[BustyTiffany35]

OK. Almost there. If I could just get past this obnoxious drunken asshole who's hollerin' and pumping his fist in the air every time Rowan slams her fist down into Punky's tummy, then it'd be a straight shot forward and I could get to em' and--

?!?

A heavy hand drops down over my bare shoulder and I snap my eyes to the side to glare at whoever would even try to touch me. It's Red. And his grip is.. surprisingly gentle. Well, gentle-ish. Red's still kind of a beast. My eyes light up, he'd certainly feel the same way as I do. We have got to go stop this, we can't let this go any further! But then, he shakes his head, just once, and starts to talk in a voice that's just as gentle as the grip that he has on my shoulder. And I frown and turn my eyes away from him, 'cause the words were a slap in my face. The good kinda slap in the face, the kind that ya need to shake ya outta your own shit and get ya thinkin' straight again. The truth in his words start to settle in and it gets me flustered. Ya don't always have to like the truth, and right now, I hate it.

But he IS right. i mean, I know he's right because I whole-heartily agree with every gawd damn thing he said. We can't.. I can't interfere. No one can. This is THEIR battle, those two must end this war tonight and all of us...just have to watch it end.

It's just.. Punky..

I turn back to Red, feeling a lot more in control of myself, the angry wild fire roaring in my eyes having dissolved into a somber, apprehensive shade. I nod back at him and I must look so lost, my shoulders slumping, my eyes wavering. I'm still angry as hell, but I've got a better grip on myself. Somewhat.

Then Becca's voice ERUPTS beside us unexpectedly and I nearly JUMP outta my skin. The HELL did she come from!? Her volcanic rant carries over the noise of the crowds, and I go from shooting her a look of shock to looking back at what Rowan's doing to Punky, all in front of Gemma. Well, trying to. This gawd damn brute shouting and screaming in front of me is now completely blocking my view. I roll my eyes and step forward, tapping his shoulder from behind. He turns slowly, his leering face stretching out into a toothy smile. I continue glaring at him, taking a moment to try to figure out where I've seen him from before. He's definitely a wrestler, he's almost as big as Red, but has he worked in FTW? I can't quite remember. I do notice his glossed eyes sizing me up lazily. Actually, I can't really say he's sizing me up since his eyes only got to as far as my chest.

"Hey there, babydoll. What's up?"

"Not you." I step forward and SNAP my right forearm right into the bridge of his nose! His head snaps back and his glossy eyes cross, and then he simply drops to the concrete floor in a heap. Fuck, that felt good. That felt needed. I look over at Red and offer him a shrug, turning my stony eyes back around - and I go completely silent, as Rowan's torturing of Punky is in clear view of me. I'm so close to Punky now as she dangles over the railing, still showing no signs of waking, while Rowan pummels her so brutally those shots just echo in my ears.

Those shots, they're deafening. And I'm shaking.

[~Rox Erotique~]

My body trembles like I've just been hit with 10,000 volts. my jaw drops open as I watch, helplessly. The grip, the posing, the sheer single-minded determination of you... It haunts me.

So I tremble.

As I watch you force my with to cum.

My drink has long since slipped from my pale, numb fingertips. Crashing to the floor and spilling out not unlike you've forced Punky to spill out. I can't even scream I'm so hollow. No... maybe hollow isn't the right term...

Gutted.

I've been gutted by you. I've felt your hands dig and tear and rend their bloody way into my stomach and you've RIPPED my guts out from me. That's how I feel...

You drag the broken, unconscious remains of my wife over to me. TO ME! This isn't my fight... I wanted NO part of this monstrosity! KNOWING you two have history is enough to make me sick to my stomach, but being forced to watch you both play out your history? To exorcise those daemons in bloody, unholy war? WHY WOULD I WANT TO SEE THAT?!?! But here I am, a pawn in your sick fucking game as you rest my broken wife over the railings and POUND her...

Your eyes bore into mine as I convulse with each hit.

Every time you drive that fist into my wife's exposed and defenseless body, mine jerks like I've taken a gut shot. and the whole time my mouth is open... trapped in a silent scream, choking so hard on my fear I can't utter a word, even to beg for mercy...

You ask me what her name is...

I look down, seeing her glassy eyes... her blood covered face... her trembling defenseless body...

And you SLAM her again.

She coughs. a mist of blood and sweat rising up and splattering the side of my face and the chest of my pristine white dress...

"Oh god..." I croak, trembling...

"I SAID...WHAT'S HER NAME?" you hiss again and I look up at you, tears rolling down my cheeks as a barely audible, broken crackle escapes my lips

"P.... P..... Punky......"

[Rowan Chance]

"P.... P..... Punky......"

I actually pause. My hand cocked and ready to fire, hovering.

That's when I give you, Gemma, my wickedest smile.

"Wrong. Answer."

I pull that pretty purple hair up, all drenched in sweat and blood. There's none of that pale, milky skin, only red. Your eyes are half-lidded. Mouth open.

And I kiss you. Hard. The taste of your sweat and lips and blood filling my mouth. Then, I rip my lips away. They're all crimson now. I lean your head in, Punky, so I can whisper in your ear.

"PUNK...IS...FUCKIN' DEAD."

I put both arms under your long legs, grasping your fit, firm, lovely ass. I lift your dead weight body up, like a power bomb.

I can see the face of the crowd. Thinking I'm going to power bomb you onto the railing.

Oh, no. I'm not that merciful.

When I arc your body to slam down, I make sure the railing goes right between your legs. Shattering what's left there. Destroying it.

And with your body on the railing, shivering and trembling and gasping and spasming, I do what I should have done a long time ago.

I grab the collar of your "PUNK IS FUCKIN' DEAD!" t-shirt and rip it straight down the middle, throwing it open. Exposing your sports bra and pale skin, stained with blood. It slides off your shoulders as you tip on the railing. Falling to the inside of the railing at Gemma's feet. I help it along the way, throwing it where it needs to fall.

And then...

And then...

With my left hand, I grab the little stainless steel skully clasp in your punkytail...and I rip it off, pulling some of your purple hair along with it. Your hair falls over your shoulders and face, free of the clasp.

I remember when you showed me how to undo them. "There's a trick to it," you said. This was after you went through a burning table and couldn't get your fingers to work. I sat with you in the hospital for hours. The doctor tried to get it open and you said, "Rowan will do it." And you showed me.

"I had them made in Mexico," you said. "Custom. By a guy who works on Dia de Los Muertos."

I nodded. "Looks like it."

It was important to you that I knew how do this--someone you trust--because you didn't want anyone to know how to do what I'm doing right now.

I have the first skully in my hand. I hold it for a moment. Gazing at it. Then, I throw it out into the crowd, high above the front row's heads, falling somewhere in the cheap seats.

The cheap seats. Where it belongs.

"Well begun is half done," I say. That's when my right hand unclasps the second one.

The crowd is going crazy. The announce desk is empty so no-one's here to call the action. I guess I have to do it myself.

"OHMYGAWD!" I shout. "ROWAN IS THROWING PUNKY'S SKULLY CLASPS INTO THE CROWD!"

The second clasp is in my hand. I turn and throw it in the other direction, over the ring. The other half of your purple hair falls down over your shoulder.

And it feels like I'm taking off a crown. Like taking away Green Lantern's ring. Or fucking Clark Kent with a kryptonite strap on.

Your shirt is gone. Your punkytails are gone. You're balanced on the railing, about to fall either direction if a strong breeze hits you.

And I look at Gemma.

"Her name...is Megan."

Then, I shove you off the railing onto Gemma's lap. Your bloody carcas onto her white dress. "Punky is dead."

White dress. Wedding dress. Yeah.

"Sorry I broke your wife," I say to you, Gemma. "I'll have my people send you a list of my exes.You can look for a new one there."

Then, I stagger over to the ring... roll in...painfully...and tell the ref, "Count her out."

And with Pun--Megan--unconscious on her wife's lap, the referee starts the ten count.

[ThePurpleVixen]

I hear voices in my head.

Fortunately, that's kind of a tradition in pro wrestling, so it doesn't concern me too much.

Frankly right now, nothing at all fucking concerns me much. Not the way I'm hanging broken on the railing. Not the pounding of your fists into my body. Not your taunting. It's all far away. I might as well be on a rolling green hillside somewhere, and your strikes into my jolting, defenseless bloody frame nothing more than thunder on the horizon.

But I hear the voices.

Becca's fierce roar, all Boadicea defiance. That woman is a warrior queen born.

Gemma's soft voice. The soft little cracked voice she only gets when she's sad. My fingers curl and I stir against the railing, wanting to hold her, to make everything better. To wrap around her and make her safe. But I can't. I'm too deep, my cxnt a pulsing dripping wreck and my nerves misfiring. My jolting frame shuddering with each blow. I'm in the gray.

And your voice. Your voice like poison tipped into my ear by a pretender to the throne of Denmark. Your voice that drags icy claws through my fevered brain.

I used to love your voice, Ro. I used to love the way you'd whisper in my ear on our way to the ring. The way you'd order in restaurants, whether they were the Michelin-star joints you were forever forcing me to go to at fucking gunpoint or a greasy spoon at a midtown intersection, that certainty and smoothness to your tone. Always knowing exactly what you wanted. The moans you'd make, the way you cried my name.

I used to love that.

And now all I hear is your whisper.

"PUNK...IS...FUCKIN' DEAD."

And you dip down low, gathering my legs up. Your hands cradling my ass in my soaked crumpled boyshorts. You hoist me up. You've always been strong, even with the damage I did to your back and ribs. My eyes slit hazily open as you haul me up.

"Gems?" I murmur, hearing her voice still.

And then you swing me forward. And DROP my brutalized cxnt across the steel gendarme's riot railing.

"AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHhghhhhhhhh ..."

My cry is a HOWL of deep, primal pain as my dripping, taken pussy is just ... destroyed.

My body jolts like I've been fucking electrocuted - SPASMING in a way that'd genuinely scare a doctor - and I slump down, tits divided by the railing and my bloody face smacking the steel, quivering like a puppet with twisted strings as I hang there, draped over the railing, broken in front of my tear-eyed wife in her beautiful blood-spattered dress.

There's no response from me as you peel me up and rip my shirt off, the black Suplex Apparel sports bra with red piping still firmly cradling my pierced tits even after the brutality - they make a quality product - and then my head jerking and eyes fluttering as you RIP out my clasps.

You toss them into the crowd. I've had those clasps, handmade, custom made, for a decade. And you chuck them into the Parisian arena like fucking beads at Mardis Gras.

I'm stripped down. My wrestling persona ripped away in front of the crowd as you finish demeaning me - after crushing my womanhood, humiliating me in front of my wife, beating me senseless and stripping me bare - by shoving my bloody, spasming form over into Gemma's lap.

I topple there, knees curled under me, my face hanging back, blood and sweat and cum soaking the pearls and white silk, my loose purple hair streaked maroon with blood as it spreads out over my shoulders and clings to my cheeksy, laying on her lap.

Ladies and gentlemen, the fucking Wrestling Pieta, by Rowan Chance.

*a rumble of static as headsets are resumed. Larry's professional Midwestern voice resumes, with a distinctly acrid bitter note*

LVK: There. We're back. And Rowan Chance is having Megan Dow counted out. I hope that woman is satisfied with what she's done.

RP: She probably is.

LVK: This is No Holds Barred, but the rules require a countout if one fighter is in the ring and the other is not. And that's exactly what we're getting. This is SICKENING.

RP: Yeah. Stops someone from ... I dunno, gettin' in a cab an' drivin' away. I did that once.

LVK: ...

RP: Larry?

LVK: I hope Megan Dow tears that heartless woman's head off her shoulders.

RP: Jeezly fuck, Larry, I'm the one who's supposed ta say inappropriate shit. An' ... I just hope Meg can get up.

[Rowan Chance]

I'm watching you in your wife's lap. Your shaking, twitching body. Bleeding onto her dress. And I'm looking at Gemma. She can't decide to glare at me or look concerned at you. Poor thing.

I hear the referee counting. She's up to three. You haven't moved yet except for those pitiful little pain gestures of yours. I made sure you'd never make it back to the ring. A three count wouldn't do. No, it had to be a ten count. You pinned me for three? I knocked you out for ten. You couldn't even make it back to the ring to fight.

And I stripped you. Took away the symbols that made you what you were. No more punk rock t-shirts. No more punkytails. No more Punky. Just Megan Dow.

The referee is up to five now. You still haven't moved. Gemma doesn't know what to do. I grin and nearly laugh. Poor thing.

But the laughter kicks my ribs and the pain almost bends me in half. When my head sinks, it begins to swim in that dizzy ocean that comes with concussions. I straighten up and bite my lip.

She's up to seven now. You still haven't moved.

You're not going to move. Not ever. Not after what I did to you.

The referee could count to one hundred. You're not going to move.

I finished you Megan.

I stripped you of your power and symbols.

I humiliated you.

I broke you.

And I made your wife watch.

You think you broke my heart? Yeah. You did.

I just ate yours for dinner. With some fava beans and a nice chianti.

[ThePurpleVixen]

EIGHT.

The referee's count is impeccable. Crisply timed enough that precisely three ticks sweep by on the delicate second hand of her Alain Silberstein watch between the graceful throws of her hands, illustrating the number she's reached with grim implacability. Her shirt has three undone buttons now, the creamy curves of her delicate breasts barely bouncing with each number thrown above her head. Her eyes are pale and unforgiving, watching me lay in Gemma's lap.

I'm not moving beyond the slow rise and fall of my breasts in my sports bra, the occasional tremor in my thighs, the soft shudder of a gasp from my aching core. My face wholly masked in crimson from the pounding I've taken, my brow split as my head lolls against my wife.

You've ripped my colors from me. Torn out my emblems like a samurai's topknot being cut away. Leaving me bare, glistening and exposed to the world.

You did this to me, Rowan. You did what you've wanted since I realized I could have a heart again, and I gave it to Gemma.

You fucking brutalized me.

NINE.

Larry and Rick are talking quietly between themselves at the desk, unwilling to call my final shaming. A producer has emerged from the back to have a conversation with them about things that are appropriate for announcers to say and do and what they signed up for.

You wouldn't even take me into the ring.

I could have crushed your heart right in front of Tantalus. I could have done it again and again and again until your ribs collapsed and you spouted blood from your lips in a fountain. I could have smashed your face into the concrete and ruined your sculpted features and held you up for him to see.

But I didn't.

Because I couldn't hurt you like that. Even after ...

Vegas

The window glowed with the infinite mad dazzle of the Strip, throwing a rainbow chiaroscuro across our naked bodies. The sweat glowed on us, and the scent of sex was like a fucking drug.

I couldn't wait any longer.

I'd been spread all over the fucking universe with orgasmic pleasure, and I was in love with my tag team partner.

"Stay with me,". That was all I'd said. Just three words.

Because the next night you were supposed to go back to Thomas for a few weeks, or months, or however long he decided to keep you.

... that was all I'd said.

And it happened. And it spiralled and it kept happening and it got louder and it tore everything apart because three words were the only ones that had to happen to topple everything over, and the little arguments and the credit cards and the cheesesteaks and the matches where we'd been paired off against each other and things had escalated in the ring all came to a roaring, snarling eruption that sunk the fucking world in fire and fury.

THAT was when you ripped my heart out.

And tonight? Yeah, you made a real show of me. You fucked me up. You ripped off my colors and left me stripped. You took my name from my wife's lips.

But you can't touch my heart anymore, Ro.

It's not fucking yours.

It's hers.

Gemma's fingers stroke my bloody face and my red Doc Marten scuffs slowly along the concrete.

TEN.

"SONNE LA CLOCHE!"

The bell rings.

5 minutes on the clock. Trainers moving to the front row to tend to me. Desperately moving, like I've been in a fucking car crash.

The countdown begins.

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

[Vivianne]

I stand there shaking. This is what I wanted to see, right? I was just yelling for more...was just urging Rowan to do what she just did...destroy Punky. Now however I am staring down at the action by the ring and my eyes are losing focus. I have simply never witnessed such brutality in a wrestling match...or anywhere for that matter. Out of the fog my vision has become I suddenly see a small object flying toward me. I instinctively reach out and catch it, rolling it in my hand as I look down to see one of Punky's skully clasps, sent airborne toward the cheap seats. As I look down at the clasp I come to realize I was just kidding myself. Even while my heart races to see Rowan in the ring and the ref counting Punky out, it also aches as I see Punky crumpled in Gemma's lap.

The question from before has returned to my consciousness?

What am I doing here?

[Lord Tantalus]

"I want them to fear me."

Rowan walks through my Mask Room, looking at each of the pieces displayed on my wall. She's wearing her typical uniform: black yoga pants, thin black tank top, tall leather boots. Her hair falls down over her shoulders like a dark storm. Her eyes focused on each of the masks. She isn't looking at them. She's examining them.

"Fear you?" I ask, watching her move. She's like a dark predator. Every step deliberate. When she knows someone's watching, she knows how to make sure they don't stop watching.

"Like the Road Warriors," she says. "Or Bruiser Brody. People were afraid to get in the ring with them."

I nod. "I understand."

She pauses, looks back at me. "But I want to lure them in. Make them want me. They want to put their hands on me. Want me to put my hands on them. And then..."

"Lure them into the web," I say.

She smiles. "Yes. Exactly."

"Lady DDT can't do that," I tell her.

She continues walking along the wall of masks. She pauses. "Why is this one in glass?"

"Because it's dangerous to touch," I say.

Her eyes narrow and her smile widens. "It's terrifying."

"In more ways than you know."

* * *

I watch the Rowan Chance in the ring. She's been hurt, but she's smiling.

And I see the people in the crowd. The tone here has changed. They've seen what she did to Megan.

They think it's hatred they feel. But they're wrong. It's fear. And desire.

They want her and they are afraid of her.

I nod, slowly.

Yes, Rowan. You've found it.

But the price was destroying what you loved the most.

[Rowan Chance]

You know the worst thing about five minutes? All the adrenaline that's keeping you alive starts to fade and all the pain rushes up to replace it.

If I wasn't so fucked up, I'd be bouncing in the corner, trying to keep my adrenaline up. But I can't bounce right now. In fact, I can barely stand. So, instead of keeping my energy up, I sit down in the corner and try to get it back.

Let's evaluate things. I'm pretty sure I have a bruised or broken rib. My head tells me I probably have a concussion. Not too long ago, my heart stopped, so that can't be any good for me. I'm coughing blood. And my fucking mentor taught the one trick he never taught me to the woman I want to destroy.

Thanks, asshole.

Why? Why did he teach you that, Megan? What did you give up? I know you and I know your rules, so it couldn't have been...

...no. It couldn't have been that. You might have a hate for me that could fill the Grand Canyon, but you wouldn't have done that.

I'm trying to focus on now, but all I can do is flash back to that moment in the corner. The smile on your face. That fucking knowing grin. You knew, didn't you? He told you, didn't he?

I'm missing something. Something right on the edge of my mind. Something I've missed.

"THREE MINUTES!!!"

Dammit, Megan. How the fuck did you get him to teach you that?

Okay, stop it. Stop it. Get your head back into the ring.

He wouldn't teach me because... yeah. Because.

* * *

Vegas. Because Vegas.

Laying with you in that bed and you lean over and say, "Stay with me."

I laugh. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

But that's not what you meant. You started talking about...

There's a chapel downtown. You said we could go to a pawn shop and get rings. There's even a place called "The Fast Lane" where we could just pull up in a car and get married as we drove through. We could do that.

And in my head, I'm thinking...

"I'd...want it to be...more than that," I say, dodging what's going through my head. "You know, some rituals are important. I know you love pissing on tradition, but...I'd want that to be..."

You kiss me. "Of course. You'd want it to be FABULOUS!"

I nod, happy that you're happy with that answer. "Yes," I say.

You look away for a moment, open a Coors and drink it down. The whole thing in less time it takes most people to take a sip. You crush the can and look out that great big window that takes up the whole wall. Then, you nod your head. "Okay."

I blink. "Wh--?"

You turn from the window to me. "I'd do that for you." You snuggle up to me, coiling your warm body around mine. "But I won't wear the dress. You have to do that."

You're teasing me. But now, I'm ready to cry. Because you called my bluff.

"Meg, I..."

And that's when worry enters your eyes. It eclipses the excitement. Then, embarrassment eclipses all of it. Then, RAGE. You've opened yourself to me and I'm about to reject you. Sensing what I'm about to say, you speak first. "Don't say it."

"Megan, I..."

"DON'T FUCKING SAY IT."

You push yourself off the bed, reaching for your clothes.

"Megan..."

"Keep saying that name all you want," you tell me. "I'm not going to hear it."

"I want to."

You don't stop. Tugging on your sweaty gear because that's what's closest. You're not listening to me. So, I shout.

"I can't belong to you!"

You're pulling your punk tee over your head. "You mean you don't want to belong to anybody."

I don't know what else to say to keep you from walking out the door, so I shout, "I BELONG TO HIM!"

You stop. A slow turn. Your eyes...I'll never forget your eyes in that moment.

Your lips move so slowly. "The fuck you say?"

* * *

"TWO MINUTES!!!"

In the opposite corner. I'm not even looking at you. I'm looking at him.

What did she do, you bastard?

Your mask gives up nothing. No emotion. Nothing.

What did she do?

[RedEnforcer]

10 seconds and 5 minutes.

An odd way of putting things in perspective. 310 seconds just doesn't sound right. It's really been about 10 seconds and now 5 minutes.

All of us sitting her on the side watching this clash have just been spectators to probably the most physical therapy/intervention session this world will ever see.  The reason why this crowd seems so out of breath and tense now is because we've seen and experienced the roller coaster of the history between two women who loved (still love?) each other with a deep passion and are now airing out their grievances. 

This isn't a Festivus pole though. It's a squared circle where warriors have fought, giants have reigned, monsters and beasts alike have conquered and now these two women are colliding to finish each other.

We've seen a heart broken in return for a heartbreak. We've seen a woman's identity undone as the other finally believes she's found her own. Beauty, brutality and now it all is down to those ten seconds and now these five minutes.

Ten seconds that were counted after Rowan destroyed Punky. A fall was won. But the whole crowd knew it would be. No, the important part now is these five minutes.  Will the Live Dead Girl rise or has the dominant sexual goddess finally finished things off.

I think about everything we've seen...everything I know about these two.  My mind is just swirling, emotions are conflicted. 

After the bell rang, I was in shock. Seeing Punky getting stripped down and just destroyed.  Not only assaulting her physically, but doing emotional and mental damage. Attacking a woman at her sacred area as a way to shatter her self-image. That was the type of cold calculation you could expect from Rowan Chance.  But there's no way that Rowan would ever do that to Megan. Whatever is standing in the ring is not Rowan.

It was the heart punch.

It broke a seal.

What we did in Tokyo obviously didn't destroy everything. When Punky used his move against her, something snapped inside Rowan. She has ridden that dragon all through the second fall. The crowd can sense the change in attitude. It's why there's a shift in the mood.  She crossed a line for many, even the announcers.

I'm processing all this when I hear a very strange laugh.  Almost insane in its pitch and delivery. Who could be...

Oh wait...that's me....

My waking brain catches up to what my subconscious has computed.  And I start laughing...

Soon people around me are disturbed..they think I've lost my mind...

But no, they can't see...they are blind...in fact she is blind as well....

I take to my fight...laughter subsiding a bit..

I look over at Tantalus nodding at his creation....

"You FOOL!  You thought to make her your prize pupil. Your gifted one.  The most devastating force ever seen in the ring. But you've failed her."

I push against the railing, staring her down.

"Rowan...poor misguided child...you think you've already won?  You broke Megan's heart and created Punky.  Punky broke your heart and made you this fearsome being we see before us. But the cycle never stops turning. The play continues. On and on again are we caught up in this crazy web."

I push myself up higher on the railing, screaming like a madman, eyes blazing from under my mask...

"You, whatever you are....not Rowan...you've continued the cycle.  In stripping Punky away from her you've created your own doomsday."


"You have unleashed...MEGAN FUCKING DOW"


hhhahahahaHaHahaahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

[~Rox Erotique~]

The ten second countdown doesn't worry me. I know that sounds strange... but I rarely worry about the inevitable. And there's nothing more inevitable that you losing this fucking fall.

Acceptance can be a wonderful thing. It's like a fire that burns away all your worries and fears, leaving you reborn anew. When you accept what you can't do it free's up your heart and your mind on what you CAN do. For example, I can't help Megan win this fall and put an end this fucked up match.

But I CAN have a drink.

I reach down and grab my little white Hilde Palladino clutch and pull out a Stirling silver hip flask that you got me after a particularly violent disagreement in Tennessee involving a barmaid, a window and a biker named Stumpy.

I unscrew the cap and take a long, deep gulp of the burning hot liquid inside, feeling it heat my throat all the way down and burn down all the fucking emotion that cxnt was choking me with.

"Aaaahhhhhh...." I sigh "Jack Daniels" I continue, talking to the half-a-corpse bleeding on my lap "Normally I'd be filling this with something... you know... good. But I had a feeling that tonight was gonna be rough so I should have a drink to match it. Plus... it's your favourite." I smile "So drink up baby, you've slept long enough" I finish, holding the silver flask above your face and tipping it over, pouring it out over the wreckage Rowan left me.

The blood washes away and your cut stings like a BITCH. it takes about 2 seconds before you splutter and gasp, panting and coughing to life

"See? I always told you this was medicinal" I smile softly, sipping down the last of the bourbon before setting the flask back in my little white clutch "You know... you've ruined my dress."

"Uugghnnn... I.... I can see...... uugghhhhhhhhh.... ss.... sorry 'bout that..." she groans back. her body trembling. I'm not sure I've ever seen her this badly beaten before. I mean she's taken beatings... we both have. But Rowan doesn't hit you hard, she hits you SMART. And right now Megan Dow is smarting pretty bad...

"S'ok pickle. We've spent most of our marriage ruining pretty much every possession I own, why should tonight be any different?" I smile, thinking of how many coffee tables you've suplexed me through, or how many doors and walls I've speared you through. My housekeeping bill is RIDICULOUS. "But you DO know why I wore white tonight, right?" I ask and she shakes her head, struggling to hold in her heartache as she lays there stripped bare and exposed like a raw nerve "Because I want you to remember your past. OUR past. Not your past with her..." I  growl, shooting the witch in the ring a snarl "But your past. With me."

"The day you wore white... for me."

"The day you promised your future... to me."

I see her nodding, remembering our wedding day

"Megan 'Punky' Dow in a wedding dress... hehehe" I chuckle, smiling softly as I hug her tightly on my lap "I never thought I'd see the day. Best day of my life though. But you know what I remember most of all about that day? Your shoes..."

For the first time I see a little smile creep on those bloody lips

"You lifted your flowing skirt and there... low and behold... the most beat up, shitty, dirty pieces of crap DC's I've ever seen. No matter what you were wearing you'd always be Punky"

My soft smile starts to harden and I look sternly into her eyes, a solid, steely grin on my face, the dry tears cracking as a fire starts to burn...

"Coz that's you, luv. You're Punky. Doesn't matter if you're wearing a $30,000 wedding dress or nothing at all. You're MORE than a stupid fucking t-shirt! You're MORE than a Left-Field theme song! You're MORE than some stupid fucking clasps in your hair! You're Megan! PUNKY! Dow! YOU'RE NOT A LOGO OR A BRAND OR A FUCKING TV PERSONALITY! YOU'RE A FORCE OF FUCKING NATURE!!! NOW YOU'RE GONNA GET YOUR ARSE UP, GET IN THAT FUCKING RING AND YOU'RE GONNA BEAT THAT PIECE OF TRASH SO HARD THEY HAVE TO SCRAPE HER OFF THE CANVAS WITH A FUCKING SHOVEL! YOU HEAR ME PUNKY!?!? DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?!?! NOW GET YOUR ARSE UP AND BLOW THIS BITCH AWAY!!!"

[ThePurpleVixen]

No matter what's happened to me in life -

- no matter how dark shit has gotten, no matter how twisted up my heart got, no matter how deep in my own head I was, no matter if I was dripping blood or snot or tears -

- Gemma has been able to pull me back.

Every time.

I just had my ex try to rip me apart - not just to bleed me out and beat me, but to rip apart my self-image, my femininity, my pride, my fighting valor, to fucking shred me.

But Gemma still has me in her arms.

You tried to force her to be the one that broke for me, that held my tatters at the graveside.

But she anoints me with whiskey, and I'm fucking born again.

Jack Daniels fucking stings. True fact. I've mentioned how I like it when it hurts, right? That applies to booze, too. Keep your fucking Bailey's. Give me something that snarls and bites. It also washes away the streaked ruins of my facepaint, and cleans my face of blood. My face is out there, glistening and undrawn. No cat's eyes, no black lipstick, no skulls. Just Meg Fucking Dow.

The trainers are finally allowed near me only once Gemma is satisfied that I'm on my feet - and I demonstrate my readiness to fight once I'm wavering on my boots in front of her seat by seizing her in both hands and yanking her into a kiss so hot it makes the blood stains on her dress steam. I press my forehead to hers and whisper "I love you so fucking much it's crazy.". The French doc checks my vision response before they apply a butterfly bandage to my split eyebrow to meet EU medical requirements for combat sports, despite my snarling protest.

I kinda wanted to face you through a mask of blood.

But maybe the time for masks is past, huh, Ro?

The timer's counting down as I wave the trainers off. Washed clean in Jack Daniels and kisses and fury, I slither over the railing to a roar from the crowd. Oh, it hurts. It HUUURRRRTS. My fucking cxnt is WRECKED. My abs have been tenderized by your windmill punches. The ache in my core makes me walk with a hissing painful hitch in my step. But I'm walking, my tattooed skin shining with sweat, and I grip the bottom rope and snarl as I haul myself up to the ring apron.

I hear Red shouting like a madman, and I give him a grin over my bare shoulder. My purple hair loose, clinging in sweaty twists, disheveled like I've just been fucked. Which I have. By a heartless little witch.

No fucking heart at all.

"I BELONG TO HIM!" you'd shouted.

I stopped, my hand on the door knob. And looked back at you.

"The fuck you say?" I couldn't feel anything in that moment. I was hollowed out by those four words.

"What the fuck you FUCKING MEAN you FUCKING BELONG to him?"

Him was only one person, of course. "Lord" Tantalus. The fucking prick who dressed like he was in a Jim Butcher novel and looked right through me whenever I saw him, dropping you off or fetching you. You'd disappear now and then. I knew he was a wrestler. He'd NEVER been on any show I was, somehow. But he was known. Kinda under-the-underground guy, and somehow he had a hold over you. But I didn't know what THIS shit was.

You started to tell me of his ART; how he was REMAKING you, making you BETTER, making you STRONGER, and he would make you PERFECT, and you went on and on and fucking ON and it was all sounding to me like some sick fucking bedroom game of whips and cuffs that'd gone too far. I shook my head, furiously scattering the tears that were gathering in my eyes, my sweaty ring attire rumpled on my sex-glazed body as I curled my fists so hard my nails bit bloody crescents into my palm.

"So what the fuck is THIS, Ro? What the FUCK has this been?"

"I love you, Megan. You love me. You just ... we were just ..."

You pointed at the bed, the sheets still twisted with the hours of passion, where we'd just been purring love into each other's ears. Your face was all - cracked apart.

Yeah, I thought. You look like that because I finally figured it out.

"You LOVE me, Ro? Is that what this is? I ask you to fucking STAY with me - I offer you my GOD DAMN heart - "

My voice was so ragged that I felt blood welling in my throat. It's what happens when you're trying to shout while you're choking on sobs.

"- and you CAN'T, because some fucking ASSHOLE is busy MAKING you into something - SOMETHING YOU AREN'T. BECAUSE RIGHT NOW YOU'RE WITH ME AND YOU DON'T FUCKING WANT THAT."

I ground the heels of my palms into my eyes so hard that they were red for almost a week, pressing myself back into the door.

You touched me. And I struck your hand away, hard. When I opened my burning wet eyes, you were down on one knee like you were the one proposing, looking up at me with those dark fucking intoxicating eyes.

"Please, Megan," you'd said, whispering. Hearing you say my name right then made me so fucking sick I wanted to die.

"Don't worry. I won't fucking waste any more of your time," I dragged my hand across my nose and lips, dripping snot, tears running down my chin. I've always been the ugliest fucking crier. "You can tell him you got rid of your little fucking lezzy side piece so you can focus on getting SHAPED right."

I jerked the door open, dragging my gear bag with me in one trembling fist, and walked out into the antiseptic glare of the hotel hallway, the blank idiots faces of the room doors staring me down stretching off towards the solace of the elevator. I looked back at you and it hurt me so bad it bled to see you there, naked and sweaty and staring after me. Even your tears were pretty. Like an artist daubed them on.

"See if he has time to chisel a fucking heart to stick into you."

And I didn't see you again. Until FTW.

What happens in Vegas, right? Ha fucking ha.

I step through the ropes, gritting down the pain and savoring the fresh sting of Jack Daniels ... and I see the look on your face. The twisted hate. Not just at me, not just at Gemma. Also at Thomas. And your hand, softly stroking your heart right where I struck. And I crook a grin as I slouch back against the buckles and go through some slow stretches, some breathing. But I grin because you've ripped off my shirt.

I bet you felt like a real bad-ass bitch, didn't you? You know how much love I put into my shirts. Each one is designed by me, drawn by artist friends in Portland and Chicago, printed at Colt Cabana's shop. It made great TV, ripping my shirt off. It made the audience gasp and everyone got a slightly better look at my tits. (And I got a little more sponsorship money! Thanks, Suplex Apparel! "Create Your Legacy" (TM)!)

But now my shirt's off, which means sooner or later, you're gonna see my left shoulder. You've seen me naked only once since Vegas - and that was when you jumped me in that hotel in Evanston when I was after you to get Gemma's ring back. You were waiting in my hotel room, in the closet, naked. You beat the shit out of me when I was getting ready to step into the shower, hatefucked me into drooling insensibility, then gave me a Widow's Bite on the shower tiles and sent Gemma a smartphone video of you facefucking my limp body. I'm sure you remember. You're so fucking nostalgic that way.

You really had fun fucking me up. But you weren't spending a lot of time *looking* at me. Not like when we were lovers, exploring each other's bodies with leisurely heat. Because if you weren't so focused on destroying me then, you'd have noticed I had a few new things. New tattoos, here and there. New piercings. And something else.

Right on my left shoulder.

You'll see.

I watch your face, the lights heating my stinging, Jack-washed face. My purple hair slick with sweat and whiskey in wet strands, hanging loose for the first time in the ring since I was 17 and finally figured out I should gather my hair up. I wrap my taped hands around the ropes and yank to hear them creak, feeling the aches in my body and shoving them down as the timer sweeps down towards the last few seconds. The referee is back in position, watching us with that strange little enigmatic smile. I keep cramming the pain down and stoking the fires of my fury.

Because it's the last fucking round.

And I'm gonna tear your god-damn head off your neck.

I have to. My wife wants it, see, and Christmas is coming up.

[BustyTiffany35]

The faintest of smiles touches my lips and my eyes feel a bit watery as I watch these two share a moment together. Then, breathlessly, I watch you move, pushing past the pain, my respect and admiration for you growing with every agonized step you take as ya head straight for the ring. Determined, relentless, nothing's gonna stop ya. You're going to fight for one more Fall, and you're going to end this. And when ya do, I hope ya get what ya wanted, because you fucking deserve it, gorgeous. I hope whatever comes at the end of this night is worth what you've been put through. 

Go get em', kid..

[Rowan Chance]

So...the third fall.

I stand on the opposite side of the ring and look at your ruined body. Your ruined spirit. Your punkytails are gone. Your famous t-shirt is gone. (For some reason, Leonard Cohen's "Famous Blue Raincoat" comes to mind.) You've still got fire in your eyes, but how much fuel does that fire have left, I wonder? Your flame always burned so bright, but I know the secret about bright flames. That's why mine smolders. So it can burn for a long...long...time.

The referee calls for the bell and I hear it ring loud. The people are going berserk now, screaming out your name, inspired by your..."courage." Most of them are chanting your name now. Rooting for you to come out on top of this.

I don't care. I don't care about them. This isn't about them. This is about you and me.

We both step toward the center of the ring. I'm holding my waist, limping because of the fire in my back. I look at the gash over your eye. Your wife may have cleaned it with whiskey, but blood is still trickling from the wound I gave you. It's going to need stitches and it's going to leave a scar.

That's good. Something she can look at every morning you wake up with her. Something on your face. Something to remind her of what I just did to you. What I'm going to do to you.

Circling the ring, watching you. Looking at every wince, measuring the pain you must be suffering. And I'm almost laughing.

The pain you're suffering. You deserve every ounce of it. In fact, you deserve some more.

"Oh, the plans I have for you, baby," I say through grinning, broken lips. "My lover. I've been waiting a very long time for this. I'm glad you got back up. Because I'm not finished with you."

And with that, my right hand swings up over my left shoulder, sending a chop toward that bare chest of yours that will sing in every goddamn corner of this place and make all those sons of bitches chanting your name shut their goddamn mouths.

[RedEnforcer]

megan's gonna kill you
megan's gonna kill you
megan's gonna kill you
megan's gonna kill you
megan's gonna kill you
megan's gonna kill you
megan's gonna kill you
MEGAN'S GONNA KILL YOU