[Rowan Chance]

A lot can happen in a second.

Your whole career can run through your head. Learning to wrestle in Canada, flying out to Japan, getting under a hood and a gimmick you hate, losing your job, joining the North America indies, meeting a beautiful mad woman with purple hair...

The moment the referee drops her hand, slapping the mat for "TWO!" my body twists under your arm, kicking up my legs, twisting my hips. Rolling over your body, your wrist in my grip. My legs straddle your arm, pulling it tight against my body as I twist over. Yes, my back objects to this movement. Objects with ice cold razor sharp knives raking up and down. Poison pain drips down my legs and into my arms.

Pain. No. Not pain. This isn't pain. I've felt pain before. This isn't pain. This is annoyance.

Flipping up and over your body, your wrist in my grip, bringing that lovely long arm tight between my legs, over my chest. Pulling your wrist up to my chin.

Now's when the real lesson begins, Jack. It doesn't end here, either.

This is just where it begins.

[Jack Hex]

Piece by piece. That's what she's doing. She's taking me apart piece by piece.

First the leg, now the arm. I can feel the tendons and ligaments in my elbow stretching as she slowly hyperextends it out. My legs kicking, trying to find a way to turn into the hold. Because that's what you do: you turn into the hold. But your powerful legs are across my chest, preventing that from happening.

I feel the pressure on my elbow. It wants to snap. Just crack. My fingers look like they're about to turn blue. That doesn't make any sense but nothing makes sense when someone is trying to break your arm. I scream out loud, so hard, the veins in my neck nearly burst.

I try again. Got to get...

...and your legs just STOP ME COLD.

I can't reach for the ropes.

I can't turn into you.

I'm trapped. There's no escape. The longer I hold out, the quicker you'll break my elbow.

I have to tap.

I have to.

I have to.

There's no choice.

I have to...


I squeeze my eyes shut as they start to water up. Grit my teeth...


Goddammit, no. Don't. You know the escape. YOU FUCKING KNOW THE ESCAPE! DO IT! DO IT!



I clench my fists. Tuck my shoulder. The one away from you. I've got to get under your legs and roll under them. I've got to do this. Roll into your space. Relieve the pressure on my arm. Get on top of you. Press your shoulders down to the mat. Turn this into a pinning predicament.


I've got to. Or my arm is finished. And so am I.

[RedEnforcer]

"Well look at that. The kid survived and now he's got her pinned."

Bless his heart. I think somewhere deep inside my buddy the security guard still thinks this is real.  In a weird way he's right. This is real. But I mean he thinks the wrestling is real. Cut him some slack, the guy was born in the thirties, served in 'Nam and could probably still kick my ass nearing 80.  But he's thinking the wrong thing.  So is Jack. They're both thinking the rules of wrestion apply here. That even though this is a no DQ match and all the rest, that the common conventions for a wrestling match apply. 

See, Jack did something to make this personal. And by doing so, he made Rowan forget all the common courtesies.  She's not gonna break the hold. Sure, she's gonna raise a shoulder or force him back down, but this isn't the way out of this hold.

"Sorry old man. You're wrong. And so is the kid. Both of you think this is still a wrestling match."

"It's not?"

"No. This is a fight. The kid is still playing soft. A pinfall attempt isn't how you get out of this hold unless you want a fractured arm."

"So how does he get out?"

"Kid's gotta figure that one out on his own. Until he's willing to punish Rowan instead of trying to outwreestle her, he's trapped in her web."

Shame too.  Kid has potential. I'd hate for him to get broken so early.  I chew my lip and check my side again to see if the well dressed man is still staring. He's not. Good. I can focus back on Rowan.

Now if the kid would just nut up and do what needs to be done....before she snaps him...

[Rowan Chance]

So, the little punk knows how to turn into an armbar. Goodie for him.

And when he rolls hard enough, that puts my shoulders down on the mat. How clever.

The referee drops down to the mat. That's one extra second I can torque this arm.

Counts, "ONE!" That's two seconds.

Counts, "TWO!" That's three seconds.

I watch that arm go up. And I watch it come down. A hair before it hits the canvas, I jolt my shoulder, throwing one hand up. I make sure it's the hand the referee can see. That's four seconds.

The count stops. Ref tells me to break the hold. That's five seconds.

Tells me again. That's six seconds.

Tells me a third time. That's seven seconds.

Starts counting. "ONE!" Eight seconds.

"TWO!" Nine seconds.

"THREE!" Ten seconds.

"FOUR!" Eleven seconds and I break the hold.

That's eleven seconds of me applying the kind of pain that only I can apply. I spent years studying pain under the tutelage of a master. Then, I went to Japan and furthered my understanding. All my life, I've been a disciple of pain, Jack. Ask Gemma about that. Her arm was in a cast and sling for months. Ask Red. He still needs a special mattress to sleep at night. And as for the little purple-haired psychopath...she needs a brace just to walk.

Eleven seconds of me and your arm, Jack.

Tell me...just how does it feel?

[Jack Hex]

I'll tell you how it feels. Like someone trying to rip my arm off and succeeding. Pain really is your body telling you something is wrong, and there is something seriously wrong with my arm. With my leg.

Piece by fucking piece. I remember the line from The Dark Knight with Batman talking about "this is an operating table." Now I know exactly what that feels like.

I'll tell you how it feels. Like my arm being torn into tiny pieces, chewed up, and spit back out at me.

I'll tell you how it feels. Like I'm a little worm on a great big hook. And I feel that way because I finally realize why you're doing this.

Sweat beading down from my forehead, dripping into my eyes, I blink the stinging salty sensation away and glare down at you while you twist my wrist and I try to keep you from bending my arm in half.

"You think she's watching?"

I shake my head. "You're trying to pull her out aren't you? She beat you and you can't live with that."

I flex my fingers into a fist. My arm tensing up.

"You want her again. After all this time. You want her to come back out, don't you? And you think if you hurt enough people, she'll finally pay attention to you."

My biceps bulge. I grab my wrist.

"This isn't about me or my championship at all. We're fucking beneath you, aren't we Rowan?"

You on your back and me above you, kneeling over you. My hand on my wrist tightens. Both arms tense up, bulging with whatever strength I've got left. Hoping this little diatribe will do its job: distract you from my real goal.

"Well, I'm not beneath you, Rowan Chance," I say, spit flying from my lips. "You're beneath me."

And that's when I flex my back, my arms, my legs. Every muscle I've got.

I'm picking you up. You've got my arm, well fuck you, I've got YOU.

I remember watching that match with you and the Red Enforcer. And I remember the look on your face when he lifted you up and held you there. Your face was...orgasmic.

Lifting you. Trying. Hoping. I can lift you right up into the air. Over my head. You grabbing hold of my arm and me grabbing hold of you.

And if I can get you up, I'm gonna hold you there for just a second. Hold you up so you realize just how weak and helpless you really are. Let you dangle there. Just long enough to realize what happens next.

Because that's when I'm going to slam you right through the goddamn mat with a power bomb.

[RedEnforcer]

"About damn time....." 

[Vivianne]

Hmm...the kid finally decided to do something. Interesting.

Almost as interesting as his words. Oh yes, a third row seat allows you to catch things those in the back don't...if you are paying attention and not screaming like the fans standing around me.

I mentioned HER name once in a promo and Rowan attacked me with a chair. Put me in the hospital and I missed a month in the ring. The kid had better hope this powerbomb hits...and that it hits hard. Because while his attempt to get into Rowan's head may work...it may also wake up the monster Rowan keeps locked up in that mind of hers.

And when that monster is let loose, nobody is safe. Not man, nor woman...nor dragon.

[Rowan Chance]

Things happen fast in a wrestling ring. You'd be surprised how quick that three count is. You hear the first time the ref's hand hits the mat and you've got exactly two seconds to find a way out. That's if you're conscious. But there are times when everything slows down. Trapped in the corner and a punch comes toward your jaw, time just melts. You watch that fist coming at you and you know there's nothing you can do about it. Or coming off the ropes and some blonde bitch in an Evel Knievel bikini throws a fucking clothesline right out of Stan Hansen's playbook at your jaw that you know you don't have time to duck, but you try anyway, and it doesn't matter because here comes the lights out.

This is one of those moments.

The kid starts lifting and I know exactly what's about to happen. I drop my center of gravity, hoping that will stop him. It doesn't.

You lift my back off the canvas. The sweat makes my skin stick. I feel the strength in your arms and I wonder, just for a moment, has this kid been pulling his punches?

Then, I realize...yes. He has. Because deep down, he's terrified of hurting me. Of really hurting me. Even though he's lifting me up, prepping me for a move that's going to re-adjust my precariously balanced spine in ways no chiropractor would ever advise.

You haul me up above your head, pulling me so far back, my legs wrap over your shoulders. Holding me up like a sacrifice to some dark and hungry god. I feel your free arm on my thigh. It feels nice there. Strong hands. I like strong hands. Your skin feels good against my skin, Jack.

But I'm mounted above you. My back arched a little forward, my head over your head. And my eyes suddenly realize what's about to happen. They go wide. My cheeks flush. You can feel my grip around your wrist tighten. Fingernails digging into your skin. My legs on your shoulders flex. You can see my abdomen muscles tighten.

And my voice whispers, so softly...

"Jack...?"


As I PLUMMET toward the canvas, my body hitting so hard, the ropes bounce. My hands let go of your wrists and FLOP to my sides. Normally, I'd bounce off the canvas, but you did it the right way, Jack. You followed my descent with me, using your body to HAMMER mine. I don't bounce. I just hit the canvas HARD. My head SNAPS forward and then back, my wet hair slapping your back before falling over my face. My legs still locked over your shoulders. My arms flat at my sides. Head turned. My chest rising and falling...by inches.

My eyes fluttering under my wet hair. My hands still, knuckles against the mat. One leg slowly slides off your shoulder, falling to the canvas. The other still pinned above your shoulder. I don't move. Not at all.

And the referee drops down, hitting her hand on the canvas as she does, shouting the count.

"ONE!"

[Jack Hex]

"ONE!"

Your wet hair all over your face and your knee up on my shoulder and your other leg fallen to my side and your arms out wide like that and your breasts just barely rising...

"Yes..." I mutter through clenched teeth.

All that taunting and baiting me. And here you are. Under me. The referee almost ready to make the two count. Your legs spread wide open, your shoulders down.

I lean forward, roughly and quickly, my arm wrapping around that leg on my shoulder, pushing forward, putting that knee against the canvas next to your head. My hips pressing down between your legs, wide open. I'm leaning down so hard and so far that your ass lifts up off the canvas and presses your hips up against mine. Hard, Rowan. So goddamn hard.

And I press forward until my face is above yours. Your face turned away. Like you're unable to look at me. But you can feel my hot breath on your cheek.

My hands grab your wrists and pin them up above your head. My hard hands on your wrists, pinning them down.

And in that position: your legs spread open, one of them trapped over my shoulder, the other flat on the canvas, your hands pinned above your head, my sex pressed hard against your sex, your hips bent up so far your ass is off the canvas...

That's when the referee hits her hand against the canvas and shouts, "TWO!"

[Rowan Chance]

"TWO!"

I hear the word. I feel the impact of the referee's hand hitting the canvas. And I feel...

...ohfuck i feel...

The sensation of being put down. Of another body on top of mine, holding me to the mat. My legs stretched wide open. Thighs between mine, pressing down. Hot breath on my cheek with my face turned away. My breasts pressed between us. My wrists held tightly. I almost forget about the raging inferno in my lower back. Almost.

My lips, gently parted and wet. I lift my chin and gasp, just a little as I feel your body pressed hard against mine. And for a moment, I forget what kind of fight this is.

I forget what kind of fight this is...and I want the other one.

Just for a moment. But a moment is too long for this kind of fight. Too long.

The referee's hand is almost half way down to the canvas.

Two thirds.

Right...there...

"THR--"

And I lift my right shoulder just as her hand is about to hit the mat.

Some are going to go over this match on Youtube with a fine tooth comb and swear that I didn't get my shoulder up in time. And to be honest, I'm not sure if I did. When the referee stands up holding two fingers up, you can feel a breath of relief in my chest, pressing you up.

I thought that was it. I really did.

I...don't know what to do next.

[Jack Hex]

I'm watching the referee as her hand comes down, and I hear her say the word.

And your shoulder pops up.

So does the ref, holding up two fingers.

I sit there stunned for a moment. Stunned because I almost pinned Rowan Chance. And stunned because I didn't pin Rowan Chance.

I look at the referee, my eyes wide. I can't believe...

The crowd starts chanting, "THAT WAS THREE!!! THAT WAS THREE!!!" and I can't disagree. All the adrenaline pumping through my blood now turns the razor sharp pain in my arm and in my leg into dull throbbing aches. This is it. This is the moment I need. I can't wait. Can't waste any time. I've got about thirty seconds before the adrenaline starts to fade. I've got to act NOW.

I grab your hair and pull you up. Let you stagger in place for a moment. A quick flurry of strikes with feet and hands to the shins, the hips, the belly...I make that glass chin of yours my last target with a spinning crescent kick right on your cheek.

Hopefully that knocks you off your feet. Because it's time to finish this.

[Rowan Chance]

As you grab my hair and begin lifting me off the mat, I remember one of my earliest trainers telling me, "Never pick your opponent up. The whole point of this game is keeping them down. Why would you ever pick someone up?"

But your hand in my hair, the pain and humiliation of being lifting up off the mat as my body staggers...I have to say, it's effective.

The kicks and strikes do their job, knocking me left and right. That final shot on my jaw lands where you want it, sending my head spinning, my torso twisting. I fall to one knee, my head turned away, wet hair across my face in black strands like inky webs. Then, my body just falls. Like a heap of flesh. No will to hold it up.

I'm seeing lights. Not the lights up above the ring. The lights in my head. Flashing in my eyes. There's a deep ringing in my ears. I hear the doctor's voice.

Ms. Chance.
Your back isn't the only problem.
You suffered at least three concussions during that match.
I cannot advise you to enter the ring,
nor can I clear you for any subsequent activity.

As my eyes flutter, his voice fades away. But the ringing in my ears doesn't. I can't stop it.

[Jack Hex]

I watch you fall, like an unstable Jenga tower, and part of me winces.

I know hurt when I see it. And there's a difference between hurt and hurt. That kick to the chin did its work. I saw your eyes roll back, saw you fall to one knee, trying to stay up, and then that collapse. I've seen wrestlers fall like that before. Mick Foley's voice comes to mind: "the lights were on but nobody was home."

And part of me wants to stop the match. Tell the referee to throw up the Dreaded X.

No. Fuck no. Don't you fall for it. She's hurt. That means it's time for the dragon to fly.

My leg may be thick with a stiff, aching pain, but I know if I hesitate at all, it's all those aches are going to turn back into something red hot and sharp. I pivot on my heel and race toward the nearest ropes. When I'm in range, I leap up, catching the top rope with the soles of my boots and my hands—just in case. The announcers are probably talking about how I usually don't use my hands, but I don't want to fuck this up.

On the top rope, I use the give to springboard up. Like a high arcing Angle moonsault.

The Flight of Dragons is what it's called. Me soaring through the air, higher than I should. I kicked off stronger than usual. Arcing through the air, bending my back, stretching my neck and chin to get the most angle I can. My arms and legs stretched out like Jeff Hardy in his Swanton Bomb or Kenny Omega flying over top rope. I continue the arc until my back is parallel to the mat...and you. The dragon tattoo landing squarely on your chest and abdomen.

At least, that's the plan. My big finish. The move that, so far, nobody's kicked out of.

I'm hoping you're too hurt to put your knees up.

Hoping.

[Rowan Chance]

All that heat, light and noise in my head makes anticipating anything impossible. And when you can't anticipate a move, you can't prep for it. You can't loosen or tense up your muscles. You can't try to turn into it or away from it, trying to minimize its impact. In short, you have to take the whole thing, no questions asked.

So when your Flight of Dragons lands on me, my body is completely unprepared. Your shoulders and upper back land exactly where they need to: my chest and belly. Not only knocking all the wind out of me, but super compressing my ribcage with a sudden, violent impact. I feel those bones press down against my lungs...feel my breast bone shudder...and I feel something inside me...

My arms and legs fly up off the canvas and my head snaps up. There's a spurt of saliva and blood from my open mouth as everything falls back to the canvas, my body curling up like one of those Mexican fireworks. My throat makes a wet, hard sound of deep pain. My eyes are shut tight. My arms clutch around my chest and I pull my knees up. A bit of blood dripping from my lips to the canvas.

I can't move. I don't want to move. The fire in my lower back. The razors in my chest. The white noise siren in my head. I'm hurt.

ohfuck...i'm hurt.

[Jack Hex]

Everything is perfect. Everything. The launch, the arc, the landing. Everything.

And a moment after I land, I scramble over, putting my body perpendicular with yours, reaching over and grabbing your far leg. I see the blood on your lips...and I blink. The pain on your face. I hesitate. A moment.

No. It's almost over. Finish it. Right here and now.

Throwing my weight on top of you. The referee drops down and her hand hits the canvas, checking your shoulders. "ONE!"

This has got to be it. It's got to be. It's GOT to be...