[Becca Blast!]

I go to strike, already reaching for your neck so I can set you up for the next move....

And you spring your trap.

Impressive.  I know that shot hurt her... how could SHE have known that I would do that attack, with her whole body open and begging ... She sandbagged me totally.

And that grin.  Something preternatural.. uncanny... in the worst way about the way that look and what it bares.

Like the basilisk.  Or, in this case, a cobra, as quick as she strikes... my head snagged and held under your left arm as you keep your trap on mine and reach across for a facelock that gives me a full taste of that musty corset.....my right hand reaching down for your shorts.. by reflex almost .. break a facelock by taking her base away...

But you torque to the right, so I pull up on your left leg... to get you off balance and leaning on the ropes... when you let go.

SHE LETS GO.  To work my head, maybe... to push me away and get my head reeling.

But I still have the leg of your shorts.. .and I use it... to try an pull myself back into you... and slam my left forearm across that open spot just under your corset.

You may be a preternatural bitch from Hell itself, but this is Jersey.  And this is my ring.   And you don't mock me in it!

[Rowan Chance]

A quick elbow to the belly—I've noticed repeated attacks against my abdomen—knocks my body forward, bending it over. My left hand lands on your shoulder. My right hand clutching my gut.

You can hear a strained chortle from my lips. Like equal parts gasp and laughter. Trying to regain the oxygen you've been knocking out of me while maintaining the unyielding demeanor I've been putting out to you and the audience. You can feel my fingers clutch on your shoulder, my nails digging in to the skin.

My head is bowed, but I'm not. My face snaps up into yours. My eyes wide and wild. My lips twisted into a strange grimace/grin.

"You're nothing," I hiss between my lips. "White trash Jersey bitch."

No counter attack. Just that.

[Becca Blast!]

I've seen this act before... it's a good one, and the announcers are eating it up.

"Good Lord, Leticia!  Becca just keeps pounding that body... and she doesn't seem to care!  What is Rowan MADE OF?"

"Malcolm, I don't know!  But, whatever she's taking, I WANT some of it!"

But.... it's only an act.  It HAS to be.   I can feel your left hand clutching my shoulder ... those nails starting to gouge... that's the reaction of someone who's hurt.  Someone desperate to show she's NOT hurt.  Someone made of flesh and blood... not madness.  No matter how much that laugh has an unearthly echo in the core of my stomach.  Not matter how that smile looks like you just crawled out of the vat at ACE Chemicals.  You're hurt... and you're daring me to hurt you more... begging me.

I'll oblige. 

"Got a nice grip?   GOOD."   I can ignore things, too... like your red nails seeming to grow as they pierce my pale skin on the shoulder... my left arm free.. and I go to use it.. my right arm slides around your ribs... my left arm.. goes between those legs... squat and scoop... as you cackle... and straighten up... "Lady DDT, huh?".. let her think I'm going to do that... my left arm hooked up onto your left ass cheek.. so I can drop down to a knee and aim your side into my upraised right knee...

Laugh THIS off, clown...

[Rowan Chance]

Another lift.

Another drop.

This time, the side of my ribs on your knee, making my body bend like an archer bending a bow. My body snaps, almost in two, when it hits your knee. My head almost hitting the mat. My hair moving fast and violent as my body snaps back up and rolls off your knee, tumbling to the mat. My arms clutching at my side. My teeth clenched. Eyes squeezed shut.

Both arms grasp at my side as I lay coiled up on the canvas, my knees brought up to my chin. My raven black hair spilling over my painted face. The pain sings to me. Up and down my spine. Through my ribs. My guts slowly moving back into their prescribed positions. I can feel the slow burn in my core. That's your strategy. Break my core. Take away all the strength.

Nice tactic. Smart tactic. Smart enough that I almost find a glimmer of respect for you. Almost.

[Becca Blast!]

She's not laughing now... she's curled up like a ball on the canvas... and I can even hear her... breathing... She's hurt... at last... now to keep hurting her...break her will to continue... so I squat down... reaching behind your upper calf with my left hand .. and around your neck with my right... so I can straighten up... and fall back...  the plan is simple .. straighten out as I sell out my body a bit and fall back.. to see if I can whip your curled up body up and over.. see if I can send the legend flying to another crash landing... and break the mystical, ethereal image of Rowan Chance as some sort of bitch demon goddess...

Make you scream out in pain like any normal woman who's wandered into my ring.  And dared me to defend me and mine.

And then, Rowan... I laugh as YOU get carried out of the ring!

[Rowan Chance]

Rowan, let her hurt you
Let the darkness come
Let the pain sing its song
Allow the hate to fill your heart
Let her hurt you

My mantra fills my head.
Even as you lift me and throw me over your shoulder.
Even as my body slams on the canvas at an akward angle.
Even as my back screams at me.
I listen to the pain.
It sings to me.
I can hear its song now.
I can hear its song now.


“Looks like Rowan might be hurt after that throw.”

“I don’t think she ever recovered from Paris. I don’t think anyone could. I mean, where the hell is Punky? She did the smart thing and took time off. Rowan came right back into the ring.”

“She’s on the mat. Looks like she may have hurt her back.”

“Even Flair was changed by a broken back. Rowan hasn’t changed her style at all.”

“Becca is closing in. Looks like she has another attack planned...”

I sense it. I feel you getting closer. Cocksure and full of yourself.

Go on. Do the stupid thing. Pick me up.

Pick me up and see what happens.

Pick me up, so sure I’m hurt.

Pick me up so I can twist myself, so the referee is between you and me.

Pick me up so I can jab the edges of my palms into that throat of yours that I nearly cracked on live television.

Pick me up, Becca.

See what happens.

[ThePurpleVixen]

“I don’t think she ever recovered from Paris. I don’t think anyone could. I mean, where the hell is Punky? She did the smart thing and took time off. Rowan came right back into the ring.”

"I DIDN'T TAKE ANY FUCKING TIME OFF! I KILLED SEAN CONNERY, BEAT UP A FAIRY, ESCAPED A RAMPAGING MOB AND FOUGHT CYBERMEN *BEFORE* I WRESTLED IN THE GOD-DAMN O2 ARENA, YOU BILIOUS FUCKIN' TWAT MUFFINS!"

A flung hatchet hits the huge screen, shattering the TV in a burst of sparks and distressed liquid crystal, followed by a flurry of smashing sounds as a purple-haired maniac assaults the television, toppling it from the well-appointed mahogany bedroom entertainment center. An elegantly cultured voice calls from the cosmetics table in the master en suite bathroom, where the carefully coiffured brunette lady of the house is very carefully NOT looking back through the door to the bedroom to see her tattooed hellion of a wife destroying the bedroom television with a tomahawk. Again.

As the lady of the house is a tattooed hellion herself, she knows better than to look, since it'll just make her cross and then she'll have to go have words with Megan and the two of them will never make it to the rooftop ball with the gentlemen from All Japan.

"Pickle, you're not watching any fucking American wrestling out there, are you?"

"NO. OBVIOUSLY. MOTHER*FUCKERS*!" There's another crunch as the fallen television is guillotined like Antoinette.

"Good." She touches up her lips with a flare of bright crimson, and smiles to herself in the mirror, content as a cat plump with cream-sauced canary. "Put your hatchets away, darling. And get the staff to tidy up."

Megan, she knew, was doing her best to forget the rubbish of the distant past. Even if that meant smashing expensive things with axes now and then.

A hundred more expensive TVs smashed to flinders would be a small price to pay to have that black-hearted slattern Chance out of their lives.

[Becca Blast!]

I had to sell out to do that move... but OH, it was ecstasy to do... the demon goddess nothing more than a practice doll... and I can hear the impact... and the groan... hell... everyone can hear the groan... rolling over to push up ... "This bitch is TOAST!"... and I have not a doubt now that I can hurt you more... punish you... destroy you...

But first... to make sure... so I come... over to your back as you lie there... do everything in threes... like a good little Celt... threes within threes... I've thrown you twice... the third will need to be brutal... but first, wheels  within wheels..stomping down onto the most famous injured back in the business... aiming my heel into that lower back... three times... over and over and over... then I reach down for your hair... time to end this... and end YOU... pulling you up to standing... to face me... "ready to go back to HELL, bitch?"

Then it hits... THEY hit.  a double knife edge chop into my larynx.. framing the voicebox you tried to crush... the trachea that had barely begun to heal... ARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH... I can't... breathe... the bitch... trying to prevent me from getting air... my instinct... to grab my throat... try to manipulate it open.. need ... space... need ... room... need... time... as I rasp and gag and panic.... so I lift my left boot and aim my heel at your black vinyl shorts... got to... get her... off me... so I cna get to the ropes.. and try to cough my throat open!

[Rowan Chance]

Three knees on my spine. Three spikes of pure pain thrust through my whole body.

Let her. Let her do it.

That’s what I say after each one.

Let her do it.

Yes, she knows exactly how to hurt me.
Yes, she’s preying on my old wound.
Yes, she thinks she has the advantage.

She has nothing.

You have nothing Becca.
Nothing.

With your body between me and the referee, I deliver the double thrust to your throat. You stagger back, giving me time to relish what you’ve done to me so far.

Taste it. Drink it in. Relish it.

Remember how he taught you to love it. Before you met HER. Before she made you weak.

I make sure you see exactly what happens next, Becca. Because I want you to see it.

I want you to see my body snap upright. Like I was a doll pulled by strings. Up to my feet.

And I move fast. Despite the pain you’ve given me. I almost laugh thinking about it. “Despite the pain.”

Because of the pain.

That’s the difference between me and...the weak, pathetic creature she turned me into. I forgot. Forgot what I was. What I held onto for just a moment in Paris. One fragile moment.

Not despite the pain. Because of it.

I move. My body next to yours. My arm wrapping around your head. Front face lock. Locking you in with my right arm. My right leg kicks at your knee as I pull you back. So fast. Cameras are going to have trouble catching us, Becca.

Pull back. Kick at your knee.

Drive your head down toward the canvas.

Just like old times. I can almost smell the miso soup.

[Becca Blast!]

In this business... there are moves.... patterns... wheels if you will... that become as second nature as breathing.

It's why we go into drill over and over.  In practice.  In matches.  Card after card after card.  In the US, we do it by endless shows in nameless places.  It's why when you build something like we rebuilt it in New Jersey, you fight to ends you didn't think you'd go to in order to protect it.  That's how we do it here.  That's how they do it elsewhere, too.

It's what makes the Japanese and the Mexicans legendary.  The moves that flash like lightning.  Set in stone and able to be played at a speed beyond notice.  The card tricks of our business, sleight of hand that happens so quickly, the untrained eye can't pick them up.  Hell, even the trained eye can't, always...but we can see the effect. It's why I watch Penn & Teller: Fool Us.  The professionals trying to trick each other.  And if you win, if you can do something that they cannot figure it out, they give you a spot in their Vegas act and a trophy with "F. U." in big letters. 

Because, the network wouldn't let them call it, "Penn & Teller:  Fuck U", but that's what they're really about.  If they can figure it out, FUCK YOU.  You don't deserve to be on that stage.  And, if I can figure out Rowan, FUCK HER.  I get to throw her out of MY promotion.

Except.

Right now, she's figured ME out.  Knew what I would do, how I would react, how I would move.  And here comes HER lightning.  My head... her kick at my knee. taking my leg out from under me... I can't pivot... I can't really block it... she's practiced it so long, it's too FAST to do anything much... except with I've learned.  How to take a shot.  Normally, I'd sell it.  To the crowd.  Play the hell out of it, and give the marks a show of their heroine fighting back from IMPOSSIBLE odds to somehow destroy the evil in the other corner, and restore the order threatened with absolute devastation of all that is good and right that it represents. 

(It's Barthes,  Classic work of symbolic theory using wrestling as it's model.  Look it up.)

BAMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM... we hit the canvas and I manage to twist into you enough and get my right forearm down enough to make a big noise..and keep most of the impact on my now-numbed right forearm... a nice mouse will grow over my eyebrow though... as my head bounces off the canvas and I need to buy a second to actually address that impact.  but I'm nowhere near as damaged as the crowd thinks I am... I can fight back.. i WILL fight back.. because this fight is not about a show.  It's about survival.  For me and mine and everything I've built.

The biggest problem is, is that there is one other person in this arena who knows all that.  And she knows what to do, and how hurt I am, and how to use that.  To destroy all that good and true and beautiful order, and tell Roland Barthes FUCK U to his symbolic theory.

It's Rowan.  And she's here, and she doesn't want a show in Vegas and a bigass trophy.

She wants my blood.  And I still don't know why.

[Rowan Chance]

The "thud" a head makes when it hits the canvas is always a satisfying sound. I lay there for a moment, savoring both the sound and the sensation. Little Becca's body crashing down, her spine condensing. But not too long.

A moment after we're both still, but a moment before we're completely still, I pivot my body so I can mount her back. But I keep control over her neck, my arm tightly wrapped around it. I have to adjust my grip once I get there, knees on either side of her body, looking down at the back of her head. Crawling over her like a spider crawling over a trapped fly. She's still stunned. Should be stunned for longer than I need. Should be. They're making girls tougher these days.

I have control over her head and neck. I'm up on her spine while she's face down on the canvas. I reach between us and grab my wrist tucking out from under her chin while my legs tighten around her abdomen. I make sure to tuck my head so my hair falls over your face, Becca. Because I want to hide the fact that my forearm is crushing your larynx as long as possible.

Then, I arch my back, pulling your upper torso with me, giving my forearm under your chin the kind of torque I need to make this dragon sleeper as fucking painful as possible.

You're tapping out, Becca. I'm not here to pin you. I'm here to make you give up. Make you surrender. I want to hear you screaming, begging for my mercy.

That's the only way you're getting out of this ring: if you beg me.

[ralbright2010]

This has been superb this far. I certainly hope you will continue this to a resolution. Dying with anticipation!