FreeCatFights

A man in an ugly blue sports coat with the letters "GLPW" on his lapel (standing for Great Lakes Pro Wrestling) stands in front of the camera, just back from commercial break. He has a full head of handsome hair, look about in his '50's, and looks like he used to be a broadcaster with KMSP or WCCO. His name is Buck Weinberg and he's very happy to see you. Just look at that big smile plastered on his face.

"Welcome back, fans!" he says with a little too much enthusiasm. No complaints. That's how you get over in this business. "Well, we've seen a lot of rough and ready competitors in Great Lakes Pro Wrestling, but none quite like this woman. She's the Queen of the DDT, the Daughter of Darkness, one of the most dangerous women in the world... Rowan 'Unbreakable' Chance!"

Notice he said, "one of the most dangerous" and not "the most dangerous?" That's because of Paris. And yeah, I've still got wounds. Wounds you can't see.

I stop out around the curtain with my custom thin black tank top and black yoga pants (because I know Red is watching). Tall dominatrix boots on. I'm wearing a necklace. It falls just low enough to draw attention to my breasts which are aching to peek through my tank top. Just as you're aching to see them. I've also got black glasses over my eyes. My hair tied back tight. Long, black braid down my back. Raven black. So black, it's almost blue. My lips are blood red and I smile, even though the audience sends a thousand boos my way. Let 'em. Suckers. They paid to get in here. I walked in and they handed me a check.

Buck says, "Rowan, it sounds like you aren't too popular with our fans here." He points the mic at me.

I let my smile widen. "They say that if you die without Christ's forgiveness, you burn in Hell." A little wider. "That's wrong. They send you to Minnesota."

That gets the crowd riled up. I keep going.

"You burn with the heat, you melt with the humidity, and when winter comes...you freeze so cold, it burns."

More boos. I've got them going.

"And have you met the state bird? The mosquito?"

They're yelling at me now. Good.

"Oh, no. I forgot. It's the common loon."

They're on their feet. I just smile and nod at them.

"That's what I'm dealing with here, Wine Bag. A bunch of COMMON LOONS."

It's all cheap heat. That's fine. I'll give them the real stuff later. I look back at Buck. "I hear you've got a little girl here who thinks she's something special. Thinks she's a snake." I stand in place and do a little belly dancing, moving my hips as I raise my long, sleek arms above my head. "Little girl who thinks she deserves a shot at the title."

I look right into the camera now. "Listen here, Vivianne Labelle." I point at the lens. "I didn't just come here for fun. I wasn't brought in to do squash matches with nobodies. I came here for a very specific reason. For a very specific friend."

Buck asks, "Why are you here, Rowan?"

I turn to him. "See...I know a certain Great Lakes Champion...a certain Dark-Winged Angel...and I know she put a $50,000 bounty on Vivianne's head. That's fifty-thousand dollars to the woman who can put Vivianne out of wrestling. And I'm going to be the woman who collects that bounty."

I look back at the camera. "I like money, Viv. I like it a lot. Money is how I buy all those nice expensive things that make me happy. So, when I heard about the bounty, I made a few calls. I convinced Great Lakes Pro Wrestling to buy my flight and pay for my appearance. But that's all little money compared to what I'm going to make breaking your neck, little girl. And make no mistake. I'm here for one reason and one reason only."

I take a step closer to the camera, reaching out and grabbing it. Holding it still. Focused on my face.

"I'm here. To break. Your. Neck."

That's when I spin on my dominatrix heel and step out of the camera range. To the back!

Buck shakes his head and catches his breath. "Well...that's a lot to take in! The Unbreakable Rowan Chance is here to take up the bounty that our champion, the Black-Winged Angel, has put on Vivianne 'La Vipére' Labelle! We'll have to see what Vivianne has to say about that! But after this commercial!"

"The Great Minnesota Get Together, August 23-September 3 at the State Fair Grounds. See you at the Fair!" The commercial comes to an end and the smiling face of Buck Weinberg once again fills the TV screen.

"Welcome back, fans! Joining me now is the woman who seems to be the most wanted wrestler in GLPW today, if our champion's bounty and the presence of my last guest are any indication...Vivianne, 'La Vipére' Labelle. Welcome Vivianne. Let's get right to it...what do you have to say about Rowan Chance coming here and announcing to you and everyone else that she is going to break your neck?"

What do I think about it? He wants to know what I think about it? Well, to answer that adequately I need to back up a bit. I sat backstage and watched the Daughter of Darkness work up the local Twin Cities crowd with her insults, and chuckled to myself the entire time. See, I am not a native Minnesotan, and Rowan knows that. I moved here from Montreal when I was a child with my single mother, also a pro wrestler, and her trainer. I followed in mom's footsteps, eventually starting to make a name for myself in the GLPW. While I adore my current home, the insults about this state do not phase me. They were simply for the crowd. I know it...and Rowan knows I know it. So, I chuckled. She is good at heating up a crowd.

I stopped laughing when she mentioned our champion, the Dark-Winged Angel. I shouldn't be surprised that a wrestler as dark, vicious, and ruthless as Rowan Chance would be friends with that woman. The woman who took an instant disliking to me when I started wrestling here. The woman who liked me even less when I started winning. The woman whose dislike for me turned to hatred when I beat her, fair and square, in the ring three weeks ago, cementing my spot in line as a top contender for her title. A bounty to take me out of wrestling? Yeah...I had heard about that...and I am not surprised. Still...hearing Rowan announce she is here to collect is no laughing matter...so I watched the rest of her interview and listened VERY carefully.

I smile at Buck. His blue sports coat IS ugly, but he is genuinely a sweetheart and I enjoy the way my smile makes him blush under his TV make up. "Well Buck, I have a few things to say." I turn toward the camera, dressed in my ring gear. My one piece suit (I just LOVE the old school one piece look!) is black with a charcoal grey snakeskin pattern. My boots are a matching black with snakeskin pattern too, coming all the way up my calves to just under my grey snakeskin patterned kneepads. La Vipére, comfortable I her own skin. My black hair hangs loose to my shoulders.

"First, I think our champion is a coward, hoping to get some other woman to take me out so she will not have to face me in the ring again after I beat her, but I'll deal with her later. Second, I know you like money Rowan. It must take a lot to pay for all of the treatments and therapies you have had to go through since you LOST to PUNKY in Paris." I deliver this last with a knowing wink to the camera. I know how much you hate hearing HER name and being reminded of what happened there.

"You are not as 'unbreakable' as you think, Rowan, and I am going to prove it to you. What do I have to say, Buck? I say I am not afraid of Rowan, and I am challenging her to face me next week, when the GLPW invades the Target Center here in Minneapolis. She will regret messing with La Vipére when I show everyone just how Breakable she is!"

With that I fluff my hair back over my shoulders, bring my hand to my lips and blow the camera a kiss, and stride out of the shot to the back.

Buck watches me bounce off, no doubt watching my ass, and then turns back to the camera. "Well...a threat has been made, and a challenge has been thrown down. That's all the time we have folks, but be sure to tune in next time for more great action here in the GLPW! Good night!!"

"Good night!"

The camera is on you—precious little you—as you wave goodbye to the TV viewing audience. Standing there next to the idiot in the ugly coat. They start to roll the credits, the camera still on your smiling face.

But what you don't see is what's behind you. More specifically, who is behind you. And that who is me.

I move fast. My infamous speed that's undercut the strength of wrestlers like The Red Enforcer and the punching power of Gemma Rox. And yes...even HER.

You had to mention her name, didn't you? Just had to. Like saying her name would give you some sort of advantage. I'll tell you what it's gonna get you. No. Better yet. Let me show you.

Because I come up behind you all lightning and shadow. A steel chair in my hands. Not gonna hit you with the flat of it, no. I'm gonna hit you right in the back of the neck with the edge.

And when you go down, I'll throw the chair down and get behind your sweet little body, down on all fours. And I'll grab your right arm from behind, lifting it up, snaking my left arm under your right elbow and up behind your head.

If I was street trash with a bad purple dye, I'd give this hold a name from a punk rock song. Something like the "You Wanna Be Sedated" or the "Sniffin' Glue" or the "Should I Stay or Should I Go?" or something stupid like that. But I don't. I'm a traditional kind of girl and that means I keep the name.

Gory Guerrero called it la de a caballo. But I learned its more common name from the man known as the Sheik. The cobra fucking clutch.

I waive my final goodbyes to the Twin Cities crowd and am about to turn to the back when I feel the edge of the steel chair slam into the back of my neck. "HUNGHGHG!!" I have just enough to time to wonder where you came from as I fall to all four...just enough time to marvel at how fast and silently you move...but I don't wonder either as my brain is only occupied with one thing right now...PAIN.

On all four now...shaking my head...black hair hanging over my face and covering the grimace as I try to push down the pain and get up. I need to get up, before you can...

Too late!!

You are on me quick...quicker than most women I have faced...and grab my arm. "Ngh...no!" I let out as you pull me into the cobra clutch!

Me...'La Vipére'...caught in a hold named after a snake!

I immediately start to kick and thrash, desperately pawing at your arm and wrist with my free hand, twisting my upper body in a vain attempt to break free. Playing right into your hands, as my struggles simply add to the pressure being applied to my neck.

My neck! Worth $50K to whoever breaks it!

"No!" I squirm as the fear starts to hit me...fear that is only tempered by the fact I am starting to fade. My kicks and gyrations slowing...my breathing becoming labored...my vision...starting to get...fuzzy...

"N...no..."

I hate the cold. Sure most people think it's because I'm from the South, but what many people don't realize is that under the mask, I'm half Filipino. My mom would bundle herself up in full winter gear if it got below 70 in my hometown and I inherited her thermostat. That being said, I like having money to pay bills. And when a friend asks me to help them out, I'm on my way before I ask where.



So this promotion in the Twin Cities area is wanting to make a big splash. And they want to do two things, improve the production quality of their show and run some old school angles. They've noticed that many fans are turning from the Corporate Wrestling out there and tuning in more storytelling and angles. So I get a call and an offer for some serious cash if I would help out with this new angle they have for the contender for their title. This Vivianne Labelle.

And it's a damn good thing I was there.

I looked over some of their production earlier in the day and made some suggestions from my time running the infamous FTW recap shows that well went viral I hope? Anyways I'm watching from production in the back when I see Rowan show up and cut a real classic heel promo. Nice one. Then Vivianne shows up.

Wow.

Old school look and sensibility. Why have I never crossed paths with her bef...shit...oh shit...

She mentioned..."Greg, who told Vivianne to mention Paris or Megan?"

"She does her own promos Red, like we used to in the old days."

Please have left
Please have left
Please have left

Then Rowan jumps her. And I see what she's doing.

This is no longer an angle. It's personal.

Without thinking I roar out of the back and come up on the pair. Both women so tightly entwined, it's hard to tell where one stops and the other starts. Rowan has that look on her face that I saw in Vegas. She's different. More vicious. Even scarier than when she had the mask.

And poor Vivianne is just being treated like a rag doll here. If someone doesn't stop Rowan...

This is where it gets tricky. I go in full power and I could pry Rowan off, but she'd wrench poor Vivianne's neck. I have to be subtle. And hope.

Hope some of the Rowan I know is still in there.

I ease up behind her and slowly wrap my arms around her waist, pressing my broad chest against her lithe back. I can feel the muscles in her shoulders flexing hard. I press my hips against hers and basically try to envelop her body with mine. Nothing threatening or she'll react. Just something, familiar.

I slowly run my fingers along her abs. Just the way I remember her liking. The way only I do it so she has to know it's me and not some security goon. My lips find her earlobe and I whisper her name over and over in her ear. I just need her to relax. For one moment.

She does and she takes a breath.

Like a flash, I yank back on Rowan and step back, seeing Vivianne's lovely head slip free from Rowan's nasty grip. And suddenly my Rowan is gone and this new Rowan is back, screaming vengeance and cursing me for interrupting.

I feel...

...the pretty little girl's throat crushing under my grip.
...the strength in her body fading.
...her arms flopping down to her sides.
...her legs giving out from under her.
...her neck, ready to pop.

And I laugh. That wicked, dark laughter that sounds like autumn leaves blowing through a chilly wind. I intensify my grip as her resistance fades. My arms bending her head forward, pushing her chin down toward her chest. I see on the monitors. Her eyes glazing over. Her lips drooling. Eyelids fluttering.

"You're mine, pretty girl," I whisper into Viv's ear.

And as she starts to crumble, I start to go down with her. Her left hand desperately slapping at my wrists, trying to find some way to break the hold.

Baby...nobody breaks this hold. Nobody. I went to Mexico to learn from a man in a mask. I posed as a good Christian girl so Reverend Theodore Marvin DiBiase Sr. would show me something I didn't know. (Spoiler: I knew more than he did.) I even went to goddamn Stamford, CT. and tricked the Sarge into answering some questions. (Wrestlers love talking to "reporters.")

And then, I went to Lansing, Michigan and sat over a grave. I burned candles and let the scent fill my nostrils. I ground up a recipe from a black book and ate what was left. And I spoke with...something.

Nobody breaks this hold. Nobody.

You're going down, pretty little Vivianne. I'm collecting the money. And I won't even need to step into a wrestling ring.

And then... I feel...

...powerful arms reaching around me.
...a chest against my back that I know well.
...breath on my ear.
...the leather of a mask.
...that mask.

I hear him whisper my name. And my voice growls deep in my throat.

"YOU SIDED WITH HER!"

And I twist Vivianne's neck when I say that last word. And I let her crumble in front of me. Let her fall to my feet.

I turn on my dominatrix heels to face Red. My eyes full of black fire fury.

I shove him back.

"You don't get to touch me. Ever! Again!"

Then, I walk to the back. Determined. Not looking left nor right.

Just straight ahead.

Black Winged Angel better have my goddamn money.

I'm not really sure how I ended up in this position. I remember an excruciating pain in my neck, followed by Rowan locking me in her Cobra Clutch. I remember kicking and thrashing, trying to no avail to break free. I remember her voice in my ear, telling me I was hers. But after that, things get fuzzy.

There was someone else, wasn't there? Someone big and strong. Someone's voice said Rowan's name, over and over. Someone...in a mask? It had to be a delusion as I faded away in Rowan's arms.

Then...suddenly...the vice around my neck TWISTS one last time before releasing me. I am not sure what is going on. A woman is yelling...then...nothing. I push myself up onto my left elbow, laying on my left side with my legs bent, having fallen in this position and now just starting to move. I look up, brushing my hair from my eyes and see this big, strong man looking down at me...from behind a red leather mask. Mask? I...I must still be out of it. We don't have any masked wrestlers in here GLPW...do we?

He is offering me his hand to help me up, and I reach out tentatively to take it, not yet trusting my brain is really seeing things clearly. I feel relief when he takes my hand, feeling his touch and knowing I am not imagining him. He pulls me up easily and in a voice with a charming southern accent says, "Are you ok?"

Am I ok? I just got blindsided in the back of the neck with a steel chair by Rowan Chance, and then put in a Cobra Clutch while she tried to break my neck. The champion of our promotion has put a $50K bounty out on my head. My neck hurts, my hair and makeup are a mess, and I'm fucking pissed. And to top it all off, I am just realizing I have been saved by The Red Enforcer. THE RED ENFORCER!! Seeing someone so famous in this business should be a special occasion...not being helped from the floor after being choked out. Yeah...I'm doing great!

But of course I don't say that...

Instead, I brush back my hair and smooth out my one piece over my curves, noticing the way the eyes behind the mask follow my hands as I do. "Yes...I think I am..." I smile up at the big man, who smiles back at me from under his mask. I step close to him and place my hands flat against his broad chest. "...thanks to you!" I lean my face up and stand on my toes, my breasts pressing into him now as I kiss him gently on the cheek of his mask, lowering myself back down and smiling warmly as he seems to blush.

I back away from him and smile, turning to walk to the back. After a few steps I look back over my shoulder to see him watching me. "It was nice meeting you." I wink and turn back, and as soon as I do my expression changes. Eyes narrowing and a frown on my face. You're going to pay for this Rowan. By the time I am done with you there will be no putting you back together again. You. Will be. BROKEN...

I watch the video from my hotel room. I watch you stand up and kiss Red on his leather cheek, prancing off backstage.

Yeah. Adrenaline is a helluva drug.

I know that five minutes later, the real pain started kicking in. That pain in your neck. I heard all about it. How you dropped to the floor. How they had to call medics in. How you had to spend the night in the hospital for "observation."

They don't show that on TV. They don't the world to know how weak their top face is. How easily someone could come along and snap her pretty little neck.

I'll give you credit, though. You're still walking. And you only wear the neck brace when you aren't in public. You've been staying out of the ring. Letting yourself heal. That's because your mouth wrote a check your neck can't cash.

Sitting in my hotel room...and make no mistake, this isn't some shitty Hotel 6 rathole like I'd stay in when I was traveling around the country, trying to earn a reputation. This is a suite on the top floor. King-sized bed, patio hot tub, dining room, kitchen, the works. And the man laying unconscious in my bed after I fuck fought him down is dreaming sweet dreams about me right now. He'll be dreaming sweet dreams about me for the rest of his goddamn life.

But I'm in the living room. The TV on. And I'm watching you.

Watching how you walk. Watching how you fight. Watching how you throw a punch. Watching how you wince when someone hits you in some places but not in others. Watching that finisher of yours.

I know how to counter it, Viv. You'd better believe I do. I spent hours in the gym practicing it.

And oh, have I got a surprise for you. Yes, I do. Something you'll never see coming.

It's going to be so sweet.

I look at my iPhone. About time to drive down to the arena. I grab my gear bag and head out. No need to worry about Mr. Sleepy-Go-Night-Night. He gave me a nice warm up for the evening, but I don't need to worry about leaving him here in my room. Everything I need is in my bag. I'm checking out. I won't be coming back here tonight.

I have other plans.

The hot water feels good on my neck as I stand in the shower in my apartment. Nice thing about GLPW having most of its events in the Twin Cities  is I got to sleep in my own bed last night. The water feels good as it runs down my neck and over my curves. My eyes are closed...and I am thinking about many things.

Thinking about how you attacked me, Rowan.

Thinking about how The Red Enforcer saved me, and how determined I felt as I walked away from him to the back.

Thinking about the POP I heard in my neck as I went through the curtain...and the intense pain that caused me to fall to the floor. The ensuing panic as I was rushed to Hennepin County Medical Center, where I was indeed kept over night for "observation."

Remembering the smile on the doctor's face when she told me there was nothing broken or torn. There was some damage in the form of strains and potential weakening of a few vertebrae, but she was happy to report I could avoid surgery and make a full recovery...if I stayed out of the ring for six months...maybe longer.

Her smile faded quickly when I told her that simply would not do. It turned into an outright frown when I told her I needed to compete in six days...I had challenged you, Rowan, during my promo, to a match at Target Center in a week, and I will be damned if some doctor, no matter how cute she is, will tell me I can't be there. I signed myself out of HCMC the next day, determined to prove this doctor wrong.

She was right...

I was so stiff for the first week that I was not medically cleared to compete. It took that entire first week, and most of the second, before I was able to get back in the ring, but even then I played it safe, wearing the neck brace backstage, and keeping my training as low impact as possible. I did not make the weekly shows in Duluth or Rochester, and last week in St. Cloud I showed up to cut a promo and reissue my challenge you to, Rowan. The following week, back at the Target Center, I was going to make you pay for attacking me like you did.

I step from the shower and my thoughts shift from the last few weeks to tonight, and what I know I am facing. WHO I know I am facing. I've been watching you too, Rowan. Being on the shelf has given me time to watch footage. Paris, Vegas, and most recently in LA. I know you are dangerous. The way you move, with a quickness unlike any I have faced in my comparatively young career. I know I can out punch you, if it comes to that. You may have faced one or two harder punchers than me...and we both know the women to whom I am referring...but I hit like a Canadian nor'easter myself. What you lack in punching power, you more than make up for in a variety of other lethal strikes, so I will need to be careful.

You have the ability to lock in and hit your DDT from "Outta Nowhere!", and I have seen footage of that too. Yes, Lady DDT, footage from Japan. I will be wary of that move, Rowan.

Your finisher and your submission move are both deadly. The Widow's Bite and Widow's Kiss...or was it the Widow's Web? Even you seem to interchange the names yourself, so it doesn't really matter. Very few women have gotten out of your submission hold, and your finisher is just that...a FINISHER. The best way to counter both will be to be sure you don't get the chance to use either on me.

Fully dressed and ready to go now, I sit on my couch and rub my neck. It will be a target of yours tonight for sure, and I know I am taking a risk by not waiting longer. It's not in my nature though. My mom used to lace up the boots and hit the mats injured all of the time. Of course, she was trying to put food on the table and in her day, before long-term contracts, no wrestling meant no payday. Still, I am a Labelle, and I do not run from a fight.

It's time. The GLPW limo should be waiting downstairs by now. I may not be able to afford to stay in a top floor suite, complete with room service and a male companion, but being one of GLPW's top draws does have this one little perk. I grab my bag and make sure I have everything I need, confident I will be returning home tonight after sending you back where you cam from, Rowan.

Ok...time to go to work...

The booker wants me to come out first.

Me. Go out through the curtain first. Because the babyface should come out second.

I look up at him. And let me tell you how much I hate looking up at men. So much bullshit attached to height. Wanna know how much bullshit? Go visit New York. You'll see how much bullshit.

He's balding, trying to cover it with a clever comb over. Three chins. Smells like cigarettes. God, I hate cigarettes. Boys, you want a chance with a girl? Quit smoking. Trust me. The world will become a target rich environment. His shirt is too short for his belly and his fingers are thick and dirty. Yeah, he's the cliche of every single cheap ass promoter in North America. There's a reason cliches exist.

"Yeah, how about the bigger star goes out second?" I ask him.

"Babyface goes out second," he says. He looks down on me. Goddamn, every single time a man looks down at me I want to kick him in the balls. Doesn't help I'm dressed like a stripper. I mean, I love the way I look. But he doesn't see me as a professional. Even if I was the kind of professional he's thinking about. No, he just sees me as something to use.

"All right," I nod. "I'll do it."

"Good," he says. Then, he goes back to whatever he was doing. Peeking through the hole he had installed in the womens' locker room, probably.

I stand behind the curtain and wait for the cue. The wrestlers from the previous match come through the curtain. I stand far enough aside so nobody can see me from the other side. There's about a thirty second pause, then the lights go out. And my new theme starts to play. Black Vultures by Halestorm.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gnrKrFS6L0Y

I don't give in, I don't give up
I won't ever let it break me
I'm on fire, I'm a fighter
I'll forever be the last one standing
Black vultures circling the sky
Pick at the pieces
Scavengers wait for me to die
But I'm not defeated

When the chorus hits, that's when I shove the curtains aside, spreading my arms wide. Black smoke curling around me. My new entrance gear has a long coat made of black feathers, a halo made of the same around my shoulders. My eyes are painted black with a black stripe across my face--just like Priss from Blade Runner or Furiosa from Fury Road. The pitch black makes the white of my eyes shine bright, matching the dark brown of my own eyes. With my arms outstretched, the curtain still in my grip, I look around the place. My blood red lips curling into a cruel smile.

I'm here to wreck your hero. That's what my smile says. And you--all of you--are going to watch.

Black vultures circling the sky
Pick at the pieces
Scavengers wait for me to die
But I'm not defeated

I make my way down the entrance ramp toward the ring. I don't clap hands, I don't dance. One tall, black leather domme boot in front of the other. My long legs are on full display under my feathered robe.

I'm on the edge of the war
I'm holding on and hanging by a thread
I am the eye of the storm
And you haven't seen the last of me just yet
I'm falling down but I'm not out
I'm coming back for more

I imagine most people are distracted by my walk, but a few in the audience hear the lyrics and hear all the shit going through those lyrics: past, present and future. One in particular.

Black vultures circling the sky
Pick at the pieces
Scavengers wait for me to die

When I reach the ring, I slide between the bottom and second ropes. Not my usual highly sexualized entrance. Simple. Elegant.

I move to the center of the ring and spread my goddamn wings, dropping my chin to my chest, then raising it up and screaming at the ceiling. More mythic meaning for my masked man.

Black vultures circling the
Black vultures circling the
Black vultures circling the
Black vultures circling the sky

Then, as the music suddenly stops, I drop my wings and raise one of them up to my face, hiding my lips and nose, looking straight into the camera. Just the black paint and my shining eyes.

"Miss Labelle, it's time." The voice of the arena attendant follows his knock on my dressing room door. He doesn't knock twice, or wait for a reply, knowing I am familiar with the routine. I stand up and take one last look at myself in the full-length mirror, making sure everything is just right. Nice thing about Target Center is the top-notch dressing rooms, and being in the main event tonight means I get to use one of the private ones.

As I walk the hall to the entrance area I hear your music. "Scavengers wait for me to die, But I'm not defeated." Hmm...sounds like someone is either trying awfully hard to forget Paris...or awfully hard to NOT let herself forget. Either way, I don't intend to be your next stepping stone on your road to recovery.

Your music stops and after you've had a few moments to play to the crowd, and the cameras, the show manager looks at me, waiting. The crowd is buzzing as I give him a smile and a nod. With a flash of pyro at the top of the stage, my entrance song hits.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PgraolBe6ss

You flash a smile,
You think I'll fall,
You push me back against the wall...
The time has come to pay or play,
But I slip away!

As the beat drives on I step through the curtain, moving first to my left, then my right across the stage, playing to the crowd on each side. Big smile on my face, and hands in the air, getting a big pop from my adopted hometown crowd. Coming back to the top of the ramp, I stand with my feet together,  arms straight out, palms open and up, head back, face to the ceiling...waiting...until the chorus starts. My head snaps forward and I start down the ramp, giving high fives and hand slaps all the way down the aisle. The GLPW crowd loves me...and why shouldn't they? Like the song says, "I'm a snake charmer!"

My curvy body is clad in a classic one piece suit, with a silver and black snakeskin pattern. My calf high boots and knee pads are colored to match, giving La Vipére her skin. My ring jacket is short, only down to the waist, in matching colors with yellow snake eyes on the back. My black hair is loose and down to my shoulders. Just enough makeup to highlight my cheekbones and eyes, and black lipstick. A smattering of glitter on my chest and in my hair. The entire ensemble...one piece, boots, knee pads, ring jacket, hair, makeup, and glitter...resembling something you might have seen on GLOW back in the day. Combine that with my enthusiastic interaction with the crowd...and they eat it up! Every crowd loves a good Babyface, right?

I reach the ring and do a lap, slapping hands with fans at ringside, before coming back around. Looking up to be sure you are on the far side of the ring, I slide in under the bottom rope, my back arching as I raise my upper body with my arms, SLITHERING into the ring. I push myself to my feet and peel off my ring jacket. I swing it over my head a few times, bringing even more cheers from the crowd, before I toss it over the top rope where a ring attendant will pick it up.

As my music stops I stand in middle ring, looking directly at you. You, Rowan...the woman who attacked me a little over a month ago. You, Rowan...the woman who has vowed to put me out of wrestling...to break my neck...and claim our bitch champion's bounty. You, Rowan...the woman I plan to send back to the hole you crawled out of to come here.

My eyes borrow straight into yours, showing you I am not intimidated by your entrance or your new look. I bounce from foot to foot, like a prize fighter getting loose. I roll my head and shoulders, feeling some stiffness still in my neck, but it is too late to worry about that now.

I'm ready.

Time to go to work...

Look at you. So confident. So pretty. Your eyes, your lips. Your breasts, your hips. Lean, muscular limbs. But not too muscular. Not too hard. Just a lovely combination of strength and beauty. Almost perfect.

Almost. But not quite. Let me show you what perfect looks like.

I shrug my cloak of feathers off and it slides down my shoulders, and with a twist, it lands in my arms. I turn and give it to one of the ring crew, making sure he knows what will happen to him if he messes with it. And then, I turn to face you.

This is what perfect looks like.

My custom-made leather corset isn't exactly a corset. It's flexible. Leather plates, yes, but with black spandex which allows me to bend. And to be honest, the leather isn't leather. It's pleather. Plastic leather. That gives it additional flexibility.

My boy shorts are cut just right so all the boys can see the curve of my ass. Made from the same material as my faux-corset. And black. Black as night. Black as nightmares. And on my ass is a reminder of my old gimick: a blood red black widow's mark. Like a sand timer. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Skin-colored stockings and tall dominatrix boots specially made for this kind of activity. No heels. Flat soles. But they go all the way up to my knees. Laced up the front with blood red laces.

On my arms are long, pleather opera gloves. I flex the fingers, listening to the stretching sound. Looking at you. And smiling.

The referee looks at both of us. The crowd going wild. Chanting your name. There are a few smart marks out there with Rowan Chance shirts and signs, but I've alienated most of the people who used to cheer for me. Traveling across the country breaking necks and arms and legs does that to a girl. But there's money. Oh, so much money. So many pretty little things like you who make enemies. And those enemies pay top dollar.

I'm not in this for the wins anymore. I'm not in it to make a point. I'm in it for the dollar bills. I'm a mercenary. Heartless. Cold. Calculating.

The Dark-Winged Angel wants you out of the business, Viv. He's paying me big bucks to take you out.

Win, lose, or draw. That's what's going to happen. Tonight, you're being carried out on a stretcher.

The bell rings. Time to go to work.

You shrug your feathered cloak and I get my first up close look at you...and you do look perfect. The way your corset hugs your body and accentuates your breasts. The way your domme boots make your long, sexy legs look even longer. The way your boy shorts hug your ass. Everything about you looks perfect.

Everything about you looks cold...

Everthing about you looks...dangerous...

The crowd is really worked up now as the ref makes sure we are both ready. "VI-VI-ANNE! VI-VI-ANNE! VI-VI-ANNE!"

On the outside I look confident. Eyes narrow and looking straight into yours, Smile gone from my face and replaced with the look of determination my fans have come to expect from me when a match starts. Body coiled...like a snake...and ready to strike.

On the inside? That is another matter. I am feeling something I have not felt since my debut match...nervous. My stomach is churning and my arms are tingling just a bit. My bouncing from foot to foot is not just to loosen up...but to burn off excess energy as I prepare to clash with one of the most dangerous...and sexy women in this sport.

The ref turns to call for the bell, and I shove these feelings down, knowing I cannot afford to hesitate.

DING! DING! DING!

I come out of the corner in a slight crouch, guard up, circling you in a classic, almost old school wrestling stance. Like I do every match. Showing you exactly what you expect to see...for now...

Circling...feet shuffling and leg muscles tense...looking for an opening...ready to pounce as soon as you give me one. Suddenly, I plant my right leg hard, digging my boot into the canvas as I LUNGE toward you, going for a classic collar/elbow lockup...

Here we go!!

Collar and elbow?

Collar and elbow?

Oh, little princess. You're in the wrong place.

You go for a collar and elbow and I duck down and under, swinging low. The intent is simple: throw the tip of my boot straight into that gorgeous flat belly of yours. I'm doing it fast and I'm doing it just out of the range of sight of the referee. Because kicks are only legal if its the flat of the boot, not the tip. And I'm going for hitting you with the tip.

I pivot on my left leg, spinning 360 degrees around. A kick I learned in Japan. Ah, Japan...

I was just nineteen years old when they gave me the Lady DDT hood. Still green as grass, knowing how to bump and that's about it. And in the ring, I was doing DDTs. Like Daniel-san washing cars. They were teaching me something. Do one thing and do it over and over and over and over again until you do it right.

But at night, I was doing a different kind of training. A different kind of teacher. I caught his eye. He liked what he saw. And what he saw was potential.

So, late at night, I show up in a dark dojo and I suffer at the hands of my teacher. And he shows me things almost nobody knows.

But when you see my kick--when everyone sees that kick--they'll invoke his name. They'll use the same adjectives.

Intense. Sudden. Powerful.


Spinning on my heel, sending the tip of my boot toward your stomach. I even whisper his name as my own subtle kiai.

Mutoh!

Sitting on a stool in my mom's dressing room after one of her matches, watching her as she finishes dressing and packs her things into her bag. I don't remember what town we were in. They all seem the same, especially to my six year old eyes.

"Mommy, why did you cheat in your match tonight?" While still stuffing her bag, my mom looks at me and smiles.

"Well Sweetie, sometimes mommy has to bend the rules a little bit, to keep the other girls from hurting me too much. You'll understand more when you get older."

Mom was right. I did understand more as I got older. Some wrestlers are heels. Some are babyfaces. I realized early on that my path to success in this business was as a babyface. I simply had that classic, babyface build and look. A look I cultivated with one piece suits, free flowing hair and glitter, and generally playing by the rules. Yes...I am a babyface.

Rowan, you are most definitely a heel, and a vicious one at that. A fact you seem intent on proving to me, and the entire arena, from your opening move...

I lunge in for the lockup and my arms WHIFF as you duck under me. Fuck...so fast!! You're behind me before I even realize I grabbed open air...and before I can process that fact the tip of your boot...fucking heel move!...smashes into my flat tummy. So fast and so hard!!

"UNGHGHG!!!" I gasp out and buckle forward, my arms immediately going to my gut. You caught me with my arms still out, having missed the lock up, and your boot slammed into relatively relaxed abs...and sunk in deep! GAWD!!!

I feel as though I might throw up. I shake my head, hair flowing side to side, and step away from you, almost staggering as my right hand continues to hold my gut. Bent over slightly, my left hand out in front of me, pawing the air as I pant for breath.

Another shake of my head and...where are you? Knowing you won't simply let me recover after a single kick. Trying to straighten up...

Where are you?

Your body, ducked over. Holding your taut belly. I don't hesitate. Not a second.

My arms move, snapping around your left arm and your neck as fast as a mousetrap. You feel my left hand grasp your left wrist, pulling it under your chin. Then, possibly, you see my right hand grasp my own left wrist. Like a front face cobra clutch. You feel the tension against your throat. Feel the tension in the back of your neck as I pull your head forward, stretching the stuff connecting your cervical bones. You know, the ones that keep your neck in place. Little C1-C7.

Across the ring, the announcer is out of his chair, nearly knocking his headset off. He's shouting about how this move is illegal, how I'll be banned, how I'll be fined.

I don't care. I seriously don't care. Because the fine will be nothing compared to the bounty I'll get for breaking your pretty neck.

That's when I spend a second I shouldn't spare looking at him. Grinning at him. Selling the moment for all its worth.

My eyes look into his eyes. My nightmare black eyes.

I lick my lips. My blood red lips.

It's one moment. Just one.

Then, I tense my shoulders...

...and...

...I...

...LIFT...

I don't have to wonder where you are for long. You are on me quick and before I know it I am squirming, bent over in a front face lock that is really closer to a Cobra Clutch. I stomp the mat, causing my thighs and butt to shake for the crowd behind me as I wince in your grasp. Neck muscles and vertebrae, not as healed as the cute HCMC doctor would like, are protesting the sudden rough treatment.

I know what you are doing. Watching hours of footage from Japan, seeing 'Lady DDT' strike from practically anywhere, and I know what you want to do...and if you succeed you will likely break my neck!

"Mommy, why did you cheat in your match tonight?"

"Well Sweetie, sometimes mommy has to bend the rules a little bit, to keep the other girls from hurting me too much."

Mom's words from when I was six flash through my mind, along with your illegal toe kick and your backstage attack. She said I would understand when I get older...and I finally do. Sometimes even the babyface needs to bend the rules...

You hesitate for just a second. I don't now why...and I don't care. Clenching my right fist, I draw it back...and swing it forward. When standing, my punches hit like a Canadian Pacific Railway locomotive, so even bent over with my arm trapped they carry some pop.

HEEYAAH!! I drive my right closed fist up into your left side ribs, feeling your body jolt and hearing you grunt. A second punch, this one harder, lands square to your navel, and sinks in DEEP, lifting your feet from the canvas. I feel your breath purged from your lungs blowing on my back as you loosen your grip on my left arm and neck just enough...

The announcer is yelling about me now...and illegal closed fist punches. GLPW is not accustomed to so much rule breaking in the opening minute of the match, and this poor guy is going to have a stroke if he doesn't calm down.

I shove you with my right arm, pushing you off me now, growling at you and stepping in for another swing, aiming one more right handed punch. An uppercut. Aimed directly for that perfect, shapely jaw line of yours...

...and...

...I...

...LIFT...

... and someone throws a sledge hammer into my side. My body bending with the impact. I've been punched before. Punched by the best. But this was...

... and someone throws a rail road tie into my side. I feel my feet lift off the mat. Feel all my guts slush over to the side as my hands lose their grip. I feel you push me back, my feet barely keeping me up, my knees all but rubber from those two massive hits.

All right. All right. Two hits that would make Gemma's eyes moisten. Mine are.

That's why I don't see the uppercut. But I feel it.

Your fist hits in the right place. On the side of the jaw. Hitting the bone up, jamming into my skull. Making the inside of my skull feel like the Fourth of July. Making my teeth jam together. My dentist will be really happy on Monday.

My body shakes...then stumbles...then falls. More like, crumbles. Into a heap. The back of my head banging against the canvas.

I'm down. Hard. And it's only ten seconds into the match.

Your teeth make the most wonderful clicking noise as they slam together, and you crumple to the mat like a marionette with her strings cut...and I smirk as your head bounces off the canvas. Yeah...you're gonna feel that one in the morning for sure.

I stalk over to you, rubbing my neck and shaking out my left arm. Reaching down, I dig my fingers deep into your raven blue/black hair, hauling you up to your feet.

Time to settle the announcer down and give him some WRESTLING to announce.

I bend and slide my right hand between your legs, wondering briefly how many men...and women...would love to be able to do that, and as my left goes to your shoulder I haul you up.

Holding you upside down...

Turning in spot toward middle ring...

And dropping you with a classic body slam...

THUD!!!

You react the way everyone does...sitting up and arching your back in pain. Only for you, back pain is always a touchy thing, isn't it, Rowan?

Seeing you sit up, dropping to my left knee behind you, placing my right between your shoulder blades...

Reaching for your arms, wanting to slide my hands down your wrists and pull those arms back. Wanting to hear the Daughter of Darkness scream...

That body slam made my toes tingle. Not a good sign.

And when you get behind me, trying to pull my arms behind me, with your knee in my back...

...yeah. That's not happening.

I slip my arms out from your grip and run them up your shoulders to your head. Finding the long locks of your hair and SQUEEZING.

Then, with your head in my grip, I quickly stand...

... jump up...

...looks like I'm trying to jump over you...

...but I stop halfway over...

...and swing back forward...

...aiming your chin at my shoulder.

I can tell by the way your body arches after the slam that your back didn't like that. Everyone who has seen you wrestle knows your weak spot, Rowan, no matter how many different therapies and ancient healing methods you try.

I intend to attack that weak spot when I reach for your arms with my knee in your back. Things are looking good as my hands start to slide down the smooth, dark skin of your upper arms.

Looking good until you slip from my grip and grab my hair...

I wince as you stand, YANKING me up by my black hair. I am wrapping my fingers around your wrists, trying to pull your hands off of me when you jump.

Feeling your body weight go up, I immediately try to keep my own weight forward, to prevent you from going all the way over me and pulling me backwards with you.

I realize too late that you are not trying to go over, and my leaning forward plays right into your hands as you fall, bringing me with you. My chin tucked against your shoulder as you hit the mat.

The same clicking noise your teeth made moments ago from my uppercut emanates from my mouth now as your jaw breaker rattles my cage. (Funny...the clicking doesn't sound as wonderful when coming from my own head as it did coming from yours...)

UNGH!!!   I bounce off your shoulder and go rigid, on my own knees, wincing as I topple over to my right side, landing on the mat and rolling onto my back.

Holding my jaw in my hands...starting to roll...rolling away from you and toward the ropes...hoping I can somehow make it there before you press your attack...

I watch you trying for the ropes, rolling as fast as your hurt little body can go. And I snarl.

"Going for my back?"

I send a sharp kick into the small of your back as you roll.

"Going for my back, babyface?"

Kick!

"Heroine!"

Kick!

"Pest!"

And when you get to the ropes, I grab your hair. A whole handful of it. Ripping you up and throwing your back into the ropes, my hand under your chin, pushing you right over the top, arching your back so those precious tits spread out under your rather modest (and antiquated) wrestling gear.

"Oh, no!" I hiss at you. "You're not getting away that easily!"

I reach my arm back and over my head. Hand on your chin. Aiming.

Because the tip of my elbow is going to land exactly at the base of your throat. Still a legal blow. I'm not going for your throat proper. The referee is a little too close for that, right at my side, counting up to four.

No. Just at the base. A legal move.

But it's going to hurt.

Oh, yes. It's going to hurt.

I hear you snarl at me as I roll, then feel your kick slam my back. UNGH!!

Rolling...coming around...another kick. HUNGH!!!

Wincing, but still rolling...another kick. ARGHH!!

Reaching the ropes, but finding no respite there as you grab my hair. My scalp burns as you haul me up, but before I can even think of complaining about the hair I feel my back arching painfully over the ropes.

I see your arm go up and immediately think you want to slap your open palm across my breasts, exposed as they are. (Antiquated suit? You're just jealous that I look SO GOOD in it.)

As the ref counts I realize your arm is bent...your elbow pointed...and you are not going for a classic chest stinging slap. Fuck...

What did you call me? Babyface? You're right, Rowan...I AM a babyface, but even a baby face will do what she must...to keep from getting hurt too much...

As your right elbow is cocked and ready to strike, I swing my left arm from over the top rope, my aim a little fuzzy as you push my chin back, but trying to hit you in your right armpit...

With my left hand...clenched into a fist with my thumb extended...hoping to spike you under the arm before you can drop the hammer on your elbow strike.

Hoping to back you off a bit and rattle your confidence. To show you this babyface, 'La Vipére', has fangs...

Sitting in the dim light, my sensei raises my arm by the wrist and fires a quick blow: a thumb into my armpit. A quick but stiff thumb right in a soft place. He tells me, in Japanese, the strike sends immediate shock to the radial nerve. He's telling me this while I feel it. Feel the pain rush up and down my arm, down into my fingers. Hell, my toes feel it. I collapse while he still holds on to my wrist, holding up my arm. I'm squeezing my eyes so I don't cry. Biting my lip so I don't scream.

"Do you understand?" he asks me.

I nod. "Hai." It's about all I can say.

"Good," he says. "Now...we do it again."

And again.

And again.

And again.

I know what he's doing. Like striking the board with your bare fist. Like playing guitar until your blisters break and make calluses. He's making me stronger. Every night I sneak out and he trains me, I'm getting stronger. But even when you hit your hand against the board a thousand times, there's still pain. You just have to learn how to ignore the pain.

Or, in my case, turn it into something else. That's what Tantalus taught me.

So when you ram your thumb into my armpit, my body reacts. I let go of you. I don't get to swing the tip of my elbow down onto the base of your throat. I let go of you and turn, stomping into the center of the ring. Shouting as many curse words as I know. Grabbing my shoulder, squeezing it tight. Remembering the first time I felt this. Remembering the second time. The third time. The fourth time. But no matter how many times you feel it, no matter how accustomed to the pain you become, there is still pain. Red hot screaming biting pain.

And in another place, in another dimly lit room (what is it with guys and dimly lit rooms?), Tantalus binds my hands above my head. He whispers something cruel and sweet into my ear. And then he does something...terrible. And awful. Terrible because it inspires terror. Awful because it inspires awe.

And there's a look on my face in that moment. A look of agony. A look of ecstasy. And when he asks me, "Are you okay?" I look him in the eye and tell him,

"...more."

So after the initial rush of blinding screaming red hot pain, you hear me sucking air through my teeth. Then, you see me turn.

Then, you see my smile.

"Looks like mommy's little girl is finally growing up," I say, smiling at you.

I drop my arms. Lower my gaze into yours.

"Come on, good girl. Show me how bad you can be."

I see you smile and my eyes widen. I hear you call me 'mommy's little girl' and they narrow.

Your arms at your sides...clearly a challenge. Your words..."good girl"...clearly a taunt.

I straighten up from the ropes. Fingers brush through my hair, fluffing it from my face. Hands cup my breasts, resettling them in my suit. Rolling my neck, feeling some discomfort, but making sure not to show it.

"You want to see how bad I can be, Rowan? I ain't no blonde bimbo submissive who you can just woman handle and then tie up. Oh no! I'm a LABELLE!!!"

I move from the ropes, guard up, body tense, ready to take you on, Daughter of Darkness. Ready to show you just how bad this 'good girl' can be...

I feel like Palpatine in front of Luke Skywalker now. I want to clap my hands and hiss at you. "Good...good..."

Because as much as you want to be a villainess, little Labelle, you're not. I've watched your matches. Trying so hard to live up to your mother's name but staying clear of her reputation. She was a villain. I grew up watching her. Pulling hair, raking the eyes, low blows, pulling the tights. That's your idea of a villain, isn't it, Viv?

Well, to steal a phrase... I ain't your momma's villain.

You come rushing in, all piss and vinegar. Your eyes are focused on me. I know exactly where your hands are headed. Follow the eyes. One of the first lessons I ever learned. Follow the eyes.

So when you do come rushing in, I'm ready for you. Even in this relaxed position, I'm ready for you. Because this "relaxed position" isn't a relaxed position at all...



FLASHBACK TIME!

My daddy's library. He has so many books. He has his grandfather's sword way up high so I can't reach it. But I've seen it. I've even touched it. Not out of the saya. There it rests in the tosogu. Way up high.

I like to read. I steal books out of his library and read them. Some of them, I don't understand. I can read the Japanese, but I don't understand them. So, I ask.

"What does this mean?" I ask him. I point at the passage.

He turns in his chair, looking down at me through his glasses. "Ah, that is Musashi talking about stance."

"What does it mean?"

He takes the book and reads it to me.

"In all forms of strategy, it is necessary to maintain the combat stance in everyday life and to make your everyday stance your combat stance. You must research this well." He pauses. "What do you think it means?"

I think about it for a while. I tell him, "I think it means that you should always be ready for a fight!"

He nods. "That's right. There is no difference in stance--either in mind or body--when you are fighting or not fighting. You should always be fighting."

"Hai!" I tell him. I run away with the book and continue reading. I will ask many more questions later.

END FLASHBACK!!!


I see you coming at me. My hands comfortably at my sides. I look relaxed. Ready for tea.

But I'm not ready for tea. I'm ready for you.

So when you get within reach of my long legs, my right moves suddenly, kicking upward, aiming for just under your jaw. It's a goddamn OUT OF NOWHERE! moment right out of Seth Rollins' book. And those big, bad dominatrix boots.

They do hit hard.

As I rush toward you, I cock my right hand, fist clenching. You thought I hit hard when you had me bent over and one arm trapped, wait until this hammer strikes home!

Seeing you remain motionless I know something is up, but I am expecting a sudden dodge or movement of your hands or arms. Seeing none of that I continue my charge, full speed ahead...eyes on your jaw...wanting to hear that sweet clacking of your teeth again as I smash you right in the mou...HUNGHHH!!!!

The sole of your big domme boot connects right under my chin and everything stops.

My forward charge...stops...

The punch I was just unleashing...stops...

My ability to see clearly...stops...

My body goes rigid, as if I was just hit with a taser. Arms falling to my side as my head snaps back, my black hair a flurry around my face, partially covering my eyes as they roll back.

Time stops...as I teeter...like a tree about to fall to Paul Bunyan's axe in my adopted state's northern forest. Slowly at first, then picking up speed as I fall. Landing on my back with my arms outstretched, head hitting the mat and bouncing, along with my breasts in my one piece suit.

Ending up down in front of you, spread out in a big X, and moaning. Not out cold, but dazed for sure.

Wha...what hit me?

Wha...what hit me?

Not what, dear. Whom.

These are the moments that present themselves to those in the professional wrestling medium. Your opponent is flat on the mat, clearly stunned after a surprise attack. Do you...


     a) Go in for the pin?
     b) Apply a submission hold? or
     c) Grab a limb and give it a good strike?


Those are your options. In the span of a heartbeat, you must make a decision. So, this is the process that happens in my brain.

No to a). She's not nearly close to ready.

No to b). She's too close to the ropes and could reach out to break the hold, making my efforts wasted.

Therefore, c) is the correct answer. We're forgoing the fourth option which is d) Pop the crowd. I'm not interested in the crowd. I wouldn't piss on them to put out a fire.

With your legs being the closest, I reach down and grab your ankle. I quickly lace your knee between my knees. Then, I give you a smile.

"This is going to hurt."

Leaping up and over you, with your leg trapped between mine. I make sure to do that ballerina twist my mother made me learn, just so your leg is at exactly the wrong angle when I land.

Your leg.

Bent over your own head.

Laced between mine.

Hitting the canvas.

Twisted at the wrong angle.

Told you this was going to hurt.

You know that feeling you get when you are coming out of sleep, but you are not really back yet? The groggy, not totally out, but not totally with it feeling? That feeling of just wanting to roll back over for five more minutes before waking up? Well, that's me as I lay on my back, still not sure what hit me.

Vivianne...Vivianne...wake up, ma chérie.
Aw mom...just a few more minutes...
Viv...you have to wake up now. Rowan isn't going to wait.

You reach down and grab my left boot, gripping my ankle and pulling my leg up and between yours.

Too late, ma chérie...

You jump...pulling my leg as you do. I'm very flexible. Ok...I don't have the dancer's body and bendiness you do, but my hip takes the motion with little problem, and my hamstring, though strained to its limit, ends up pretty much just fine. No, that's not my problem now. My problem is the way you wrenched my knee.

MY KNEE!!!

AAARRRGGGHHHEEE!!!

I am snapped out of my haze by a sudden explosion of pain. I howl in such a way as to make the announcer squirm a little in his chair, not being used to such exclamations in the GLPW ring. The crowd gasping...then booing you loudly.

Rolling back and forth, my left leg bent, both hands clutching my knee. Breath coming in gasps now as I try to push down the pain. Hair becoming damp against my neck as I grimace, not knowing how bad you just hurt my knee...

...and knowing you will not give me a chance to test it before you attack again...

I land on the other side of your head, tucking my own and rolling forward until I land on my feet. Just like Curt used to do.

Turning, I see you clutching your knee. I hear you screaming. Yes. That's exactly what I like to hear.

I prowl around you, making each step a deliberate statement. Letting you hear the sound of my flat heels hitting the canvas. Letting you hear the sound of my voice as my words drop from my lips.

"Well, well, well..." I say each word with a step of my boots. "Ms. Labelle...it looks like you won't be using that limb for a little while."

I snap down and grab your ankle, pulling it up and toward me. "Just how familiar are you with wrestling history, Viv? Especially local wrestling history?"

With your ankle in both hands, I give it a gentle twist. Just enough to show you what's about to happen next. One of my feet on your other foot. Just to minimize your ability to turn.

"Tell me...do you remember the Minnesota Wrecking Crew?" I raise an eyebrow. "Because I do."

And that, my dear, is when my fingers coil tight around your ankle...

...and I TWIST.

Do I remember the Minnesota Wrecking Crew? Are you serious? I remember watching them with my mom after we first moved here from Montreal. Mom loved how they would target one limb...and keep on it. Just like you and my left leg. Fuck!

My left leg...knee still throbbing as you grab my boot and give my ankle a slight tug.

Your domme boot on my other ankle, holding me in place.

Your mention of the Wrecking Crew.

My eyes lock onto yours and I raise my hands toward you, palms open and fingers outstretched. Waving them...begging with them.

"No...no...no, no, no!" Pleading now, like every wrestler ever caught in such a situation does.

Like every wrestler in control of such a situation, you ignore my pleas.

When you twist my ankle I am howling again, not even trying to contain myself as you wrench the ankle on my already hurting left leg. Your ankle lock rolls me to my stomach, and I immediately push up with my hands. Lifting my upper body. Clawing the canvas as I try to pull myself close enough to the ropes to break the hold.

You're hurting my leg...but my arms are still strong. I dig...and claw...and inch closer to the ropes. Almost close enough...almost there...reaching with my left hand...

Finger tips close...almost there...

Almost...

The ropes? You reaching for the ropes?

Oh, that's so darling.

I see you crawling across the ring. Crawling. Like the little snake you are. I see your body, spread out on the mat, desperately reaching.

Almost there... so close...

And just when you reach the ropes, I make a point of my elbow and I DROP all my weight behind it, aiming straight for the inside of your knee.

Yeah, I'll break the hold. I'll break it... my way.

Almost there...so close...

As my fingers are about to snake around the bottom rope I feel a change in your grip, loosening around my ankle.

Too soon...no way Rowan Chance is letting go of an ankle lock before the ref has counted to four...unless...

I swallow down the pain in my leg and roll quickly to my left side, pulling my right knee to my chest as I do. Without waiting for you to come into my line of sight, I shove my right leg down, HARD. I am rewarded with the feeling of your breasts pancaking under my boot and the sound of your grunt as I knock you back toward middle ring.

Knock you back...but not down...

Clawing now, using the ropes to pull myself up. Leaning against them as I brush my matted hair from my face and test my left leg.

Ahh! Fuck! Ok ok ok...I can put weight on it, but my ankle and knee are both performing under protest. Nothing appears to be torn...I hope...so I take a deep breath and suck it up, letting it out slowly as I look to see you recovering quickly from my kick in middle ring.

Staying near the ropes, maximizing the time I can use their support, eyeing you.

Guard up, whether my leg is ready or not.

Ready or not...I don't have a choice...

I was ready to drop that elbow, but a sudden WHOOMF to my chest knocks the wind out of me. Knocks my body back five steps. I'm holding my chest, staggering backwards, watching you get back to your feet.

Heh. Watching you stagger back to your feet.

One wheel down. One more to go.

You should have learned this lesson watching my match with the Bimbo Bombshell, Viv. I'm not out for victories. I've got a plan. A long term goal. And the bounty is part of it. In fact, the bounty is just someone paying me to accomplish what I already want to do.

I move forward, making deliberate steps. "How do you wake a sleeping dragon, Viv?" I ask. A nonsense question coming out of nowhere. I raise my arms. My leather clad arms. "How do you? How do you wake a sleeping dragon?"

I get close enough. Within reach. Just. And I lean forward with my chin. Lean forward like a dare.

"You eat its children," I say, that wicked grin of mine on my lips.


Across the ring, the two bozos they hired for play-by-play and commentary look confused.

"What is Rowan talking about? Waking dragons? Eating their children?"

"She's gone, Brinks. Ever since that match in Paris. She's gone crazy."

"I wouldn't say that too loud, Billy."

"She can't hear me. Besides, it's true. Ever since Punky left her for dead, she's been breaking bones in every fed from here to Tokyo."




It's true. I have. And yes, I can hear them. I hear everything.

But there I am. Leaning into your reach. I even put my arms behind my back.

Come on, Labelle. Let's see if you can hurt me.

I bet you can't.

***Fifth grade. 11 years old. The school yard after school. The neighborhood bully, Ashley McIntyre, standing over me as I pick up the backpack she had just pulled off my shoulder and tossed to the ground. Laughing as other girls surround us, looking forward to seeing Ashley in action. Me, trying to stay calm, like I always do...even if it makes me look afraid to stand up to her.

"You ever gonna fight back, Labelle? Ever? Even just once?" I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and wait for Ashley to wind down, like she usually does. Usually...but not this time...

"Come on Labelle. Let's see if you can hurt me. I bet you can't." My eyes snap open. I've had enough. You know that scene in A Christmas Story, where Ralpie finally snaps and stands up to Farkus...and kicks his ass? (If not, wait until Christmas Eve...it will play for 24 hours on TBS.)

Well, Farkus was lucky compared to Ashley. He didn't end up in the hospital like she did...and I wasn't bullied any longer, by anyone.




"Come on Labelle. Let's see if you can hurt me. I bet you can't."

My eyes narrow and my face darkens. My right fist clenches. I take a limp/step toward you, pressing my forehead against yours...our eyes an inch apart.

"You're just a bully, Chance. I don't like bullies!"

My hands shoot quickly up and grab each side of your head while your arms are still behind your back. Ducking my chin, I pull your head over mine and kick my legs out in front of me, my left leg sending a shock of pain up my body that I force myself to ignore with a growl.

I fall to my ass...legs outstretched...trying to hold your head tight enough to pull you with me and nail you with a jawbreaker on the top of my head.

Oh...this will hurt.

Care to change your bet, Chance?

I hate jawbreakers.

I hate how men like to call their dicks "the Jawbreaker." So many goddamn many of them. Boys, you wanna win points with the Queen of Sexfighting? Don't do that. Automatic disqualification.

And mostly, I hate the way the move slams your lower jaw into your skull. Smashing your teeth together, sending shockwaves through the aforementioned cranium. When it happens to me, my hands instinctively rush up to my lower jaw as my body snaps backward, landing hard on my back, flipping over until I end up on my chest. Right hand still holding the bottom of my head. The sting on my shoulders from landing high makes my eyes shut, but the ringing pain in my head is far worse.

God.
Fucking.
Dammit.

With that high pitched noise in my head, I open my eyes and look at you. Still down. That knee of yours makes getting back to your feet hard, doesn't it? That's okay. I'll stay here on the canvas and let that whine in my head die down while you put weight on your wounded knee. Make you come to me.

Larry called this "a human game of chess." People think it's all about rushing to the next high spot. Yeah. That's why they're where they are and I'm where I am.

I watch you struggle with that knee. Trying so hard not to show the pain. You don't have to. I know how much pain you're in right now. And I'm on the canvas. Still reeling from your...jawbreaker.

Let you get closer. Pretend I don't notice you. Let you limp on that knee. Show everybody how much weight you can put on it. In other words, no weight at all.

And when you get close enough...that's when I spring the trap.

You jaw slams down on my squama frontalis...my forehead...the hardest part of my head. You are flung backwards as if my body had suddenly become electrified, and end up chest down on the mat, offering me and the crowd a pretty good view of your firm backside.

I sit there for a few seconds, panting. Feeling my left knee throb. Giving it just a bit before I move again. I fold my legs from a seated position to underneath me, wincing as my left knee bends. My ankle seems ok. Sore, but ok. You were really wrenching my knee more with that ankle lock...and it doesn't feel right.

Pushing up to all four, keeping my weight on my right knee...wincing. Leaning back and pushing up, again on my right leg...wincing. Breathing through gritted teeth as I brush my sweaty hair from my face, looking at your beautiful form on the mat before me. Oh yes, I can admit it Rowan. You're a heartless, unfeeling, uncaring, evil bitch...but you are beautiful.

I take a step with my left leg and...Ahh! Fuck! I grimace as I almost topple over. Shaking my head in frustration...and determination...I step with my right, then another with my left. My face scrunches up farther this time, but I swallow the pain and move closer to you.  It's obvious I need to give this knee time to recover some, and until I do I cannot keep this a stand up fight.

You're still down, facing the canvas as I approach. On your right side, by your tall black domme boots. Looking down, I choose my target. That nice little curve at the small of your back, just above that firm ass of yours. Right where I know...where everybody knows...you've been injured before. Yes, that will do nicely.

Raising my left arm...folding my upper arm back...lining up my elbow to drop right along your lower spine. All I have to do is let myself fall...

...which is exactly what I begin to do...

Sit still. Like a spider. Let the fly get closer.

You stomp so hard on the canvas, I could hear you in Des Moines. Sensing the timing of your steps. Feeling the vibration in the boards.

You're close. So close.

Just a peek. To know what your next move is. That's all I need.

I see your elbow raised. See your body plummeting down. The tip of that elbow aimed at the base of my spine.

Oh, you little...


I TWIST as you fall, dodging the elbow. Letting the tip hit the mat and the unforgiving boards below. And as you fall, I spin around, grabbing that knee of yours. Hooking it. Wrapping my own legs around it. Still on the mat, on my backside, my legs hooked around your leg, my hands on your ankle.

"No dancing for you," I say, grinning. As I lay my grip in. Lock your leg in place with my ankles.

Front heel lock. Designed to put all kinds of pressure on several fragile parts of your lower leg. But most importantly, that wounded knee of yours. Then, I snarl, my face turning dark. Go after my lower back will you? Go after the place where SHE wounded me? No, bitch. Not you. Not nobody. Not ever again.

"NO. MORE. DANCING. FOR YOU!"

TWIST!!!!

Your experience wins out over my enthusiasm as you move, causing my elbow to painfully slam into the boards. I barely have time to register this new pain when you are grabbing my leg and pulling me into you trap.

"AAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHEEEEE!!!!!"

I scream...no, I HOWL!

Both hands slapping the mat in pain and frustration. Hair flying around my face as I toss my head back and forth. The ref leaning in, my scream causing him concern.

"Vivianne, do you give?" He asks..

"NO! NO! NO FUCKING WAY!" I scream, shaking my head emphatically.

I lay on my back, reaching up over my head for the ropes. Too far away...

I sit back up and try to reach your head or your hair. Too far away...

I try to pry your lithe legs from my own. Locked in too tight...

Leaning back on my hands...face turned to the ceiling...feeling my knee being strained way too much. Hearing the crowd, booing you and cheering me on. Trying to urge their heroine to break free.

I came into this match with a sore neck, expecting that to be your target. Now here I sit, in agony in middle ring, as you crank my left knee. Not seeing a way out.

Think Viv!

Think damn it!!

I see the look in your eye and I can read it like reading your own thoughts.

"Youth and enthusiasm will never beat wisdom and treachery." And I laugh.

I've got your leg tight. It isn't going anywhere. Just a few more ounces of pressure and you won't just be off your feet for this match...you'll be off your feet for months. I got paid to break your neck. Breaking your leg is a bonus.

I use one elbow and smash the tip of it on your knee cap. Then again. And again.

"Tap!" I shout at you. "Give up! Show your mom she has a quitter for a daughter!"

Another SMASH on your knee cap. I can feel it. Feel the swelling already building under it.

"Do it Labelle! GIVE! UP!"

Your elbow smashes my kneecap and I gasp. I don't yell. The pain is so sudden and so unexpectedly different from the wrenching I was enduring that my eyes widen and I simply gasp.

Then you do it again...and again...

My mouth open in a big, silent O. The searing heat coming from my knee so intense it sucks the sound from my throat before it leaves my lips. Eyes clenched shut in agony.


My mom, sitting in her locker room with an ice bag on her knee, leaning her head back with her eyes closed. Watching her from the other side of the room, her teenage daughter asks her the question she has been wondering for a while now.

"Mom, why didn't you just tap out? Why did you let her hurt your knee so badly? Was tonight's match so important that you had to risk the next month in order to endure that pain?"

Her eyes open and she looks straight into mine, smiling. "Listen to me, Vivianne, and listen good. Labelles. Do. Not. Give. Up. We are not quitters, got it?" She then adjusts the ice bag, leans her head back, and closes her eyes again.

Here endeth the lesson...


"Do it Labelle! GIVE UP!" Oh no...not to you...not to anyone!

I clench my hands into fists and lean forward...my left hand swinging and SLAMMING a punch to the back of your right thigh. You remember my punches, don't you? The ones that would make Gemma Rox's eyes water?

My right fist then SMASHES into your right ass cheek. I am grunting with each swing now. My knee is swelling and I need to force you to let go before you damage my knee any further.

"Heeyaah!!"  Fist to your thigh again!

"Hurgghhh!!!"   Sitting up as far as I can...putting everything I have into this next blow...reaching as far as I can reach with it...

...and HAMMERING your lower back, just above your firm ass.

"Fuck you, Chance!!!"

The first punch stings. You aren't in any position to put any weight behind it, but it stings.

The second punch...that's different.

And the third...I see it coming. That's because you have to twist at a pretty brutal angle to get it, putting even more pressure on that knee of yours, and part of me wants to believe you wouldn't...

...oh shit...

It hits the small of my back like a goddamn hammer and everything just...stops...for a moment. My eyes wide. Slow motion. Watching you scream those words at me. Like a Zach Snyder movie.

I let go of the hold, rolling away. My right hand on the spot you struck. Teeth clenched. Rolling all the way to the opposite corner.

Dammit.

Dammit!!!

There's a tickle in my toes. My legs feel like rubber. I grab the bottom rope, trying to pull myself up. Trying to make my legs work. Make them ignore what just happened. Keep that smile on my face.

"It's just a stinger," I whisper to myself. "Just a stinger. Walk it off."

I manage to get to my feet. Seems like it took me a month. I have no idea where you are. I turn to look. Could be a nasty surprise...

BULLSEYE!

You could have withstood a few more shots to your legs and ass, maybe long enough to smash my knee again and wreck it for good. This blow? Oh no, you 'unbreakable' bitch...this one hurt you, bad. The look in your eyes telling me all I need to know about that.

You spoke of sleeping a waking dragon? I don't know much about dragons, but here in Minnesota we often talk about how wise it is to poke a sleeping grizzly bear. You wanna call me babyface and mock me for it? Fine. You wanna talk about how much you don't like me and about cashing in on some bounty? Fine. You wanna talk about my mom? Call her daughter a quitter? Call a LABELLE a quitter?

Oh no...no...hell fucking no!

You just poked the bear...and she's pretty pissed. Seeing you roll to the opposite corner and using the ropes to pull yourself up, I roll to the ropes next to me and use them to do the same, The pain in my knee so bad tears are starting to roll down my cheek. The swelling starting...along with some numbness that might actually serve to my advantage...for a very short time...

You are still pulling yourself up, no doubt trying to deal with a pain you hoped not to experience in this match. My eyes narrow and my face sets as I stand in the opposite corner, using the ropes to keep weight from my left leg. I toss my head back, clearing the hair from my face, and shove off the corner...hard. Growling as I do!

After one step with my right leg, my left buckled and I collapse to the mat with a yell, but I push myself up and keep going. Ignoring the pain. Another step with my right, and this time my left only buckles, but I endure the electric shock shooting from my knee and take another two steps. Coming closer to you, gaining speed.

Your back is to me as you get to your feet and I launch myself, pushing off my good right leg, boot digging into the canvas, muscles straining as I launch my body toward your back.

You turn just in time to avoid a devastating shoulder ram to your back, but take it full on in the gut. My right shoulder slamming your firm abs, squishing everything in as I grab the second ropes with both hands on either side of you.

Using the ropes, I lean back and drive my shoulder into you again...WHAMM!!!

Again...WHOOMP!!!

You poked the bear...and she's pissed...

I lean back one more time, ready to ram into you again...

"Labelle has come alive! Hitting Rowan with shoulder blocks into the corner!

That's what happens when you don't finish the job, Brinks. Chance had Labelle to rights, and she couldn't finish her off.

OOOOO! Another hard shoulder to the solar plexus and that one lifted Rowan right off her feet!

The ref should get in there! Chance is in the ropes! She's got a four count or she's disqualified!



Luckily, the ref does get in there, tugging at your shoulder, starting the count.

"ONE! TWO!!"

My stomach is burning. Aching. I can take a hit to the gut, but expecting it helps.

Come on, ref. Get this bitch off of me...

As you lunge in for that third hit, you do take my feet off the mat. My body's on instinct. Reflex. Physical memory. When in trouble...

My left arm tries to wrap around your neck. And with my feet in the air, I throw all my weight backward. My legs, on either side of your hips, kick hard against the air.

If I get this right, I'll be aiming your precious pretty face at the turnbuckle. Buckle DDT. If it works.

The ref is tugging my shoulder and counting. Keep counting buddy...I've got time for one or two more. Just enough to really hurt her sto...

Your left arm wraps around my neck and your legs around my body. All the video footage I watched from you in Japan, as Lady DDT, showed me you can hit this damn move from practically anywhere. Randy Orton should be paying you royalties each time the phrase "Outta Nowhere!" is used to describe his move. I know this, and told myself before the match to be wary. Well, wary sometimes goes out the window when your knee is wrecked pretty bad and the bitch who did it is in your sights.

...HUNGHGHG!!!

My head slams into the turnbuckle and my hands lose their grip on the ropes. I take a few staggering steps back, leaving you heaving in the corner, my left hand on my forehead. My right reaches out behind me as if to steady myself on something that isn't there...and I fall. Landing unceremoniously on my ass...almost comically. Breasts bounce and I end up sitting, legs outstretched. Still holding my forehead.

Ears ringing some..

Damn it...

Fuck...

Wasn't exactly my Greatest DDT Evar!!!! but it did it's job. Got you away from me.

I landed with my back against the turnbuckles, watched you stumble away then fall on your ass. Excellent. Time to finish off Lil' Miss Wanna Be My Mommy.

I grab the second ropes--with one hand on either side of the turnbuckle--and give myself a little rope-assisted kip up. I'm ready to crack my knuckles and...


shit

no


not



ROWAN CHANCE JUST COLLAPSED TO THE MAT!

And by the look on her face, I'd guess it was that cotton candy back of hers, Brinks.

Rowan is seething in agony!

And I don't think this is her playing possum. She's too smart for that. Labelle's hurt. She should be capitalizing!




They're right. I'm not playing possum. My back just gave me a spasm like I haven't felt since...

NO! NO!

I can feel it. Starting in my muscles. It's a low, dull throb. Then, the speed increases. And the pain. Until it seems my muscles seize my spine and twist it.



"I can't recommend you wrestle any time in the near future, Ms. Chance. Your back just isn't ready for it."

---

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.

---

"Your back may feel healed, Ms. Chance, but it's important to remember the damage you suffered in Paris...."

---

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.




Fuck...

...no.

My legs are tingling.

I pound the mat with my fist, knuckles first. Punching it.

Get up...

The base of my spine throbs and burns and throbs and burns.

Get...the fuck...up.

On my knuckles, my legs a tangled mess behind me. I look up at you.

Your eyes are starting to focus. Pulling yourself to your feet.

SHE didn't break you.
SHE didn't break you.
SHE didn't fucking break you.

GET
THE FUCK
UP

The ringing in my ears starts to subside and my vision starts to clear. Pulling my hand from my forehead, I see you on the mat, propping yourself on your knuckles, your legs folded behind you as if not properly attached to your body any longer. I blink hard and then I see it. There, in your eyes. Pain...agony...fear. Yes, fear. Not of me, but of the signals your back is sending you now. Reminders of the past, come to revisit you again. Still fighting HER, even as you fight me.

I pull my legs under me and start to push up to my feet. My left leg sending warning signals this is bad idea, but I tell it to fuck off. On my feet now, my left leg quivers as I am still bent at the waist, hands on my thighs, wincing and choking down the pain. Taking a deep breath, I straighten up to my full height, grimacing as I do. Looking down on you as you are trying to will yourself to get up.

You did worse than poke the bear, Chance. You fucked with a Labelle. I've spent my young career trying to apply mom's lessons, but in a more rule abiding way. Fans loved me for it, and I became the babyface of GLPW. Well, the time has come for me to fully embrace the lessons mom taught that were not so...rule abiding. This was all your doing, Chance. You fucked with a Labelle...and now you pay.

I move toward you, steps with my left leg tentative, but growing more steady with each one. Moving to your left, I reach down and grab a handful of your hair with my left hand, pulling your upper body from the mat, lifting you to about 45 degrees...

Raising my right arm, I drop my right fist hard into your back, letting go of your hair as I do...adding a slight slam to the mat to my hammer blow to your back.

Reaching down, I grab your hair again...raise my right fist again...and hammer/slam you a second time.

I love how your body flops when it hits, supple legs, limp as your upper body flops.

Once more I reach for your hair, but this time instead of holding you at an angle, I prop you as best I can on all four...well sort of all two as your legs are still not quite cooperating with your body. Still...this will do. This will do nicely.

Letting go of your hair, I enlace my right hand fingers with those of my left, lifting both hands above my head, holding them there for just a few seconds as the crowd cheers what they know is coming.

I drop to one knee...my right knee of course, and swing a double axe handle toward your back with as much force as I can muster. Toward the same target I hit before.

Unbreakable? We're about to find out, aren't we?

Your fist hits my back and my body almost bounces off the ring. A scream erupts from my lips. A desperate, wild scream. My hands are shaking.

Then, a second time. My back arches and my fingers try to grip the mat. I try to turn away from you but I can't. Try to roll to the ropes. Reach out. But nothing works. My hands are shaking now.

The third time. Double axe handle. I make the softest, weakest sound. And stay flat on the canvas.

I can't move. I need to move. Need to do something. Need to stop this woman from hurting me anymore.

Need to hurt her back. Hurt her hard. I just...just...need to get my body to move...

I push myself up to my feet, reaching out to the ropes to steady myself as I do. Ok Rowan, lets see how much this back of yours can really take.

Bending over, I grab your left wrist and start to drag you from the corner, intent on pulling you to middle ring. Only problem is I forgot for a second about my left leg. It buckles after I take just two steps, and I fall to my right knee, still holding your wrist and basically turning you parallel with the ropes. Fuck! Well, this will have to do.

Sitting on my ass, I DIG my right boot into your left side, transferring your left wrist to my left hand and reaching forward, for your left domme boot.

Grabbing your ankle I sit back up, then lean back, pulling your wrist and ankle hard, bending your body around my extended right boot. Putting yet more strain on that Unbreakable back of yours.

You scream.

Oh, do you ever scream.

I smile.

A smile the GLPW fans have never seen on my face before. Sinister. Devilish. Evil.

I look at the ref and true to my ring gimmick, I HISS at him.

"Assssssk her! Assssssk her ref!"

Give it up Chance...before La Vipére breaks you in two!

"Assssssk her! Assssssk her ref!"

The referee bends over, doing just that. I tell the ref, "Go to Hell!"

That's when the bitch really pulls. And that's when I really scream.

My body stretched out. Breasts pushing against the leather of my faux-corset. My long legs bent, hips pushed forward. My head snaps back, wet hair slapping behind me. Wet lips screaming out.

The referee asks again. I shout, "Straight to Hell!"

Labelle adjusts her grip for another pull. I thought I could get myself out of this. Thought I could outpower her. My legs are strong. Break her grip. But right now, my legs aren't cooperating. And my back muscles are seizing up. Her boot in the base of my spine isn't helping.

I see the ropes. I don't want to use them. I want to beat this bitch. Getting free of the hold is another dagger in her delicate brain. If I swing my free leg over, I could reach the bottom rope and break the hold. But then what? I don't know if I can get to my feet, let alone wrestle. My legs are tingling like I fell asleep on them for an hour and suddenly woke up. What happens after I break the hold?

Tap out, a voice tells me. Inside my head. Tap out and fight another day. Your plan won't work if you can't walk. Take the hit and rest like the doctors told you.

I shake my head. "No," I mutter. The referee must think I'm talking to him. I'm not. I'm answering that voice in my head.

About to twist my wrist and ankle for another pull... I swallow hard...

... and throw my leg on the bottom rope.

I love how your body is bending for me now, Chance. Love the way your leg is crooked back, causing that crease at the top of your thigh, just below your boy shorts. Love the way your fingers are curled in agony as I yank on your arm. Love the way your hair is a sweaty, matted mess behind you, and how your curves stress the fabric of your suit. Most of all though, I LOVE your screaming. Your body has become my instrument, and its melody is your voice as it fills the Target Center. Oh yes, I love this.

SCREAM FOR ME, CHANCE!!!

The ref asks you twice if you will give, and of course you don't. That's why your back is such a problem for you... you don't know when to give up. I let up for a second or two, just long enough to give my arms a breather, and just as I am about to pull back the ref starts telling me to break the hold.

You're on the ropes, huh? So?

I CRANK  back with all the strength I can put into it, hearing you scream even louder, the ref counting as your leg lays across the bottom rope. Fine...I break the hold...but not until he reaches four.

I let you go and push myself back from you on my ass, watching you almost curl in on yourself, your back is in so much pain. You're hurt. You're struggling, and we both know it. Your time is up...if I can capitalize on it.

Adrenaline is a funny thing. You hear stories all of the time about people who lift cars off others at accident sights, spurred on beyond normal limits by their body's adrenaline. Seeing you down and hurt, mine kicks in. I push myself to my feet, my left leg barely quivering as I stand and reach down for you. Not even limping as I haul you to middle ring on all four by your sweaty hair. I can tell my knee is swollen, but it's like the pain signals have been turned off temporarily, just long enough for me to finish you.

I tuck your head between my thighs, your neck snug against my crotch as I bend over and wrap my arms around your firm waist, locking my left hand over my right wrist against your lower tummy. Leaning back, left knee protesting only a bit, I HEAVE, spinning you up so your legs go over my shoulders. My hands move to your thighs and I hold you there. I feel your upper body flop with your breasts over my head. I turn in spot 180 degrees, taking in a full breath of your womanhood in my face as I do. I can tell by your moaning you know what is coming...and you are in no position to do anything to stop me.

I have the spot on the mat all picked out. Right in the center, between the L and P of the GLPW logo. That's the spot Rowan. The spot where I intend to plant you with my favorite power move...

...the powerbomb...

My brothers were tape traders. Once a week or so, they'd pack up a bunch of VHS tapes and send them to places like Austin, Atlanta, San Francisco, and even Japan. And when they'd get a new box of tapes, they'd sit in front of the VCR all weekend watching them. Their little sister--that's me--would sit with them and watch all those tapes, right by their side. And I will never forget the moment that I saw the powerbomb for the first time.

Big Van Vader vs. Sting for the WCW world title, Great American Bash 1992. Vader lifted a helpless Sting up over his head, Sting's body wavering, his arms weak at his sides. You had to make someone really helpless to put them in that kind of position, and that's exactly what Sting was: helpless. And as Vader threw Sting down to the mat, his body hitting so hard, Vader rolled Sting up, bending him in half for the pin.

I couldn't believe what I was feeling. Watching Sting helpless. Watching Vader manhandle him. And while Vader held the title over his head, Sting lay motionless in the ring.

Something clicked inside me then. I watched that match over and over again. My brothers thought it was because I had a crush on Sting. Well, I did, but that wasn't the point.

The point was watching Sting helpless. And little girl Rowan had no idea what was going through my mind and my body. But big girl Rowan does.

In a word, it was HOT.

Flash forward a few years. Pro wrestler Rowan is in the ring. And Viv Labelle lifts me up in the same position.

My body swaying back and forth. My arms limp at my sides. My head tilting. Body covered with sweat. My hair wet on my face and on my naked back.

Then, the swinging impact of the move itself.

My shoulders hit first, my arms outstretched. My breasts heave under the faux-corset. My arms bounce off the mat, cross over my chest, then come to a rest, my palms up. I don't scream. I don't shout. My face makes a single statement: an indication of pain. Cheeks blown out. Eyes shut tight.

I feel the impact. Like being hit by a recreational vehicle from behind while someone throws you into the blow. A powerbomb isn't a single hit: it's two. The person throwing you into the hit and the hit itself. The stronger they are, the bigger it is. And this one is pretty big.

Like I said, my arms flop down to the canvas, palms up. My head drops to the side. My legs are bent, the left crossing the right. The parts of me that jiggle do that, too. As I lay on the canvas in the same pose Sting fell into with Vader holding the title over his head.

And there's nothing else.

The way your body bounces when it hits the mat and then comes to rest is simply delicious. There you are, Daughter of Darkness, spread out on your back in front of me. Eyes closed, arms out, palms up. Unbreakable? Hardly...

I move to your left side. My left knee is sending signals it is starting to remember how messed up it is, but I ignore it and lay my body on top of yours. My left arm hooking your right leg, pulling it up as my chest pancakes your breasts in your faux-corset. My right forearm lies across your face, turning your head to your right and pressing against your left cheek. This is it Rowan. This ends here.

The ref drops and quickly checks your shoulders, raising his hand and slapping the mat. I nod my head along with him, hair flowing around my face as I do.

"ONE!"

His arm goes up a second time, and my head bobs in accompaniment again as he slaps the canvas.

"TWOO!!"

This is it Rowan...

Say good night!

The ref raises his hand a third time, the crowd cheering me as I prepare to bob my head along with his count one final time...

Laying on the canvas, Viv's weight on top of me, holding my shoulders down, I'm barely there. I hear the count. "ONE!" But it doesn't register in my mind. I'm not sure what it is.

"TWO!"

I feel the impact of the referee's hand hitting next to my head. But again, I'm not sure what it is or why it's there.

And for some reason, I remember what happened backstage before the match...



Rowan
Walking backstage, my bag in my hands, everything is wet. It's raining outside and I must look like I'm on  a porn set. My hair is damp, my thin black tank top is stuck to my skin and I can't imagine what my yoga pants are doing. Luckily, I'm not wearing my good boots. Those are in the bag. I turn the corner on the way to the dressing room and -- boom. There he is. The big, bad Red Enforcer. And I have that moment of, "Did he see me? Can I dodge him? If he did see me, can I still dodge him?" I haven't talked to him since... yeah. He called. I didn't respond. He called a lot. I didn't respond a lot. So I duck my head and keep walking. Maybe he won't say anything.

Enforcer
I almost didn't recognize her. She was dressed down and it'd been...too long since I saw her. She ducked to avoid me. I could've said something then, but I wanted it to be private. I turned and mentally noted where you went. And yes, my eyes couldn't help but watch you in those soaking wet yoga pants. Once I got done with the chat I was in with some old foes in this area, I made my way to your locker room. Standing at the door like a big dork, debating on whether to knock or leave. Finally just shaking my head and bringing my fist up to pound on the door.

Rowan
I spend about three seconds debating whether or not I should answer. I know who it is. I know what he wants to say. I don't want to hear it. But something inside me--something stupid says, "Yeah?" in the most curt tone I can summon.

Enforcer
If I was a vampire, that wouldn't have been enough for me to pass the threshold. The fact she didn't tell me to fuck off is all the permission I need. That tone tells me she knows it's me. So I just bull my way in. I'm too old to worry be nervous, so why do I feel so anxious. And there she is. I wanna smile. I wanna go up and scoop her in my arms and hug her. I wanna tell her how much I've missed her. How much I still care. I know if I did any of that, she'd drop me on my head. So I just close the door behind me and say "Ro?"

Rowan
Sitting down in front of a mirror that reaches all along the room (the place used to be an old theater, and this was the makeup room), seeing him in that mirror, my reflection gives him a long, wicked grin. "Red." I reach down one leg and unzip the boot that reaches all the way up to my knee. I slide it off. Slowly. Let it fall with a heavy, leather sound. Then, I turn and say, "You wanted to see me?"

Enforcer
I take a deep breath as I see that grin. And then the slow removal of your boot. If you were standing up and bending over to do that, I probably would've lost my mind. As t is, I have to struggle to focus. "Yeah. You never called back. I'm concerned Ro." I casually shift my weight from one foot to the other. Habit. Always keep on your toes. In this case a pair of Chuck Taylors. My palms feel a bit moist so I wipe them on the front of my lucky jeans. Really if it weren't for the mask you'd think I was a fan. I'm hoping nothing goes down here as I'm wearing my favorite Horsemen shirt that's older than most of my opponent's these days. "Very concerned."

Rowan
"Oh are you now?" I shake my head like a wet dog shakes his tail, letting drops of water splash on the mirror and around us. Then, I give you a playful look. "You should be concerned." I lean down again, this time unzipping my other boot. Taking my time doing it. Letting it drop to the floor. Slipping off the socks, I'm in bare feet now. Still sitting, I slip my thumbs under the waist band of my yoga pants. I lift my hips so they roll down my thighs. My black bikini underwear stuck to my wet skin. I roll the pants down to my ankles, then kick them off. They land in a wet heap on the other side of the room. "You should be concerned for Vivianne. She has no idea what she's in for."

Enforcer
Any other time, this teasing would make me grin like a madman. But now, after Paris...after Vegas...seeing you attack Vivianne...this playful you is more the mask than anything else. When your hands go to your yoga pants, I feel my throat tighten. You know exactly how my body reacts seeing you like this. And in the past, this would be just a prelude to other things. But not this day. This is you reminding me of what was and maybe telling me what I'll never have again. I can't tell how deeply your anger with me runs. My eyes don't watch the yoga pants, just focus on the word inked just above the top of your bikini underwear. "I know she doesn't. I don't think I do. But I'm not here for her. It's still too soon Ro."

Rowan
I stand. Very slowly. Keeping eye contact with you. All I'm wearing is that thin black tank top and my black panties. I step up close. Even closer. And when I get close enough to touch, I turn. So my back is against your chest. You're still facing the mirror. Now, we both are. I put my hands up so they're reaching behind your head, my fingers gripping the fabric of your mask as my hips press against your hips. I arch my back, just a little. Just enough that my breasts press against the thin fabric of the tank top. I lower one arm so it reaches behind your hips and one of the spaghetti straps falls over my naked shoulder. I close my eyes and suck air through my teeth, a little moan escaping my lips. "Too...soon...for...what?"

Enforcer
Gawd. You know what buttons to push. You know how you look. How that makes me feel. I try to look ahead, and I see how you arch. I feel you next to me.  Wet from the rain, but still so very warm. I feel your hands on my mask, your hips..pressing back.... THROB and you arch, my eyes seeing your slight tank stretching...those nipples outlined by the soaked material. The strap falls and my heart races. I see your eyes shut...hear that sharp inhale..the moan...that whiskey soaked voice of yours...my arms move on their own and wrap around your waist. "Your....back..."

Rowan
My hips swivel, just a little. Maintaining the pressure. "Does it feel like you should be concerned about my back?"

Enforcer
You...you have to know..to feel...to feel me against you...heart racing...throbbing...arms around your waist...warm hands sliding under your top, resting on your defined abs. My head bowed...resting against your head. "No..doesn't feel like..not physically...but Ro...too soon?" My head is a haze. I'm...so...

Rowan
That's when I STOP. Just STOP. My eyes open and I'm looking at you from the mirror. That dark gaze in my eyes. My chin lowers, just an inch. A strand of wet hair falls across my brow. "Your concern has been noted. Mr ___." And the name I use does not include the words "Red" or "Enforcer." Then, I step back to the chair I was sitting in before. Sit down. "Now, if you don't mind. I need to change."

Enforcer
Hearing my name, my real name, shocks me back. And I see that cold look. Brown eyes turned black. I watch you walk back to your seat. Dismissing me. "That's how it is? Fine. " my head drops and I pull my mask off for a moment. "I'll be there after. For you. To try to put you back together again. Because you know I love you." I put my mask back on and turn. Grip the doorknob, open the door and slip out without another word.



"You know I love you."

That phrase echoes in my brain. Over and over again. Even as the referee raises up for another count, the last count, I keep hearing Red's voice.

And that's when I know I want to make him pay for saying it. Not because it isn't true. It is true. Red does love me.

He just loves HER more.

And that's when everything becomes clear. That's when I know...



"OHMYGOD! ROWAN KICKED OUT! ROWAN KICKED OUT!"

"I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! I THOUGHT SHE WAS FINISHED!"



No. I'm not finished. I haven't even started.


(Thanks to The Red Enforcer for helping me write the flashback. Love you Red!)

"OHMYGOD! ROWAN KICKED OUT! ROWAN KICKED OUT!"

"I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! I THOUGHT SHE WAS FINISHED!"

I can't believe it either. You kicked out. Sunofabitch! You kicked out!!

I lean back on my knees and slam my hands on the mat in frustration as the crowd boos, then almost immediately resumes their cheering for me. They know what I know. You are still down. You are still hurt. You are still...mine...

Running my hand through my hair, I push up to my feet. My mind picturing you locked in my Porch Swing submission finisher as I take a step toward your legs. That's when it happens...

Adrenaline is a funny thing. You hear stories all of the time about people who lift cars off others at accident sites, spurred on beyond normal limits by their body's adrenaline.

What you do not always hear about is the crash that often happens after an adrenaline rush like the one I had. Lying on you as the ref counted apparently gave my body enough rest to think I no longer needed shielding from the pain in my knee. Hell, it seems as though my body decided I no longer needed a functioning left knee at all...

POP!!!

"Aaarrrggghhheee!!!"

I take a step toward your legs when my knee suddenly pops. I drop to the mat, holding my left knee and screaming in pain, eyes clenched shut, rolling back and forth. The ref a little unsure what to do, so he does nothing. We are both down, but he doesn't even start to count.

NO! No! No no no!

I know you are still hurting, but now so am I...and worse than before. The pain signals in my knee were turned off just long enough for me to finish you...but I didn't finish you and now I am the one wondering how I will continue. Wondering how I can wrestle when I don't think I can stand. I was so close...less than a count away...

Fuck...

Instinct. That's all it was. Instinct.

Hearing the referee shout "TWO!" and feeling the hand hit the canvas. You do this long enough, it becomes muscle memory.

My legs are still tingling. At least I can feel them. I shake my head. The match is still going but you haven't...what's happening?

I turn my head. I see you. Clutching at your knee. Sitting up, bent forward, your hands holding that knee I worked on for so long. That's when I understand. And with your back turned to me...that's when I know it's time to strike. You think I'm still out. You think I can't hurt you.

Oh, baby. I can always hurt you.

I get up on my elbows. Then, my knees. The fans are already screaming. But your screams are drowning out theirs. Your panic. Your fear. So you don't hear me crawling toward you. You don't see me on my hands and knees. And when I'm in the right position...just behind you...so close maybe you can feel the heavy breath from my burning lungs...

See, I do my research. Not just on you. On another Labelle. I went all the way back to when you were a little girl. Me, too. Got my brothers' tape collection because I remembered seeing it. I watched it again on an old VCR. The film was crap and there was no sound. Color washed out like someone ran it through a bleach bath. But there she was. Your mom. Defending the Women's Title just across the river in St. Paul. November 2nd. And I watch the end of that match over and over and over again. Why? You're about to find out.

I reach around your torso and grab your wrist. Pull your arm up. Slide my arm between. A tight little knot around your throat. I pull you in tight. So tight, you can feel my corset against your back. Feel the insides of my thighs against your hips. Feel my lips close to your ear.

And that's when I whisper the date.

"November 2nd." And give your ear a little nibble.

You remember that date, Labelle? I know you do.

November 2nd is when your mother dropped the women's title in St. Paul.

All because she couldn't escape the cobra clutch.

I've never been injured in a match like this, and I am panicking. Gawd this hurts! What do I do? I don't know what to do!!

Vivianne! STOP! Settle down! You know what to do.

Mom...my knee...I don't think I can stand. What do I do?

Vivianne! You will act like a Labelle...and keep fighting. Do you hear me? A Labelle never gives up!

Yes mom, I hear you...

I stop screaming and sit there, holding my knee and heaving. That's when you strike.

The inside of your thighs feel warm against my hips as you kneel behind me. Your breasts are firm against my back as you lean your corset into me. Your breath is hot on my ear as your lips part against it, causing me to shiver even as you pull my arm into position and lock in your Cobra Clutch!

I immediately start to thrash and kick with my legs...well my right leg...and paw at your arms with my right hand, my left trapped around my neck. I feel the muscles and bones in my neck straining against your grip, and I know it will only be a matter of time before the fears of that cute doctor at HCMC will become reality...if I do not escape.

Then you whisper in my ear. "November 2"

Yes, I remember the date. Yes, I remember what happened over at the old Civic Center in St. Paul. I remember seeing my mom caught in a Cobra Clutch. I remember her thrashing about, trying to break free. I remember knowing she would not tap out...a Labelle never quits.

She didn't tap out...she passed out...and lost her title that night.

Of course, her opponent was set only winning the match, and nothing more. There was no bounty on mom's head to motivate her opponent to cause permanent damage.

I consider tapping out, though I know you will not let me go even if I do. You have $50K reasons not to, but maybe the ref will interfere in time. No...I don't think he will be able to pull you off me before it's too late. Mom's words, ringing in my ear now...

A Labelle never gives up!

I know mom...but I am beginning to feel my neck crunch...

I feel my own arms tightening, cutting off the blood supply to your brain. You're trying to fight, but your hands are useless.

She doesn't know the escape. And even if she did, she can't stand. Can't put any weight at all on that leg.


I give her ear a gentle laugh. "You could tap, dear. Deny me that fifty thousand dollars. But what would your mommy think?" I let my tongue roll over your earlobe and laugh harder.

My tingling legs wrap up and around your waist as I pull you down to the mat. Locking my ankles together. My legs are weak, but not helpless.

Not like you.

"What's more important, Viv?" I ask with a cruel cut in my voice. "Your neck or your mommy's love?"

We're in the center of the ring. There's nowhere to crawl to, even if you could. Your leg is useless. Your eyes are fading.

I've got you, Vivianne. And the only escape is surrendering to the black waves of unconsciousness crashing in your mind.

Feel my breasts high and powerful, pressed against your back. Feel the leather. Feel the heat of my skin. Feel the leather of my boots wrapped around your waist. Feel my arms pressing harder.

It's over. You've lost.

The only choice you have now is whether I get my fifty grand or not.

If only I was on my feet and my knee wasn't wrecked. I could lean forward, lift your feet from the mat, and ram you backwards against the post until that back of yours forced you to let go. I'm not on my feet though...and with my left knee blown I have no chance of getting there. You have me...and the worst part is you KNOW you have me.

I feel your body envelope mine. Legs around my waist. Breasts against my back. Arms around my neck. The suppleness of your leather corset and boots. The heat of your creamy, dark skin. The power of your womanhood, overpowering mine...

"You could tap, dear. Deny me the fifty thousand dollars."

Even as my mind begins to get fuzzy I know this is a lie. No way the Rowan Chance who showed up for the sole purpose of collecting the money she covets so much is going to stop until she cashes in...and that means breaking my neck.

My body spasms, more a reaction than purposeful action as survival instinct tries to kick in, only to be denied by your vicious hold.

"What's more important, Viv? Your neck or your mommy's love?"


Two years ago...in MY locker room. The third match of my GLPW career was earlier tonight, and I am icing my sore left shoulder. There is a knock on the door, but the person knocking does not wait for an answer before entering.

"How's the shoulder, Vivianne?"

I let out a long breath before answering. "It's sore, but it will be ok, mom."

"Yes, it will be. She got you pretty good. You have some work to do before your next match."

I nod, my eyes leaving hers and looking at myself in the mirror. "Mom...I'm sorry. Sorry I lost tonight."

I feel her step close to me, and see her face in the mirror behind me as she strokes my hair. "Oh Vivianne, ma chérie, don't worry about that. I will love you, no matter what. Understand?"


It's over. I've lost. I am powerless to escape your hold, and the bounty you came to claim is surely only a few jerks of my neck away. I place my right hand against your forearm, not squeezing, just placing it there.

"LABELLE IS GOING TO TAP! SHE'S GOING TO GIVE UP!"

As I slip into darkness, three words escape my lips. So soft as to be inaudible by everyone, except perhaps you. They come out in a sigh as my body goes limp, free arm falling to my side, my mind fading into darkness...

"Je t'aime, maman..."

Your body goes limp and I smile.

"Went out swinging, Viv. You should be rewarded for that." I give a wicked cackle. "I said, 'should.'"

The ref puts her finger in your hand, waiting for you to squeeze it. She asks, "Can you continue?" All you give back is a gurgle.

That's when the referee raises up and calls for the bell. And the crowd starts its uproarious jeers.

"YOUR WINNER...BY KNOCKOUT...THE UNBREAKABLE...ROWAAAAAAAAN CHAAAAAAAAAANCE!"

And this is about the time I'm expected to let go of the hold. And I could. Easily.

But I wouldn't collect that $50,000 now, would I?

So, instead of releasing the hold...I tighten it.

The referee tries pulling my arms free, but I don't let go. He tells me to release the hold and I tell her to go straight to Hell. He pulls at my arms, but I'm as tight as a deadbolt. Nothing is getting me loose until I say so.

The referee asks again and I shake my head. "NO!"

The announcers are screaming at me to release the hold. I laugh at them.

The referee doesn't know what to do. The announcers don't know what to do.

You're helpless in my arms, Vivianne Labelle. And tonight, I'm ending your career. Ending it.

Your body twitches under my embrace. And that's what it looks like. I'm holding you from behind, like "making spoons." And just a few more inches of pressure, your neck is going to SNAP. Drool rolling from your lips. Your eyes closed. Arms twitching. And just to make things interesting...

...I roll us both. Roll until you're under me.

Roll until I can mount your back while pulling your head up with the cobra clutch. Arching your spine, putting even more pressure on your neck and your back. Pulling you into a combination of cobra clutch and camel clutch. My Lord Tantalus calls this "The Long Kiss Goodnight." Stretching your breasts out under your chin. Your arms limp at your sides. The sweat of your skin shining in the spotlights. Your face on display for all to see.

My Lord Tantalus' finisher. For him. To show him I'm not weak. I have no mercy.

I'm unbreakable.

This is when two women hit the ring: one in red, and the other in yellow, both wearing masks. We run in from the crowd, sliding under the bottom rope. Both wearing the same outfits in our appropriate colors: full body suits and masks. My hair is dyed red and my partner's hair is dyed yellow...

Rowan doesn't notice us because we're both behind her. The referee notices and takes a step back. Rowan is too busy trying to collect her money and crowing over her victory. So, we move behind her, very slowly. When we are in the right position...

We pounce, pounding Rowan's back with double elbow drops. Right onto the base of her spine. Of course, this breaks the hold, saving Vivianne. But we're not done yet...

No, we're not. We lift poor, wounded Rowan between us. It takes both of us to hold her up because her back hurts so much. The Red Queen puts her into a power bomb position while I stand ready...

As I lift her, I whisper, "Remember this, Rowan?" And then...

Rowan DROPS DOWN as I LEAP UP. A power bomb/backstabber combo!

The two elbows knock me straight down to the mat. Not only that, but they send two shocks of pain straight up and down my back. My whole body collapses into a pile of limbs. I feel Vivianne roll away.

I don't know what hit me. Something hard. Something working together. Something...

Then, I feel four hands on my body, lifting me up. Holding me up. Masks. They're wearing masks.

And in that moment--a single moment--I smell something. Something familiar. Something I haven't...

My head goes between the red one's legs. She wraps her arms around my waist...

...ohfuck...ohshit...no...

She lifts me up. Holds me above her head. She whispers to me...

"Remember this, Rowan?"

And I do. She may as well have said, "Tick tock."

And in that moment of hanging in space for the second time tonight, I remember that smell. I'll never forget it. I can't believe I forgot it, even for a moment.

I plummet down. Remembering the sensation. Not from a few minutes ago, but from a few years ago.

I feel the yellow one grab me. Put her knees behind my back. Her knees, right into the base of my spine as she pulls my hair back with her two hands.

A few years ago, this move nearly ended my career. Tonight...with my back the way it is...

There are no words to describe the impact. I don't even remember it. But I do remember one thing. Just one thing.

The smell of purple hair dye.

Once upon a time I swore an oath.....

That Rowan Chance would pay for her brutality if I had to rip out her entrails and write my name on her plasticene corpse. 

I came to Minneapolis to scout her.  To see what she was like now... how that back was doing.  I've learned much.  Even against the Midwestern heifer she just butchered.  And the rumors were true.  There was a bounty on the bovine heiress, and Rowan was more than happy to claim it.  Except for those two, who now seem to be after a bounty all their own. 

My hands tense and clench the arm rests.  I want her... I want her BADLY.  But if these two wreck her... she might have paid without me being the collector.

I have to decide if I am OK with that.  And, right now... I don't know.

I don't know how I ended up on my feet, but when I open my eyes and raise my head off my chest I am sure I am seeing things. Two women...two MASKED women...are propping me in the corner. The taller one is brushing my hair back from my face while the shorter one is speaking.

"Hey, you awake again, pickle?"

"Wha? Who...who are you?" I shake my head and as my vision clears I realize two things. First, I am NOT seeing things. These two women are really here. Second, I see you crumpled on the mat on the other side of the ring.

"Don't you worry yourself about who we are. You owe us one now, and we'll let you know when we intend to cash in. Now?" The one in red simply extends her hand toward you palm up, like a game show hostess showing off the next valuable prize.

Rage is a funny thing. It can build up inside you to the point where you don't feel anything else. I look at your broken body on the mat and my mind replays the things you said about me and my mom. Replays what you did to my knee...and what you were doing to my neck. An evil, unadulterated rage is boiling inside me now...a rage that courses through my veins, blocking out all other feelings...including pain... 

My hands grip the top rope and I pull myself out of the corner. I take a step and then limp on my left leg, the rage fortifying injured tendons and ligaments to keep me upright. A few more limping steps and I am standing above you. The crowd going nuts. The poor announcers losing their minds. The ref, having bailed to the floor out of sheer self preservation.

I reach down and grab your hair, lifting you up to your knees. I pull your limp body the few feet to the ropes and shove you under the top rope, bending you over the second one. Placing my left hand on the top rope, I reach over with my right and grab a handful of your sweaty, raven blue/black hair again, pulling you up.

Using my left hand for support, I drape my left leg over the second rope on your left, then hop a little and do the same with my right on your other side...straddling your lower back against the ropes. Smiling devilishly, I add one final touch. Something I saw HER do to you in Paris. A hold she had never done before, and though I am sure she named it since, I do not know what it is. Doesn't matter, it will hurt no matter what it's called.

My hands, over the top rope, snake around your head and my fingers lock under your chin, pulling you back into a modified, rope suspended camel clutch.

And I bounce my weight on your lower back, like I'm riding a child's rocking horse.

Wake up Rowan...

Time to SCREAM!!!

I've got nothing.

No movement.

Eyes shut.

Mouth agape.

Bent and twisted at your will.

I... have... nothing.

Only pain.

You're not getting what you wanted tonight Rowan! You're not leaving here with the $50K bounty you came for. You're not breaking my neck. Hell, you're probably not leaving here under your own power. No...you're not getting what you wanted.

Or at least not all of what you wanted. As our bodies bounce on the ropes the crowd's normal cheering for me has been replaced by something much darker. They are reacting, sure, but not like they usually do for me. They are reacting to the vicious way I am bending your back in this hold. They are reacting to the look on my face as I sneer at the back of your head. They are reacting to their babyface heroine's heel turn. Heel? Is that how they are seeing me now? Is that what you were trying to bring out of me...to destroy my babyface persona? I cackle out loud as I stop bouncing on you and climb off, being careful with how I step with my left leg.

Heel? Me? Well, if it worked for mom, surely it can work for me.

I pull you from the ropes to middle ring and tuck your head under my right arm. Reaching under, I grab my right wrist with my left hand and cinch you in tight. I look out toward the crowd, but I am really looking into the cameras.

"I hope you are watching, Dark Winged Angel! THIS is what happens when you send a mercenary to do your dirty work for you. Watch carefully...because YOU'RE NEXT!"

I then look down at your back and let out something that only you could hear...if you were processing sounds at this point.

"Goodnight, Lady DDT!"

I then let myself fall to my back, pulling your body with me. My DDT nowhere near as lethal as yours, but it doesn't have to be at this point. Your head is SPIKED to the boards with a  loud THUD!!!

When I stand up, the masked women are gone. I never saw them arrive...and I never saw them leave. I look down at you one more time, chest heaving. You won the match, Rowan, there is no doubt about that. I am leaving with a badly injured knee and reinjured neck. It will likely be months before I return to the ring, but I will return. You can bet on that.

A Labelle never gives up! 

After the DDT, I don't move. In fact, I don't leave the ring under my own power. They bring out a board and a neck brace. A crew of four medics moves me to the board and carries me out.

Not the first time I've been carried out of a ring. And I remember the last time.

I spend a full five minutes in the back before I'm conscious enough to answer the doctor's questions. "Do you know where you are? Do you know what day it is?" The standard. I only offer him one answer.

"Give me my phone."

He tells me, "Rowan, it's important that..."

"GIVE. ME. MY. PHONE."

Here I am, on the board, in the ambulance. They're testing if I can feel my toes. Yes, goddammit, I can feel my fucking toes now GIVE ME MY PHONE.

They've got security on me, just in case those two women try something again. I'm not exactly in the best position to stop them.

NOW.
GIVE.
ME.
MY.
FUCKING.
PHONE.

Finally, the doc goes into my bag and hands it to me. My hands are shaking so bad, I can barely hold it with both. There are tears in my eyes and that makes finding the number in my contacts not at all easy. I haven't dialed it in a year. I used to know it by heart. I pull it up and my thumb hesitates over the "CALL" button.

If she answers...

...okay, if she answers, then someone is fucking with me. That's a whole new set of problems. Two women coming after me and I don't know who they are but they know who I am and they know how to fuck with me.

If she doesn't answer...

...that means...that means...

You have to know. You have to know what all this is. If it's someone fucking with you or...

I hit "CALL."

My lips tremble. My hand shakes.

...ring...

...ring...

I want her to pick up. I don't want her to pick up. I want her to pick up. I...

"Hello..."

My lips barely stammer the name. "M-Megan?"

"...you've reached the home of..."

no.

"...we can't come to the phone right now because we're too busy fucking each others' brains out..."

ohfuck no.

"...please leave a message and we might get back to you."

I look at the phone with tears streaming down my face.

"NO!"

I smash the phone against the metal bar holding me into the board. I smash it again. And again. Screaming "NO!" each time. When there's nothing left of it, I throw the mess away. Put my hands over my face. My messy face, full of tears and snot.

"It's not her..." I whisper. "It's not... it's not..."

Shaking my head. Saying it over and over again. As if wishing would make it so.

Thank you to everyone who has been following our story, I hope you've enjoyed it. Thank you also to my wonderful writing partner, Rowan Chance, for inviting me to create with her. I hope we can do it again sometime. :)