[RedEnforcer]

As I look in the ring and see Megan get out of a concussion or even worse, I realize there's nothing to be done. Tantalus can't call off Rowan. And when Megan goes in and locks Rowan's arms for the Underhook, I know Gemma can't stop her. 

This is a blood feud. These two really loved each other back then. And whatever tore them apart ripped into their souls. I thought Megan's torn half had been regenerated by Gemma. I thought the FTW angle was just that, an angle. But seeing these two now, it was more than that. It was the opening salvo that's lead us here. Looking at the two, "here" could be anywhere. I doubt they're seeing or hearing much beyond those ropes.


I shove my way closer to the action, sliding down the front row to watch and barreling over anyone in my way. A gendarme comes to say something to me and I snarl. A feral, guttural snarl. He moves out of my frame of sight. I have to watch this.

I look and see that Rowan is split open like a melon. Not a nice cut, but a nasty jagged gash. The Muta Scale pops in my head. Back in the early 90s (Or the Stone Age as Megs would call it) The Great Muta had a match with Hiroshi Hase that was one of the bloodiest ever seen at the time.  The internet, such as it was, buzzed about it. Somehow pictures got posted on rec.sport.pro-wrestling and the Muta Scale was born. Matches would be listed on a scale of 0.0 for nothing to 1.0 Muta.  Yeah we were some crazy ass fans at the time. We were making memes before there were memes.

Anyways, I find myself gripping the rail hard because I'm looking at about a 1.2 to 1.3 Muta issue here. Megan's cut was nasty, but on the level of annoying, however you can work around it. Rowan....she's bleeding too much. My throat gets dry and I watch as Megan moves to mount her.

Ok, pin her and we can all go.....

FUCK FUCK FUCK

Megan...gawddammit....

I can't find words. Megan isn't just wailing blows. Trust me, she can throw hands. But when she sizes someone up like she's doing now...  Put it this way, a guy with a shotgun is gonna miss more often than he hits. Put a guy half a mile away with a .50 Cal and he'll make your head explode.

Right now, Megs has put down the shotgun and picked up the .50 Cal. Each blow is precise, effective and punishing. It's gonna make Rowan bleed more. And gawdfuckingdammit Megan knows that.  I can feel my pulse in my ears with each blow. Once...twice...a third time..

Then Rowan yells something and ...

Fuck me, purple mist.

Keiji Mutoh you madman. You taught her well.

Oh, remember that guy I mentioned earlier, The Great Muta. That painted faced Japanese wrestler who came over in the late 80s to the early 90s and had some serious classic matches with Ric Flair and Sting? Moonsaults all over the place. Charisma for miles.  And Asian Mist?  Well his real name is Keiji Mutoh. 

When Rowan came to me to do a tour in the Carolinas, because everybody on the indies does a tour of the Carolinas for one reason or the other, she was referred to me by Megan. I'm not sure when or how they met but I get a phone call from a most likely drunk Megan telling me to haul ass over to Charlotte-Douglas International and pick up "Ronan Chats" there. So there I am in just my beat up orange Clemson Tigers hat, a pair of my dad's old mirrored aviator shades (old bastard never liked to show his eyes to new people, one of the superstitions/ticks he passed on to me) a WCW Four Horsemen t-shirt (you know the one, black with four white chesspieces) faded jeans, black canvas Chuck Taylors and a hastily scrawled white poster board that said "Ronan Chats" on it.

I'm thinking, it's one of Megs's friends, right?  You've seen Megan, business casual to her is an oversize black t-shirt that works as a skirt and her Doc Martens. Everything else optional. Till I yelled at her that she needed more on in the hotel or we'd get kicked out. And to be kicked out of some of those dives took some effort. So that's what's in my head and why I'm dressed like I am. I figured what the fuck, grabbed the first semi clean shirt in my bag, my hat to tame the wild fire engine growth on top of my head that threatened to make me look like Ronald McDonald and wrote out the sign and waited.

There were some winners on that flight. The one that stands out was the cute baby that waved at me after her brother tossed his sippy cup at me and splashed it on my shirt. Joy. So I'm holding this sign one handed and wiping my shirt off with a blue handkerchief I carry in my back pocket when this elegantly dressed woman comes by me and stops. She looks at the sign and looks at me. I finally notice I'm being stared at and as smooth as I usually am I whip my head around in an almost snarl, cock an angry eyebrow up and say "Can I help you?" with the exact opposite emotion that phrase should be filled with.  And then there goes that smile. The one that's just at the edges of the lips.  Amusement restrained. Because this woman never expended more energy than needed, not even in facial expressions. I did a quick look up and down. Because I'm a guy and we always do the up and down. It's part of our reptile brain. Sensible shoes for a long flight. A smart skirt that allowed enough freedom to be comfortable but still very professional. A blouse that said professional as well, but..there was something else there.  A restrained elegance and sexuality. Oh, this woman was from money but was taking pains not to show it. Why she was concerned with me I didn't know. I was just waiting for her to laugh at the big lug and go on her way but then she cut her eyes over to the sign. 

"I think that's me."

A voice like aged whiskey flowing over broken glass. If that voice told me to go run and play in traffic at that moment I would be still dodging cars.
It took me a moment to register what she said. I must have had a dumb look on my face. Well what you could see of my face. Thank God I was wearing those aviators. She just stood there patiently, waiting for the ape to put two and two together.

"I'm sorry?"

Snappy comebacks are my jam baby. You know how when you go to drink tea and you think it's tea but what hits your tongue is Pepsi. Now you like Pepsi but your brain was saying "tea" so the reaction is complete confusion. Well there was Pepsi standing in front of me.

"I think that's me"

A little smile, no hint of aggravation, just calm confidence.

"You're Megan's friend?"

She just smiled and said, " my name is Rowan Chance."

It wasn't the first time I looked like an idiot in front of her. We were sparring and she was showing off the flexibility of body and mind that is her trademark. So basically, she was frustrating the hell out of me. So I busted out a move my trainer taught me. And she fuckin' danced away like she was programmed.

"Wait, time out. Lance Storm taught you that?" 

She blushed and just gave a noncommittal response. I let it go.

See one of my trainers was the Great Kabuki who himself was trained by a mad Japanese man named Hiro Matsuda. One of Hiro's later students was one Keiji Mutoh.  Who when he came to the US hooked up with Gary Hart and was billed as Kabuki's son. It worked because both men had such similar training. Training they passed on to their students. The move I busted out had exactly one counter I knew of. One.  And Ms. Chance performed it flawlessly. I looked at her with new eyes. I upped my assessment of what she could handle. I leaned into the training and accelerated it. I wasn't passing on stuff Kabuki taught me at this point, but stuff I picked up from Dusty and Jack Brisco. But I could see she had some connection to Kabuki. It wasn't till later I realized it had to be Mutoh.

If she's tapping into that training. The kind of balls to the wall insane dojo training Mutoh had. The root of which was an intense hardass who broke Hulk Hogan's fucking leg the first day of training. If she's tapping into that. Fuck....

This is going to get much worse.

[ThePurpleVixen]

Each crunch of my knuckles into your forehead jolts your body.

Each impact from my fist splatters blood across the black and red tape. Across your twisted face. Across my thighs as I lean over you, as focused on drilling punches into your ravaged face as on anything I've ever done.

The gash is ripped and bruised and pulsing blood. Nothing pretty about it. That's something that won't stitch shut clean. You'll end up with a scar like a jagged lightning bolt, except there's no love to save you from the death curse I'm about to lay on you, you heartless cxnt.

I stop for a second, my right leg pulsing with pain as it angles off to the side, my weight resting on your body. You look so fucking ... crushed.

I jerk your head up by the hair, peeling your shoulders off the mat.

I snarl into your face, roaring hate at you, blood masking us both.

You need to know. You need to KNOW that we are fucking done. If you're too concussed to understand me I'll carve it into your back. This match isn't just about redemption, just about revenge, just about proving who's better. It's about all of that, but more than anything else for me - it's about ripping you out of me like a deep jagged barb that pulls a pound of my bloody fucking flesh with it and being DONE with you, no matter how much it hurts.

That's when your cheeks puff up and your lips make a bloody kiss.

Fun fact:

During our run as the Daughters of Darkness, I was the one who used mist. I picked the trick up during my time in Japan, after graduating from the pain and relentless work of the Kaientai Dojo into the greater pain and more relentless work of a tour of Japan with Ice Ribbon. As a born and bred ECW mutant, I naturally sought out the man I thought of when I thought of mist.

Yoshihiro Tajiri was freshly back from WWE, just getting started with HUSTLE, the Fighting Opera, when I found him. (HUSTLE's championship was as gold and black spiked baseball bat. God, I fucking wanted it so much.) I've kind of started an urban legend about all the weird shit he made me do to learn the art of the infamous poison mist, but that rumor was really his idea. He just agreed to teach it to me after a night of drinking Asahi at Motion Blue, a jazz club in Yokohama. He was happy to teach me when he learned Raven had trained me - over the next couple of weeks, he showed me the formulation, how to make the caplets, how to stash them, how to palm them and get them to your mouth, how to bite down, how to resist the bitter toxic surge of the poison on your tongue, and how to spit a proper plume.

His only real price for doing so was that I tell everyone he made me do all sorts of weird deviant things so youngboys wouldn't be knocking down his door to learn the art. And I had to buy the Hibiki whiskey after each training session. Nothing else BUT Suntory Hibiki premium whiskey, he said, would get the poison safely off your tongue. Since Hibiki was about 18 dollars American for each double he downed, it wasn't a cheap secret. But even so, I have a great story about how he made me dress as a schoolgirl with a live octopus draped on my head if anyone really gets insistent.

I didn't bust out the mist too often, but I was the one on the team that did it, blasting green clouds into the faces of our rivals at opportune moments. And I remember now thinking back ...

... you never asked me about it. Never asked me where I got the caplets, where I kept them, how I got them in my mouth.

You never asked.

Makes sense now.

The purple - you fucking cxnt - mist surges from your lips, and catches me at point blank, full in the face. Painting the gash in my eyebrow, my sweaty cheeks, getting in my nose, in my bloody mouth, in my eyes.

"AAAAAAIIGGHHHHHHHHgggghhHHnnhhghh ..."

I topple off you, writhing. My hands clutching my bloody, misted face, the purple and crimson making an otherworldly color.

My body jolts on the canvas, unheeding of the agony in my knee as I spasm with chemical pain searing me. Overriding everything.

Here's the thing about mist -

- see, you can spit whatever you want into someone's face and sting their eyes and distract them. Beer. Water. Tobacco chaw. I wrestled a girl once with a Miami princess gimmick whose valet would pour her a bellini in a tall flute for her to drink and then to spit into your face. And that works fine.

But mist is ... something else. There's herbs. Crushed salts. Extracts. Chemicals.

And each one is formulated. Green mist is the one that Tajiri used, the one he taught me. It's the versatile mist - it stings the eyes and nose, and makes you choke and cough. Black mist is something a little more forbidden - it STEALS the sight, leaving you blinded even with your eyes open until it's washed out. Red mist BURNS. It makes you feel like your face is on fire.

I don't know what you've put in this shit but

everything

starts to

swirl.

The pain doesn't go away. I can't see anything with my hands clutching my face.

But I can see

dreamsvisionspropheciesnightmareslustsandfancies

something ...

it's Minneapolis and I'm clinging to Lisa Starr's lithe body and nuzzling her ear from behind and you're in front of her and I look up and your eyes are black just black voids that suck in light and suddenly I want to drag Lisa away from you and take her somewhere safe but instead we go upstairs and

it's Philadelphia and I'm sitting on the hood of the car eating a Philly taco and you're looking at me sneering at me looking at me like I'm nothing like you're everything and you ball me up and throw me in the trash with the greasy wrappers and drive away in a cloud of Tom Waits and

it's Tokyo and Tajiri is drinking a shot of whiskey and saying Kanojo ga shitte iru no wa subete, kurayamideari, zankokuna shujin no fureaidesu like he is telling me something secret and behind him there is a man who has no real face he hides it behind paint behind masks and his heart is full of poison just as yours is it could be someone Great or it could be Thomas or it could be both and

it's Reno and I'm at Tiffany's house her big huge championship house is all white and silver and platinum and furs and elegance and class and I love it there BECAUSE I don't fit and she loves me because I'm so different and we're cuddling on the couch and she's murmuring my ear with silk plush lips that she knows how bindings work and how girls are trapped and that a spider is trying to keep me keep me wrapped and not let me go and

it's the Waccamaw wetlands in South Carolina and the longleaf pines are rustling and whispering and Reddy and I are hiking in the sun because we had to get away from the ring and from the cars and from the violence for a bit and just GO and he looks at me without his mask and he says you know she won't ever forget she won't ever leave it alone she won't ever be done the only winning move is not to play and

it's London and you're wrestling Gemma and I should have been there I was supposed to be there but she went alone gods damn her and you and Thomas have her trapped and her arm breaks and I hear the snap even though I wasn't there and I scream and the word is no and it lasts forever and you're trying to pull her ring from her finger but it isn't yours it will NEVER BE YOURS and

it's Portland and Scotty is there and I introduced him to you and I was so proud and so happy I thought my heart would burst and you were charming so charming and so beautiful and he was dressed like he always is like me in ragged denims and leathers and sleeveless tees like me I dress just like him his best girl he has my picture on the wall at the gym because I'm a story with a happy ending and he smiled and you traded stories and I beamed and felt like a schoolgirl and you stepped away to get drinks and he turned to me and his eyes were so intense he wasn't Scotty he was Raven and Raven has the most intent gaze of anyone I've known and he said Be careful with this one Megs walk softly and carry a big fuckin stick because she's dark so dark inside and

it burns

it hurts

it won't stop hurting

LVK: Megan Dow is hit with that ... purple mist. And she is down. She's twitching ... drooling ... good lord.

RP: This isn't fucking right, Larry. I can't ... naw, we're not doin' this. This is over. This is fucking done.

*the sound of headphones thudding to the table*

LVK: Rick! RICK. You can't ... oh for the love of god. Stop him!

*there is a struggle, just off-mic, with Rick cursing and at least one gendarme howling in French when he takes the famous Precious Perle eye gouge*

LVK: I'm sorry, folks. RICK! STOP! I'm just ... this is insanity. Maybe ... maybe it's over. Megan Dow is down after that ... VILE mist hit her. I've never seen Rowan Chance do that. Ever. She must have saved it just for tonight. What kind of human being ...

[Rowan Chance]

Through the blood and sweat in my eyes, through the red hot pokers running up and down my spine, through the fountain of blood gushing from my forehead spilling my life all over the canvas, I look at you...

... I look at you...

... I look at you...

... a faerie queen, wounded and poisoned on the forest floor...

... a post apocalyptic valkyrie fallen from her steed, her sword broken...

... a...

No. Shake my head. Spit the purple haze from my lips.

Purple haze. That's what we called it, Megan. Do you like that?

He said I'd have to be careful. Don't let it stay in my mouth too long. And part of me chuckles. And the chuckle makes my back ache even more.

Shake my head again. I'm on my side, blood almost squirting from my forehead. Shawn Michaels would be proud.

But you're on your side, too. Laying there. Twitching. Your eyes wide open, your mouth drooling. Staring away at visions or dreams or nightmares or whatever's going through your head right now. You have no idea where you are. You may have no idea who you are.

That's what the purple haze does, Megan. Just for you. A bit of alchemy I made...just for you. Just in case. Like Batman keeping a little piece of Kryptonite...just in case. But I didn't make it alone. I had help.

I slowly push myself to my knees, my back begging me to pin you. Right here. Finish it right here. But what I know and my back doesn't is that somewhere in that little girl lost head of yours, you'll hear the count. I have to make sure you don't hear anything.

And there's only one move that will do that. The one that held you down for the three count before. And if I'm honest, it's the only move I know that can do it. That's why I haven't gone for a pin yet. I may be the Unbreakable Rowan Chance...but you...

I'm on my knees, erect. I look out at the audience, their faces slightly twisted, like they all stepped out of a haunted Polaroid. The mist is still in my head. But not like you, Megan. No. Not like you.

You look like Morpheus in the last few moments before he breaks. Cold sweat. Rolling eyes. Bubbles on your lips. Head rolling like the vibroman in Jacob's Ladder. I look out at the audience and I see Tantalus and Red sitting together. My two masked men.

I cross my arms, and in classic Arn Anderson style, I give them the signal.

It's Over.

Somewhere behind me, that retired doofus who thinks he taught me anything I didn't already know is being held back by security.

You picked a side, Rick. That means you're The Enemy.

I lift pretty little Megan's head by her pretty purple hair. And I pause long enough to whisper into your ear...

"Muto didn't help me make the purple mist, little dreaming Queen..."

I bite your ear. Sharply.

"... your Thomas did."

I wrap my arms around her waist. And I twist. Pulling her up into position.

She's dead weight. Her arms and legs, rubber. Her arms fall straight down. Her legs bend backward and split. There's no resistance. No reversal. Her body is helpless. Twitching. Her mind ten billion miles away falling into a black hole.

There's no stopping me, Thomas. There's no stopping me, Red. Your poet is finished.

My hands are locked behind her back. Hands to wrists.

And with your legs spread, in this position, your mound right in front of me, I can't help myself.

I open my bloody mouth, extend my tongue...

...and give your pussy a long, lascivious liiiiiiiick.

Watching my masked men as I do.

Then, I make the little jump.

Make my legs spread.

And feel both of us descend toward the canvas.

[RedEnforcer]

Wait...Purple?

No...she wouldn't just add food coloring to make a point. Not her. Not in this set up. No, she's prepared. If she mixed it beforehand and stashed it like she was taught, there's more than just a color change.

I look on and see Megan. But it looks like Megan's not home. Leave a message.  I've..no...never seen her drool like that. I've seen Megan concussed, knocked out, passed out trying to drink the Sandman under the table and sent to dreamland by the nastiest choke holds you've ever seen. But I've never seen her so completely out of it.

Ohshit. Ohshit. Ohshit.

I turn my head for a moment because..he twitched...Tantalus twitched.

"You know something about this don't you" I hiss between gritted teeth.  I'm so mad right now I need to punch something. But he just sits there for a moment.

I glare at him.

Trying to use the force of my stare to make him do something.  Or say something. Hell at this point I halfway expect him to light a damn cigar and say "I love it when a plan comes together."

But while I'm doing this...I forget...

I forget to keep my eyes on what's important.

My....

And there's a shift in the atmosphere so quickly, like a million souls just decided to hold their breath.

And I turn back to the ring...where I should have been watching....

And I see Megan upside down and just oh so helpless. Looking wrecked...

Rowan muscling her up even though she's got to be low on blood from the rip on her head....

Before I can even process what I'm seeing...

She falls

[The Second City Wrestlerette]

Seated way back in the arena, hidden in the masses. A black hoodie on, with the hood pulled over my head. Not wanting to be seen, not wanting to be heard, not wanting to be noticed. Ever since FTW has dissolved, things have been going downhill for me. I lost touch of my partner, my best friend(s)...so what is left to fight for anymore?

And then...something caught my interest. Is this a flashback? Back to the past? Rowan vs Megan? Wanting to tear each other apart? There was no way to miss those news. And I just had to watch this...live. No way around.

Now here we are...these two seemingly looking to kill each other. I've seen other familiar faces in the crowd, closer to the ring...it's weird, to say the least.

I've watched most of the match without a motion. Maybe a tear rolling down my cheek here and there, when I started wondering why it wasn't me in that ring right now. Since everybody knew, and still knows, that I was the show back in FTW. And ever since it all fell apart...I've wished nothing but suffering upon these women. And here they are, trying to kill each other...couldn't be better.

When Rowan gets Megan up, I take a deep breath, gulping down the last bit of whiskey I had in the bottle before getting to my feet, muttering "It's been about time somebody killed her..." before I turn to leave. Heading for the nearest exit, I stop on my way, peeking back at the ring to see the impact. Thinking <...and even if this doesn't kill her, this isn't over. She will pay, one way or the other...THEY will ALL pay!>

[Lord Tantalus]

As Megan lays on the mat, her eyes staring off into the void, I feel Red's glare on me. But I say nothing. I give him nothing.

It worked perfectly. Exactly as planned. Rowan waited too long to use it, but her pride kept her from utilizing the weapon until it was almost too late. She could not use it when Megan held her in the camel clutch, and that hold nearly finished Rowan. When I saw her struggling, nearly saying the words, I wondered if the alchemy I prepared for her was wasted. But now, watching Megan's empty eyes, I know it was not.

Yes, Red. It's exactly what you suspect. Rowan came to me, just as Megan did. Both of them seeking a weapon that would finish their enemy. And both of them paid a price.

Now that I watch Megan's body lifted into position for the Widow's Bite, I know this is over.

A pity. Rowan prepared one more weapon for you, Megan. And I was eager to see her use it.

Even more than the poison I helped her prepare for you.

[ThePurpleVixen]

A Jolly Holiday With Punky

The sky is bright as bright can be -
It's purple, shore to shore.
I'm sitting down and pouring tea -
And Calli wants some more.

She's wearing rabbit ears, it's odd;
She seems a bit dismayed.
"Megan," she growls, "I swear to god,"
"I'd best be getting paid."

Even in this place of dreams
Quinn's quite mercenary -
"Christ, Dow," she groans, "Your lack
Of meter's most extraordinary."

Let's see you do fucking better, bitch.

"Well, obviously that's not going to happen. A) I can't fucking stand gimmicky promos, and B) I'm not the one hallucinating."

I'm not HALLUCINATING, I'm ...

I stare at my tea. It's swirling, and there's lights in it, spiraling all the way down into the endless void at the bottom of the cup where I should be able to the see the leaves that are the tasseomantic heralds of my future.

... admittedly, tea doesn't do that normally.

"Also you fucking hate tea. I poured you a perfect cuppa once and you smashed it on the wall."

'Cuppa' my ass. You're from fuckin' California.

"Oh, shut your junkie mouth. I won't have you spoiling my gimmick just because you've been bloody drugged."

I blink, and my eyes look through the back of my head. The purple sky is swirling, alight with diamonds.

You may have a point there.

We're on a hilltop, carpeted with rich golden grass, and all around us is a wood. A dark wood. Passing along a distant road that winds through the endless forest, I can see some sort of dark coach, pulled by horses so black they drink the light, and if I narrow my eyes and peer through the shadows I can see inside the

- Carriage held but just Ourselves-
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For his Civility,

"Christ. From Marlowe to Dickinson. Really ranging through the Great Poets 101 catalogue, aren't you?"

Fuck off, I like Dickinson. You can sing all her poems to ... wait. What do you mean, 'from Marlowe'?

"That was the last poem you were thinking of when this happened before."

When what-

She smiles, and her teeth are blood red.

"When you got dropped on your fucking head by Rowan Chance, you daffy cxnt."

The world cracks apart

-- into fractures of jagged lightning and black glass that

--- reflect me a thousand times, my body jolting as it hits the mat, legs spasming as they drop in a wide sprawl and

---- my aching cxnt steaming from your tongue through my shorts but

----- I can feel the impact, the crunch of my skull into the boards and the drug is there but it's scoured away in a fiery wind and

my hand twitches ...

my love
my heart
my soul

towards Gemma before

... curling on the mat.

[Rowan Chance]

LVK: OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD!

RP: Let go of me, you sonsofbitches! Let go of me!

LVK: Meg--Pun--she... her whole body seemed to just... crumple... then topple. Like a tower, laid waste by a catapult of fire and stone. Just... she's falling forward. Onto her back. Her arms and legs are...

RP: Don't you fucking taser me! Don't y--

LVK: Ladies and gentlemen...I've only seen this once before...and that doesn't make it easier. Rowan leapt into the air, holding Megan in the tombstone piledriver position, and as she hit the canvas, she performed a full splits, sending Megan's skull straight into the mat. The impact on her neck and spine must be... she was unconscious after the last time. Rowan could have held her down for a one hundred count. I don't...


You aren't the only one who feels the impact.

As I land, legs split apart, I feel the momentum send red hot slivers of pain up my spine, then back down again. And I scream out loud, sending a shout to whatever gods or goddesses there might be. It isn't a victory howl. It's just pain. All pain.

I watched your abs when we fell. Jolting, like a bowl of muscles and jelly falling to the floor, almost bouncing. And when I let go of your torso, I watch your body fall before me.

Your arms out.

Your legs split.

All that fine, silky skin. All that ink. Laying before me like a sacrifice.

You are a sacrifice. To rid you from my life once and for all. To burn you, but not in effigy. To destroy you. Everything that is you.

Do you think me destroying your pussy was an accident? Or an oversight? Or me taking advantage of an opportunity?

No. Oh, no.

And as your still body lays before me, I see the faces of my masked men. Ashen under their hoods. And as they watch, I slide my hips forward, putting my split legs on either side of your face. Letting my sweat and sex rest over your nose and mouth.

Then, I reach forward, bending my belly over your belly, letting you feel the breasts you used to beg me to touch. And I hook your leg.

Yes. That leg.

And finally, I pull it back. Not gently. Not kindly. I hook my arm around your knee and JERK it. As I arch my back.

Oh, I'm going to pay for this...but it's going to be worth it. It's so going to be worth it. To see her face. Yes. To see her face.

I arch my back. All the way. Thrusting my sex down on your face. All you can smell and taste is ME, Megan.

All you can see.

All you can smell.

All you can taste.

Is ME.

And I arch my back. All the way. The pain won't let me smile. I scream. My eyes shut, my teeth gritted.

I want to smile, but I can't. I can barely open my eyes.

And look at your pretty wife in her blood-splattered dress.

As I QUEEN YOU.

Your broken knee in the hook of my arm.

Looking at her upside down.

I can't smile. I want to, but I can't.

So I just grit my teeth. As blood oozes from my forehead.

And glare at your pretty wife.

The referee drops down for the count.

And somehow... somehow...

...watching her...helplessly...watching US...

...summons my smile to my lips.

[~Rox Erotique~]

"Oh god..." I gasp, my voice low, rasped, broken.

I didn't wanna be here... I didn't wanna be in this country... I didn't wanna be in this fucking CONTINENT!

But you insisted I come here. Sit ringside. Witness your glorious victory. Glory... There's no glory here. Just bile and venom and all consuming hate. I guess that shouldn't surprise me though, I've been in more than my fair share of grudge matches in my time, Hell, Lisa fucking Starr back there being one of them (Why does every girl who hates me wanna break my arm?) But this is something else.

This sickens me to my core...

I watch as that psychopath blasts my wife in the face with her toxic purple concocsion...

I watch as she scoops her up and laps at her pussy...

And I watch as she drops into the perfect splits, SPIKING my wife's skull into the boards with a force that could crack skull and crush spine.

The silver hip flask falls from my fingertips and crashes to the floor as my eyes blur instantly. the whole world ahead of me is a flood with tears. 10 thousand screaming fans suddenly drowning in mid air.. the ring and the bloodied, broken carcass of my wife is distorted in a sea of sorrow.

I lift my hand to my eyes and wipe the tears away, the world coming back into painful clarity as I see her hand reach out for me right before she blacks out in a crumpled heap...

"Why Megan... Why the fuck did you bring me here... why on EARTH did you think I'd want to see.... THIS?!?!" I scream, turning around and looking at the exit, unable to take anymore heartbreak from Rowan Chance or her sick mind today.

And that's when it hit me.

A sobering slap in the face.

I turn around again, my hands on the railings as I look at my unconscious wife and I start to burn. The bile boiling in the pit of my clenched stomach. The cold sweat that's covered my clammy body feels hot as every muscle in my core tenses, knuckles whitening as I grip those railings so hard the frame starts to buckle.

I rage with a furious fire that was sparked from a simple realisation. She didn't drag me here for my benefit. She dragged me here for HERS. I've spent this entire time dreading every punch, every lock and every impact when I should be sucking it down and FIGHTING for my wife!

Maybe it's too late... but then again a lot of people have lost a lot of money betting the odds when Megan fucking Dow is involved.

Rowan crawls over her, planting her arse on my wife's face and hooking, of all legs... the one she's maybe ruined tonight and as she smirks at me I fucking glare back with a seething, unleashed fury. and I roar. I roar at my wife the only way I've ever known how. With love, charm and caring tenderness

"Megan! MEGAN! MEEEGGGAAAAAANNN! YOU FUCKING LISTEN TO ME YOU LITTLE cxnt!"

That's about as tender as I can be when Rowan is sitting on my wife's face.

"I DIDN'T COME ALL THE WAY OUT HERE TO WATCH YOU FUCKING LOSE, DOW! I COULD'AV DONE THAT AT HOME AND SAVED THE $6000 DRESS YOU JUST BLOODY RUINED WITH YOUR BLOODY BLOOD!!!" I continue, rousing my KO'd with with my melodious encouraging serenades...

"I KNOW YOU'RE HURTIN' BABY! I KNOW IT! BUT YOU'RE GONNA BE HURTIN' A FUCK TONNE MORE IF YOU LET THIS SKINNY FUCKING CREEP GET THAT PINFALL! DO YOU HEAR ME! I'LL KICK YOUR FUCKING ARSE IF YOU LOSE TO HER YOU TWAT! YOU'RE MEGAN FUCKING DOW! YOU'RE MY FUCKING WIFE! AND MY WIFE DOESN'T LOSE TO LITTLE FUCKING RICH GIRLS!!! YOU HEAR ME DOW!"

"SO GET UP! GET THE FUCK UP DOW! LISTEN TO ME!!! GET THAT FUCKING SHOULDER UP! DO IT YOU FUCKING FUCK! GET THAT SHOULDER UP!!!"

I scream and roar, as I rage against the railing like a tempest...

[ThePurpleVixen]

... it's dark - there's nothing but ... dark heat. there's only ... what dreams may come in that sleep of ... kindly stop for ... nnnnh. i c-can't ...




















_{... Gems?}

[Vivianne]

She did it! She nailed her!

YES! YES!! YESSSS!!!

Oh...Punky is fucked up now. Drugged and spiked through the boards.

All that's left now is for Gemma to come and pick up the pieces while the better woman watches her cry while doing it.

Gawd Rowan!

YESSS!!!!

[RedEnforcer]

Move dammit!! Move!!!

I?m seated hands gripping the hell out of the railings. Wound up tighter than Usain Bolt in that microsecond before the starter?s pistol fires.

Megan isn?t really moving. I see her hand beckoning to Gemma. But is that her or just part of the Fencer?s response.  Is there nerve damage. Spinal contusions..is she

Is she fucking insane?

Rowan cannot. Oh gawd.  Darlin don?t bend like that. Your spine. Your ribs. The blood still flowing from your head.

It?s too much.

All of this.

This whole gawddamn match is too much. 

Why can?t they just forgive....

Is it really worth this carnage? Is destroying someone you once loved worth all this?

Gemma is pleading in that angelic lilt of hers for Megan to rise using most devilish speech.

I move to say something.


And stop.


If

If this count goes on.

Will this finally be over?

[Rowan Chance]

I feel nothing from you, Megan. Nothing.

No movement. No twitch. Nothing.

The referee is on the mat, raising her hand. And I can tell all of you, that count is either lightning quick or as slow as molasses in January, depending on where are. Right now, it should be January. But I see her hand rise up and the next thing I know, it's hit the canvas.


"ONE!"


And you. Don't move. Not a muscle. Not an inch. NOTHING.

The referee's hand goes up a second time. And now, everything blurs into slow motion.

My eyes blink at the blood and sweat and I see another ring. Another venue.

My body being lifted by milky white tattooed arms. My own arms crossed in front of me.



"Time's up, Rowan," she says. The red she sprayed into my eyes is still on her lips. She pulls me up by the straps of my tank top. One of them breaks in her hand.

I'm barely able to stand, so Gemma helps me. She's laughing behind me.

I can't do anything. I can't protect myself. I can't see straight. I feel a broken rib moving inside me. I just look at Punky through damp hair.

All the while, I never stop looking at her. Never stop the link between our eyes. And, for a moment, I see something change.

Just for a moment.

"I have to," she says. "To break the spell you have on me. I can't let anyone get to me the way you do."

My lips shudder a moment before they move. "I want you to do it," I tell her.

She looks at me, confused.

I tell her, "Because it will do the same for me."

I see Punky's brow furl. Her eyes fill with anger. She looks at Gemma. "Lift her up," she says.



You almost broke my back that night, Megan.

But you did break my heart.

The referee's hand remains frozen in time. But my spine...does not.



LVK: Rowan is arched back in a perfect...no...she just... she just FLINCHED! She's erect now. She can't maintain that arch in her back!



I gasp air through my teeth. My back arching the other way, bending me forward, releasing a little of the pin's tension.

But that doesn't matter. You're finished.

You're done.

I'll stand over you. Like this. Out. Unconscious.

And you'll be NOTHING.

Like you tried to make me.

Like you tried to make me.

[ThePurpleVixen]

The smell of your pussy is one I know as well as I know the scent of spring rain or hot pizza. All things that have been on my lips in many happy moments in life.

And this makes three times you've put your cxnt on my face in anger. To shame me. To ruin me.

I don't

- like that scent any more.

I prefer nasturtiums, and spring onions.

The smell fills my head.

The tang of the drug.

The taste of blood.

The creak of black leather against my lips.

My head pulses. Pounds. Everything hurts from my compressed neck to my sweat-soaked tangle of bloody purple hair. My head feels like a time bomb.

tickticktickticktickticktick is that a countdown is that The Countdown

My spine is a line of ice and fire, lightning crackling down every nerve, my body limp and sprawled.

Wrecked.

Fuckin' WRECKED.

There's no way to get up. No fuckin' way.

I'm still in a haze and I ...

... fuck what the hell is that

It's Sunday morning and I just want to lay in the big four-poster but for once Gemma doesn't have the big hangover I do and she wants to go do stuff and I'm groaning and trying to bury my head under the pillow and she's straddling me and gleefully shouting down into my muffled face my head pounding

head pounding face muffled Gemma shouting

what's she saying

get up

fucking get up

My left boot ... twitches. Doc Marten doing a tiny bit of Airwalking.

My taped and blood-spattered right hand curls, just barely.

Could just be spasms.

Yeah.

LVK: The referee is counting! Mercifully, this may be over

[Rowan Chance]

"TWO!"

The referee's hand finally hits the mat.

She doesn't say "TWO!" but that's what I hear. Je parle tr?s bien le fran?ais, merci.

Almost there. Just one more second. One more fucking second and I've proven to you just who the better woman is.

Not to you. No, my dear. You already know the answer to that question.

No, I'm not here to prove it to you.

I'm here to prove it to Gemma.

Oh, you didn't know that, Megan? You didn't know what this was all about?

And Thomas. The way he speaks about you. The way his eyes shine.

And Red. That same shine.

They all love you so much, don't they?

Well, they're looking at you now. And their eyes aren't shining.

They're seeing me fucking QUEENING you.

And your body doing little more than TWITCHING.

The referee's hand goes up for the third time.

This is it.

This is fucking it.

No more Punky.

No more Megan.

No more poetic, longing glances as they speak your name in fucking hushed revered tones.

They see you for what you are: a poor street kid with wanna be dreams. Who wishes she was a roadie for Black Flag. Who wishes she was a jobber for ECW. Who wishes...and wishes...and wishes...

No more memories of your body laying next to mine.

No more memories of you kissing me.

No more memories of that shower in Venice. When you--



..m-meg...





NO.

FUCK YOU.

YOU BROKE MY FUCKING BACK, YOU BITCH.

YOU AND YOUR DIRTY WHORE WIFE.

YOU MADE ME GO TO HIM.

AND BEG FOR THE MASK.

SO I COULD BURN YOU OUT OF MY LIFE. OUT OF MY MEMORY. OUT OF THE FUCKING WORLD.

YOU MADE ME BEG

TO HIM

AND HE DIDN'T EVEN MAKE ME PAY FOR IT

BECAUSE HE SAW WHAT YOU DID TO ME

HE GAVE IT TO ME

AND TOLD ME TO DESTROY YOU

AND...

And...

And...



It's over, Megan.

Finally.

After FTW.

After Japan.

After Viking Hall.

After all of it.


It's finally over.

It's my pussy on your face.

Hooking your broken knee.

As the referee's hand descends...

...me watching...

...them watching...

The referee's lips open...

...hand about to hit...

"TRO--"