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

[ThePurpleVixen]

This is a story made of twisted tales.

This is a story of dark betrayals.

It's blood for blood (and by the fucking gallon).

It's dominance and submission.

It's secrets and lies.

But really?

This is really just a story about a girl who fell in love.

She fell in love with someone just a little dangerous. Okay. A lot dangerous.

She fell in love with someone who was bad for her in such a good way.

She fell in love with someone who showed her things she never imagined and things she'd always dreamed.

She fell in love with someone who kissed her until her toes curled and her leg lifted of its own accord to press the sole of her boot to the wall behind her because she felt the world falling away beneath her.

She fell in love with someone who knew more about the world than the girl had dreamt in her philosophy.

She fell in love with someone brilliant and funny and merciless and so heartbreakingly gorgeous it was unreal.

And the best thing for the girl about falling in love with this beautiful amazing storybook woman ...

... was when she helped me break your fucking back.

I COULD'AV DONE THAT AT HOME AND SAVED THE $6000 DRESS YOU JUST BLOODY RUINED WITH YOUR BLOODY BLOOD!

That's Gemma. And she's dropped an aitch. She only does that when she's really mad. Fuck. I'm in trouble.

DO YOU HEAR ME! I'LL KICK YOUR FUCKING ARSE IF YOU LOSE TO HER YOU TWAT!

Her voice is like an angel screaming in boundless rage as it shakes the pillars of Heaven, determined to bring it all crashing down.

My body shifts, just barely, a breath drawn in raggedly, muffled by your cxnt. The referee's count is making deep-set wrestler's neurons fire angrily.

And Gemma is so mad. Can I get her flowers? Is anywhere open that has flowers? Why the fuck does my head hurt? And why is it so fucking dark?

YOU'RE MY FUCKING WIFE! AND MY WIFE DOESN'T LOSE TO LITTLE FUCKING RICH GIRLS!!! YOU HEAR ME DOW!

Everything hurts. EVERYTHING.

I'm so far into the gray that consciousness looks like a sunset.

But Gemma is barreling over that horizon towards me, a shooting star driven on rage.

She's pulled me up every single time she's found me down. Taken me by the hand and dragged me back from dark places. Built me back up when I was broken down to jagged bits. She put my heart back into me and then let me put place it in her hands. She had every reason not to trust me, not to believe in me, not to be with me - and she is. I was tainted goods when I came to her. Broken and betrayed and untrusting. And she kicked my ass until I realized I was still alive and kissed me until I melted. I love her more than I can say. I've tried to give her everything I can, EVERYTHING -

- and that's why we're here, Rowan.

My greatest gift to my wife will be to fucking twist you out of my life, dripping blood and venom from your hungry little parasitic fangs, and throw you into the fucking dirt of the past and stomp you FLAT.

But first I have to try to move. The ref has counted twice. Twice.

TWICE IS BAD.

Everything hurts. EVERYTHING HURTS. My face is tingling with whatever you fucking hit me with, smeared into my nose and lips by your cxnt. My neck is drilled, my head crunched and throbbing, my poor lifted knee twisted and torqued and swollen and screaming. EVERY GODS-DAMNED THING HURTS.

_{I could just let it end ...}

But my Gemma ...

LISTEN TO ME!!! GET THAT FUCKING SHOULDER UP! DO IT YOU FUCKING FUCK! GET THAT SHOULDER UP!

... said to fucking move.

The referee's hand is coming down. The shadow of the TROIX is on the canvas.

And my inked right arm, with its matryoshka and its rose-woven gun and its mandala and its tangle of Oregon wildflowers and its sacrificial dagger all tattooed into my flesh, all the art that I've etched into my skin, my knuckles spattered with your blood and wrapped in grip tape, the glossy black nails sunk into my palm in a taut electric fist -

- SHOVES up at the sky for just a twitching moment.

The little elfin referee with the slicked blonde hair and the pale unforgiving eyes gives the smallest of smiles, and comes up to her knees after seeing just a hint of the ring lights glaring between my right shoulder and the canvas, her angle perfect even with you perched on my fucking face.

"DEUX! DEUX!"

She throws up two fingers.

LVK: ... WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?

[Rowan Chance]

... no.

Your arm came up. It just shot up.

... no.

And the referee sits up on her ass in those tight little shorts and holds up two fingers. TWO FINGERS.

...no.

And the crowd screams.

...no.

And Tom and ...and Red... are looking.

NO.

And Gemma.

NO.

And...it was the Widow's Bite. Nobody's...nobody's ever...

NO.

I'm sitting on my ass. Just looking at you. My eyes wide. My hands open. Your body thrown over to the side after breaking the pin. Laying in a pool of blood--yours or mine, or likely both--just barely breathing...

NO!

The Widow's... my...

...looking at you coughing, spitting up blood.

And I hear a voice. Screaming the same word over and over and over again. A woman's voice. A madwoman's voice. Screaming. Not shouting. Screaming. And she won't...fucking...stop.

NO!

NO!

NO!

NO!

[Callista]

The countdown begins.

(... and Gemma and I know how you feel about The Countdown, don't we, Rowan?)

(Where's my royalty for that, bitches?  )

[BustyTiffany35]

Megan is in such a horrifying state, her condition is so bad it's painful to look at her. It's sickening, unsettling to see her like this. I can't get over how wrecked she looks, how utterly destroyed she appears. And I especially can't ignore how much I fuckin' hate Rowan right now. This is personal, this is between them, they're settling the score - but still, fuck you, Rowan Chance. Fuck you.

I stare into the ring, and in this breathless moment, something is making me think back about that one time she came over to visit me.



Hey sugar, I'm not coming.

WTF WHY

I'm with a friend right now.

Who???

You know who.

OMG really Tiff?? That punk chick??? Everyone's here, like EVERYONE. but u would rather be with her??

I look away from my phone and stare over at the gal curled up beside me on my expensive white sofa. The smile on my face deepens as she's in the middle of telling me 'bout a match she had, this one having taken place just a little over a month ago in Philadelphia. It was brutal, it was intense, the halls of that arena echoed with rage and violence. Her words formed the most explicit pictures, her alluring voice drawing all these images of carnage and destruction. The way she spoke about the match, using such vivid detail and infectious passion, it was like I was right there in that sweaty, rowdy, raucous arena, front row centre, watching her go to war in that ring. And when she got to the part where she was thrown - no, fucking DRIVEN - through a double-stacked table, which was engulfed in flames, her lithe, taut body crashing through burning wood and sharp metal until it collided with the cold concrete of the arena floor, I thought for sure this story was over. But it wasn't the end. Far from it. The ending to this match wouldn't culminate to its explosive finish until much later, until she's broken a few kendo sticks wrapped in barbwire over her opponent's skull, until she's been driven through a bunch of steel folding chairs, until she dove off a fucking balcony to the deafening roar of a bloodthirsty crowd. She's a fuckin' Terminator.

And I sat there and listened and marvelled at her resilience, her toughness, her grit. I listened and smiled and wanted to be nowhere else but here, with her, curled up by my side, trading stories of our most vicious matches over drinks of hard liquor and wine. It's been a lil' over a year and a half since we first met, since I started a tour in the Midwest and she jumped me after a match that I had in a promotion out of Chicago, and she tied me up into a straitjacket and proclaimed she was going to make my life a living hell just because I was the champ of that promotion. Already it's been a lil' over a year and a half ago, in that time we've been trading wins and losses, beating each other silly, upping the ante every single match we got involved in, and always, always coming back for more. We couldn't get enough of each other, she hit me, I had to hit her back even harder, and then she'd come after me to hit me back even more harder. And gawd, when this gal hit ya, when she threw ya across the ring, when she's really torn into ya, it hurt. It hurt real fuckin' good. On top of that, she'd find newer, more explicit and more lecherous ways to humiliate me. It'd make me chase her from promotion to promotion, just wanting to drill her gorgeous face into the canvas and beat her senseless for pulling that stunt she did back in Missouri that one time.

And then, something changed. Spiteful hatred morphed into reckless obsession, evolved into begrudging respect, and changed into something.. into something. Affection, fondness.. lust, probably? We still beat each other stupid, I would still try and figure ways to make my Flatliner hurt her even worse than the last time I'd hit her with it, and she would still tie me up even tighter and parade me around ringside like a conquered trophy whenever she got the chance. But, after a bit of time, I realized I didn't hate her like I thought I did. I should have, I mean gawd, the amount of shit she used to pull on me, I was within every right to. But.. that just wasn't the case. I didn't despise her, I never truly hated her. I respected her, I admired her skill, her dedication to her craft, to this sport that we both loved so much. I grew to like her. A lot. She was all I ever thought about, all I ever enjoyed thinking about. She really, truly ignited something inside me that's laid dormant for a long, long time. She gave me some kind of purpose, a reason to continue wrestling, to further my career and keep going. And somewhere in the midst of our feuding, we both started to just.. talk.

After shows, we'd pass each other in the halls, and she'd smile that mischievous smile of hers at me and I'd nod to her with a warm look on my face. It was a start - if we'd so much as smell the other's perfume we'd end up in a brawl. But we were finally starting to act civil with one another. Soon, I'd find her hunkered down in a hallway post-match, and I'd limp over and bring her a fresh icepack to sooth her shoulder or neck, or she'd find me in the parking lot and we'd sit there on the hood of my car and have a few beers that she stole from the concessions. If we didn't bang each other up too badly that night, I'd see her at a club for the afterparty, or a bar up the street from the venue the show was held at, or I'd find myself knocking on the door of her motel room, or sliding the keycard that she casually slipped into my cleavage earlier into the lock of her hotel suite, or finding her waiting at my Airbnb, mischievous smile and Punky-Tails and all. A year and a half ago we were at each other's throats, now, the 2nd Guest Room in my home in Reno is practically her room whenever she visits Vegas.

Now, I'm here, teasing her "Punky-Tails" while she talks about how she caved in some unlucky bastard's sternum with a flying elbow drop from the ring apron. I turn my eyes back to my phone for a moment, frowning at the text messages that flood the screen. I'm supposed to be at the Marquee at The Cosmopolitan for a big party that's populated with the kind of crowd I run with: the elites, the rich gals, the fancy famous people, the two-faces, the fakes, the toxic, shallow, sycophantic douchebags of the entertainment and pro-wrestling worlds. I was supposed to be there about an hour or two ago. But she showed up a few hours earlier, while I was getting ready, unannounced, uninvited, but definitely always welcomed. And I don't wanna be anywhere else but here.

My thumb glides across my phone's screen, typing in a response that requires no thinking on my part, sending the reply as quickly as I can so I can get back to paying this purple-haired vixen my full attention.

You bet your ass.

We demolished my liquor cabinet that night as we traded stories about fighting in Japan, in Mexico, up in Toronto, down in Philly, over in Chicago, or the NYC underground. And I remember wrapping an arm around her shoulders, giggling about how I knew she's really a T-1000, whispering drunkenly into her ear "sugah, they'd kill ya in the hardest, in the worst possible way - and you'd just walk it off." Then, I started talking about Shibari and she got that grin on her face again..



Maybe it's that blistering, vile mist that's covered your face.

Maybe it's having to watch your skull and neck get compacted into the canvas courtesy of that jumping Widow's Bite.

Maybe it's the fact that you've been ripped apart and dragged through hell and back by this merciless witch for almost an hour now.

Maybe it's cause ya look like a fuckin' corpse.

Maybe it's all of that. Regardless, it's all making me think of that time you visited my home in Reno.

We're back in the present. You're down on the mat, covered in blood, in sweat, in whatever the fuck that purple mist is made up of. Your knee is mangled, your perfect body is battered, you're buried under Rowan's enticing ass. The count is in, the ref's hand slapping hard into the mat. Your wife is screaming so loudly it pierces my ears, but I don't care. I agree with her, I want to scream with her but I can't find my voice - too choked up on my emotions, on my fears and concerns for ya. So my hopes ride on her bellowing, raging shouts, on her rallying war cry. And ya kick out.

You kicked out.

Rowan planted ya with that Widow's Bite. And you kicked out. Rowan leapt into the air with you upside down, slamming ya head first into the canvas, the boards compacting your neck. And you kicked out. Rowan nearly put ya out for good, and you gawd-damn magnificent, beautiful, crazy bitch, you kicked out.

Rowan killed ya, and you're just gonna walk it off.

But ya have to get up first.

"C'MON MEGAN! GET UP! ON YOUR FEET! IT'S TIME YA GOT SOME KILLIN' DONE!"

[The Second City Wrestlerette]

Standing near the exit, just peeking back over my shoulder at the ring and the action in it. Seeing the Widow's Bite connect...a little grin comes across my lips as I see the pin. Taking a deep breath, she's finished...FINALLY!

As the arm comes down for three, I step through the door...then I hear that eruption. Freezing on the spot, I slowly turn back around and see...that arm up. "No...fucking way..." I mumble, growling, my hands ball to fists, body tenses. My fingernails dig into palms to a point I actually rip my skin open. "End her...already!"

My eyes drift from the ring, to the first row of the crowd, seeing Red there, Tantalus next to him...I got a seat there in my invitation, but didn't want to go there...NEVER wanted to be there again. So close to everyone...but maybe that's how it should be. That's where I should be...and I start working my way through the crowd.

Hands in the pockets of my hoodie, head lowered as I silently slither through the masses. Playing with a note in my right hand, just a small piece of paper...and the recipient isn't far now. A few rows behind my empty seat, my heart pounds. Rowan's having a mental breakdown in the ring...but I'm busy with myself here. Do I dare? Do I not? Maybe it's the alcohol that I'm still trying to get used to, maybe it's something else...but there is one thing I know for sure. Punky NEEDS to be finished...once and for all! And if Rowan can't do it, I will...but I'll need some help...

I silently step out of the shadows, taking my seat ringside. Not making any eye contact with anyone. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, nervously playing with the note in my hands as a bit of my blue hair falls out of hoodie, dangling in front of my face. I take a deep breath and then slip the note on the lap of the guy next to me - Tantalus. When, or if, he picks it up and unfolds it, he'll read a hastily scribbled line, saying no more than "We need to talk"

I raise my head, staring straight forward at the ring...I can almost smell the blood

[Emily Layne]

I watched the first two round and big part of the third one from a seat far away from the first rows, not wanting to be noticed by the old friends members of the FTW.
I never liked to get under the spotlights and honestly I am not interested on getting with people who can say something like:
"Hey do you remember when blah blah blah?"

But I had all eyes for anything that happened in the ring and even outside of it.
I followed the whole action and I'm not really surprised with the cruel grudge happening between Rowan and Megan.
It was clear since when I joined the FTW that these two had a long history behind them.
When I was booked in that tag team match in the first ever PPV I still didn't realize that.
But during that match everything was clearer, that's why I left the ring, leaving Rowan at the mercy of Gemma and Punky when they mercilessly broke her back.

And that was also the reason I didn't want to be in this club watching this match, but now I am here.
They asked me to get back old connections and get a contract.

After Megan spiked Rowan's head on the mat with that vicious DDT, I stepped outside for a cigarette. (Yeah I know I shouldn't smoke, my trainer told me that so many times but can't help, I need it when I'm nervous)
..and this thing is making me nervous.
I'm not the type like Tiffany or Gemma. I'll never get up from my seat to scream out and catch the attention of people around.

As the cigarette is over I noticed Lisa about to exit the arena only to stop herself and she turns around heading back through the audience as she takes a seat next to Tantalus.

I follow her, making sure she doesn't see me and I notice there is a empty seat next to Red with the name Sadie Davis on it.

Sadie, where is Sadie?

Knowing her she probably wasting time at the buffet.

I step through the audience, a big pair of glasses is covering my eyes as I look down at Red.
He doesn't even look at me, too busy watching what's happening in the ring.

"Posso?" I ask him but getting no replies from him, it's always hard to know where he is looking as his mask covers the facial expression but I can tell that his eyes are away from me.
So I sit down next to him, without really permissions but who cares?
Everyone is watching inside of the ring, wanting to know how this will end.

"About time..."

I can hear his voice.
Does he mistake me for Sadie?
No, that's impossible, he knows that it's me.
Then something catches the attention of my eyes as I see Lisa passing a note to Tantalus.
I push my elbow to the side, tapping on Red's big bicep.
He slightly turns his head to the side away from me.

Then our eyes are again in the ring as I lean backward on the seat.

[Callista]

*A lone figure slips into the back. The figure is dressed simply, and inconspicuously. Blue jeans, black boots, and a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. Dark glasses completes the ensemble. The hoodie hides some of the figure of the person beneath, though at a shade under six feet, it's either a tall woman or a very slender man. The figure's lips curl as she looks on.*

What perfectly imperfect timing. We know what this is called, don't we Megan? The "hope spot". I sneer derisively at the very concept. Yes, at the very concept of hope. What utter rubbish.

Hope is nonsense. Hope is foolishness. Hope is failure portrayed as noble by fellow failures.

"Hope" is what the beggar in the gutter feels, knowing he can't crawl out on his own. He hopes one of the passing souls will save him from his plight, even as they all try to pretend he doesn't exist.

"Hope" is what the widow in the casino shoving her social security check into a machine one quarter at a time feels. She's not even hoping for life-changing money any more. She's just hoping a passing manager will comp her a buffet ticket and she won't have to go home for another cat food dinner.

"Hope" is the vain belief that there's a chance that the world isn't what it appears to be, that people don't behave as they will according to their nature.

I'm above hope. Beyond it, some might say.

I wasn't always.

Once I had a plan. It wasn't a complicated plan, (at least the first parts of it,) which seemed a virtue. Get talented individuals together in a mutual defense pact. Run roughshod. Get what you want. The plan got a bit esoteric after that, but the first phases seemed the picture of elegant simplicity. I wouldn't have thought "hope" was a factor.

But I was wrong, wasn't I, Megan? I did indeed have an unseen dependency on hope, and like all plans that relied on hope, those plans failed.

No, that's not quite right. If someone hopes the sun rises tomorrow, their hope will almost certainly come true. The problem is when your hope is for something improbable. Or impossible, as mine was. Any hope that someone can go against their nature is, at the very least, improbable. In your case, it's impossible.

The foundation of sand I'd built the temple of my plan upon was that you and Gemma could put aside that one element of your nature that neither of you ever truly can. That all your other desires, for success, for victory, for power, fame, fortune, for ANYTHING, could be stronger than your ultimate desire: self-destruction.

And like all such hope, it died in darkness, forlorn and forgotten. It died on the very second step we took, which was, of course, the first step you walked beside me down my path of destiny. When you chose a vessel of madness on which to hang our sign.

Which is why as I stand here, seeing the shock and awe and joy and anger and bloodlust and the regular sort of lust played out on the faces of the people around the ring, I don't hope for Rowan to destroy you. She might be the instrument of your destruction, but inevitably it will be destruction that you yourself engineered.

I'm just hoping to watch and smile as it happens.

[Lord Tantalus]

I. PRELUDE

When Megan's arm shoots up, I stand. Up off my seat so fast, it nearly tips over. Hands on the railing.

I'm not alone. Nearly every other viewer is on their feet, screaming, cheering, booing.

I just stand, silent.


II. ELEGY
She comes to me wanting a secret
To destroy the one she loves
I am not the only one she lies to

She comes to me wanting a secret
To burn the memory from her heart
Who am I to deny what she desires

She comes to me wanting a secret
And she's willing to pay the price
Eager to sacrifice everything

I can see what she wants
Because I want it too

The others only see brutality and blood
They want it to end
But I see their beauty and love
Their dark and haunting duende


III. EPIPHANY
After the sheer destruction of the second fall and after the poison made especially for her and after the Widow's Bite...

Megan did not stay down.

Megan did not stay down.

Megan did not stay down.

Rowan is blind with fury. She was so certain. All of us were.

It was the perfect pin. Like the poison, designed just for Megan. To keep her body down for three seconds.

Three seconds.

After all that...

Megan did not stay down.


IV. PRAYER
Now, Rowan.
Now.

You came to me wanting them to want you.
You came to me wanting them to fear you.

She will not stay down.
Not until you give it up.
Not until you let it go.
You can't stop her.
You can't deter her.
You must destroy her.
Destroy Megan.
And let them watch.
Destroy her.

Even a single ounce of love you once had
will hinder you.

That moment.
I saw it.
We all saw it.
For that moment saved her.

You must burn it all away.
I gave you the mask to show you the darkness.
But you don't need it.
The darkness is within you.
Embrace it now.
Take it to your heart.
Let it burn away the love you once felt.
And you will be what you always wanted to be.

A dark, vengeful goddess.
Full of lust and fury.
Destroying any who fight or fuck you.

I gave her the heart punch because you needed to see.
You needed to see what she was willing to do.
You wanted to beat her.
She wanted to break you.
And when she came to me, looking for the heart punch
I knew she would unlock the goddess within you

You wanted to beat her.
She wanted to break you.

The moment I met her,
So many years ago
I knew she was the final piece of the puzzle
Your love for her knew no bounds
And I knew she was too weak for you
She would betray you
She would be blinded by your beauty and brilliance
And she would betray you

And that was when I knew
That betrayal would unlock the goddess inside you

It is your destiny.

This is the moment.
This is the moment.
This is the moment.

Destroy her.
Destroy the one you love the most.
The one who betrayed you.
The one who tried to break you.
The one who haunts your days and nights.

You will never be free of her
Until you destroy her.

This is the moment.
This is the moment.
This is the moment.

Embrace it now.
Embrace it now.


V. APOTHEOSIS
"EMBRACE IT NOW, ROWAN!"

I shout from the metal railing.

"EMBRACE IT NOW!"

[Vivianne]

The shoulder comes up...

The entire crowd rises to their feet...

The ENTIRE crowd...

Except for one...

One who falls into his chair and holds his head in his hands...

One who has questioned why he is even here, though deep down he knows...

One who is now rocking back and forth nervously in his seat, wrapped in his own arms as if they can provide comfort...

One who now watches the woman he can't get out of his mind sitting in the ring and screaming...

One who is quietly repeating the same word over and over...softly enough that none of the cheering fans around him can hear...

"Rowan...Rowan...Rowan..."

[RedEnforcer]

I still have no idea how I should feel.  I sit there and watch Megan find the will somewhere to get a shoulder up. It takes Rowan a bit to register it. Tantalus beside me springs up amazingly.

Many things happen at once. It is a blur of things going on. So confusing I am not really sure what happens when.

Sadie, no Emily sits beside me. Rowan is crying out a harsh No. Lisa slips Tantalus a note. Tantalus is up and yelling at Rowan.

All of this happens but in a wild, wibbly wobbly haze of time.

And I am still here not wanting to pick one side or the other. I just do not see how I could choose between these two women who mean so much to me. How could I?  If only I had some kind of sign.

And then my eyes move out from the ring and towards Gemma. And I see another ghost from my past.

A familiar blonde mane of hair. And suddenly I am in the past.

A match that has never aired. A match where I saw the truth behind Tantalus and Rowan. Promises from Rowan for anything I would desire if I turned my back on a woman I fought, gained respect for and stood in the corner of. Turn on this good, loyal woman and I could have it all. I almost betrayed. But I could not sink that low.

And there she is. Daredevil Jenny Dare. A paragon of virtue who had her own battles with Rowan. And as evil as Rowan was, Jenny is equal measures good.  Total opposites.

Jenny appears, sees me and waves.

Tantalus is screaming out for Rowan. Jenny appearing and waving.

I smile and rise.
I catch Jenny?s eye.
I give her a nod. And silent thanks for helping me remember. Remember the devastation these two, Rowan and Tantalus are capable of unleashing.

MEGAN! GET YOUR ASS UP AND FINISH THE JOB!!!

[Katherine The Great]

"BOORRRRRINGGGGGG!!!"

The Athletic Blonde's voice boomed over the din of crowd. If she could do anything in life besides be a pain in the ass, it's be noticed.

"What are you looking at?" she sneered at the shocked couple sitting next to her, one of them wearing a "Punk Is Fuckin' Dead" tee shirt, a small skirt and some ripped fishnets. It took her a few seconds to notice that the person had a five o' clock shadow and a prominent Adam's apple.

"Only in fucking France..." she shook her head and grumbled.

"Kit-Kat, put a sock in it and leave those people alone." The Large Man said, still glancing over towards the front rows, having decided that talking to Gemma, at his point in the night, might not be the best idea he ever had.

"But Daddy, they were..."

"I said...be quiet!" The Large Man snapped, finally looking over to see his only daughter slumped in her seat with her arms crossed over her chest. Her Samsung Galaxy S8 lit up in her hand while she watched a YouTube video about Russian car wrecks

"I said...be quiet", the Athletic Blonde mimicked, making a screwed up face while she mumbled, just out of her father's ear shot.

"I can't believe you're not watching the match. This is history in the making!" The Large Man said while shaking his head. "Do you realize just how much these tickets cost?"

"Not as much as it's costing them." the Athletic Blonde absently nodded towards the ring where the mayhem seemed to be spilling out into the front rows.

The Large Man just shook his head in disbelief. "Kit-Kat, your mom and I have been training you since you were twelve. We taught you everything we know, our parents knew, and their parents before them. You soaked it all up like a sponge and have generations of knowledge locked away in that chaotic brain of yours. I brought you here tonight, mainly, so you could do something you haven't done in many years."

The Athletic Blonde made an annoyed face, but didn't bother to look up from her phone, "And just what might that be?"

The Large Man looked over with a profound seriousness in his eyes.

"Learn."

[Becca Blast!]

My brain is about to overload from all the images and memories... collisions that don't expend themselves completely, but leave gaps in my mind that spill over from one into the other as they rushed to be filled.

Megan cripples Rowan with a shot that I remember Gemma using on me... in the back of a pub where the only thing rougher than the unadorned brick walls was what we were doing to each other.  Why was a then-childless Navy wife in the back of a Liverpool pub learning the precise point where agony and ecstasy mixed?  There's a whole arena full of people here who don't have to ask that question.

The Fullback Blonde who looks bound to her chair now, lost in her own waves of hope and despair as the battle somehow turns to Megan's knee being crumpled.

An ethereal icy wisp on a blue-tinted guitar chord appears.  Lisa.  I haven't forgotten you, dear.  One day we WILL meet again...

The luchador must be the Red I've heard so much about, defying logic and whatever that mystic bastard is throwing around.  He's as dangerous as any of them, from what I'm told.

Megan's NOT pinned?  No wonder the Dunwich Horror down there is chanting again.  My marrow freezes at the snatches of sound, but every synapse is alight... what the Hell does he KNOW?

And, out of nowhere, "BOORRRRRINGGGGGG!!!"  I'd know that high-pitched nasal whine anywhere.  Daddy Dahl's Little Princess.  Once again showing how little she gets or appreciates anything about this life, even the opportunities handed her on a silver tray atop a satin pillow.  But, soon enough, I will teach her the purpose of humility.

But the one thing that isn't important right now is little Kit-kat Bars.  It's what's happening down there.  Where some newcomer has added her voice to Red's...

I know Celtic mysticism.  It's gotta be in threes.....

"MEGAN!  YOU PROMISED TINA THIS PUS-RIDDEN WHORE'S HAIR FOR CHRISTMAS!  GET OFF YOUR FOCKIN' ASS AND DO IT!"

[The Second City Wrestlerette]

I try not to focus on the match too much. Emotions running high for my very own reasons. And everyone around me being so damn excited doesn?t help one bit.

Just staring straight forward, I catch a glimpse of Becca, eyes meeting for a moment before something Bimbo-sounding blares through the air. I see the Doll there and growl. I want to let her know something, and see only one way to do that...pulling out my iPhone7  and texting her. ?I?ll beat your ass! One Dark Night in Paris!? Along with my hotel and room number

[ThePurpleVixen]

The world is tuning in and out, like I'm twisting the knob on the radio of the Rent-a-Wreck somewhere in the Dakotas between Pierre and Fargo where the radio can barely reach across the plains. It's like getting little snatches of song and quavering cries of hellfire and brimstone in the midst of the rolling sea of static.

"-TIME TO GET SOME KILLIN' DONE!"

That sounds like Tiffany. My Platinum Queen. My wild western darlin'. Years of brawling with that veteran with the giant hair and the enormous chest and the fantastic depths of fighting spirit led to us getting closer and closer the harder we hit each other. It's so different than what happened with you and I, Ro. You and I started off with instant heat, just melting into each other. That made it all the fucking worse, really - when we came apart, we ripped each other to pieces. And since then it's just gotten worse. Neither of us will let the other stop bleeding.

It has to stop, Rowan. It has to fucking stop. Tonight.

I've taken your fucking poison. Yours. THOMAS. Thomas' fucking dark alchemy. It's still making my head swirl. My brain is twisting, wrapping around itself, pulsing with the echoes of the dreams the fucking ichor tainted me with and ringing from my skull being driven into the canvas. All that force. All that hate. The fucking Widow's Bite. And I kicked out. Somefuckinghow.

Gemma's voice still ringing as I lay on my side, smeared with your blood and mine. The smell of your sex and sweaty leather shorts still strong in my nose. My eyes are glassy and faraway and my parted lips pant for gulps of bloody air, coppery and thick.

You're screaming.

I like that.

"-THE HELL UP! DON'T LET THAT EVIL BITCH WIN!"

Is that ... is that fuckin' Jenny Dare? I gotta still be hallucinating. Jenny Dare just fell off the fucking map a while back, right after FTW folded. Like so many of my other friends. I haven't been in the ring with her since that time in Texas with Terry Funk's branding iron, and here she is, big as fucking life, still looking as fresh and beautiful as a god-damn sunrise in Amarillo. And she wants me to get up. I bring my hands up, and slide them along the mat, the grip tape painted with blood. Yours and mine, Rowan. Yours and mine. Blood sisters, just like always.

My palms press the mat, and I roll my hips over with a slow aching groan as my battered distended knee touches the mat. I'm gonna have to beat you with my head half staved-in from your fucking finisher, with your fucking poison on my face and with my knee ripped out from under me, twisted away like the bottom of a GI Joe's leg wrenched off by an eager child.

This is gonna fuckin' hurt.

But everything worth doing does. I grit my teeth, my purple hair hanging in bloody strands around my face in a madwoman wreath. Whatever you fucking misted me with, your gift from your puppetmaster, seems to be losing a battle against the intense wash of adrenaline and endorphins in my system. But the last of the drug burns in me so intensely that I swear I can fucking almost see Callista Quinn out there in the crowd, hiding her rabbit ears under a hood.

I can see so many faces. Twisted with bloodlust. Alight with fury. Dark with despair. Radiant with wonder. We're driving the crowd animal mad, teasing them more and more as we drive each other further and further. Taking them with us as we dive fucking headfirst into madness - just like that time I tackled you off the stage in FTW, remember? How much do you remember from the time with the mask, Ro?

'cuz these days I get the feeling it wasn't much of a fucking mask at all.

I've got to get on my god-damn feet.

"-YOUR ASS UP AND FINISH THE JOB!"
"-OFF YOUR FOCKIN' ASS AND DO IT!"

Seems like Red and Becca are in agreement.

My neck and skull and knee and adrenal glands all file formal protests against the idea of standing up, and the rest of my body files sympathetic motions pro tempore to counter the idea of fighting any more. Regrettably, there's enough votes from the crowd to veto the protest.

So I gotta fuckin' get up.

My arms flex and I push myself up, dragging my left boot under me and planting my red boot, thrusting myself up with both arms, my battered right leg dragging behind me. My sweat-glossed face is streaked with blood, my loose purple hair clinging to me. My black SPLX sports bra is painted onto my tits with sweat and spattered with blood, my pierced nipples outlined in Lycra. My wide black leather belt, studded with chrome spikes, is still wrapped around my hips, cocked at an angle from the grip around my waist for the Widow's Bite, with my skirt of red velvet strips skewed all over my glossy thighs. My sugar skull boyshorts are crumpled and soaked. My knee socks are rucked by my fuckin' leg injury, but at least my red Docs are still gleaming and ready to kick your damned ass.

I palpably hurt, dripping blood and sweat as I drag myself up to one knee, hands splayed on the mat in a Hacksaw three point stance that's only barely keeping my wavering form up off the canvas. Every fucking instant hurts, but fuck it. The crowd wants me up, so up I get. Kinda.

You're still screaming "NO NO NO NO NO" over and fucking over.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah ..."

My voice is thick and dark, the voice of Ophelia rising from the waters with her throat raw from coughing her way back to life. I spit on the mat. There's some blood from my busted mouth and some blood from my forehead and some blood from your face and a bit of black facepaint and a bit of swirling purple poison. Looks like Cthulhu fuckin' hawked a squamous loogie on the mat. I glower at you, my eyes blazing like the noon sun on broken glass in a dive bar's gravel parking lot.

"You talk too fuckin' much."

The fey little referee with the slicked coif and the perky tits, exuberant at the idea that more blood will be spilled for her to delight in but showing no more than a gleam in her pale eyes, deftly waves us together again.

[Rowan Chance]

You're slowly getting to your feet while I remain on my knees, screaming that single word over and over again. Watching you get back up.

My eyes are distant. Almost looking through you. Unable to believe what I'm seeing. Just screaming.

And suddenly, for no reason at all, I remember laying with you on the hood of our rental car in Cleveland. You drunk on beer, me drunk on wine. So typical. Both of us aching and hurt. We lost the match that night, but I didn't care. I was with you. We were laughing. And your body so warm against mine. A hot Cleveland night, but you were hotter. And we were so drunk, you actually said...

* * *

"I'm the Joey Ryan of pussies."

I stopped. Looked at you. "What the fuck?"

"I am," you said, nodding in that way you do when you're drunk.

"Darling," I said, "You're drunk. You know damn good and well that I'm the Joey Ryan of pussies."

"One time," you sit up, waving your hands as if to illustrate the action, "a chick grabbed me by the pussy and I was like RAAAAAAAAAHHHH! and arm dragged her with it."

Without missing a beat, I sip the wine straight from the bottle and without moving, I say, "Mine delivered a piledriver."

You look at me, those gorgeous eyes of yours flashing. "THAT SEEMS UNLIKELY!"

"That's nothing compared to the tie it did a top rope hurracarrana."

You lean back on the windshield. "One time my pussy put on a sharpshooter. Around the ringpost." You take another swig of bear. "I called it the Holiday in Cambodia."

"The Holiday in Cambodia? Like the Dead Kennedy's song?"

"And the name of my ringpost figure four." You nod proudly. "All my moves are named after punk songs. The Psycho Killer. The Holiday in Cambodia. The Mindfuck. No More Heroes."

"That isn't your move, that's Bret Hart's move!"

"Well, he's dead or something so now it's mine!"

I'm laughing so goddamn hard, and you just keep going.

"Blitzkrieg Bop. Forever Time Buster. Bad Brains."

I'm still laughing. "Fucking indie darling with her five hundred goddamn finishing moves."

"Signature!" you shout. "They're signature moves!"

"Fine," I drink more wine. "Signature moves. And how many finishers do you have?"

You sit up primly. "That's more like it." Then, you stick out your pinky as you sip the beer. "I...I mean, I've changed finishers quiet a few times. So like... three. Generally. Maybe five."

I'm giggling. You're giggling. Your prim demeanor vanishes and Punky returns. "Shut up! I'm very versatile!"

"Versitile? Is that what kids are calling it these days?"

"FINISHERS ARE AWESOME! FUCKIN' AWESOME! People are like, OH MY GOOOOOD SHE'S KILLED HER AAAAHHHH!"

I laugh some more. "Honey, you're a lesbian." I sit up and wave the wine bottle, pressing it against my chest. "I... am versatile."

You snerk in that adorable way that you do, tilting your Steel Toe IPA back so it clinks against your teeth as you drink it. "Yer whtever's a step beyond versatile. You're like...sexual duct tape."

"So you're saying I'm like the Force? Like the sexual Force, right? Light side, dark side, binds the galaxy together?" I giggle madly and swig more wine.

"PFFFT!" You blow a cloud of beer mist into the night sky, swinging your hand across your lips. "Goddammit, no. You're not the Force! The Force...surrounds us and binds us together. It doesn't...reverse cowgirl anyone." You giggle again, with a little hiccup in it and you chase that down with more beer.

I raise an eyebrow. "Are you so sure?" And a very drunk smile. "Have you been in my reverse cowgirl, babe?" I wave a dismissive hand. "Of course not. You don't have the right plumbing."

You take another long, contemplative swig, propped back on your left hand, slanting that shoulder up to turn on your right hip towards me a little, legs in tattered black jeans brushing yours. "Maybe I would'n need plumbin' to see it. Jus' the right kinda toy," you slur a little, grinning with your cheeks flushed.

I look at the bottle. "You're right. Totally right. This drinking straight from the bottle shit is...the shit."

I lean closer, almost nuzzling your pierced tits in your fresh warm long-sleeved Misfits shirt against my bicep.

"Yeah," you say. "Glasses are for bitches." You overarm your empty bottle into the parking lot. It wicks off into the darkness, end over end, and smashes somewhere past the lights.

I hand you another one from the pack. You put the bottle in your teeth and bite, a little throaty snarl that shears the cap, foam spilling over your lips as you spit the bottlecap away.

"Speaking of reverse cowgirl..." I look around. Left, then right. To see if anyone's watching or listening...

Then, I lean in and whisper way too loud...

"I fucked Red."

You bray laughter, sagging back on the car hood. You look up at the cold winter stars, tilting back the beer and soaking in the warmth. Your leg sprawls out, your ratty Van brushing your calf.

"Did he keep it on?" you ask.

I wink at you. "I wouldn't let him take it off." And then, I can't take it. I collapse on you with laughter, the wine bottle hanging loosely from my fingers. "He was so sweet. I couldn't help it."

But then, I recover from the laughter, looking up at you from your chest. My face so serious.

"I think...I may...have ruined him for other women."

I try to keep serious, but my smile is cracking through.

You look down at me, raising your head to rest it against the slope of the rental's windshield, your loose purple hair tumbling as you look at me over the slope of your breasts. Your left arm curled behind your head, elbow pointing at the sky, your left leg hanging off the hood, your right leg vining slowly with yours. You giggle-snort, then try to look sober.

"His dick...nnhhee...will never be the fucking same." Then, you look at me with those big hazel eyes. "Ro. Ro. I have t'know..."

You crane your head toward me, stroking my back with the bottle.

In my most serious voice, I say, "Yes, Megan?"

"Did his cock have a mask on?"

I'm trying so hard not to laugh, I nearly fall off the car. "N-no..." I say, sitting up, mimicking your prim and proper tone from earlier. "No, it did not." Then, I look right into your beautiful hazel eyes.

"But it did have a hood."

Your spit take is more epic than anything Paul has ever done. I hear your glass bottle fall and smash on the parking lot pavement.

"GODDAMMIT RO, I DROPPED MY BEEEER HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!"

Your laughing so hard, you start gasping. Kicking the hood of the car.

"Don't worry," I say. "There's more be--" I pause, looking over at the empty case. "Oh fuck. No. There isn't."

"Ah, fuck. S'okay. I'm drunk enough."

I shake my head. "Nope."

"Oh fuck. Goddamn that was hurting funny."

I lay back down on the window with my bottle of wine and my Megan. You're rubbing your eyes and then you're running your hands through my hair, curling into me.

"By the way," I say. "Did you see that fuckin'...what the fuck did she call herself? Giggling and jiggling all over the place?"

"Blaaaah!" You loll your head back and stick out your pierced tongue. "I dye my hair purple and bleed in front of crowds for a living and I still find her to be a fuckin' attention whore." You wave your tattooed hand. "To stand out as needin' attention in a room full of fuckin' pro wrestlers takes some doin'. That's like standing out as an anorexic in a room full of French models."

I spit up some wine. "Jeebus. Neer do that when I'm drinking!"

You snort, your right hand curling to boop my nose with a finger. "S'just wine. Not anythin' important."

That's when my eyes open wide. "OH! OH!"

"What?"

"OH! HOLD ON!" I hand the wine bottle to you. "Hold this!"

You take it reluctantly. "Aw man. What if someone sees?"

I wave at the empty parking lot. "Nobody will see!"

You're holding the wine with the disdain of someone holding fish guts in a newspaper.

I slide so gracefully off the hood, falling over the side from your view. Then, I wave an arm up over the side. "I'm okay!"

"Aaaand she's down," you laugh.

I get the keys out of my pocket and click the...the...the...thingy...to pop the hood. Er trunk. Yeah, trunk.

"THE TRUNK RELEASE!" you shout. "NOT THE HOOD!"

"We should not be driving," I say.

"I'm not sure we should be walkin'."

I hit the button again and the hood pops under you.

"AUGHH FUCK!"

"Sorry!" I shout. I hit the other button. The trunk pops open and I grab what I'm looking for. I come back with two things in my hands. First, a six pack of beer. I hold it up. "I found these! And they're still cold because they've been in the trunk all night.

But I see you there, the hood of the car open, with your legs dangling over the open mouth, your head and shoulders piled against the windshield and your tits in your face.

"Ro," you say with a grim voice.

"OHMYGOD! I'M SO SORRY!"

You arch your hips up and smack your ass down to shut the hood again with a heavy clunk.

I hand over the beer. "Sorry."

"You're forgiven," you say, grabbing the beer. "For now." The other thing I have is a silver Halliburton case. You haven't seen it yet because you're peering at the six pack. "What's this?" you ask. Then, you shrug. "Fuck it. It's beer." And you open a bottle, swigging half of it down in a heartbeat.

I put the Halliburton on the hood of the car. You look over at it, your head and shoulders listing. "Whazzat?"

I slide the case across the hood, making a scraping sound. I look at your bootprints in the hood. "Um...we got insurance, right?"

"Uh...sure." Your eyes dart back and forth.

"Good," I say, reassured.

"Yeah, let's go with that, I totally have insurance. So much..." you look back down at the case. "Is this a gun? Are we gonna hunt the most dangerous game?"

"NO!" I shout, a little too loud, laughing again. "STOP ASKING THAT!" I tap the suitcase, hopping back on the hood.

"It was funny the first two hundred times," you say, eyeing the case.

"Go on," I say. "Open it."

You look at me. "Is it Marcellus Wallace's soul?"

I wink. "Maybe."

"If John Travolta kills me because I see this, I'm gonna be real upset."

"He's already dead," I say. "Bruce Willis killed him."

You fumble for the catches, trying to open the thing, biting your lip. "Pfft. You don't know where we are in the timeline..."

"Neither do they. Open the fucking case." More wine.

"GET A LESS COMPLEX CASE, RO! GOD! FUCK!" You punch the ase and the clasps pop. "Always works." You open it as dramatically as you can with a slight sway as you sit up.

And just like the case with Marcellus Wallace's soul in it, there's a golden glow on your face.

"I uh...spent some cash and replaced that shitty belt they gave you. You know. The one that looked like it came from the '70's?"

You stare at it a long time. The purple skull and crossbones on the front, outlined in black. The leather dyed dark purple. The words, "Portland Wrestling Champion" arched across the top and bottom. The sodium parking lot lights throw a yellow glow that makes the gold shimmer mystically, and the dark purple stands out. You reach in slowly, stroking your fingertips over it.

"It was vinyl. The one they gave me. Vinyl an' leatherette an' plastic."

But then, your eyebrows lower. Your mouth frowns. You point at the nameplate.

"It says 'Pinky.'"

I shrug. "Yeah. The silversmith fucked up. I'll get that fixed."

Your face remains the same. "It says 'Pinky.'"

"Well...you could always dye your hair..."

I fully expect something to happen here. Either you're going to slug me for spending so much money on you or you're going to slug me for the nameplate, or you're going to kiss me.

And for a long time, I'm left there wondering.

You bite your lip hard. "It's really pretty." Your soft throaty voice a rasp, struggling not to break. "S'beautiful."

"Just like you," I whisper.

That's when your voice breaks and I see your eyes get wet. You rub your hand across your eyes. "Tha's cheatin' when I'm tryin' this hard not to cry like a pussy."

I have to sniff. "Now don't you go fuckin' lose it this weekend!"

You tilt your head at me. Bent over the case. Your eyes are shimmering bright. "I'll fuckin' break a cxnt's fingers if she tries ta so much as touch it." Then, you reach up and grab my hair with forceful fingers. "C'mere."

And our lips find each other. Molten and soft and beery and full of wine and high, soft sounds of need.

I break the kiss. "Don't rip the shirt," I say. "It's Red's."

You laugh. Then, I kiss you back.

* * *

I'm on my knees. You're on your feet. After the Widow's Bite.

I'm on my knees. And you're on your feet.

I shake my head, blood squirting from my forehead.

"No."

Up on one knee.

"NO."

Up on my own feet.

"NO!"

I'm standing now, too. Right in front of you. Tits to tits. Nose to nose. My forehead squirting blood on your face.

"NO!!!"

Nothing clever. Nothing cunning. Nothing even pretty. I'm not even here anymore.

My hands grab for your throat. Ready to squeeze the life right out of you.



(I cannot take full credit for the flashback. It's based on a very long drunken chat between myself and The Purple Vixen.)