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

[Rowan Chance]

(Ladies and Gentlemen, the incomparable Lawrence Van Keel...)

Folks, I don't know what to say here. I really don't.

These two women have put each other through Hell and now they're standing in the middle of the ring and I honestly can't tell you how they're standing.

Rowan Chance and Megan Dow are circling each other now. Predators, each trying to prove this ring is their territory.

And it's Megan Dow who makes the first move, sending an elbow straight into Rowan Chance's cheek!

Rowan backs up a step and she delivers an open hand uppercut right under Megan's jaw!

That staggers the Living Dead Girl, but she recovers quickly enough, sending a fist right into Chance's forehead!

Chance almost spins with the impact! But then, she comes back with another open hand strike, this time to the throat!

It looks like that blow caught Megan off guard as her hands grab under her chin and Chance takes advantage, grabbing Dow by the hair and OHMYGOD! what a brutal open hand uppercut!

Megan stumbles back to the corner...but comes right back out with three hard elbows straight into Chance's face! Now, Chance has fallen to one knee and Dow grabs the Black Widow by the hair and delivers a POWERFUL right cross that nearly knocks Chance to the canvas!

These two women are moving with the slow and powerful deliberation of TITANS! The toll of this match is clear. Each cannot defend the strikes of the other. These are two soldiers dragging themselves through a war with their bare hands, leaving every ounce of blood, sweat and tears behind them!

Chance is down to both knees but A BRUTAL OPEN HAND STRIKE TO MEGAN DOW'S KNEE SENDS PUNKY RIGHT DOWN TO THE MAT, SCREAMING AND GRABBING THE INJURED LIMB!

CHANCE FALLS BACK ON HER KNEES, HER ARMS AT HER SIDES!

Megan is pulling herself back up again! Both women on their knees...Megan's injured leg stretched out behind her to protect it. And... ANOTHER BLOW TO ROWAN CHANCE'S HEAD! Megan seems to be targeting the open wound, trying to make it open even further!

And Rowan RETORTS with a blow to the belly! Another! And another! Megan buckling under the attack!

Both women are gasping for air now, exhausted after this incredible exchange.

Megan...is saying something to Rowan. I can't quite make it out but Rowan SPITS IN PUNKY'S FACE! More blood than saliva! That blinds Megan for a moment and...

OHMYGOD! ROWAN HAS GRABBED MEGAN'S HEAD IN A FRONT FACE LOCK! IT'S THE PERFECT PLACEMENT FOR THE THREE FIRES DDT!

[RedEnforcer]

Watching. You never know how helpless you can feel until you are at a point where all you can do is watch. Two women trying to do their best to just destroy each other.

Those real catfight videos you see where tempers flare and hair is pulled and clothes are ripped are displays of quick burning passionate rage. Give enough time and that anger dies out.

What we are witness to here, in that very ring, is a slow building, venomous boiling overspill of hatred that happens when love doesnt just die, but when it is crushed and rots and decays.

I...

I cant stand this.

They have pushed themselves past the point of sanity and are existing and fighting on a primordial level.  Order versus Chaos.  Intellect versus Emotion. Fear versus Will.

Who am I cheering for?

I look at that bastard beside me and his body language shifts to contentment, no pleasure. Motherfucker has been waiting for this moment.

One day buddy. Your mind games and machinations will lead you to a spot in a ring opposite me. And I Will Crush You Like The Insignificant Bug You Are.

But not today.

Today, I look at that ring.

At those women.

And I just pray they survive.

[ThePurpleVixen]

We've beaten each other fucking senseless.

There's no art to it. We're past art. There's no dodging, no blocking, no countering, no real interplay. Our arms are almost ragdolled ... but we work up the will to hit each other, dragging our arms into place against the forces of gravity and blood loss and exhaustion, like Jacob Marley struggling against the chains he forged in life. My elbow crashes into your face and closes one of your eyes in a nasty swelling, as blood gushes from your ripped forehead and flows from your moaning mouth. Your fist pistons into my belly and my abs are just crumpled after brawling for over a fucking hour, and after you hung my arms over the railing in front of my wife and pounded my core into a bruised mess. Your knuckles dig into my fucking spleen, and bloody spits mists crimson from my gasping lips.

It's not pretty. It's less pretty than the end of a fucking Rocky movie. We're both just pounding each other into hamburger.

Because eventually one of us is gonna get staggered just enough. Just the fuck enough for the other to hit one move.

Just. One.

That's the point we're at now. We've dragged other by the scruff of the neck through hell. Our heels have left long raked lines in the burning coal, and there's only been one set of footprints at a time. How fucking sweet.

But now we're here, and we're both out of gas. I'm used to fucking digging deep, but I'm way past any point I've gone before. I've been knocked out and pinned long before this by women way less deadlier than you who I hated far less. And I've fucking been in the ring with you when you were put away for good by moves far less brutal than the ones I've planted you with, by women less experienced and vicious.

And this is what it really comes down to, I guess. Neither of us CAN lose to the other. So much of us is tied up in this, so much of our past, so much of our rotten and decayed love, so much of our furious and toxic hate, so much pride and so much rage and so much betrayal and so many secrets and so many lies that neither of us CAN lose to the other. It's gonna destroy the one that loses. It's gonna leave her nothing but fucking ashes, to lose so much in front of everyone. Viking Hall almost did that to me, and that was the semi-main event of a card we were sharing, without anyone we knew in the audience aside from Straw Hat Guy (I'm still going through life with the humiliating burden of getting my face sat on in front of Straw Hat Guy). This? This is EVERYTHING.

And so we're each digging down deep into ourselves, to the fucking roots, through the living soil to the fucking bedrock, dragging up resources that should never see the light of day, burning fuel we'll never get back. Each of us is willing to destroy ourselves to win this fall. That's what it comes down to.

Larry's right. We're in a war, and this is the last fucking battle. Get the seven bowls ready. Open up the boat full of Aragorn's ghosts. Someone call King Frank to bring his horn and summon Aslan.

One of us is gonna break. One of us is gonna hit ONE MOVE, and be done.

Just ONE.

And of COURSE you spit in my face you horrid fucking cxnt!

You cinch my head under your arm - and since I already got spiked half-conscious with the Three Fires DDT earlier, I have no intention of having THAT happen again, or any of your other fucking DDTs. So with my head locked under your arm, breathing the hot scent of your sweat with the curve of your breast pressed to my cheek, swaying on one knee with my body aching and my bruised belly pounded breathless. But I ain't dead yet - my hands snake over you, restless as an eager lover, my left hand stealing up your back to grab a sweaty bloody handful of black hair and viciously CRANK your head back at the lights - and my right hand slithers over your blood-masked face and splays out and fucking DIGS in, raking at your eyes, ripping at your cheek, my thumb hooking inside your mouth and GOUGING it. Your muffled, gargling bloody screech warms my fucking heart.

You jolt off me, losing your facelock, and bat my hand away to frantically clutch at your face - and I straighten up, slowly. Panting. My breasts heaving in my sports bra. Sweat is glazed over my entire body, running slow and thick as I'm fucking dehydrated. My blood is fucking soup. No, it's CHOWDER. Painted on my face in fat greasy runners. I take your corset top in both hands, yanking it up, bunching it and straining it, hearing a few laces pop as I mound your tits towards your chin.

"FUCK your own toxic cxnt, Chance!" I snarl, SNAPPING my head forward from my knees, and just CRASHING my forehead, made thick as oak from my Irish/Slavic bloodline, right between your eyes with a sharp echoing

CRACK.

Your eyes cross and I sway back for a moment, seeing stars flashing in pretty patterns before I shake my head viciously, scattering sweat and blood, and see drool trickling from your lips. I grin, feral, and slowly hobble up to my feet, using you as a crutch as much as I'm womanhandling you up with me, hopping almost on one leg. Any pressure on my right knee makes a broken glass squeal run through my head. But I can get to my feet. Foot. Whatever.

And I can drag you with me.

"C'mon, sugartits ... up we go ... that's my girl ..." I growl, sweat and blood beading off me, my eyes almost glowing with baleful fire. My left leg trembles a little. It's been doing a lot of work tonight. But fuck it, I can sit down in a hot tub for a few weeks after this. Gemma won't mind bringing me food and booze and occasionally draining and refilling the tub.

The only fucking thing that matters

THE ONLY FUCKING THING

is putting you DOWN.

I take your left wrist in my right hand, and bring your arm behind your back as I press into you, my body nestled close to yours with an intimacy long dead belying the tingling in my pierced nipples. And I stare into your glassy eyes as I SHOVE your left hand into your own shorts at the small of your back, trapping it there. My left hand keeping a policeman's collar grip on your corset, bunching it in my fist.

My right hand draws back, slowly. Methodically.

Moving with a cold cautious sadistic precision.

My elbow thrust back tight.

My right palm flat towards you, my fingers curled for the strike.

"I know I told ya you never had a heart, Chance," I murmur, almost against your lips.

"... so I guess I'm just gonna stop your clock."

And my tattooed bicep flexes as I prepare to give you another taste of Thomas' gift. The Heart Breaker.

Just.
One.
Move.

[Rowan Chance]

An eye rake. A fucking eye rake.

Sticking your thumb as hard as you can into my eye and ripping down. That's what you've got, Dow? That's it? The legendary Megan Punky Dow--mistress of a million signature moves (Trademark that, bitch)--sticks her goddamn thumb in my eye. Got a name for that one? I bet you do.

The Glasgow kiss snaps my head back (bet you haven't trademarked that, have you, fucking Gene Simmons of pro wrestling) and I'm double blinded. Your thumb and your fucking forehead.

Then, I feel you pull my head back by the hair. And I hear your taunt about my heart. My eyes are shut. Head still reeling. You cock your palm back and send it straight to my chest.


And my left hand catches it. With my eyes closed. My fingers curling and squeezing around yours.

I twist my hair out of your grip and slowly open my eyes. And I let you see what's in them.

Nothing.

Before, you saw our past.

Sitting on the hood of the car when I gave you the belt.
Fucking like rabbits in bed while old wrestling video tapes played on the TV.
Tag teaming as the Daughters of Darkness.
Your leg. My back.
Vegas.

But now, you look and you see Nothing.

Before, you saw the love we once shared and was lost.
Before, you saw the hatred that kept me on my feet.
Before, you saw the jealousy that burned in my belly.
Before, you saw the envy that kept me from fully embracing you.

Yeah, jealousy and envy.

We're perfect counterparts, Megan. Me with the big picture and you with the details.

I never was good with details. Keeping track of the little things. But you...you don't just obsess over them, they piss you off when they aren't right. I remember you getting so angry at me for missing our flight in Houston. I fucked up the time zones and we were stuck in the airport for 16 hours. You screamed at me until airport security threatened to use a taser, then you spent the rest of the time drinking in that airport bar, spending way too much money on watered down drinks, and you refused to talk to me. Even after I apologized.

But what I had was the big picture. Overarching themes. Storytelling. And you loved that about me. Especially in bed. When I'd weave a tapestry of possibilities. Where are we tonight? In a dingy gym? In an abandoned alley? Or maybe on a star ship slowly descending into a black hole with only one escape pod left...and there's you...and there's me.

I'd lay the groundwork and you'd fill in the details. That's why we were so perfect, Megan. And that expertise for details made me envious of you. How you know every detail of every arena, armory, bingo hall or high school gym we ever wrestled in. And where we ate afterwards and what we ate. Those details always drove me crazy. Because they were always missing in my stories. But you...you were the one who could list them off the top of your head.

And jealousy?

I remember seeing the picture of you and Gemma in your wedding clothes on her website. (No, I'm giving out the URL, you can go find it yourselves, you fucking assholes.) I printed out that picture and carried it with me for years. Looking at it before every match. One night, Red caught me. I tried to stuff it away in my bag, but he saw it. He also saw the tears I was trying to hide. Red asked me if I was okay and I told him to fuck off. I destroyed the woman I was wrestling that night. Yeah, I don't remember her name and I don't remember where it was and I don't remember what I had to eat after the match and I don't remember the name of the guy I fucked afterward; fucked him so hard he passed out.

I can hear you now. "Boys," you say with that snerk of yours.

Jealousy and envy and rage. They've been keeping me up this whole time. But they aren't in my eyes now.

And as I catch your hand as you send Tantalus' Heart Breaker at me, and as I twist that arm--hard enough to bend, but I don't have the strength to break it--I let my gaze settle on yours. Let you look in. Let you see...

...the rage is gone.
...the jealousy is gone.
...the envy is gone.

All that's left, Megan...is Nothing.

Time can stretch, like you said before. And in the heartbeats me catching the palm strike and me twisting your arm and us sharing the gaze, you see all that I laid out. All of it. But the fact of the matter is, what I say next takes only four words and sums it up perfectly.

With blood on my tongue, I whisper this:

Your raven...is dead.

Because that was what was keeping me from finishing this, Megan.

Throwing you on the railing in front of your wife? That was your raven.

Beating your pussy into a pulp? That was your raven.

Your raven dropped you on your head and sat on your face.

And she could have done so much more to hurt you. But she preferred not to, just like the Scrivener. Because something was holding her back.

And that something was you.

Her love for you.
Her jealousy of you.
Her envy of you.
Her hatred of you.

All of that held her back.

But all of that is gone.

Your raven...is dead.

And with your twisted arm in my grip, I remember sitting in a Japanese hotel room watching Jake Roberts. The Lady DDT gear was at the foot of the bed, sweaty from the match I had that night. I was looking for DDT variants. Because the promoter would only allow me to use that one move--and it's thousands of variations--I needed to keep my repertoire fresh.

And then, it hit me. A variant I could use that...

...no. I couldn't use that. Not even in this shitty Japanese promotion with the exploding ring posts and glass and barbed wire and...no. I couldn't use that. I didn't want to hurt anyone. I mean, I did want to hurt people, but I didn't want to take them out of the business. That's evil fucking heel bullshit. So, I tucked it away. Just forgot about it.

...until right this very moment.

Oh, Megan. Your cruel little heart is going to love this. And you're going to know exactly why I put it away.

Step-by-step.

Your arm curled as far as I can twist it, I pull on your hand and turn your arm, pulling you toward me. A face-to-face hammer lock.

You know about hammer locks, don't you, Megan? You know exactly how easy it is to pull a shoulder right out of the socket. To snap an arm. So easy. So goddamn easy. Everyone's forgotten about hammer locks. So busy with their super dragon spin dive slams, they've forgotten the simple, elegant and brutal beauty of a hammer lock. One extra ounce of pressure and I can put you in a cast for a year, Megan. You know that, don't you?

And as I pull the hammer lock on, that presses us together. Face-to-face. Breasts-to-breasts. Hips-to-hips.

You can see right into my eyes, Megan. Look right into that blackness. That pitch, empty space. That Nothing.

As you writhe in pain from the hammer lock, my right hand hooks around the back of your neck. My forearm under your chin. A blatant choke, but one the referee can't see. And that right hand reaches under your chin and grabs my left forearm.

See, I met Jake once. Met him at a Comic Con. I told him I was proud of what he accomplished both inside and outside the ring. We talked about addiction and recovery and healing. I've got some expertise in that field--I wasn't always a pro wrestler after all, and you can see the proof hanging on my office wall, the proof that calls me "Doctor Chance"--and I told him I was an independent wrestler and was using the DDT as a finisher. Nothing fancy. Just the DDT. I felt it was a fucking crime the WWE turned the most brutal and effective finishing move ever into a goddamn transition hold. He liked me. Flirted a little. And when I asked him the secret of the move, this is what he told me.

"Everyone thinks the headlock is important." He chortled. Yeah, he chortled. "It isn't. It's the speed of your own body pulling their head down to the mat. And the impact on the head isn't what makes the move powerful. It's the impact on the spine. That's what stuns them and knocks them out."

I thought about that as I sat in that shitty Japanese hotel watching videos. And I'm thinking about that now. Because I know you're thinking about it now, Megan.

See, this isn't a standard drop DDT. This is a spike DDT. Like the one Edge used. Where I lift your body up and drop it straight down on your head.

Starting to see it, aren't you, Megan?

But I'm not going to lift you by your trunks. I'm not going to grab your trunks and pull.

I've already got your arm and neck.

Starting to see it, aren't you Megan?

My hands are locked under you. Pulling the trunks is just pulling your own weight up by your hips.

I've got your head. And I've got your arm in a hammer lock. My hands locked under you. I'm going to lift you up using both of them: your neck and your arm.

Lifting you by the arm means I'm not only going to pull your shoulder out of its socket, there's also a good chance I'll break your elbow.

And your neck? I'll be lifting you up by your skull in a quick, sudden motion. That means separation at the top of the spinal column. The lock of my arms guarantees you'll at least be spending the next month in traction. And maybe, if I'm lucky, the rest of your goddamn life.

You see it now, don't you Megan?

You're locked in.

There's no escape.

And as my feet plant on the canvas...

...as I grin at Gemma...

...as I bend down, just a couple inches...

...I start to pull.

Me. Not your raven. Me.

That weak ass bitch--your raven--is dead.

[RedEnforcer]

I tense up when I see it. Megan raking Rowan's eyes and then putting her arm behind her back.  When Megan cocks back that elbow, I'm on my feet yelling.

And then Rowan catches the blow. My sigh of relief is short lived as I see Rowan hammerlock Megan and bring her forward.  My own shoulder throbs seeing that because Rowan's dislocated my shoulder before. What the hell is she planning?

There's the headlock.

And Rowan's body shifts. Bracing.

FUCK!!!!

She wouldn't. No, she couldn't.

I love DDTs. Hell I remember seeing Jake Roberts in the Carolinas when he wore karate pants and just started using the DDT. Of course, my own idol, Arn Anderson had the second slickest looking DDT ever and he was doing it left handed. And I've been put in my share. Hell, I did a stint in Japan with a different name and mask so I could train with Liger and ran into this Lady DDT character during a big schmozz and she just grabbed me instead of the gal next to me and spiked me down so fast, I still remember it to this day.  So I know my DDTs.

What Rowan is setting up isn't a DDT you can walk away from. It's an Impaler.  But worse because I don't see Rowan grabbing for tights. She's looking to completely destroy Megan's arm and snap her neck.

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK

I have to stop this. There's no way I can get to the ring, these fucking guards would slow me down and even if I sprang now I don't know if I cold get there in time.

"ROWAN" I roar out...come on darlin look at me...come on...

"ROWAN"

"ROWAN"

Finally she looks over this way. And...gawd...she looks dead inside...She's not hearing me...
I need to do...something...

"ROWAN LOOK AT ME" I snarl...

And I lift my arms...have my hands reach back behind my head...and I start unlacing the ties that hold my mask on my face.

Gawddammit Rowan...look at me...see what I'm doing...come back to me darlin

[ThePurpleVixen]

I knew this girl once.

Long time ago, feels like.

She was different. Different than anyone I'd ever met.

She was sharp where I was just jagged.

She was confident where I was just loud.

She was intensely sexual where I just liked making out.

She was clever where I was just snarky.

She was malicious where I was just vicious.

She was beautiful where I was just me.

But something was wrong.

Something was so, so wrong.

It came across little ways.

Little things dug and jabbed more than they should have. Arguments snapped more viciously than you'd think. The differences between us felt like a wedge we were constantly trying to overcome instead of making us fit better together. There were secrets. There were lies. We should never have had those, never. We should have known. We should have just KNOWN that it wasn't going to work. We weren't just hot, we were fucking exothermic, burning each other out. We were clashing sparks off each other. We were both so fucking smart, and still neither of us knew how wrong it had gone, how twisted it had become until it was too fucking late. Shit, maybe it was too late when we first met.

And when it all went wrong, it went hard.

It went wrong so hard that the girl is gone.

She's just gone.

I'm always gonna love the Ro that was on my doorstep in Portland, rain matting her dark hair to her face and looking at me with those big somber eyes. I'm always gonna love the Ro that held me in her arms and drunkenly sang "Love in the Library" in my ear. I'm always gonna love the Ro that took a hesitant bite of a fucking Philly cheesesteak wrapped in a giant slice of pizza and smiled through the grease. I'm always gonna love the Ro that was so afraid of a stinger, of that feeling of helplessness even as fleeting as it was, that she wanted me to cradle her on the locker room floor and whisper to her that she'd be all right.

I'm always, always gonna love that Ro. It won't take me away from Gemma, or from Reddy, or from anyone else I love, because LOVE DOESN'T FUCKING GET SMALLER, ROWAN, LOVE IS THE SIZE OF THE FUCKING UNIVERSE AND IT'S THE ONLY FUCKING THING THAT MATTERS.

AND THIS MERCILESS DEAD-EYED cxnt IN THE RING WITH ME KILLED THE GIRL I LOVED.

You catch the palm thrust meant to stop your heart and put brutal, breaking pressure on my fingers, spreading them out as I snarl in sudden agony.

there's another world, ro. there's endless other worlds where we're star warriors or sky pirates or cyborgs and at least one where it's just like this one but

You twist my tattooed right arm back, and I'm too fucking tired to stop you, a thick bloody groan of pain as you torque my arm behind my back. I can feel my shoulder straining at the joint as my body crushes to yours.

in this other world when you came to me in wales you told me you would have said yes and i said it was too late and signed the contract but then you didn't just laugh like it was a secret fucking trap all along no instead

You take my head, locking my throat. Amelie couldn't care less. It's No Holds Barred. You could take a straight razor to my throat for all she cares. She's just watching, avid, a ghoul at the graveside who wants to suck our marrow. The whole audience is all like her, just people who want to watch the pain and the blood. All except the front row. What they want is much more complex. I'm bent over, swaying. My left hand slowly comes up, everything moving so fucking glacially.

you said and after and i said maybe when we get stitched up we can find somewhere quiet and public and have a little wine or some fucking thing i dunno and you smiled that ro smile and i had tears running down my face because maybe this match could just burn out the bad parts burn out the toxic bits and we could have something left some

You're not going for my tights. You're keeping a two-handed grip on my neck and my wrist, and you're gonna lift me that way. You're gonna try to snap my fucking neck. That's where we are, Chance. That's what everything has come to. My knee sags, going deadweight, since that's what Scotty taught us and also because deadweight comes pretty fucking naturally after losing blood and seething in hate for over an hour. My left hand clutches at your shorts, to make it harder to lift me. These are instinctive movements, ingrained. Not conscious. My conscious mind is elsewhere.

little fucking bit left of the happiness we had once and it wouldn't have been perfect nothing ever is but i love gemma after years of us trying to wreck each other she broke my ankle once actually broke it in her bare hands and once she hit me with a fucking car door i dunno where she got it but we're happy now anyone can be fucking happy if you try just a little to grasp for something some little light in this fucking graveyard planet we're all stuck on

I hear Red, bellowing. It's too late, Reddy. She can't hear you where she is. I hear commotion. I see blood, patterning on the mat. It's everywhere underneath us. Our bootprints are in it. We've bled everything from each other. And we're here.

but that world is as dead as you are ro and gods i'm gonna miss you

There's a commotion. I hear the white noise buzz of Van Keel shouting something over the speakers. Good ol' Larry. He'll make this a call for the ages. I sag down harder, gripping tight as I can. Fight the fucking Evenflow, kid, Scotty said. If a move is fast, make it be slow. Make them work for it. Everything is a voice down a distant hall as your arm crunches into my abused throat. You almost crushed it before with your fucking shin. It still hurts. Everything still hurts.

fuck

gems i'm so sorry i made you come here

so sorry i made you see this

i love you so fucking much

[Rowan Chance]

You try to deadweight me. That's cute.

You're just delaying the inevitable, Dow. I squeeze tighter on your throat so you know exactly what's about to happen is going to happen no matter what you think you can do.

I've lost a lot of blood. I'll be in traction for a year.

But you'll get what you wanted: me out of your life. Once and for all.

I give another heave and you come off your boots. Just an inch. I can feel your windpipe collapsing under my grip. I can feel the tendons in your shoulder straining. I think I hear a little pop in your elbow.

Remember that sound, Dow? Remember it? I do. I can't forget it.

Then Red screams up at me. For the briefest of moments, I look at him. I send him a silent message.


She'd do the same to me.


It's over now, Dow. Over.

I tighten my grip. Stomp my boots on the blood-stained canvas. Little pools of it under my feet. Get my base under yours.

And I heave. The first part of the move. The second is the snap.

Your boots come up, off the canvas. In the air. Hovering for just a moment.

There's going to be no kicking out this time, Dow. And if our fates were reversed, the same could have been said about me.

I feel your neck straining under my grip. Feel your shoulder start to rip away from the bone.

Twisting you around in a 45 degree angle to get the best torque, I spin on my legs--yeah, my legs, bitch--and it's time for the second part of the move. The snap.

It will put your head straight into the canvas. But that's not the worst of it.

Your arm comes dislodged from its socket, your elbow cracking. But that isn't the worst of it.

No, the worst is when your neck pops. The sticky stuff between your vertebrae pops. It may cut into your spinal cord--the very thing it's there to protect, so thanks Intelligent Design--and that's game over for little Punky Dow. But it was over for Punky Dow by the end of the second fall, wasn't it?

Your body crunching. Your abs look will look like an accordion. Legs up high and dangling, but then, suddenly twitching. Losing all connection with the engine at the top of your body running your brain.

That's what will happen, Dow. And then, I pin you. My hands on your breasts. My pussy on your face. I don't give a single shit about keeping your neck isolated. Neither does the referee.

And she counts. She counts

ONE!

TWO!

(and...)

THREE!!!

And it's over. At last. It's over. Once and for all.

I'm the better wrestler.
I'm the better woman.
And your wife can look at me and know it.
Red can look at me and know it.
Tantalus... and his apprentice. They can know it.

Everyone knows that I beat you. Once and for all.
Punky Dow is finished. Broken. Beaten. Destroyed.
She will wrestle no more.
No matter how many iron pins they put in her neck.
No matter how many years of rehab she suffers.

And the woman who did it...was me.
Rowan Fucking Chance.
My dark eyes look down at you, Dow.
And my bloody lips smile.
I can barely stand.
But it's over.
It's finally... OVER.

































































































But that doesn't happen.

Remember, I said "It will put your head straight into the canvas."

And, "That's what will happen."

But it doesn't.

No, something else happens.

As I heave you up, you see that confident, cool face of mine twist in pain. I have to let go of the hold. I have to. Because my arms just exploded with lava in my nerves. Then... nothing.

And my legs. My legs.

Megan... I can't... feel...


I fall down to my knees, my tingling fingertips holding on to the hem of what's left of your skirt, just so I don't fall all the way down. My face pressed sideways on the front of that skirt.

And my head...

I said a long time ago there was more of my blood on the mat than in my body. It was a euphamism then. Or a metaphor. Or... it doesn't matter. It's the truth now.

I also said, "I'm on a clock."

Well, that fucker just chimed midnight.

I feel...my heart...try...to...beat...

My mouth gurgles. A bloody bubble. My body spasms against you. Almost falling.

But I don't. I don't fall.

I look up at you.

On my knees.

In front of Megan "Punky" Dow.



I can't feel my arms. I can't feel my legs. I can't breathe. My heart is...

I was right. I was right.

It's...


...over.

[Vivianne]

I see Rowan go for what will be a brutal DDT...but she cannot do it.

I see her fall to her knees at Punky?s feet...

No...

[ThePurpleVixen]

For just a moment there, I felt it all start.

And the world swirled away.

And I was almost

almost

gonna just watch it happen. Because fuck it the world is a fucking vampire.

Yeah?

But no.

Your fucking back gave out, Rowan.

You got my boots up and I felt the breaking, crunching pressure against my neck

against my fucking NECK

for just a moment before you gave out. Before you gave in. Before you fucking CRUMPLED.

And now you're on your knees and looking up at me.

And look at that there's a hint of that old fear.

That old long ago fear that was there in the eyes of a girl I loved who was so terrified about losing control, about losing feeling, about everything in the fucking world. Terrified as a rat being shut in a god-damn cage.

And I suppose now is the part where I should see that hint of that girl I loved.

I suppose now is the part where Megan Dow realizes that we're all human and we're all afraid and if love is what's important than we have to preserve it we have to fight for it we have to keep it alive.

Now I should run my fingers over your hair and then help you out of the ring and leave the arena and let us both get counted out while I take you to the hospital and look there's happy endings after all ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA FUCKING NO.

I stand slowly upright, leaning on my left leg, and crick my head side to side, hearing the crackle of neck bones that were almost just fucking fractured. By you.

"Your back, huh?" I pant, almost conversational, my voice raspy from my throat being crushed, licking blood off my lips. It glistens crimson on my studded tongue as I grin down at you, teeth gleaming white in all the red.

"That's the thing with old mistakes, Chance."

I slowly twist my left hand in your hair. Clutching a bloody handful, wrapped around my taped fist. Clutching tight, until strands of soaked hair pop like overtuned guitar strings at your scalp.

"They come back to fucking HAUNT YOU, DON'T THEY?"

I'm not even aware my voice is rising. Rising into a hot furious snarl. Not even aware of my red eyes burning into you as I bring my right fist right down into your fucking face, into the eye that's swelled shut, feeling it mash into your skull like a grape. See, here's the thing about pain, Rowan. I know you know a lot about it, with your precious Muta schooling and Thomas whipping you and shit, but y'know what I know about pain?

IF YOU HIT SOMEONE RIGHT IN THE FUCKING EYE IT REALLY FUCKING HURTS.

And then I JERK you up, my fist dropping to your stupid fucking slutty corset top. Shit's not even suitable for the ring.

YOU TRIED TO BREAK MY FUCKING NECK.

"THIS IS WHAT YOU WANTED, CHANCE. CONGRATUFUCKINGLATIONS. EVERYTHING BREAKS NOW. STARTING WITH YOU, YOU USELESS NUMB-LEGGED SLAG!"

My voice is full-throated, a dragon's roar as I drag you up to your unfeeling rubber legs.

remember when i stroked your head in that stupid fucking chicago dressing room and i told you everything would be okay I WAS FUCKING LYING BECAUSE YOU'RE NEVER GONNA BE OKAY AGAIN YOU STUPID BITCH.

I yank you forward, and my eyes go to Gemma - and through the mask of blood and pain, I give her a wink that hits her like a slap as she's watching through a haze of shocked agony. She looks like she's fucking shellshocked at having had to watch all the shit we've put each other through.

But I bet my naughty lil' crumpet will like this part.

I pull you to my left, and lean forward. My arms wrap your slim waist from this angle, fists locking at your belly, and I YANK them in tight, feeling the air and spit and blood mist from your moaning lips as your head hangs past my left side. And I dig deep - because I can dig deep, because I've got fucking deep cores, you toxic bitch, I contain fucking MULTITUDES - and I HOIST you up and I SCREAM like a fucking Valkyrie at the pressure on my right knee as I plant my red boots, but I swing YOUR boots up and over as I fucking GUTWRENCH you over.

And I know you know what's coming.

And gods above and below, I WANT YOU TO KNOW.

As I hoist that lithe perfect body up and over - and knowing full well the damage it'll do to me, I DROP to my right knee and crush the brutally swollen fucking joint into the mat with a wet scrunching sound - but I'm willing to bet my scream of pain won't be as loud as YOURS because as I drop and turn you over I extend my left leg, the boot planted and the sweat-glazed bloody tattooed thigh extended and fucking PLANT that destroyed back of yours across my outstretched left knee.

The gutwrench backbreaker is called Hellbound, and with good fucking cause. Because that's where I'm going to send you. With your broken body dangling over my knee.

In my beautiful wife's fucking finisher.

[Rowan Chance]

I had it. In my hand. For one moment, Tom. I had it.

That one moment was sweeter than anything I've ever tasted

More potent than any drink or drug

I was powerful, Tom

I had real power

And then, my body failed me

And now it's gone

But I want it back

More than anything else in this world

I want it back


You're wrong about the look in my eyes, Dow.

It isn't fear.

It's desire.

I tasted something and it was taken from me.

You took it from me.

Just like you took my heart.

Just like you took my mask.

Just like you took...everything.


You grab my hair and pull me up.

You're going to hurt me now.

But you can't hurt me more than you just did.

Nobody could ever hurt me more than you just did.

I don't care what you do to me now.

It doesn't matter.

Nothing matters.

Because I tasted it, Dow.

Something you'll never understand or know.


You lift me up.

Twist my body.

Drop my spine down on your broken knee.

I feel the pain.

it's ten hundred thousand million splinters of white hot agony up and down my spinal column as it shatters into a billion pieces and makes my weak body scream like i've only screamed twice before and once was for Dare when she smashed me on the apron over and over again and the other you were there for Dow when those bitches tried to break my back and both of them tried oh how they tried but this time this time someone finally succeeded and it was you yeah it was you Dow you sick pathetic bitch you finally did it as my body arches over your knee like a strung bow with my hands and feet hitting the canvas hard and my body snapping like a rubber band as it falls off your broken knee like a ricochet like a bullet that missed its target but you didn't miss the target Dow you got everything you needed you hit it perfectly and you see my body flop forward like a Stretch Armstrong doll that's been pulled too tight and my face smashes into the canvas and there's no movement no nothing at all.


LVK: OHMYGOD! SHE'S BROKEN! SHE'S GOT TO BE BROKEN IN HALF!

RP: (Groggy) That's got to be it, Van Keel. I've never seen a wrestler's spine bend like that! This is over!

LVK: It has to be. That scream, it sounded like a banshee.

RP: The herald of death, Van Keel.

RP: Don't...Megan, just pin her and let's all go home.

[The Second City Wrestlerette]

I'm sat ringside, hoodie still over my head. Rowan tried to talk herself into not needing Tantalus. Not needing the mask. Whatever Aika was, was in her all along. I was so close to being convinced, but as her back buckled I relaxed and a little grin came across my lips.

"Bullshit"

You need Tantalus just as much as I do. To channel your energy. To release the energy of that darkness that's consumed you. Now look at yourself!!

I may have come here to watch Megan get broken, but now...this is just as good, if not even better. You both a battered, bruised, bloody mess.

I straighten up a bit in my chair.

You're lifted...

and you come down!

As you SNAP across Punky's back my body tightens up. That scream echoing through the arena. My left hand shoots on Tantalus' thigh, giving it a squeeze, my fingernails digging into his skin even through the pants.

That scream...I want to make people scream like that! My eyes lighten up, knowing...SOON will be the time that I'll be the one shattering others' hopes and dreams. Ruining their lifes...just like Punky has just ruined you.

My eyes are locked on Rowan, bright and shiny like a little kid at Christmas. A smile of pure joy across my lips. I can't hold back some laughter. Not dark, not sinister, just...full of joy. It's like I just heard the funniest joke of all times...and in a way, I did. Only I SAW the joke...

I saw Rowan "Aika was in me all along" Chance...get her fucking little back broken!

[ThePurpleVixen]

That crack is a bad one.

There's not really any good cracks in the fucking wrestling ring, but that one?

That sounded real fucking bad.

Look at that, Chance. I guess I can hurt you after all.

I rise up off my one knee - and immediately stagger and fall backwards, stumbling back to catch myself on the ropes, my arms snapping out to hang me on the middle rope, my ass swaying on the bottom rope. My face is glazed in blood and sweat, my purple hair loose and wild, hanging in a twisted wet veil over my face. Every sway of my body against the ropes sends pulsing pain through my knee. My knee's fucked. But I get a big, bright grin. Because my knee's not as fucked as your back, Rowan. No matter what I have to do, no matter how long I walk with a cane, no matter if I have to wear a fucking knee brace in the ring the rest of my life - it's worth it to see you laying there at a bent, useless angle. Who are you going to cry to tonight when you can't feel your legs, Chance? Is it gonna be Thomas? Is he gonna stroke your head and tell you that you'll be okay?

Or is he just gonna stare down through his fucking mask at the broken shell you are and think about the next

beautiful sweet clever brilliant soft warm funny

girl he can shape into something he wants?

I'd have worried about that once.

Maybe even earlier tonight. Maybe even twenty minutes ago. Even after you tried to mangle my cxnt. Even after you sat on my face. I'd have been worried about what would happen to you. I'd have remembered Chicago, and Vegas, and Des Moines, and fucking Walla-Walla and every other city in the godforsaken world we were in together.

But now you showed me, Rowan.

You showed me we're fucking done when you tried to break my neck.

So now you're broken. You're on the mat, and you're fucking broken. I see those little spasms shooting through you. Your legs twitch because of crushed nerves misfiring. My swollen, crunched, pulsing, battered, discolored right knee throbs as I rest my weight on the ropes, on my left bootheel. I turn my head, slowly, looking around the Zenith, at the crowd facing us. I see the despair in Red's eyes under his mask. The faint shocked horror in Jenny's. The grim dark determination in Gemma's. The manic glee in Lisa's. They're all watching you lie there, Rowan.

They all saw you break.

I hear Rick, asking me to pin you in his weary voice over the loudcallers. To end this.

But here's the fucking thing, Rowan.

You made it clear the girl I loved is dead.

And I've ENDED this a couple of times already, and you keep popping up again. You keep fucking getting up. Once upon a time, that would've been something I remembered loving about you. There's probably some really great stories about how much I admired you when you just kept forcing yourself to fight on.

BUT THOSE FUCKING MEMORIES ARE BURNING, CHANCE.

So no.

I'm not going for the fucking pin.

I drop to my ass on the canvas, the jolt making an electric strangled scream rip from my throat as my knee pulses. I'm gonna need my leg to work for this.

My hands drop to my belt. It's not mystical, doesn't have a huge backstory. I just wear studded leather belts in the ring to keep my skirts on. A few times I've taken them off to strap someone's back raw or - memorably - to tie someone up in the ring (Hi, Tiffy). But as fun as lashing you bloody sounds, it's not what I need right now. I need to be able to fucking stand.

So I slide my belt off my hips as I sit on the canvas, my sweaty, bruised back pressed to the ropes. The tattered, soaked, bloodied remnants of my skirt of fluttering strips of red velvet coffin lining - that seemed like such a cute idea earlier - peels off like sloughed skin and falls to the mat. Last little bit of my Punky attire. Last bit. I'm wearing nothing but a Lycra sports bra and a pair of little boyshorts, each soaked in everything my body has to offer in combat, painted on me like warpaint. It's just me in here with you now, Chance. You wanted me. You've got me.

Just Megan Dow. And I'm gonna make sure Rowan Chance doesn't get up.

No mystic revelations.
No sudden surges of adrenaline.
No poetry.

You're just leaving the Zenith on a fucking stretcher.

You're not even going to know what a sorry little defeated cxnt you are until sometime later this week when you wake up.

I don't care what anyone in the front row screams. I don't care what anyone says. I don't care if you suddenly decide you're my raven again and plead with me and ask me to hold you because you can't feel your legs. No one is going to end this.

NO ONE IS GOING TO END THIS BUT ME.

I wrap the belt around my right calf and hiss through my teeth as I wrap the wide black leather studded in chrome skulls around my thigh - and I pull the tongue through the buckle and CINCH it viciously with a wet hot sound. "NNNNGNGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRHHHH ..." I snarl, gritting my teeth so hard I hear a filling creak and bloody saliva runs from the corner of my lips like a rabid dog. And I reach up and grab the ropes in my taped hands - and drag myself up.

LVK: Good Lord, what is Megan doing? What more can she DO? Rowan Chance is broken in half, and pardon my New Yorker if I say I don't give a single FUCK if that phrase is trite, because it's LITERALLY ACCURATE in this case.

RP: She's ... she's not done. Aw, c'mon, kid, don't do this. Just END IT.

Sorry, Rick.

I drag myself up to my Docs - oh, lookit that, still some fuckin' Punky here after all - and set my feet. And my knee is merely sheer agony, throbbing like a rotted tooth, burning like fire. But I stay upright, even with my face twisted in a snarl of pain.

Good enough.

I hobble over to you, and get your hair. You're hard to get up. Because you're so fucking broken, Chance. That makes it hard to get you on your feet. So I drag you there, and I bet you can hear the sound of your cracked vertebrae grinding together in your ears like the sound of a garbage disposal full of gravel. Drag you up to your stupid fucking domme boots. Are you feeling like a domme now, Rowan? How long is it gonna be until you can fucking cxnt-mug some bimbo in your sexfighting league without your back giving out? Bet you're gonna have a hard time moving those hips the way you used to.

It's funny, isn't it? I get to end two careers for the price of one.

Not ha ha funny.

But you have to laugh.

You're barely able to stay upright even with me braced to drag you up, my biceps tensed to the point of quivering, muscling you up on sheer will.

I don't even have anything to say to you right now.

I've said everything I need to. For all the fucking good it did.

gonna miss you, ro

So nothing else to taunt you with now. I doubt you could even hear me, broken little doll that I've made you.

I don't even look into your eyes, because there's nothing in them for me any more. I just look AT you. Like a fucking piece of work I have to finish.

Now I'm just gonna end this.

I could put you in the Dollbreaker and hang you there until I got tired of hearing you gurgle blood.

I hit you with your own stupid fucking Widow's Bite and plant my cxnt on your face and grab your fucking tits.

But nah.

Gonna end you the way I want.

BECAUSE THIS IS MY MATCH TO END, CHANCE.

I stuff your head between my sweat-glossed thighs, my shorts grinding the back of your neck as I lock you in. Middle of the fucking ring. You're damn sure not gonna fucking backdrop me. You're not gonna be lifting anything anytime soon. Trying to get a spoonful of honey up into your fucking teacup is gonna give you spasms.

I bend over, and wrap my arms around you. My left arm slides over your ass and I don't have any fucking flashbacks about how great your ass is. My wrist presses to your hot pussy and I don't even remember how it tastes. My right hand steals under your hip and GRIPS my left, lacing my taped hands in a brutally tight clutch at the base of your belly. A Gotch-style grip, we call it.

Minoru Suzuki made this move big in Japan, but that was after his run in Pancrase when he returned to the pro ring. He wasn't busting this shit out until 2006. That was AFTER me. I started using this because of Jerry fucking Lynn, in E-C-fucking-W. My first big finisher. First move I ever hit hard enough to knock someone out with in one shot. I name ALL my shit (as smarks love to poke fun at) and this is the only move in my fucking repertoire named after me instead of a punk song.

The Vicious Punky Spike.

With the cradle grip locked, I hoist your limp body high. I can do that.

I can do that because my BACK ISN'T BROKEN.

The weight on my agonized right leg is sheer fucking torture, making sweat run so fiercely off my face that it cuts streaks through the blood so I look like fucking Anthony Hopkins in Titus Andronicus - but I can take it. My boots are planted, legs tensed, fucking dragging you up until your ragdoll legs are pointed at the lights. Normally I jump when I hit this. I'm not gonna tonight. I don't think I can.

And I don't think I need to.

I just drop back, hard, letting our full combined weights ride gravity's merciless slide to the canvas, my cradled arms around your hips THRUSTING down with a roll of my shoulders to SPIKE your bloody head into the fucking canvas.

And I hold you there for a moment, upright.

Then I let you fall. Watching the move hit you.

...

... and then I grab your hair as you lay broken on the mat.

And I start to drag you to your feet again.

[Rowan Chance]

This is the part where I tell you what the Vicious Punky Spike feels like.

But to be honest, I can't.

I don't remember almost anything that happened just before and just after she lifted me and dropped me on my head. I know what you know. Watching my body fall so goddamn fast and crumple like a beer can. My legs jerking over my torso as I fell to the ground, a jumbled heap of sweat, blood and limbs. I hadn't moved since the Hellbound and I wasn't moving now.

Watching it now, the whole thing, is like watching a horror movie. You want the heroine to run, but she can't. And the monster just keeps on coming.

That's assuming you think I'm the heroine here. But one thing's for sure: Megan is the goddamn monster.

Right around the time she lifts me up, my memory starts to come back to me in flashes. I remember the pain. Remember unable to command my legs to do anything. My arms were so weak...I tried a punch and it landed like a two-year-old's attempt at a punch. And she laughed at me. She laughed at me.

And I remember one more thing. Just one.

She pulled me up so she could look me in my face.

I could barely breathe. Feeling the last bit of my blood oozing from my forehead. I tried a smile. If you watch the DVD, it looks more like a grimace. And my lips move, just slightly. You can't hear what I say, and there's been a lot of speculation about what I actually said, but I can tell you now. Now that it's over.

With my eyes staring into hers, I softly whispered,

"Sore wa kowarete inai."

"It is unbroken."

I don't know why I said it. I mean, I do know why, but to this day, I cannot tell you why I said it that way.

And then, my eyes fluttered.

And you said, clear as day, "So ka."

"I see."

You tucked my head between your legs again. And right around there, Larry van Keel stands in his chair, shouting out to the ring.

"MEGAN! MEGAN DOW! LISTEN TO ME! PIN HER! RIGHT NOW! YOU HEAR ME? I SAID RIGHT! NOW!! PIN THE POOR GIRL!"

Meanwhile, Rick's barely able to get upright, his pink satin jacket all askew from the thrashing he took from the guards - trying to save you - and he's holding onto the table, speaking into the mic.

"Kid, stop it. Don't do this. You're better than this, Meg. Please. PLEASE."


Everyone can hear them over the loudspeakers. It's an eerie sound, hearing it now. Like voices from the ether, begging for you to be merciful.

But mercy had fled from your heart in terror.

And when you lifted me up and hooked me for another Spike, both Van Keel and Rick screamed for you to stop.

The second Spike made my body convulse as it fell. Seizures. Eyes rolling in my head. Lips drooling bloody bubbles.

The crowd is screaming. Announcers screaming.

Of course, I wasn't hearing Van Keel or Rick Pearle or the crowd. I was hearing Gordon Solie.

"That's got to be it. It's got to be over. No human being could take that kind of punishment."

I remember that. I distinctly remember that.

Looking at the video now, my body shaking, you sitting there with your tied up leg. Looking down at me with the hatred of a thousand burning suns. Those words I spoke burning in your brain.


"It is not broken."


I can see it in your eyes. Nobody else heard it but you. But nobody else had to hear it. Those words were only for you.

You grab my hair again, getting back to your feet. Your leg ready to split in half any moment.

That's right, Megan. Even to this day, you need a brace on that perfect leg of yours.

A scar you will never be able to remove.

Getting me back to my feet for another Vicious Punky Spike. The third.

And there's nothing to stop you.

[ThePurpleVixen]

Those tremors running through you aren't the little shakes of shocked nerves or the shudders of a body in pain. That's a fucking seizure, Rowan. That's your brain bouncing off the inside of your demonic little skull and sending dark waves through the wreckage of your fucking body. I hit you so fucking hard you can't even speak English anymore. And I'm not done.

I jerk your face up by your bloody hair, seeing the little crimson bubbles aerating at your lips. Your eyes are blank and glassy, little crescent idiot moons, showing none of the dark fire that lit them before. And as I look into that blank ruined mask painted that thick rich crimson - ha, you're gonna need a blood transfusion, bitch. I hope someone in Paris has the same poison that runs in your veins - I don't see fucking anything.

I don't see anyone I fucking know.

"I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO THE FUCK THIS BROKEN LITTLE BITCH IS," I snarl, DRAGGING you up. My leg screams bloody agony as I force it up, but the crowd is screaming, the announcers are screaming, everything is fucking screams and discord and the beautiful cacophony of hell.

You're such fucking dead meat now that I have to muscle you up with raw force, dragging your sagging, shuddering form to your boots.

And you don't look like anyone I know.

Which is too bad, because there's a girl I knew once who'd have really appreciated this scene.

"You wanna see the sexiest thing I've ever seen?" she said to me in that wicked voice like a slow pour of whiskey, and that seemed impossible for me to imagine because I was already draped over her naked body in the hotel bed, glossed in afterglow, drawing my fingertips in slow skating lines along the perfect sweep of her back and down to her exquisite ass.

"Already there," I purred dreamily.

She slapped teasingly at my hand and took my wrist, tugging me over to look at her laptop, resting at a canted angle at the corner of the bed.

It was YouTube, showing old footage. Fuckin' GCW, I recognized the super low ring apron and the hospital blue mat. Tommy "Wildfire" Rich, the Junkyard Dog and that blue collar workin' man Ted DiBiase (this was before he became a plutocrat and hired Virgil) were taking on the Freebirds with Gordon Solie calling the match. I was into it right away, because fuck yes, the Freebirds. I wrapped my arm around the girl's shoulders and nestled up to her and breathed the salt sweetness of her dark hair, nuzzling behind her ear in a way that made her curl her warm perfect olive body against me as we watched.

DiBiase was so fucking scrappy in those days. He was a can-do fighter with a big soupbone right hand and a beautiful powerslam, and the Freebirds fucking hated him like poison. And the brutality got started when Terry Gordy piledrove Teddy into the fucking concrete outside the ring. They waited for him to get counted out - and DiBiase crawled back into the ring.

Bam-Bam (RIP Bigelow, but Terry had it first) didn't care for that, and piledrove him again. Big ol' Texas piledrivers, up and down, full weight vertically crashing down on the top of his head. The spasms that shook DiBiase were beautiful - not as pretty as the ones ravaging you right now, Ro, but really lovely. And Teddy kicked out at 2 and a 1/2. The shock and fury on Michael P.S. Hayes' rugged good looks were a work of art in and of themselves, but Terry Gordy just looked ...

... determined.

Ted DiBiase kicked out of one more piledriver as Gordy decried the vile act ... and then Terry just piledrove him. Again and again. Until Tommy Rich threw in the towel to save what was left of his friend's neck and skull as DiBiase spasmed on the mat.

They piledrove him into the fucking hospital, Rowan. And it flipped the switches on me and this girl in that hotel room so hard that we ended up fucking like god-damn animals even though we were still coated in the heat of an afternoon's vigorous sex. God, that girl. I wonder what ever happened to her.

And the best part, THE FUNNIEST PART: HE hadn't had his ass kicked nearly as bad as you have before they piledrove him into the fucking care of the EMTs. I've already fucked your back and your skull into oblivion and drained you of blood before I decided to start crunching your head the head the canvas with Vicious Punky Spikes. You were in way worse shape than Teddy was BEFORE you started taking piledrivers from a fucking monster.

That's the best part, isn't it? You wanted so badly to become this superior creature, this force of evil darkness, this monster ... and now I'm the one smashing you into fucking pieces. You aren't gonna pop out of the lake at the end of this movie, Rowan. You're not leaping out of the mirror as the credits roll. I laugh, ragged and raw through my ravaged throat, my eyes still red as fucking coals from being in the fucking gogoplata, blood smearing my lips.

"No fucking sequel for you." I snarl down at your shuddering, drooling form as I keep you bent over like a broken marionette in my grip.

I'll show you what a fucking monster is, Chance.

The Zenith is a theater, not a real arena. The seats are FACING us. The floor seats are in a semicircle and they climb up towards the back, and behind the ring is a stage, where we have a video screen and the announce desk with Rick and Larry, both currently pleading for your useless fucking waste of a life. This is theater in the god-damn RAW. Not even the Grand Guignol could match what we're doing here. Ionesco never saw shit this fucking real. And I wanna make sure the audience is fucking engaged.

The front row all have floor seats, right up against the heavy steel barricades in a crescent around the front half of the ring. That means we're seeing our friends and enemies as clearly as they're seeing us, right in front of us. That made it easy for you to bring me to Gemma, didn't it? It's made it tempting for Red and Tiffany and Becca to jump the barricade. It's given a great stage for Thomas to shout his fucking verse.

Thomas.

I keep a fistful of the slick blood-soaked rat's nest of your hair to keep you up, my other hand gripping the back of your shorts. Holding you bent over, blood dribbling from your lips, your hands spasming softly against the canvas. And I find his face. Well, the face he shows the world. Little Lisa Starr curled at his side like a grinning cat. And I grin at them both, my teeth flashing so white behind my own streaked crimson mask. I toss my soaked purple hair back with a flip of my head, ignoring the pulse of pain in my neck, ignoring the howl of agony from my knee as I keep my boots firmly fucking planted on the mat.

"NONNE OPINONEM, THOMAS?"

Doesn't even cross my mind he won't get that. It's Thomas.

"THIS IS WHAT YOU'VE MADE!"

I gesture with one hand at your bent, broken form swaying in my grip, at the ring soaked in blood, at the screaming crowd.

"AREN'T YOU FUCKING PROUD? LOOK AT YOUR FUCKING CRAFTSMANSHIP, YOU FUCKING SON OF A MONGREL BITCH."

And I lace your hips again, bending over, my head craned up to watch him.

And I hoist you up again with a snarl.

"SHE MADE A BAD FUCKING CHOICE," I snarl, and I DROP back again, JOLTING you into the fucking canvas, my arms flexing down to fucking SPIKE you, my legs snapping out wide even with my bound right leg shuddering in so much pain that it makes the leather of my wrapped, bound skull-studded belt creak like a ship in high wind.

I sit there, legs sprawled, watching your convulsing form on the mat. Larry's pleading has grown more ardent as Rick has subsided and sounds like he's drinking from the bottle right against the microphone. I see horror and shock and pleading and bloodthirst in the melange of faces out in the dark of the crowd, but I'm just staring into one impassive face. One hidden face.

One cowardly son of a bitch.

"She thinks she's still not FUCKING BROKEN, Thomas. That's what you made out of her. She's getting ripped to little pieces in front of you, and she thinks she's making you PROUD."

I drag you up again, and it's harder. So much harder. Like dragging a corpse from the Seine.

But I'm dragging you up, one more time, getting to my boots in a sea of blood.

"Do you think she's fucking broken, Thomas?"

My voice is a ragged, vicious snarl - but it carries through.

He can hear me.

I don't think you can, Chance.

Too fucking bad.

I start to drag your shattered form into my clutches once again ...

[The Second City Wrestlerette]

Sitting next to Tantalus, my nails still clutching at his thigh, the other closed to a fist, pumping it down, driving it towards the floor with every Piledriver Rowan takes. Getting lost in the violence. It's like a trance. Relishing in it, the beauty of this destruction...I'm grinning face to face and am probably the only person in this arena right now who doesn't look shocked.

"It doesn't matter what she thinks....she IS broken!"

I murmur at Punky's words, then nod, grinning wider and purring "Do it again, YES!".