"

I point down with my bloody, taped left hand.

"Under the fucking ring. Taped to the ringpost. There's a baggy and a Zippo."

I grin, wide and wolfish, my eyes glittering.

"It's a Memphis fireball."

There's a murmur in the crowd. I don't fucking care if they have opinions on me stashing a baggy of bourbon-soaked nitrocellulose fireball powder under the ring. Jerry Lawler and Eddie Gilbert walked the path to the heights of their fucking careers on a god-damn four-lane road of smoldering faces and scorched eyes. Fireballs are a fucking TRADITION. And I set this fucking match up, of COURSE I stashed a few god-damn weapons around.

I don't give a fuck about that. Or anything else other than the man in front of me and the woman whose back I'm currently grinding under my knee. My eyes are riveted to yours, Thomas, cold and merciless as steel nailheads.

"This is a SACRIFICE, Thomas. NOT a GOD-DAMN GIFT. You want to save this little monster of yours? You want to save your PET? YOU WANT ANOTHER CHANCE TO REMAKE HER FROM THE PIECES I'VE FUCKING LEFT FOR YOU TO PICK UP?"

My left hand drops again, YANKING at Rowan's hair as my knee presses her back, pushing her throat into the ropes. I hang over the top rope, right arm tensed viciously to press the mic to my face, my eyes flaring with manic rage and my bloody face twisted.

"THEN PUT YOUR MASK ON THE FUCKING CONCRETE AND FUCKING BURN IT. MAKE ME A FUCKING OFFERING AND MAYBE - FUCKING MAYBE - I WILL END THIS."

I'm roaring now, my fury taking over. I'm so fucking angry. So fucking angry at having my heart ripped out for this fucking CHARADE. At falling in love with a woman who believes in this fucking ILLUSION you've created. I LOVED HER, THOMAS, YOU FUCKING BEAST. AND YOU MADE HER RIP HER HEART OUT OF HER CHEST TO MAKE HERSELF SOMETHING ELSE FOR YOU. FOR YOUR GOD DAMN NONSENSE FANTASY WORLD.

Your world is all smoke and fucking mirrors, Thomas.

And now -

It's just gonna be smoke and ash.

"LET IT FUCKING BURN."
"What has mood to do with it? You fight when the necessity arises—no matter the mood! Mood's a thing for cattle or making love or playing the baliset. It's not for fighting."
- Frank Herbert

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Offline Virginia Dare

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Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
« Reply #258 on: January 15, 2018, 05:47:17 PM »
I can't watch.

I grab Red's shirt and bury my face in his arm. My eyes are wet. My face is wet.

I can't make it stop.

I used to hate Rowan Chance and maybe in my heart there's a part that still does, but I was afraid of Tantalus. Rowan was dangerous, but he was always the true danger. Hiding behind his mask, Rowan was always the agent of his plots. He was M and she was Bond. He was never directly involved, but everything she did was because of his plotting and planning.

Now I'm watching his agent--his beloved Rowan--bleeding and broken in the ring. And Tantalus he--

--he--

--he's giving up his mask for her.

He's giving up his mask for her!!!

Punky is laughing at him! What--what is she doing??? Why is she doing this???

This is more than hate. This is--this is--

--this is horror. It's a horror movie.

I can't take it. I can't take anymore.

I'm watching people I hated and feared destroyed by someone I admired and--

Rowan loves her--

--Tantalus loves her--

Why can't Punky see that???

How can love go so wrong???

I scream into Red's arm: "STOP IT!!! PLEASE!!! ALL OF YOU STOP IT!!!

But I can't make it stop.

And I can't watch.

Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
« Reply #259 on: January 15, 2018, 06:14:44 PM »
Sat in my chair, my body slumps a bit as I hear Punky laugh.

Shaking my head.

"No..."

Giving up his mask is bad enough, now she wants him to BURN it?

"Don't do it!"

He's gonna do it. I'm sure he's gonna do it.

"Don't do it! Not. For. HER!"

Hearing Jenny's voice from not far beside me. Her muffled crying, her screaming into Red's arm. And I join in.

Not with the crying.

Not with the screaming.

"Stop it! Please! All of you stop it!"
« Last Edit: January 15, 2018, 06:17:33 PM by Lisa Starr »

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Offline Lord Tantalus

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Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
« Reply #260 on: January 15, 2018, 08:05:54 PM »
Let it fucking burn...

I stand still for a moment, the mask still in my hand, raised up to you like an offering. Perfectly still, like a statue dedicated to the concept of penance.

Then, I let the mask slip through my fingers. It falls to my feet, hitting the concrete with a distinct thud. My hand remains raised. My eyes remain fixed on you.

I let my hand slowly sink to my side. The glare in my eyes intensifying. Like black coals turning red...then white...

"I am a magician," I say. "I do not need your cheap Memphis trick to make fire."

With a dramatic gesture--my left hand flying behind me and my right hand slamming down on the mask--I drop to one knee. And the mask is engulfed in flames.

Yes, it's a trick. And no, I'm not telling you how it's done. It isn't magic. It's illusion. Real magic isn't fireballs and lightning bolts and flying around. Real magic is something deeper. I'm about to show you what a real "magic spell" looks like.

Still on one knee, the mask aflame before me, the yellow and gold colors dancing on my face and in my eyes, I look up at you...and put my right hand atop the licks of flame. And as I speak, I never let your eyes leave mine.

My name is Thomas Gillan. Son of James Gillan and Sofia Polizi.

We made a deal, Megan Dow.
My mask for mercy.
And you broke that deal.
And threatened to break it again.
By my father's blood, I call upon the old tongue.
And I call you "warlock."
I call you "oath breaker."


I feel the heat on my skin. My hand never wavers. Never trembles.

We made a deal, Megan Dow.
My mask for your mercy.
And you broke that deal.
And threatened to break it again.
And by my mother's blood, I call upon the old tongue.
And I say, "vendetta."
(Or should I say "the ancient art of kanly?")


My hand tries to squeeze shut, to move, to do anything to stop the pain. I do not allow it.

You were my Foxglove Queen, Megan Dow.
You once meant something to me, but no longer.
And know now that if you do not show the mercy you promised,
I will show you no mercy.
Not you.
Nor any that you love.


Finally, I squeeze my hand shut. Keep my eyes on your eyes. Blood oozing between my fingers.

With trembling lips, I whisper, "I have not finished. I could stop now. But I could continue."

"This must end. And it must end now. I have said your name three times. And I have done as you have demanded."

Kneeling there, my mask in flames, my bloodied and burned hand in front of me, you see a single tear in my eye.

"Keep your promise."
Seldom defeated.
Never merciful.

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Offline ThePurpleVixen

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Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
« Reply #261 on: January 18, 2018, 04:54:09 AM »
My eyes are fiery. One is swelled nearly shut from Rowan's fists from earlier in the match when the fucking cxnt suddenly learned how to throw a punch. They're both red as coals from being locked in the fucking gogoplata, from the crushing choking pressure that blacked me out. My face is painted in blood.

I look like a fucking Fury, like god-damn Nemesis sent to scourge the earth and salt it in my fucking wake.

I asked you to burn the fucking mask, Thomas.

Because I don't want it as a souvenir. I want you to burn it because I am burning you and this poisonous little witch out of my fucking life.

And you give me this - this god-damn SPELL, a fucking act of stage magic and incantation. And that's fine. That's fucking fine. Wrestling has weird shit in it - you learn that if you're in it long enough. The Undertaker can't really call down lightning, but he sure can sit up after being beaten comatose. James Mitchell really DID brainwash poor Mikey Whipwreck. And I've seen Power Uti get back on his feet after being beaten so hard into ground that I heard his skull fracture. I've been in the ring with Aika, been backstage with Mutoh, been in the same arena as Broken Matt. There's weirdness in wrestling, even if you put aside the fake-spooky shit like Charles Wright putting on a top hat and being Papa Shango and IRS' fat kid cosplaying as Waylon Mercy. So I'm not willing to just shrug this aside. This feels more than weird, this feels wyrd, and I dunno what gimmick you lit that mask up with, but there's blood bubbling on the burning leather and your eyes are drilling into me.

And let me be clear here, Thomas - I don't doubt for a fucking second that you can put some kind of whammy on me, even if it's just revenge that takes so fucking long to serve that it's gone all cold and congealed and the parsley garnish has withered.

But my problem's not with that.

My problem is that you seem to fucking think you can call me out on this.

And you ... you're calling ME ...

I get so angry - so deep down bonegrinding teethcracking groundshaking FUCKING FURIOUS - that my voice goes deep into the fucking Badlands, a drawling twang so fucking east Oregon it hits the ear like the lash of a steel hoeblade biting into the cold soil and icy rocks.

"YA FUCKIN' DARE OPEN YER GOD-DAMN MEALMOUTH AN' CALL ME A FUCKIN' TRAITOR, YA WEASELY LITTLE SNAKETONGUE SHITSACK?!"

I lean over the ropes, my left knee grinding into Rowan's back as I press her into the middle cable, my body alight with a fury so intense that it shakes me, leaving me jolting like a high tension wire being viciously yanked at one end as my shaking finger jabs down at you, glistening with Rowan's blood, the black nail cracked in the brawl.

"YER THE ONE THAT DID THIS, THOMAS FUCKIN' GILLAN. YER THE ONE THAT RIPPED THIS GIRL'S FUCKIN' HEART OUT OF HER AN' SHOVED A FUCKIN' BLACK STONE IN WHERE IT WAS. YER THE ONE WHO FILLED HER WITH POISON WHERE SHE USED TA HAVE BEATIN' HOT BLOOD STRONGER AN' SWEETER'N ANY GIRL I KNEW BEFORE HER. YER THE FUCKIN' TRAITOR, AND WHAT YA BETRAYED WAS ANYTHIN' FUCKIN' DECENT IN ROWAN CHANCE'S GOD-DAMN LIFE, YA WORTHLESS TWO-BIT DAMNED WHOREMONGER."

I snarl and fork my left hand, my pinky and forefinger thrust out at your face and I spit between the horns, furious, a gob of bloody saliva the size of a peach pit hissing against your hand on the flaming mask. I'm so fucking enraged that I roar past the Badlands and into the Carpathian Mountains, so far beyond angry that I speak in the hissing old curses of my grandmother, my babusya.

"Zradnyk! Syvnya! ZMIY!"

I can curse in a lot of languages, and in a wide rainbow of hate and fury, but no one I ever knew could sound as vicious as my babusya in the old tongue.

Panting, I yank myself off the ropes, and take Rowan's hair.

I've gone too far. I'm so angry I've burned up my adrenaline. The fight is crashing down me on, almost 90 minutes of unlimited brutality piling into me like a semi-truck. I can feel my right leg quivering, starting to give way entirely, barely held in place by my wrapped belt. I'm shaking. I'm shaking like a fucking junkie coming off a high so intense that it left my brain in the troposphere and my body's stuck behind in a cold alley, dying by inches. I don't even feel the tears running down my face any more, washing the blood away. I don't even care any more.

I can't. I can't care any more. I can't be hurt by this fucking insanity any more. That part's burning out of me. I can smell the smoke.

"You want me to fucking end this, Gillan." I don't even use your name any more. I used your name as a way to show I wasn't impressed by "Lord Tantalus", that I didn't buy into the mystique. I read your poems that were signed that way. Now I won't even give you that. You're just ...

... just ash to me.

"It's done."

And I'm done looking at Thomas.

I drag you back off the ropes, Rowan. I've been half-choking you on the ropes for this whole conversation after all the fucking Spikes, and you're god-damn comatose. You might in a proper coma by now. You might be braindead. I don't fucking know. I don't care. I CAN'T.

I FUCKING CAN'T.

I can't do anything fancy. My brain is clanging alarms, systems are going down. I just pull you up from your knees, yanking you up by the hair and those little shorts, pressing myself to your back-

- like in a hundred hotels and motels and dives and flops, pierced nipples pressing to stiffly to your shoulders in tingling excitement, leg hooking over your perfect hip, hand caressing your bell-NO, NOT LIKE THAT.

I just wrap my left arm under your chin, Rowan, locking my forearm in place across your throat.

My right arm slides under yours, forcing that arm high in the air like you're waving, waving FUCKING GOODBYE, cinching in a half-nelson as my arm snakes back, hand lacing in your dark bloody hair.

My left hand clutches at the collar of your corseted top.

And I fall back, letting my leg give in with a pulse of screaming agony that I bury in a snarl, yanking you with me to the mat with a crash. Rolling us to lay on our left sides, your right hand left dangling in the air. I hook my leg over your hip.

The kata ha jime. It has another name, and I don't claim it as my own. It's not the Punkymission or Alternative Ulster or anyfuckingthing.

It's just the god-damn Tazmission. One fucking Z.

"Check her fucking hand," I snarl to Amelie, my voice grating with weariness. I press my head close behind your neck, cradling you against me.

And I try to hide from the lights and the roaring and the hate and the fury and the yesterdays

And I try not to think about how familiar you smell, the sweat and heat on your olive skin

or how much i used to love that scent
"What has mood to do with it? You fight when the necessity arises—no matter the mood! Mood's a thing for cattle or making love or playing the baliset. It's not for fighting."
- Frank Herbert

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Offline Rowan Chance

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Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
« Reply #262 on: January 18, 2018, 06:31:48 AM »
I started this in a wedding dress.

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

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



And now, I'm in the middle of the ring, my domme gear on, my face a bloody mess, my eyes shut.

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

And she pauses.

Raises one hand, holding the red roses.

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


My face is a blood splatter. My eyes closed. My arms limp. My body bent and twisted.

Watching the tape, I see Tantalus without his mask. His eyes wet and full of rage.

He looks like furious angel. Lit up by the fire in front of him.

From the other side of the laptop monitor, I hit the Pause button just as the camera focuses on his face. I reach out and touch it with my fingertips.

I'm sorry...


Then, I hit Play. And I watch the ending of the match.

My body limp in your arms. This is academic. I've got nothing left. You're barely standing.

The referee raises my arm and it falls to my side, slapping my hip.

She shouts, "ONE!"

A group of assholes is shouting "FIGHT FOREVER!!!" Yeah, *you* do what we just did and think about fighting for another ten minutes. Bastards.

She raises my arm a second time, and it flops down. No strength, no resistance. I can't even deny gravity.

"TWO!"

You don't even need to put the hold on tight, Megan. It's a formal matter now. You could have pinned me, but you wanted to end it like this. Pinning a woman is one thing. Making her tap out is another.

But beating her down to where she can't even keep her hand up? We talked about it on those long car rides. It became a game. "Pin, Tap or KO?"

"Terry Funk," I said.

You laughed, your naked tattooed feet up on the dashboard, the remnants of hot dogs and cold drinks around the floor.

You snicker. "HA! I HAVE been in the ring with Funker. In the big shmozz at the end of the Dreamer show, ya remember. All I did was get a big overhand left that knocked me over the ropes." You giggle. "I'd never be able to tap him out since he's a crazy motherfucker. I'd have to KO him. Somehow. Mebbe with like one'a those guns they use ta kill cows in slaughterhouses. THat might do it."

"A'right ... " I tilt back a wash of Syfo seltzer, my non-alcoholic roadtrip drink of choice. "Mmmm - Madusa, in 'bout 1994. Prime era."


I raise my eyebrow, looking at you sideways. "She falls down so pretty, doesn't she? All those 'shoot' boxing matches she had in Japan? I'd give her a roundhouse kick and watch her struggle to get to her feet. I'd get so..." I suck air through my teeth. "Mmmm. KO. Absolutely."
"My turn." I get that mischievous look on my face.  "Raven."

"Oh FUCK OFF," you giggle-snort, shoving at my shoulder hard enough to almost veer us into certain death.

Your cheeks flaring up immediately. And I know why.

"Uh. Fuck. Okay. This actually came up on a wrestling forum once. I was googling myself at night. EVERYONE DOES IT, DON'T FUCKING JUDGE."

"I don't judge," I say, putting my hand on my heart.

"He'd be expecting me to go hard, and nasty, and ready for it." You shift your shoulders and tap my tattooed foot on the dash. "So I'd try to catch him with a pinning combination. Somethin' REALLY techy. Somethin' that'd make his eyes get a lil' big."

I laugh out loud.

"Shut up I hate you!" You stick my pierced tongue out and raspberry.

"I'd pin him with a fuckin' La Magistral and blow everyone's minds." You reach over and tug my earlobe softly. "Brat. Since you're already in Japan, how 'bout Stan Hansen? I know ya like bein' in the ring with biiiiiig Texans ..."

I frown-smile at you. "Okay, I deserved that."

Turning my attention back to the road. "Hansen won't tap. Not for Mutoh, not for Brody and certainly not for a little girl like me. And knocking him out isn't a finish for him, either. He ain't doing that."

"I'd have to do a sneaky pin. Something that he wasn't expecting and then I can run out of the ring with him chasing me with that bullrope and cowbell swinging."

You cackle, rocking back so hard the seat creaks.

"'GET YER LIL' ASS BACK HERE, MISSY, GAWD DAMN IT!'"

I was sipping my soda through a straw when you said that. Now, it's on the steering wheel. "Damn, that's a good Hansen."

You  giggle-snort. "It's not as good as my Dreamer."

"So you tell me," you suddenly say in your nasalest Yonkers voice. "Whyn't you tell me who, Ro, huh?"

"I thought you were going to say, 'Thank you, ma'am, may I have another.'"

"HAAAAA! Not 'til we get to the hotel," you purr innocently.

Eyes twinkling as you glug your Syfo and grin at me around the bottle.

"Okay, my turn..." I'm using one hand to wipe down the steering wheel.

This goes on for about a half an hour, both of us throwing names back and forth.

And then, it's my turn. And we're laughing so goddamn hard, driving gets tricky. So I pull over at a rest stop. All dark and quiet.

"The wheel is sticky," I say, pouring some water on a napkin and wiping it down for real.

"I think that's what every driver Shawn Michaels has ever had said."

"WHOAH!" And I burst into laughter again. It's the silly time. When everything is funny. And things that are legit funny are even more funny.
And in the middle of the laughter, I say, "Okay... um..."

"... me."

You stop your mad rocking laughter slowly, fading to giggles and a few gasped breaths, and manage to tilt your head to look at me after you realize I'm not laughing along.

Your eyebrows go up as you slouch back in the seat, big hazel eyes on me.

"You tryin' to get sneaky inside tips before you turn heel on me, Chance?" you half-grin, nudging me with one hand in a little bump that turns into a slow drag of your fingers over your arm.

I shake my head, my skin prickly with goosebumps. "Retaliate first, right?" I reach out and touch your cheek. Letting my thumb touch your bottom lip.

"Follow the rules," I say. Nervously.

You smile. "Let me show you how I'd take you out..."

We spent the rest of the night at that stop.



Now, the referee raises my hand a third time. Holds it there dramatically.

For


a


really


long


time...


And then, drops it.

And it hits my hip, same as before.

She throws her arms up, calling for the bell.

The crowd erupts as soon as they hear it. I don't hear it. I don't hear anything right now.

But I can see it. I can watch it on my laptop. My helpless body in your arms.

...in your arms.


"I'd knock you out, Chance," you said. "You won't tap. And I can't hold you down. I'd have to knock you out."

And I nod, my eyes wet.


Yes, Megan. That's what you'd have to do.



LVK: Thank Christ. It's over.

RP: (sound of drinking)

LVK: Hand me some of that, Rick.

RP: Here you go, old friend.

LVK: Old friend?

RP: Yeah. When you see shit like that, you realize...aw fuck it. Drink up.




(Once again, co-writing the car scene goes to The Purple Vixen.)
« Last Edit: January 18, 2018, 06:44:50 AM by Rowan Chance »
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Offline ThePurpleVixen

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Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
« Reply #263 on: January 21, 2018, 06:38:16 AM »
The bell is the center of your life as a wrestler.

You live bell to bell.

Your training begins with the ring of a bell. The pain ends with a ring of the bell. All the tensions and stresses and lies and politics and bullshit all fade away and all you're living for is that time between the bells.

Things still happen outside of them, sure. You're still a human being. You get angry, you get sad, you laugh, you drink to levels that would make Bacchus fucking jealous, you fall in love, you tell bitter lies. There's a lot of great stories that happen on the highway and on buses and under bridges and in gyms and in hotel rooms and in living rooms and in weird little Indian restaurants on back roads and at state fairs full of carnies with jailhouse tattoos and fried foods unheard of in the sane world and in famous Japanese steakhouses where they sell expensive jackets and in weird strip clubs and in Calli's driveway -

- but those are just the stories a wrestler picks up, road stories and locker room stories and love stories and funny little stories about what most people think is your life. But when you're a fucking wrestler that's not your life. Your life is in the ring. And that life is measured out in rings of the bell.

I have you wrapped up in a kata ha jime, Rowan. It's not a gentle hold - it's a controlling, swift choke. It's also not super god-damn complicated, which is good since it's the most I can manage right now. My brutalized, bound right leg is hooked over your hip. My body is sticky with sweat and blood and cum and the liquid essence of hate that smolders pheromonally like scorpion pepper and ash. My whole body is racked with pain and I all I wanna do is be home in the whirlpool tub with six Seconals and a fifth of Jack in me, stitched up and braced and admiring my shiny new hospital bracelet. I can't even wrap my head around the extent of the fucking emotional hell I've gone through tonight, let alone the fact that I look like was in a particularly vindictive car crash that drove a steering column into my cxnt. I want to be out of here. I want to be away from you.

I want Gemma.

The bell rings.

And for maybe the first time in my career, I don't even notice.

I'm still wrapped around you until Amelie - her professional obligations fulfilled and her sexual desires fulfilled multiple times with exquisitely explosive little Gallic orgasms throughout the match as she watched us fucking wreck each other - gently and expertly unhooks my fingers, freeing your throat, and rolls you off of me. I roll to my back, not even full aware of it, and suck in big slow hungry gulps of air, oxygenating my overworked system. I feel so hot it's like I've been fucking irradiated but at the same time I've got chills racking me. My strained muscles are jumping and cramping and I'm saturated with toxins and crystallized adrenaline, my brain is a drugged swirl of endorphin dumps to fight the pain and cortisol levels (you learn a lot of basic biochemistry when you spend as much time receiving medical care as I do) so fucking high that my heart is a drumline even while I'm laying on the mat. And that's impressive, because I've normally got the resting heart rate of a fucking land tortoise.

The lights of the Zenith are way up there, far away as the stars.

You're behind me on the mat. Out fucking cold.

Remember that ride, on the way out of Reno, when I was drinking seltzer and were playing Pin, Sub-

- y'know what, no.

We're done, Rowan.

No goodnight kiss.

I roll over, and I bite my cheek so hard that my mouth fills with a fresh gush of blood as I snap down on the scream that wants to come out of me. My knee is ... not good.

The medics are flooding the ring. The French have very specific guidelines on sporting contests, and I paid a lot of bribes in setting this up to make sure that most of those rules would be ignored. But now that the contest is over and Larry and Rick are drinking away their sorrows and the iPPV broadcast has gone to the post-show panel of LuFisto, Megumi Kudo, Harley Race and Chuck Taylor for analysis and discussion, the sponsors' assorted lawyers have made sure that the French medics are there to get us out of the ring and off-camera in a visibly alive condition.

Most of them are swarming around you, and the backboard and neck-stabilizing collar are already being slid under the ropes. A couple of them come to me, and I clutch onto them, dragging myself up as they try to convince me to lay down.

"Meez Dow," one of them says in a Parisian accent so thick and rich you could lay it on top of a gratin, "you must stay still, sil vous plait - you have in ze likelihoods at least one in concussion, and you have suffered most tair'ible damage to your ... ah ..."

And he glances down at my lap, blushing, while his wiser and longer-lived partner just sponges blood off my face with a cold towel that feels like a kiss from heaven.

"Yeah," I snarl. "My knee. Outta my fuckin' way b'fore I rip yer throat out."

I shove them aside, and drag myself to the ropes. Past the smoldering remains of Thomas' mask - which I bend and snatch, clasping in my taped fist in its crumbling hot ruin, hobbling towards the figure that's the only one I see. I don't see anyone chanting my name, I don't see anyone staring in shock, I don't see anyone recording livestreams of themselves because they were here the night Punky beat Rowan Chance into a fucking coma. My eyes are entirely on one woman. Shorter than me. Smarter than me. Tougher than me. Richer than me. More beautiful than anyone I know.

"Gems," I say, a blissful smile on my face because she's coming closer, her blood-stained white dress flaring over the railing.

My knee gives out entirely, feeling like icy knives are running through it, and I collapse forward into her arms.

"Gems," I say again, dreamy soft.

"We're done."

I wrap my arms around her, letting her carry my weight. She can. She's been carrying me since we fell in love.

"Take me home."
"What has mood to do with it? You fight when the necessity arises—no matter the mood! Mood's a thing for cattle or making love or playing the baliset. It's not for fighting."
- Frank Herbert

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Offline Rowan Chance

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Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
« Reply #264 on: January 21, 2018, 07:42:44 AM »
This part, I remember.

I'm on the gurney, tied in. The medics have put that big collar around my neck. Moving so slow. So careful. A cold wash of water over my face to clean the blood away. They put chemical staples on my head, sealing the gash shut.

They wheel me down the aisle. Slowly. To me, the place sounds as quiet as a church. I can't hear cheers or boos or anything. Just loud echoes in my hears. High pitched ringing. I'm still in the ring by the time you're behind the curtain. So slow.

I hear the low clapping. The same sound they made when Mick was being carried out by the Funkster. Japanese applause. I close my eyes and feel a tear roll down my cheek. I can't raise my hands. Can't give them a thumb's up that I'll be okay. I can't do that. But I want to.

I get behind the curtain and the other wrestlers from the show are there: the midcard and openers. They're applauding, too. It's a weird sensation being on a board and people applauding you as the medics push you toward the ambulance.

The ambulance...

There's you, sitting on the ambulance's bumper, a beer in your hand. The medics are taping up the cut on your forehead and you're saying something about duct tape.

You're sitting on the bumper of the ambulance. Waiting for me.

The medics stop halfway there. You see me and jump off the bumper. Walking over to me.

My eyes are shut. Not closed from bruising like yours, just shut.

You get to the medics. One of them tries to get in your way and you crash the bottle over his head. The rest of them fall away.

You walk up to the gurney. Looking down at me.

"Ro?" you ask.

My right eye peeks open. Sees you.

And I smile.

I ask, "...we got 'em, didn't we?"

You giggle a little, flexing your taped leg. Your face has already been washed and your eyebrow bandaged and the blood and other stuff mostly hosed off. You look a little like a girl the morning after Halloween.

"They bought that so fucking hard that it's gonna cause an interest rate hike," you say.

I reach up and peel the velcro holding the collar around my neck. It rips with that sweet rrrrrip sound I've always loved. I sit up, but the medic puts his hand on my shoulder. "That's a nasty cut on your forehead, Ms. Chance."

I look up at you. "I cut too deep. I was a little too excited. And I never was any good at it." I shrug, frowning a little. "You were right. You should have done it."

"Yer goddamn right," you say, like I was a disobedient student. Then, you bite your lip and look down at me, concern filling your eyes. "It was so much fucking work keeping my face angry in the ring." You stroke my blood-soaked hair and gently make sure I stay sitting on the stretcher. "God, Ro, you cut deeper than fucking Eddie did against JBL."

You look at the medics. "Can we get her some saline and an orange before she blacks out? And some madeleines! She likes the Bourbon vanilla kind!"

I laugh. "You remembered!"

Sitting up on the gurney, the medic checks my eyes.

"You have a concussion," he says. "But you already know that."

I nod. "I kinda blacked out at the end there," I say. "I think I hit my head on something, but I don't remember."

"It was probably the blood loss," the medic says.

"You were lights on but nobody home," you tell me, caressing my head. "I had to carry you to the finish, Chance."

I nod and it hurts. "As usual."

I stretch my back, rolling my shoulders. "You and Gemma probably have celebration plans tonight?"

"Actually ..." you say with as much coyness as you can manage while medically suffering from exhaustion, dehydration and emotional tension injuries. "She was serious about not wanting to see this. Y'know how she is. So she's gonna take the hop back home and get some business done in London in the morning. Sooooooo ... I'm in Paris with nothin' to do for a couple of nights," you say innocently, fiddling with a roll of gauze.

I give you a nervous smile.

"Oh. I thought...well, I already have tonight and tomorrow booked because I thought you and Gemma..."

I'm trying to keep a straight face.

And failing.

"This is where you say 'Shut the fuck up, Chance.'" And I wink.

You narrow your eyes at me and grip my corset top softly, the way I could tell you wanted to all match, letting your fingers slowly caress my breasts.

"Medics," I whisper, throwing my eyes at the men watching us.

"Shut the fuck up, Chance," you purr, and lean closer to kiss me, delicately.

Goddess, I wanted this. For the last hour--which felt like four--I wanted this.

And I can tell from your kiss, you did, too.


* * *

Years earlier, it's April 9. The very first night Rowan Chance and Megan Dow met.

They sit on the ring apron after the crowd is gone, eating bad hot dogs and just talking. Talking and laughing. Like girls on a swingset after school, swinging their feet as they sit on the apron.

Megan leans back against the ropes a little, feeling the reassuring creak of them. The clink of the braces. She loves  being here. Even now that she's been "in" long enough that she doesn't need to put the ring up and break it down, she still does. The smell of the canvas, all dusty and warm, and the soft crackling bite of the buckles. She loves it all so much. But her eyes are focused on the strangely beautiful exotic dusky beauty here eating dollar dogs at her side. She looks out of place, like she doesn't belong here. But after watching Rowan in the ring, Megan knows she does.

Rowan kicks her legs as they dangle over the edge of the apron. Even smothering the hotdogs in ketchup, mustard and relish doesn't really hide the stale taste. But she doesn't care. Not at all. Because she's  sitting next to this amazing, mad woman who talks like a bastard child of Palahniuk, Hunter Thompson and Bruiser Brody. And...yeah. She's starting to get a crush. A serious one, too.

A couple janitors move around the stands, picking up soda cups and pop corn bags. The crew hasn't come out to take down the ring, but they should be here any second.

And in her head, Rowan is saying to herself, I shouldn't do this... but it doesn't seem like I've got much time. I'm getting in a car to drive to New Hampshire tomorrow and if I hesitate now...I may never see this woman again.

She wipes the mustard and stuff from her lips with a napkin. Her heart racing in her chest. Looking right down at her boots, she says in a hesitant voice, "I'd like to kiss you."

Looking back at that night, Megan learned two really important things. The first was that it's totally impossible to find a way to look cool when you're taken so fucking completely by surprise in the middle of taking another slug of beer to chase down another bite of cheap hot dog that you rasp beer and relish through your fucking nose.

She wipes her streaming red face on her jacket sleeve, and manages to swallow the mouthful she has left, racked with coughs.

"I'm sorry!" Rowan says, immediately worried. "Are you okay?"

"Iugn fine," Megan manages to get out. "Fine."

But then, Megan gets her breath back she scrubs her face with the heel of her hand. She showered so she's got basically no make-up left, just hints of her ring cosmetics. She wasn't wearing the fancy Japanese lip enamel back then.

Megan looks at Rowan with a half-grin.

"... ya sure?"

Rowan looks up from her boots and right into Megan's eyes.

She nods quickly. "Mhm." Biting her lip. Why am I so nervous? Why is this so hard?


I want you so bad. To drag you back to some quiet room in this building and just...

Meanwhile, Megan's mind is racing. Oh fuck, those eyes.


She can feel her toes curling in her shiny new Docs, a brand new addition to her "Punky" gear.

But those eyes.


She stares deep into them, and feels her cheeks flush - and her grin widens.

Megan slowly leans closer, and sets her beer down--and she walks her fingers along Rowan's arm, feeling that supple olive skin and smooth muscle tone. And she gets a soft grip on Rowan's shirt, teasingly tugging her closer.

Years later, Megan thinks, That was the first and only time I was the more sexually confident one of us.

"An' what makes ya think I kiss girls?" She purrs teasingly, her eyes half-lidded as she draws Rowan close enough to taste the hot dog on her breath and breathe her shower and hints of sweat and perfume. "Even fuckin' gorgeous ones with really crisp armbar takeovers?"

She leans in so close, teasing Rowan. And Rowan thinks, Oh no. No way this girl is teasing me.

And suddenly, all of Rowan's nervousness vanishes. Megan made this a game. A challenge.

Rowan grabs the back of Megan's head, squeezing her purple hair between her fingers.

"Megan...shut the fuck up."

And they kiss.


THE END

(Both parts of this post were co-written with The Purple Vixen.)
« Last Edit: January 21, 2018, 08:01:29 AM by Rowan Chance »
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Offline Lord Tantalus

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Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
« Reply #265 on: January 28, 2018, 07:41:52 PM »
(From the January 28th, 2018 Wrestling Insider, Issue #44, Volume 21)

7. Megan "Punky" Dow defeated Rowan Chance in a 2/3 Falls NHB Match
This was a match that set a new standard for the Muta Scale. In fact, I'm starting over, establishing the Dow/Chance Scale. This is the new bar. This is the new standard.

The match was a perfect recipe of intrigue, psychology and brutality. The two women fought for just over sixty minutes, and if you didn't see them use the kitchen sink, it's because you blinked. If you haven't seen this match, stop now and pay the $14.99 for the PPV. This match alone was worth it. In fact, I'm reluctant to say anything about the match because I may spoil it for anyone who hasn't seen it. And you should see it. This was right up there with the other match of the year contenders--and it's only January.

The events of the first fall set up all the psychology to follow. These two women have such a long and checkered history, and every single move called back to that past. Megan's bad knee, Rowan's back injuries--they all came into play. If you've paid attention to the careers of Dow and Chance, you saw both histories play out before your very eyes. The first fall ended with Dow using a move we've never see her before: Tantalus' Heart Breaker. And with it, she truly broke Rowan's heart. I've never seen Rowan fall so fast and so certain. After the three count, she didn't move for almost five minutes.

But the second fall was where Chance took over the match, using every single one of Punky's weaknesses against her, further telling the story of how these two women know each other so well. It ended with a string of some of the most brutal and personal shots I've ever seen in a wresting match. Jerry Jarrett had a sign on his office door saying, "Personal is Money." These two women proved that without a shadow of a doubt. The fall climaxed in a count out for Dow after a vivid, personal--and dare I say personal--assault on Dow's anatomy, ending with what I can only call an atomic drop on the steel divider in front of Dow's wife, Gemma Rox. I don't want to go into any further details; again, you just have to see it for yourself.

The final fall went back and forth with both women nearly finishing the other off multiple times, saved only by luck and injury. Chance nearly finished the match with her old "desperate finisher," a neck-snap DDT that has ended multiple wrestlers' careers, but the constant injuries to her back prevented her from competing the move. This lead to the finale--and again, I cannot describe what happened without stealing the drama from the event. All I can say is that this was the perfect example of how to translate a long-standing feud between Dow and Chance into a possible program between Dow and Tantalus.

Both women came out stronger than they were before the match, regardless of the winner. This is my top candidate for match of the year.

6 out of 5 Stars
Seldom defeated.
Never merciful.

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Offline Chelsea Purrs

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Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
« Reply #266 on: August 22, 2018, 03:20:21 PM »
I know I’m new here - and I’ve got a lot to learn.

I consider myself a creative person and a very good writer. But that was extraordinary. If I ever create something a quarter of that quality - I’ll be lucky.

Brava ladies (and other contributors). Brava.

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Offline Jack Hex

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Re: One Dark Night in Paris: Punky vs Rowan Chance, 2 out of 3 Falls NHB
« Reply #267 on: November 07, 2018, 11:38:53 PM »
This is the most amazing writing I've ever read.

Ladies, you deserve ten thousand bows. Flowers, chocolates, beer, candy of your choice, and whatever else I can give. Thank you for inspiring me to finally sign up and start my own career. Hopefully one day I'll be good enough to face you in a ring.