[Becca Blast!]

This can't have been 5 minutes.  5 minutes in some weird, fucked-up-by-Barry-Allen timeline maybe.  5 minutes in a world that makes no goddamn sense.

5 minutes ago... Punky was a broken, disjointed toy.  I don't mean disjointed as in wobbly or tottering.  I mean her ability to move had been torn from her.  Whatever this.. thing... was had eradicated her, torn her to shreds and flung her to the winds.  5 minutes ago. 

And now... she's back.  Somehow.  A baptism of hooch and lust and bloodthirst had restored her to a point I hadn't thought possible.  5 minutes ago.

5 minutes ago, the fullback blonde was a crying mess, the masked hulk whispered in fear, and all I could do was... wail.  Like the true women of the mound.. the bean side, or as the fucked-up English called it, the banshee.  Now, the blonde is tight and hissing through clenched teeth, the slab of beef is laughing like a Maenad, and I... am awestruck.  5 minutes ago.

"Run, you fetid coward... run, Rowan, you refugee from a slime pit of hell!"  I'm fueled and raging as never before for someone else's fight.  If I can pour my spirit into this woman, I would... but she doesn't need it.

5 minutes has passed.  And grim Death herself is coming to the ring.

You should have left her those decorations, Rowan.  They made what she can do fun.  Now, there's nothing to hide what's going to happen to you.  And I'll be wailing joy over your grave. 

5 minutes after she buries you.

[ThePurpleVixen]

It's not a great joy stepping out of the corner, and I don't bound out with my usual speed, because the center mass of my body still feels like a fucking Honda Civic crashed between my thighs, which makes every step hurt and makes my battered core pulse. Every hitching step a reminder that a woman who once claimed to love me just tried to destroy my womanhood with my wife watching.

In case anyone was considering what to do for the holidays, I'm gonna go ahead and not endorse having some psychotic vindictive bitch try to completely crush your pussy, despite how fun it might sound. Maybe just have some eggnog instead. But here we are - the bell fucking rang, and I'm out of the corner, ready to fucking fight.

I get a half grin as the crowd rallies behind Red's booming tiger's roar of a voice, starting a familiar chant but with a different name than what they usually use. I hear Becca's war cries, vicious and fierce. I feel Tiff's hotly intense eyes on me. And y'know something, Rowan? Y'know the best part?

They're absolutely fucking right.

You might've ripped my Punky shirt off and torn out my punkytails - but I'm still standing like DDP and Elton John before me, and I'm STILL gonna fucking kill you..

There's a slow thick gloss of blood above my eye, but the passage of time and the little butterfly bandage the French docs affixed have stopped it from sheeting down my face. We slowly circle each other, my blood-red Doc Martens Airwalking on the canvas already spattered with blood and sweat and drool. The crowd's roars echoing through the intimate French arena, each of us showing our pain in every movement, every breath. And then Rowan Chance just has to fucking get a word in edgewise. You purr at me. I growl back, hackles up.

"That's all right, darlin' - neither of us is fuckin' done yet," I snarl. My Oregon Badlands drawl is strong in my pain. "It's still gonna be blood for blood, and by the fuckin' gallon. And then - THEN we're gonna be fuckin' DONE."

And I mean that, Chance. This is our god-damn reckoning. No more betrayals, no more ambushes, no more taunting - you and me. Right here, right fucking now. We're gonna make like Vizzini and the Dread Pirate and see who is right, and who is dead. And I ain't fuckin' Sicilian.

You come lunging in, your arm snaking across your body and just fucking WHIPPING out. God damn, you're a precise little witch. I don't try to counter, or catch it, or dodge. I don't think I can, for one thing. Besides, you clearly wanted to get my tits so fucking much you had to take my shirt off, so fuck it. I tighten my back and shoulders, and take in a sharp fierce breath. I don't know how many chops in the tits I've taken over the years. I don't wanna think about it. Makes my tits ache trying to remember.

*SMACK!*

"NNNNNHHHH!" I groan through gritted teeth, growling as I take the hit and stagger back, biting back HARD to resist the urge to cradle my chest. I'd forgotten how much something as simple as a ragged tee-shirt helps with those, because getting smacked right in the tits with only a sports bra to protect me FUCKING STINGS. But I'll never forget my first months in Japan - when I felt like was getting chopped in the chest every fucking minute. I think of those times. I think of how fucking coldly disappointed my trainer would have been if I'd let my pain show. So I swallow it down as it hits, the aching bite across my vulnerable breasts -

- and I lunge back into you, striking HARD as plant my Docs and torque my hips, my own tattooed right arm bullwhipping across my sore chest and LASHING out in a sharp crescent arc, aiming to CRACK a chop right back into those luscious proud tits of yours in your lil' black corset as my face twists into a roar.

You wanna chop battle with me, Rowan?

FUCKIN' BRING IT.

"WATASHI WA ANATA O HAKAI SURUDESHOU!"

[Lord Tantalus]

I stand quietly, hands in front of me, watching them both.

Rowan catches my gaze and I put my index finger up to the eyeslit in my mask.

She knows what that means.

[Rowan Chance]

When your chop hits, I'm forced to turn and scream out loud. A samurai scream. Clenching my fists together, my face bunched up and I fucking

SCREAM!!!

Turning back to you...yeah...I do want this. Right here and right now. I want this.

So I send another chop against your pretty breasts and you send a scream right back into my face. Then, you give me a chop that might even burst the cheap seats' ear drums.

Chop, scream, chop, scream, chop, scream...

Exchange after exchange. Every slap against my chest is like getting hit by a red hot fire poker. As if it's scalding my skin. I have to scream not to cry out in pain. Fighting spirit, my ass. I'm not going to let you get the better of me here. Not like this. It's not that I can take pain, Megan. You know that. But nobody can hurt me like you can.

Watching your body move...the slick sheen of sweat on your skin. Your hair is wet and matted. Breasts nearly exposed with your sports bra. I can see the barbells piercing your nipples and I remember how you loved me twisting them when I put you on your back and made you my bitch.

Because you said "Please."

You trusted me then. Trust me now. I'm not going to stop hurting you until you can't get up. And you can hurt me all night long, Megan. But nothing...NOTHING...is going to make me admit you're the better woman.

NOTHING.

Another slap to your breasts, trying to hit those pierced tits of yours. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I just get your upper chest. And your face is getting redder...and redder...just like your chest.

But then you return the favor and make my upper torso feel like it's collapsed. It probably is by now. It's getting harder to breathe. And the constant impacts aren't doing my ribs any favors.

it goes on. Chop/Scream. Chop/Scream. Chop/Scream... Until...

...one of your chops hits me so hard, it knocks the wind right out of me. Makes my eyes quake and water. Makes my whole rib cage feel like every single bone has lava flowing through it. My lungs seize. And I'm forced to take a knee.

And the crowd fucking ROARS because you've promised to fuck at least half of them and the other half have Gemma's number. But here I am, on my knee, my chest enflamed. My olive skin is red from my neck to my corset. Trying to breath and I can't. Fucking ribs.

I hear Red start that chant and I hear the rest pick it up. But behind you...Tantalus is watching. And his eyes tell me everything I need to know. He puts a single finger next to his eyes. His blue eyes looking out. I see what's behind them. Roger Daltrey singing Pete Townsend's words, echoing in my brain.


If you're going to be a villain, then be a fucking villain.


I'm on one knee in front of you, Megan. I look at your knee. The one you can barely stand on.

Time to be the villain...

As you grab down at me, reaching for my hair...

... I sweep the leg.

[ThePurpleVixen]

I was in Iwata Prefecture. I had just arrived, fresh out of Puerto Rico where I'd learned how to spill blood and duck when someone in the crowd was about to glass me, how to fight like a lunatic and pin someone down HARD so they couldn't get up and keep savaging you, to make sure someone STAYED the fuck down. I'd been in the business just over 2 years, and I was pretty confident in myself, rising from my humble beginnings in the Northwest to some pretty good undercard rookie matches in Puerto Rico.

And then I went into Kaientai Dojo and got my face kicked in and received a compound fracture to my self-assurance.

You don't learn anything the easy way in Kaientai. TAKA and the other founders didn't have a single god-damn thing in their lives go easy, and they wanted to make sure that lesson was passed on. You ran laps. You got kicked. You did push-ups. You got chopped. You made rice for everyone. You got armdragged for an hour. You cleaned the mats. You got chopped. You ran for a few miles before bed. You got slapped in the face as a way to say goodnight.

"Fighting spirit is more than just Inoki's way to sell tickets. It is what determines who truly shines in the ring."

Kazma was speaking Japanese, of course. I just remember it in English because I had to learn Japanese pretty friggin' fast, since every time you gave a trainer a confused look you got a smack in the head to get your linguistic skills kickstarted. He was training with me, the two of us doing linked-hands rowing sit-ups, our feet pressed together.

"You will be hit. You will be hit HARD. It will hurt, and it will keep hurting. But you must hit back, and you must hit back HARDER. THAT is what matters. That you take it, and you give it back. Yes?"

I nodded, sweat dripping off my nose. This motherfucker was half a foot taller and 90 pounds heavier than me, and doing sit-ups in sync with him was no joke. But I was listening.

Kazma smiled and slowed us, facing each other with our legs spread, feet pressed together, in our youngboy training gear. Well, young girl for me, which meant I had on a terrible fucking one-piece outfit since that's what young joshi get to wear. And then he let go of my hand and  slapped me in the face, HARD. Lights flashed and bells rung like my skull was a pachinko machine, and my pale cheek burned bright red as I turned my face back toward his, my eyes big as boiled eggs.

"YES?" he said again, a big grin on his face.

I released his other hand - swung my arm back and SLAPPED him back, a flat sound that echoed across the dojo, rocking the big young man back on his hips. When he turned his snapped-around face back to me, his lip dripped blood from a swelling split.

"YES." I growled back at him.

He grinned big, and nodded - and offered his hands again.

I took them, and we kept training.

Toshi. Fighting spirit.

You've got a fuckton of spirit, Rowan. You're more stubborn than almost any woman I've met in my life (Almost. I married the most stubborn), and you're nearly fearless, and you're fucking merciless.

But when you start a fire with me, I just keep blazing brighter and hotter until the fucking world burns. I don't burn out - I burn EVERYTHING.

Each chop you lash into me SEARS into my chest. My black SPLX sports bra takes the punishment and doesn't pop a seam but offers little in the way of protection, just snugly supporting my aching tits as they get slapped and smacked around like NFL wives. Each chop I lash back into you cracks across the Zenith and drives your tarty fucking corset laces into your shamelessly proffered tits as we ROAR into each other's faces.

And then I PLOW one into you that I can FEEL collapsing your happy little ribcage. Dropping you down to breathless to one knee. Remember when you were on one knee with me before, Rowan? Because I sure fucking do. And I bet your black little heart hurts almost as much as I mine did then - just less fucking metaphorically.

"rrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRAHHH!"

I roar after the blow, and the crowd rallies up their chant again as I flex my aching, stinging right hand, the tingles racing to the tips of my fingers, hot low sweet pain pulsing along the knife edge of my hand. "Oh sweet fuckery, darlin' ... it never gets less fun hurting you ... " I hiss as I reach for a grip on your sweaty dark hair, knotting it in my fingers, bicep tensing to drag you up.

And then your leg scythes out, low and whipping at an unexpected angle, and your heel slashes across the outside edge of my battered right knee, buckling it inwards.

"NNNNNYYYYYEAGGGGGGHHHHHH!" I scream a twisted tormented howl of pain as the unexpected agony flares up the swollen tissues and sends fire racing up and down the long nerves in my leg, sending me stumbling and collapsing to my back back on the mat, clutching my right knee in both taped hands with my head arched back, tendons standing out like live wires in my neck as I grit my teeth and dig my fingers into my knee to try to ease the shuddering pain of having my knee swept out from under me.

[Rowan Chance]

The sushi bar. Our second date.

We're way too drunk. You on Asahi and me on saki. I'm drinking it cold because that's how you serve good saki. The itamae just keeps bringing us sashimi and we keep putting it down. We're laughing way too loud, but we're gaijin, so that's okay. After we share a whole plate of tuna sashimi, I lean in close and whisper something. Your eyes go wide and you almost shout,

"HOLY SHIT! YOU WERE LADY DDT!?!?"

I kiss you and shush you, laughing out loud. "Don't go telling the whole goddamn world."

You kiss me back, but then push me away. "Are you fucking kidding? That was you?"

The itamae's eyes go wide too. "You are Lady DDT?" he asks in Japanese, pointing at me.

I shake my head. "No, no," I tell him. "I know Lady DDT."

He smiles and nods. "Get her picture for me?" he asks.

I nod. "Sure."

He goes on making more sashimi. I look back at you. "See?" I say, still laughing. "See the trouble you cause? There's a reason I whi?"

You get up on the barstool and point at me. "Lady DDT!" you shout, loud and proud. "This is Lady DDT!"

I have to drag you back down. You land on that exquisite ass of yours and we're both laughing so hard, I almost fall off my own stool.

"It's not something I'm exactly proud of," I say.

"You should be," you tell me. "God, that was an awful gimmick." You stroke my hair, looking into my eyes. "But you made it work."

"Eventually," I say.

That's when a small group of fans comes over. They recognize you, of course, but they're all asking, "Lady DDT?"

I start to say, "No," but you're already there, nodding up and down. "Yup! This is her!"

I sigh and roll my eyes. "Cat's out of the bag, now."

They ask for our picture and you squeeze me, pulling my face close. "Hai!" you say, way too loud.

Phones come out and we're there, arm in arm.

After they leave, you say, "Did they really not allow you to use anything else? Just DDTs?"

I nod. "Yup." Take another piece of sashimi. "For six months."

You shake your head. "That sucks." You blink. "Hey, wait...didn't you use a figure four?"

I nodded. "Yeah," I said. "Got me fired." I wink at you. "But I won the belt with it. Won the belt, took it to the back and the booker took it away from me. Didn't even let me shower or get dressed. Threw my bag at me and told me to get out."

You kiss me. "You're such a rebel." You take another saki bomb and say, "You know, I was so hot for Lady DDT."

"Oh really?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

You raise your right hand. "'Sthetruth," you slur. "You looked so good in that lycra one piece."

"Ugh," I say. "It was itchy."

Then, you look at me with that mischievous grin. "Still got the mask?"



The next morning, I'm next to you. You're flat on your stomach, groaning something about saki bombs. I get out of bed and head to the bathroom, checking my phone for emails...and someone's sent me a link. There we are, the two of us, at the sushi bar, wrapped up together and smiling. Way too drunk.

PUNKY AND LADY DDT!

I just shake my head and smile.

"Cat's out of the bag."

* * *

But back in the ring, you're on the canvas, clutching that knee of yours. I put my hands and feet under me and slowly drag myself back to my feet. You don't even see me.

I limp over to you, clutching my side. My chest burns like you poured lava over it. My breath is wet and heaving. I sound like an old man trying to breathe. I watch you roll, grabbing your knee. I wipe the hair from my face and grin down at you.

I grab your ankle and give it a good tug, Ric Flair style, and listen to the wonderful sound that makes. Then, I use your wounded leg to flip you over onto your stomach. This ain't your grandpa's figure four...it's MINE.

"Time to go to school," I say, my voice sharp and cruel. And just like Ric, I do a little spin, holding on to your ankle, twisting it around my leg, and get set for the move that got me fired. Except you are face down and I'm face up.

It's better this way.

[ThePurpleVixen]

There's some instincts you have to learn to overcome when you're in the ring. It takes a lot of people trying to hit you before you learn that flinching makes it impossible for you to do anything except get hit. It takes a lot of being kicked in the stomach before you learn how and when to tense up. It takes a lot of being fucking shoved around by people shorter and lighter than you before you learn the proper mechanics of a collar and elbow grip. But these are things you can learn. They're things that come with time.

Some instincts, though, can never be overcome. They're so deeply ingrained, so primal, that no matter how iron your will is or how much tougher than a proverbial fuckin' cheap steak you might be, you're not gonna stop them from happening. You get whacked in the goodies, you instinctively double up and clutch at them. You get jabbed in the throat, your chin tucks and your hands come up. And your knee gets ripped out from under you, and you reach for it. On an intellectual level or just from fuckin' long experience, you know that no amount of clutching makes anything actually stop hurting. It's just primal fucking lizard-brain deep-down instinct.

And that's why even though I KNOW I'm in the ring with a dangerous psychopath who loves hurting people, even though I KNOW I just had you down and if I could just score another shot to your creaking ribs I'd be able to have you too busy spitting blood to get at me - I can't help but lace my fingers over my battered knee, my teeth gritted painfully as I try to squeeze the damn thing back into shape. Your heel caught me right at the outside edge of the fucking patella in that god-damn sneaky little legsweep, and it feels fucking wrenched.

And then, of course, things get worse. Because I'm in the ring with you, and there's not a lot of other ways for them to go.

You stagger to your boots and snatch my ankle, clutching the heavy Doc in your hand and yanking my leg out. "NnNnNNNRRRRRRRRHHHH ..." I snarl like a fucking badger, my teeth bared as my whiskey-wet lips draw back in hate. My knee pulses in protest as you stretch my aching leg out, my sugar-skull knee-high sock bunched around my tensed calf, before you DRAG me over, rolling me over my left hip as I claw at the air, sitting up to try to reach you, to pry your hands off my ankle, to rip my fingers through your fucking guts like the walking dead to get a mouthful of fegata di puttana, fucking ANYTHING ... but you manage to drag me over onto my tits and aching belly. Having my leg stretched up like this does my brutalized pussy no fucking favors either. I immediately claw at the mat, trying to press myself up. My hair falls into my face in sweaty violet tangles, which is also fucking weird. God damn, I can't believe you ripped out my fucking skullies. You've always been so fucking jealous of my cool action figure looks and the fact that ToyBiz didn't want to make a Rowan figure during FTW because it looked too much like a dominatrix Cobra agent.

I know what's coming, of course. We've been in the ring together for so long, as enemies and partners, that I've seen your whole repertoire. That doesn't make it any better, surprisingly. It just means I know how hard to grit my fucking teeth.

Your legs vine around mine as you drop back to your ass, cinching my legs into a 4-shape and POURING pressure onto my bent right leg, torquing my fucking agonized knee, my right ankle locked into the back of my left leg as your leg drapes over my boot to drill it down.

"NNNNNRHHHHHNNHHHHHH, FUUUUCK!" I roar in frustrated rage and pain. A hold like this is more than just punishment, more than just targeting my throbbing knee. It's gonna slow me down. I was coasting on a surge of adrenaline from getting back on my feet and chopping you down to the mat, and that shit doesn't last forever. As it ebbs, my energy is gonna drain. My cheeks burn red with fury as I claw at the mat, pressing my hands to it and pushing myself up, trying to fight the furiously painful pressure of the hold.

[Rowan Chance]

There's a moment when I look directly at the camera. All the action stops. Freeze frame. Just you and me.

The crowd is frozen. The announcers are frozen. It's just you, me and Megan. Little Megan. Screaming in pain.

And looking directly at the camera--the sound of the crowd completely silent as I wrench on the move--I start talking.



Until you've been in a submission hold, you don't understand what it means to be in one.

People think wrestlers tap because they can't take the pain anymore. That's not it.

They tap because their leg is about to break.

Think about that for a second. You can feel the bone in your leg about to SNAP. It makes the sound of a wet tree branch breaking. Sometimes, you can see the twisted, broken bones under the skin. You hear that sick crack and blood rushes under the skin, turning the whole limb purple.

That's what it means to be in a submission hold. Knowing you're about to lose a limb and the only way to prevent that from happening is begging the person applying the hold to stop. That's what a tap is, people. Begging the other person to stop hurting you.


I wink at the camera.


No woman has ever made me tap out. No woman has ever made me quit. No woman has ever made me say, "Please. Stop." No. Woman.

Now, you think about that when you see a wrestler yanking on a hold after the ref rings the bell. They aren't keeping up the pain. They're trying to do permanent damage.

Submission holds don't hurt people. They break limbs.

Keep that in mind.



Then, slowly, everything starts to move again. The sound of the crowd, like an old fashioned record player that was just spun up, revs up to speed. The people start cheering and booing. And Van Keep and Perle start talking again...

* * *

LVK: Punky is screaming in pain! We've seen this move before. Rowan has broken knees and ankles with it.

RP: She ain't Punky no more, Van Keel.

LVK: Shut up, Perle.

RP: I just saw Punky torn to pieces. Just callin' it as I see it.

LVK: I said Shut Up, Perle.

RP: Jeezuz, when did you find yer balls?

LVK: Just do your job and make comments, okay?

RP: Yeah, fine. The Artist Formerly Known as Punky is in a lot of pain and screaming like a stuck pig. And this psychopath Rowan Chance is laughing about it.



Yes, I'm laughing.

Watching your lithesome body squirming, face-down, as I wrench harder on the hold.

Seeing your fine little ass under your skirt. I get a wicked grin, reach forward and flip that skirt up. Then, with one hand, I reach forward and smack the sweet curves using the same techniques we both learned in Japan. The sound reverberates all through the arena. The crowd wants to chant a "WHOOOO!" Some of them do. Others just stand in awe.

"No legs means no MindFuck."

I SLAP! your ass again.

"No legs means no Forever Time Buster."

SLAP!

"No legs means no Master Exploder."

SLAP!

"Poor little Megan," I say, laughter all through my voice. "What are you going to do on the mat, babe?" Then, my voice drops an octave--a trick my Japanese ancestry taught me. "ARE YOU GOING TO OUT MAT WRESTLE ME, LITTLE BRAWLER? I DON'T THINK SO!"

SLAP!

And then...

And then...

(Oh, how you love that...)

I raise my hips off the mat. Grab your ankle. Arch my back so only my head is on the canvas.

And with your ankle in my hand...

...I PULL.

[Vivianne]

I may need professional help to sort through the wreckage this match has made of my emotions...if it ever comes to an end. Seeing Punky so thoroughly decimated to end fall two was hard despite my feelings for Rowan and desire to see her win. I looked at Punky's clasp in my hand and realized that what we all just saw was not wrestling. It was something far darker. I thought it was making me feel anguish once again, knowing what a Rowan win would mean for Punky...but I was wrong. The anguish wasn't for her...it was for myself. Sometime between the opening bell and now I seem to have abandoned any shred of a conscience I thought I had and the place within me where it should be has been filled with something much darker.

Actually, I know exactly when this happened...which is good because I will know what to tell the therapist later. Start of fall three. Rowan and Punky exchanging chops so vicious they could be heard plain as day even from the back row. Seeing Rowan take a chop so hard it dropped her to a knee...and then seeing her sweep the leg. Hearing Punky's screams as Rowan applied a vicious face down figure four. That was the moment. The moment I realized the screams were not causing me to feel dread...but rather excitement. Unadulterated excitement at what I was seeing and what I wanted to see from here. Part of me was horrified to realize I felt this way, but the rest of me told that part to shut up and sit down. I have a fighter to cheer for.

"YES ROWAN! YESSS! BREAK HER LEG!!!"

Oh yes...I'm going to need professional help when this is over...

[ThePurpleVixen]

The pain is immediate, huge and intense. My foured knee, my aching and battered right knee, bears the weight of your lower body and the pressure of your legs trapping it. Each flex of those long lithe muscles of yours pours a couple of hundred pounds of pressure into my bent leg, and at the wrong fucking angle. My patella feels like it's gonna wrench its way out of my leg and bounce across the fucking mat like a god-damn slapshot hockey puck. My ankle is dug into the back of my left knee, immobilizing that leg and digging it in. It's different than the pain of the traditional figure four - different, but certainly not any fucking better. And what your reversed four loses in the pressure of my ankle being barred into my shin, it gains in the additional pressure on my torqued knee.

And then you flip my skirt up, and I grit my teeth in a snarl of raw, unfiltered fury instead of just against the tide of pain.

*CRACK*

"NNNNHHHHHRRRRRRrrrrrrr ..."

Yep. That's the other reason you do the hold this way, like a fucking deviant.

Your hand CRACKS across my creamy ass, my sugar-skull patterned Lycra boyshorts providing very little in the way of making that NOT sting like a bitch.

(and I bite down hard to ignore the flush of heat that runs through me in an instant summer lightning storm because of the way the pressure of the smack runs through me, the heat washing me, making me clench even though it aches, fucking HELL

Your hand cracks again.

"NNNNHHHHRRAH!" I roar, my back arching. I press my elbows hard into the mat, my taped hands lashing through my loose, sweat-slick purple hair, knotting it in my fingers. My knee fucking THROBS as you talk your shit. You can't HELP talking shit. It's in your fucking nature. If you were in an action movie, you'd tell James Bond the whole evil plan before your henchmen had finished tying him to the Psycho-fraculator Device. But I don't tune you out even so. Because you're not just taunting me with what you're trying to take away.

You're telling me what you're AFRAID of, Rowan.

My moves are big. Impactful. I pick moves that are gonna hurt like nothing else and - and more importantly, I don't do wild moves. I don't dive, I don't slide, I don't flip. I stopped that shit in my early 20s. It pops the crowd and if it hits, it hits hard, but I've seen Gems crash her tits to the concrete after missing a Gemmasault too many times. No. Moves like the Mindfuck, the Master Exploder, the Forever Time Buster, the Psycho Killer ... these are moves that involve me WRAPPING YOU THE FUCK UP before I pick you up and put you down as painfully as possible. My repertoire of signature moves all have me in FULL FUCKING CONTROL when I hurt you ...

... and that's what you're afraid of, isn't it?

Of course, if I'm gonna get in FULL FUCKING CONTROL, I've gotta get you to stop smacking my ass while you try to break my god-damn leg, don't I?

You grab my left ankle, the extended leg, and YANK it back, stretching my fucking hamstring and tensing up my ass that's been smacked until it glows a soft pleasing ruby. My eyes SQUEEZE shut as I curl my white knuckles against my scalp, digging my squared black nails into my own fucking head until trickles of blood stain my purple hair magenta at the roots.

"NNNRRRAHHHHHHHHHHhhhnhhh ..."

"THINK, girl."

Jimmy "Squire" O'Dwyer was an Irishman who'd been wrestling since the late 70s. A World of Sport wrestler and a trained judoka, he became part of wrestling's British invasion with "Gentleman" Chris Adams and William Regal in the early 80s. He was a legend in Pacific Northwest Wrestling, and rightfully so - he was as dangerous a joint-bender as Gene LeBell or Marty Jones, and just as tough as fucking Fit Finlay. He was in his early 50s when I met him, a trainer at Raven's school with a nose webbed with broken crimson vessels and a body slouching into middle age but a grip that could bend metal and a talent for making your joints make popping sound like fireworks.

He taught the classes on how to not get your arms and legs snapped off.

It was autumn in Portland, and late afternoon sun was slanting in lazy gold shafts through the drifting dust in the repurposed warehouse over on Hawthorne and Cesar Chavez Boulevard. It was a beautiful day outside. The trees were turning into perfect fire on the slopes of Mt. Tabor, there was a crisp chill and the scent of apples from the farmlands on the Columbia, and I'd have appreciated it a lot fucking more if a middle-aged mad Irish bastard weren't trying to break my god-damn leg.

"Ye're not thinkin' proper, Meg'han."

I'd said he could just call me 'Meg' on our first day in the training ring together. Since then he'd been pronouncing my name like it was in a Lorena McKennitt song. I was on my belly, on the mat, my perky young tits squashed under our combined weight. He had my left leg bent over itself, and my ankle neatly trapped between his thighs as rolled his weight onto me. For a half-drunk man in his 50s laying on top of a tattooed teen girl, he was being a perfect gentleman. And also slowly putting breaking pressure on my leg.

He hadn't even applied the facelock part of the STF - he just had one hand on the mat for casual balance and another on top of my head, fingers pressed softly to my forehead, keeping my gasping sweat-slicked face from falling to the mat.

"I ... can't."

He was so fucking conversational, in his rich whiskey brogue.

"Whyzat, then?"

"My leg ... my ..."

"Oh, yer leg? Is this YER leg? 'cuz it looks like it's mine at th'moment, acculsha."

I groaned, low and aching and despairing, clawing at the mat. And then he SLAPPED the top of my head.

"DOW. Do ye wanna walk outta the gym t'day and walk back in t'morra?"

I nodded, with more than a little desperation, sweat running off me in shimmers.

"Then get yer leg back. And if ya wanna do that, ya gotta THINK. USE YER BLEEDIN' HEAD FER SOMETHIN' OTHER'N A PLACE TA KEEP YER SILLY FECKIN' PURPLE HAIR, GIRL."

And I got out that day. Took me a while to walk out of the gym, but I did that, too.

I slowly release my hair and deliberately curl my taped hands into fists, hard and fierce, and SLAM my fists to the mat, one and then the other. I take in a slow hot prana breath, in through my nose, out through my mouth. Forcing myself to be still. To create that moment where I can breathe.

I have a carefully cultivated reputation for being a fucking madwoman because I've speared people off of stages and attacked clusters of security guards with stolen nightsticks and once I hit Mercedes Martinez with a giant wok full of boiling lo mein when our Falls Count Anywhere brawl in GLEAM Wrestling left the arena and went to the Chinese restaurant across the street.

But when I need a moment, I can be as still as water.

You're bridged. You've stretched my left leg all the way out to try to hurt me more, to show me off, to demonstrate how fucking flexible you are. Your hips are up. Your shoulders are up. You've basically got just one point of contact with the mat right now with your legs wrapped around mine. You're using ME for leverage.

And I've got my knuckles in the mat.

And I don't need to wait for supernatural rage to take over to have a good punch.

I SLAM my right fist into the canvas with a ROAR, my arm tightening and bicep bulging as I THRUST myself off my right, TWISTING my hips despite the fierce SCORCH of pain in my tormented knee. I pour my core into it, the pain in my battered abs and pulsing cxnt and agonized knee all searing together into a hot fireball that I roar out like a fucking dragon as I ... am gonna ...

... dig deep and try to ...

... turn ...

... us ...

... OVER.

And let you taste your own bitter fucking medicine, bitch!

[Rowan Chance]

LVK: Punky is trapped in the Nevermore Leg Lock, and she's screaming for her life!

RP: She's got to tap out or she's gonna lose that leg!

LVK: The pressure has to be incredible! You can almost hear the ligaments snapping in two!

RP: The pressure's all different in Rowan's version of this hold, Van Keel. It goes after the weakest parts of the legs: the tendons and ligaments as well as the weakest parts of the bones.

LVK: Punky's eyes are WATERING! Her face is crimson! I don't think she can hold on...wait...wait...she's trying to reverse the hold!


* * *



I discovered this hold completely by accident. "Bloody" Mary McGee was down on the mat, her belly on the canvas. I was dizzy from so many strikes to the head and wasn't seeing right. I knew I had to finish her off quick, so I grabbed her ankle and started putting on the figure four. And before I knew it, Bloody Mary was screaming bloody murder. I heard the bell and the referee was telling me to break the hold. I blinked a couple times and saw what happened. Out on the desk, Gordon Solie (The Third) was saying I'd invented a new hold.

After the referee raised my hand, I staggered backstage. And you were there. I fell into your arms. "Help," I said, softly.

You put your arm over my shoulder and lead me back to the dressing room where I proceeded to throw up in the worst toilet in Boston. (Still not the worst toilet in Scotland.)

When I recovered, you helped me get out of my gear and into the shower. An hour later, we were both drying off.

"What the fuck kind of move was that?" you asked me.

I shook my head. "No idea," I said, explaining what happened.

You laughed. "Better give it a name."

I pulled my tank top over my shoulders and breasts. Letting the thin material cling to my moist skin. "I'm horrible at coming up with names for moves. Have you heard my repertoire? Widow this and Widow that."

You put your hand on your chin. "Let me think... Something about Toil ... that's the technical term for a spider's webs used to wrap prey ..."

"Nah," I said. "No more spider imagery. I've overplayed it."

"Something about the Parlour, since that's what the spider said to the fly..."

I leaned down and kissed you on the lips for each word.

"No," kiss "more," kiss "spiders." kiss.

You giggled like you do when I kiss you. "Okay. Something ominously gothic. Darkness Rises ... Ooooh!" Your eyes went wide.

"How about...Nevermore."

I grinned, my eyes looking away. "That's an in joke," I say.

"Nobody else will know but you and me."

My grin turned into a smile. "All right. The Nevermore leg lock!"

You jumped up and shouted "YAY!" And then we left to find a hotel room. And a bed.

And another shower.


* * *


I'm watching Tantalus as you struggle. As I slap your ass. Thinking how he must have put his hands on it. Must have squeezed it. Run his fingernails over your soft flesh.

"Did he make you scream like this?" I shout. "Did he?"

And then you make your move. With only my head on the canvas, you use that to your advantage, slowly tipping us both over. I feel the pressure of the hold shifting as we slowly turn.


LVK: It's working! Punky is reversing the hold!

RP: That's an amazing feat, Van Keel. I haven't seen Punky do any mat work in a long time. Shows what kind of determination that girl's got.

LVK: You're trying to talk your way out of a beating.

RP: You're damn right.



You're almost over...almost got it reversed...

...when I start moving us back to the other direction. Dropping my shoulders down and resetting the balance.

I see your back arch and hear you scream. Pounding your taped fists on the mat.

"I'm going to break it, Megan," I shout. Then, I look at Tantalus.

"I'M GOING TO BREAK HER!"



LVK: Rowan is fighting back! Turning the Nevermore leg lock back on Punky!

RP: Punky's got to really fight now to get that move reversed!


The crowd is chanting your name. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I shout back at them. And that one moment of distraction is all you need to turn the momentum back to your favor.



LVK: And...and...and...

RP: She did it! She did it!

LVK: Punky has reversed the Nevermore leg lock!


Suddenly, I feel all the pain and pressure on my knees and ankles...feel the red hot pain of the tendons stretching in ways they shouldn't... I scream out loud. I've never felt the Nevermore on my own legs. And in a panicked moment, my hands reach down and untangle our legs. Fast.

Like you, the lizard part of my brain clutches at my knee and ankle. My eyes are shut tight and I'm biting my lower lip.

That. Was. Not. Good Pain.

I put my hands flat on the canvas and start to push myself up, feeling the damage in my legs after just a few seconds of my own move. There's no way you're getting up before me, so I'm not worried I have my back turned to you. You'll be clutching at the ropes to pull yourself up.

And that's when I'll start working on your back. Because fucking cold-hearted revenge.

[BustyTiffany35]

Come on. Come on. Come on.


Breathlessly I stare into the ring, all wide-eyed and flustered with my gaping mouth covered by both my hands. I'm still getting over that brutal chop fest y'all engaged in, which in all honestly had me feeling like sizzling hot welts were forming across my chest. And then, just like that, Rowan took ya down with such superhuman speed and precision - a gawd damn ninja assassin. She got ya down in the center of the ring within a blink of an eye, and has ya wrapped up in such an agonizing hold that every tormented, anguished groan that escapes your mouth gets me to shake with dread. My GAWD, Rowan's gonna literally RIP YOUR LEG OFF. I don't know how, but I just know ya have to break outta this. Somehow, someway, ya just gotta. There ain't no way you're gonna tap, just no fuckin' way. Your poor, tenderized knee looks like something outta some hard torture porn indie film that got banned across 49 States and some parts of Canada. And you'd STILL say that Rowan hadn't done ENOUGH damage to your knee to justify ya tapping. Fuckin' tough as hell, crazy kid.. I love you so fuckin' much...

Tapping is certainly outta the picture. No way will ya do that. So you're gonna fight your way outta this, you're gonna break free of this hold by sheer willpower alone no matter how much pain and agony you're enduring. Come on sugah, start fighting. Get back in this and get free and get back to whippin' this gal's ass and--

--then, Rowan starts spanking ya. Hard.

I feel my face flush bright red as those slaps and smacks become LOUDER with every strike, your taut, heavenly ass reddening quickly under the onslaught brought on by this deviant sadist. I start to flinch with every spank, my face just blushing harder the longer you're trapped in her torturous grasp. Soon I start to tune out the vicious smacks of Rowan's palm against your stinging ass, and while normally, watching ya get spanked is arousing on every single gawd damn level, right now the stakes are just too high to feel even a tinge of excitement at seeing this.

Well, maybe a lil' bit..


Come on.


You've been beaten, you've been bloodied. You've been tortured, tormented, torn asunder and humiliated. I stare at ya and feel nothing but dread bubble up within my stomach, spreading to every inch of my being. I stare at your beautiful face twisted in agony and the pain you're enduring is starting to bring tears to my eyes. But, you're not giving up - you're not even thinking about quitting. You are thinking though.. thinking of ways to escape, to fight back, to break free, and break Rowan's skull in once you're back on your feet.

Come on..

I recognize that kind of body language, I can see it in the sudden shift of your form, how suddenly focused you've become, rigid and still, trying to control your breathing, your pain threshold, your entire self. You're thinking..planning..the gears in your head are starting to really turn, plans forming in that beautiful head of yours at a breakneck pace. A lesser woman would have stayed down a long time ago, and probably would have stayed down for an entire week. But you? Something tells me Rowan's gotta do more, so much more, than she already has to put ya down for good.

Come--

You slam your fist down into the canvas so harshly it makes me gasp in shock. My eyes light up and I just mark the fuck out as ya twist HARD to the side, straining to turn over, to reverse Rowan's own hold, all the while ROARING like a gawd-damn fire breathing beast ready to slaughter anything that comes her way.

"C'MON MEGAN! THIS AIN'T OVER, YA AIN'T DONE YET! THAT'S IT! THAT'S FUCKING IT! YOU'RE SO CLOSE BABY! YOU'RE SO FUCKIN' CLOSE! JUST A LIL' BIT MORE! YA ALMOST HAVE HER!! FUCKIN' COME ON--YES!!!!!"

[ThePurpleVixen]

With my knuckles crunched into the mat and my muscles strained like high tension wire, I roll the Nevermore reverse figure-4 over, which does no fucking favors at all for my knee but at least lets me press up and pour the pressure into YOUR legs, stretching out those fucking ligaments. The satisfaction of your suddenly intense scream of pain - god damn, you ARE a fuckin' screamer, darlin'. Always loved that about you - is rich as creamery butter. It only gets better when you scrabble away from the torquing torment, unhooking our legs, and I can roll to my side, and clutch at the twisted knot of pain that throbs where my right knee was, digging my thumbs in to try to loosen it.

Fucking Nevermore. There IS no fucking balm in Gilead that can help right now.

I'm unable to speak beyond a snarled whispering hissed tumble of vile curses, not so much at just you but at the universe that let you exist in it and my knee for being so fucking hurtable.

"NNNhhhhhhhhffffffffffuckin' hell sonuvabitch BASTARD shittin' cocksuckin' whoremonger FUCKWIT shitsack cxntlickin' ASSMUNCH ..."

I roll over, instinctively going for the ropes -

- and I get what Callista Quinn would sometimes refer to as "a moment of clarity" whenever she'd wake up from a long facedown nap in a gin puddle and realize it was three days since she'd started drinking.

A wrestler's instinct when your leg is taken out from under you is always to try to get to the ropes. Even in a no-rules match like ours where there's no rope breaks, the ropes provide stability, support. A way to drag yourself up. To get on your feet, get your boots on the mat again. That's the most important thing that's drilled into you throughout your training if it's half-decent - get UP. If you're down, you can be pinned. If you're on the mat, you can be pretzeled. Get the fuck UP.

But no matter how hard I try right now, I'm not gonna get up to my feet before you do. You snaked out of the reversed Nevermore way before I could do any serious damage to those lovely legs of yours, and while your back and your ribs are still proper fucked, that's not gonna stop you from staggering over here and stomping me with those big fucking domme boots you love so much. And if I'm dragging myself up the ropes like a sailor in a monsoon when you come at me, I'm gonna end up with my back to you. And by the indignant stinging of my ass, I'll be DAMNED before I give you my back again.

But if I DON'T get up ...

The idea is a bitter pill to swallow. The idea of letting you think you've hurt me, of letting the crowd see me fallen ... again ... it burns in my fucking belly like napalm and bile.

But if I don't get up ...

... you won't be able to resist, will you, Ro?

You can never, ever pass the opportunity up to talk shit. And with me down on the mat, suffering from the damage you've done to me, from being trapped in the move you and I named together in that locker room down in Florida? Oh, you'll never in a million fucking years be able to pass up the chance to come hissing all sorts of wicked shit at me. Taunting, belittling, mocking shit. And I still won't get up.

I knead my knee and growl as I force myself to say it again in my head.

I. STILL. WON'T. GET. UP.

I'l lay here moaning and suffering and you'll have to come pick me up, by the loose tangles of sweaty purple you've made by stripping my punktails out, ready to show Thomas and everyone else that you're the fucking queen of cruelty, too wicked for a heart, too strong to break. Ready to show everyone once and for all how you're too strong for me.

And then I'm gonna give you somethin' you've had coming for a long time, sugartits.

So I wait until I hear your boots scrape the canvas. I push away the roar of the crowd - even that titanic lusty cry of my darling Tiffany, with her bust carrying a yell that would make an opera singer stagger backwards - and I push away the buzz of Larry and Rick from the overhead speakers carrying their announcing, and I LISTEN. I'm rolled over to my left hip, my right leg drawn up, cradling my knee and working my thumbs into it - because that part's not fucking acting, my knee is just FUCKED - and as soon as I hear you get up I push up on the canvas, half-staggering to my feet to a roar from the crowd before I gingerly put weight on my right leg and give out a perfectly authentic cry of pain, which is easy because THAT FUCKING HURT - "NNHHHHH FUUUUCK!" - and topple back to the mat, clutching my knee and rolling to the side - the side where I can watch you coming, and let you see the pain and frustration on my face, the blood running down my left cheek from my straining in the Nevermore lock reopening my cut.

And my nostrils flare as I take a slow breath in through my nose, and let it out through my gritted teeth. Finding my center. Forcing my fury to be leashed, for just a fucking moment. To let myself show the pain I'm in instead of forcing it down and burying it.

I hate letting you see it. I hate it like fucking poison.

But it'll be worth it ... if it draws you in.

LVK: DAMN it. Megan Dow goes down. It was a valiant effort to break that woman's hold and then to struggle back to her feet, but the damage may have been too much.

RP: Chance is takin' her apart, bit by bit.

LVK: It makes me sick.

RP: You're not exactly bein' objective here, Larry. You're the play-by-play man, I'm the one who has to add the friggin' color, right?

LVK: Megan Dow is a violent and unpredictable woman in and out of the ring, but she's always - ALWAYS - been kind to me and my family. She's my friend. And YOU are supposed to be her friend too, Rick.

*for the first time, "Precious" Perle sounds audibly irritated*

RP: GET OFF YOUR FUCKING HIGH HORSE, LARRY. YEAH, I like Meg. We rode together, I showed her some stuff to use in the ring, an' one time she beat up a guy who came backstage looking for me after some poker games went bad in Atlantic City. Hell, for that matter, I like Rowan. She's friggin' funny, and smart, and charmin'. I like BOTH of them but they're here tonight because they FUCKING HATE EACH OTHER. And that woman on the mat you're fawnin' over like she's Rocky fightin' Apollo STOPPED ROWAN CHANCE'S HEART in the first round, so there's no heroes here. Call the damn match.

LVK: ...

RP: Heh. Usually the blank take is my bit.

[Becca Blast!]

That... is a vicious hold... my knees ache just thinking of it... or maybe it's the narrow damn aisles.

No, it's the hold... and god love her, Punky reverses it... you can see the pain as Rowan abandons her own mischief to save herself.  But she didn't hurt as long as Punky did.... she's going to be in charge of this again as they get up... but she has to get up....

GetUpGetUpGetUpGetUpGetUpGetUp... trying by force of will to power her now... and she drops.. she can't get up.

Oh, God... after all this... is THIS how you want to do this?   She's going to get BUTCHERED!

And I can't stop it.

[RedEnforcer]

This just hurts. Rowan has always had a nasty figure four, but to reverse it like that?

No amount of Miyagi warm hands are going to fix that knee anytime soon.

I?m back to sitting down and biting my mask and bouncing my leg like a man waiting for his first child to make an appearance. Or maybe it?s more like that child is doin an uneven bar routine and with each release I worry more.

I struggle and help Megan with body gyrations hat slam my seat neighbors back and forth as I watch her try, then finally succeed at turning over that leg lock and making the python ease her grip.

get up

Come on.

That is it...
Just a little

Motherfucker

She looks really hurt.
She?s staying down.
She should not let someone like Rowan see her be so vulnerable.

Come on
Come on
Come on


Wait....

Meg would most definitely not stay down that long.

What is she....

I rise to my feet again and just bellow...

You gawdforsaken vile snake. Stay away from her you piece of trash. You done hurt her enough you egg sucking dog


Maybe that will help Rowan decide to move in a little more quickly. That is your plan Megan.

I hope.