Post by Valiant_ESQ on Jan 12, 2017 21:25:01 GMT
Ha. Ha. Hhhhhhhhaaaaaah.
So much for the doldrums, and so much for all my hopeless doubters. Redemption 103 turned out just peachy for me in every sense - ah, except for what happened with Phillip, that was a damnable bit of bad luck there. I've been with him while he was on the mend, since I'm the nice doting type and all that. Plus, y'know, I sort of cold-shouldered him for a fortnight after 101...but that's besides the point. The point is that despite a horrendous miscarriage of justice and the callous disregard of Phoenix' executives, I picked myself up, dusted myself down, and got back to the business of kicking ass and pissing everyone off. Now there's a fresh path to glory ahead of me, and nothing to stop -
NO. No no no no no. Not doing that.
At least, not yet.
I'm looking at a man who wants to kill me.
He'd probably stop short of actually doing it, because nobody likes jail. But the dull red glare burning behind his eyes - like a rough iron kettle left too long on the stove - speaks volumes. It's the ugly, primitive, Neanderthal side lurking behind the restraints of civilisation, the voice that rises in anger whenever they're told to make allowances for people of differing gender. I see it a lot, especially at my now-primary job at Phoenix and other places.
This isn't one of those places. It's a little less organized, a lot less legitimate, and there's an almost visible funk of sweat and piss rising from the crowd - a small crowd, but crammed into the low-ceiling'd venue like sardines. The 'cage' is octagonal and no posts - which is weird to me but apparently normal? - with gaps where the metal links have been busted or rusted apart. The mat beneath my toes is made from a very thick grain that's uncomfortable to stand still on.
But none of that compares to what I'm wearing. Good god. I mean, sports bras I can handle. They may be my least favourite kind of bra but I'll deal with it. But what is the application of these shorts? Assuming you can even call something that reaches nearly past your knees 'short'. They're made of some cheap plastic-feeling material and have a loose fit, so whenever I move there's an infuriating rustling sound and I'm struck by the thought that anyone looking too close will see my underwear. Then there's the gloves that are padded so thick I can't curl my fingers enough to form a fist even though closed-fist punches being totally legal is one of the main things differing this so-called 'sport' from what I do normally, and I'm not allowed to wear boots for no good reason, and I've had to do my hair up in some ridiculous dreadlocks to make sure nobody pulls at it. I guess 200-pound-plus guys with anger issues are inclined to fight like schoolgirls, then.
When I walked up to the...owner?...to sign up for this, he didn't even recognize me, dressed as I was. That might actually be a blessing, depending on how this goes.
Ding!
Okay, guess we're really doing this then. I raise my stubbornly unclosed hands - these fucking gloves - into what I hope is a convincing defensive position and step to my left as this lummox I'm fighting, Carl something-or-other, comes forward. His opening shots jab into my arms with a series of dull thuds, making me hiss around my mouthguard, but it's not too bad. He telegraphs a kick to the gut and I bat it away with both hands, and -
"Khugh!"
Oh god I can't where am...
The metal of the cage against my back, not to mention the crowd baying for blood, snaps me back to aching reality. The kick was a feint, an obvious one in retrospect, and I took a hell of a punch right to the chest. Caught me breathless, and it's still hurting, sharp and angry down there. Rookie mistake. I'm letting the odd setting distract me, not playing to my strengths...
"Can you continue, lady?"
I give the ref a middle finger in response, and push away from the wire mesh, approaching Carl with a more mid-level guard this time. He notices the change and gives into temptation, sending a right cross my way - I weave back, because of course I planned that, then pop him on the chin in response. He doesn't back off, and I duck under another, clumsier swipe, then wail away at his ribs, before returning upright with an uppercut back to that chin and...
And no response to any of it. Why isn't this working?! Oh, right, there's almost a full inch of padding between the knuckles of my not-fists and whatever I'm trying to hurt. These fucking gloves, man. I may as well try beating this clown to death with a pair of foam fingers.
Needless to say my non-assault doesn't faze Carl much, and now he's got me around the ankles and trying to lift me up - whoops, there's another panty-flash for the front row - to, I don't know, do whatever these jokers call a Spinebuster probably. I've got enough freedom of motion to both ineffectually wail on his back with my cotton wool punches, and jam a knee into his guts. The latter makes him wheeze and he drops me, but still manages to trip me up and take me to the mat.
Ordinarily, this is where I thrive, but between the disaster of my standing game so far and the way Carl here is just sort of rocking on top of me, there's not a lot I can do besides turtle up. He's firing off shots into my sides, but they're weak-ass and barely sting, not to mention he's doing nothing else, just putting his weight advantage to bear and stopping me from moving. Is...is that his whole plan? Just run out the clock?
Fuck. That. Noise.
With a bit of tongue-tying effort, I jettison my mouthguard, then clinch Carl up with a headlock and dig my teeth in. Don't even see where it is I'm biting, but it has the desired effect - screaming and lots of it.
Carl writhes away, and the weight is alleviated from my body. I'm up to my feet inside of a second, because this next part depends on speed. He's clutching at his face around one eye and looking to the ref for a disqualification call, but I close range before he can get the words out, and this time I don't strike with the literal kid gloves. This time I keep my fingertips extended and jam then into his throat. He's a lot less talkative then, dropping to his knees with his mouth hanging open all guppy-like. The ref is upset with me but I ignore him. It's time to finish this.
I half-turn my back toward Carl and kick out, catching his tenderised throat with the bend of my knee, then pin the kneecap to the floor, pulling him down as I go. When his nearest arm swings around to relieve pressure from the scissor hold, I catch it and wrap it up with a Kimura and - and he's slapping away at my thigh with the other hand almost before I put any pressure on. So of course I give the arm one firm jerk and dislocate it at the shoulder before I get up and let the official raise mine.
"The winner, by tap out!...hey, where'd your mouthguard go?"
Might've helped your boy if you'd noticed that earlier, smarty-pants. I wave irritably at the ringside staff, who glare daggers in response as they unlock the door and let me leave amid the heckles and boos that, ultimately, are the only familiar thing from this whole experience...
"Oh hey, you're back. How'd it go?"
"Look at me and guess."
From the sofa of the suite's main room, Melanie looks through her fancy red-zebra spectacles, and sucks in a breath through her teeth.
"Exactly."
"Well, I gots Ben & Jerry's and a whole season of Supernatural to go through, if you wanna?"
"Can't. Can still get another gym session in tonight, just need to change into non-embarrassing work-out clothes first."
"Jeez. I thought you were past the whole 'I'm mad as hell' phase now. Why so serious?"
I sigh as I pull off those dumb shorts, which will be burned later. Melanie's gawking, of course. The perils of employing a lesbian secretary.
"Because getting too relaxed by success bit me in the ass before. I'm not taking things for granted again. And speaking of shying away from work, have you done anything to try and find Jun's asshole brother before he makes another move against me?"
The guilty pause while I pull a sweatshirt on tells me everything.
"He's, uh...he's not on Facebook? Or Twitter. I mean, I literally checked everywhere."
"Shut up, Melanie."
So, 'Bailey Kaitlin Huff', if that's your real name - I hope not, because that's kind of tragic - you're the monolithic nightmare Seth Black thinks is enough to punish me for ruining his bullshit non-wrestling tournament full of strangers and nonentities. Huh.
I was expecting...well, never mind what I expected. Something different from you, basically. Not that you don't have skills or anything - I did go back and watch you slap around that loudmouthed cretin Savage. He earned that much. You're also younger than me by a fair margin, which I'm sure is a great source of pride for you. Nothing better than a biological advantage you didn't have to do shit to gain, right? I remember how that felt, being able to get up in the morning without groaning and hearing your bones creak in protest. Going jogging through Central Park just because I could. Drinking hot cocoa with vanilla syrup and chocolate sprinkles on top, while idly chatting about last night's Sex & The City or my dream wedding.
These days, I absolutely awake to the sound of my own skeleton complaining. I do yoga, but only because you can do it indoors and I have to, not because I want to. I drink unsweetened espressos that taste utterly disgusting, but they give me the caffeine boost necessary to make it through a 2-hour boardroom session about TPL accounts without dozing off. I can never find any time in the day to Netflix-and-chill. And I'm divorced. Well, annulled. That sounds slightly less awful.
And I'm still going to beat you just fine.
Sure, a submissions match benefits you, Bailey. Guess what? It's my forté too. And while your wet-behind-the-ears self is relying on tricks that got drummed into you by whichever mentor you're still being schooled under over at RISE - here's the part where I quietly bemoan how mortifying it is to expend this much effort into making someone openly representing a developmental league seem like worthy opposition - I've been doing this all across the world for over a decade now. The holds I use are ones I innovated, not the sort you find detailed in a textbook. So while you're trying to embarrass me with techniques that were old before you were born, I'll be twisting you in half with things you've never read about. Because I don't write books. Who has the time?
Oh, and it's all no-DQ, which suits me just fine. I could be wrong here, but I don't think Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu is the optimal defence against barbed wire, or steel chairs, or tasers, or any of the other hurtful objects people seem to always leave laying around places like this. Since we brought it up though, BJJ? Really? I get it's a discipline recognized by the Olympics, and I'm sure you're an excellent practitioner of it, but Phoenix is not the place for sports. It's where we fight tooth and nail, and you can identify the ones who care about rules of engagement by looking to the bottom of the ranks, or the injured list.
But, all that very rational, practical reasoning? That's not really why I'm going to beat you, Bailey. The truth of it is, my confidence isn't what it was. I've only recently recovered from a humiliating defeat, and while my edge is back, my mind isn't yet at the point where I can approach someone like you with the complacency I once would've done. So instead I've fretted, I've plotted, and I've spent these past weeks preparing to tear you apart. That's why you're going to lose, Bailey.
You have my full attention.
So much for the doldrums, and so much for all my hopeless doubters. Redemption 103 turned out just peachy for me in every sense - ah, except for what happened with Phillip, that was a damnable bit of bad luck there. I've been with him while he was on the mend, since I'm the nice doting type and all that. Plus, y'know, I sort of cold-shouldered him for a fortnight after 101...but that's besides the point. The point is that despite a horrendous miscarriage of justice and the callous disregard of Phoenix' executives, I picked myself up, dusted myself down, and got back to the business of kicking ass and pissing everyone off. Now there's a fresh path to glory ahead of me, and nothing to stop -
NO. No no no no no. Not doing that.
At least, not yet.
~V~
I'm looking at a man who wants to kill me.
He'd probably stop short of actually doing it, because nobody likes jail. But the dull red glare burning behind his eyes - like a rough iron kettle left too long on the stove - speaks volumes. It's the ugly, primitive, Neanderthal side lurking behind the restraints of civilisation, the voice that rises in anger whenever they're told to make allowances for people of differing gender. I see it a lot, especially at my now-primary job at Phoenix and other places.
This isn't one of those places. It's a little less organized, a lot less legitimate, and there's an almost visible funk of sweat and piss rising from the crowd - a small crowd, but crammed into the low-ceiling'd venue like sardines. The 'cage' is octagonal and no posts - which is weird to me but apparently normal? - with gaps where the metal links have been busted or rusted apart. The mat beneath my toes is made from a very thick grain that's uncomfortable to stand still on.
But none of that compares to what I'm wearing. Good god. I mean, sports bras I can handle. They may be my least favourite kind of bra but I'll deal with it. But what is the application of these shorts? Assuming you can even call something that reaches nearly past your knees 'short'. They're made of some cheap plastic-feeling material and have a loose fit, so whenever I move there's an infuriating rustling sound and I'm struck by the thought that anyone looking too close will see my underwear. Then there's the gloves that are padded so thick I can't curl my fingers enough to form a fist even though closed-fist punches being totally legal is one of the main things differing this so-called 'sport' from what I do normally, and I'm not allowed to wear boots for no good reason, and I've had to do my hair up in some ridiculous dreadlocks to make sure nobody pulls at it. I guess 200-pound-plus guys with anger issues are inclined to fight like schoolgirls, then.
When I walked up to the...owner?...to sign up for this, he didn't even recognize me, dressed as I was. That might actually be a blessing, depending on how this goes.
Ding!
Okay, guess we're really doing this then. I raise my stubbornly unclosed hands - these fucking gloves - into what I hope is a convincing defensive position and step to my left as this lummox I'm fighting, Carl something-or-other, comes forward. His opening shots jab into my arms with a series of dull thuds, making me hiss around my mouthguard, but it's not too bad. He telegraphs a kick to the gut and I bat it away with both hands, and -
"Khugh!"
Oh god I can't where am...
The metal of the cage against my back, not to mention the crowd baying for blood, snaps me back to aching reality. The kick was a feint, an obvious one in retrospect, and I took a hell of a punch right to the chest. Caught me breathless, and it's still hurting, sharp and angry down there. Rookie mistake. I'm letting the odd setting distract me, not playing to my strengths...
"Can you continue, lady?"
I give the ref a middle finger in response, and push away from the wire mesh, approaching Carl with a more mid-level guard this time. He notices the change and gives into temptation, sending a right cross my way - I weave back, because of course I planned that, then pop him on the chin in response. He doesn't back off, and I duck under another, clumsier swipe, then wail away at his ribs, before returning upright with an uppercut back to that chin and...
And no response to any of it. Why isn't this working?! Oh, right, there's almost a full inch of padding between the knuckles of my not-fists and whatever I'm trying to hurt. These fucking gloves, man. I may as well try beating this clown to death with a pair of foam fingers.
Needless to say my non-assault doesn't faze Carl much, and now he's got me around the ankles and trying to lift me up - whoops, there's another panty-flash for the front row - to, I don't know, do whatever these jokers call a Spinebuster probably. I've got enough freedom of motion to both ineffectually wail on his back with my cotton wool punches, and jam a knee into his guts. The latter makes him wheeze and he drops me, but still manages to trip me up and take me to the mat.
Ordinarily, this is where I thrive, but between the disaster of my standing game so far and the way Carl here is just sort of rocking on top of me, there's not a lot I can do besides turtle up. He's firing off shots into my sides, but they're weak-ass and barely sting, not to mention he's doing nothing else, just putting his weight advantage to bear and stopping me from moving. Is...is that his whole plan? Just run out the clock?
Fuck. That. Noise.
With a bit of tongue-tying effort, I jettison my mouthguard, then clinch Carl up with a headlock and dig my teeth in. Don't even see where it is I'm biting, but it has the desired effect - screaming and lots of it.
Carl writhes away, and the weight is alleviated from my body. I'm up to my feet inside of a second, because this next part depends on speed. He's clutching at his face around one eye and looking to the ref for a disqualification call, but I close range before he can get the words out, and this time I don't strike with the literal kid gloves. This time I keep my fingertips extended and jam then into his throat. He's a lot less talkative then, dropping to his knees with his mouth hanging open all guppy-like. The ref is upset with me but I ignore him. It's time to finish this.
I half-turn my back toward Carl and kick out, catching his tenderised throat with the bend of my knee, then pin the kneecap to the floor, pulling him down as I go. When his nearest arm swings around to relieve pressure from the scissor hold, I catch it and wrap it up with a Kimura and - and he's slapping away at my thigh with the other hand almost before I put any pressure on. So of course I give the arm one firm jerk and dislocate it at the shoulder before I get up and let the official raise mine.
"The winner, by tap out!...hey, where'd your mouthguard go?"
Might've helped your boy if you'd noticed that earlier, smarty-pants. I wave irritably at the ringside staff, who glare daggers in response as they unlock the door and let me leave amid the heckles and boos that, ultimately, are the only familiar thing from this whole experience...
~V~
"Oh hey, you're back. How'd it go?"
"Look at me and guess."
From the sofa of the suite's main room, Melanie looks through her fancy red-zebra spectacles, and sucks in a breath through her teeth.
"Exactly."
"Well, I gots Ben & Jerry's and a whole season of Supernatural to go through, if you wanna?"
"Can't. Can still get another gym session in tonight, just need to change into non-embarrassing work-out clothes first."
"Jeez. I thought you were past the whole 'I'm mad as hell' phase now. Why so serious?"
I sigh as I pull off those dumb shorts, which will be burned later. Melanie's gawking, of course. The perils of employing a lesbian secretary.
"Because getting too relaxed by success bit me in the ass before. I'm not taking things for granted again. And speaking of shying away from work, have you done anything to try and find Jun's asshole brother before he makes another move against me?"
The guilty pause while I pull a sweatshirt on tells me everything.
"He's, uh...he's not on Facebook? Or Twitter. I mean, I literally checked everywhere."
"Shut up, Melanie."
~V~
So, 'Bailey Kaitlin Huff', if that's your real name - I hope not, because that's kind of tragic - you're the monolithic nightmare Seth Black thinks is enough to punish me for ruining his bullshit non-wrestling tournament full of strangers and nonentities. Huh.
I was expecting...well, never mind what I expected. Something different from you, basically. Not that you don't have skills or anything - I did go back and watch you slap around that loudmouthed cretin Savage. He earned that much. You're also younger than me by a fair margin, which I'm sure is a great source of pride for you. Nothing better than a biological advantage you didn't have to do shit to gain, right? I remember how that felt, being able to get up in the morning without groaning and hearing your bones creak in protest. Going jogging through Central Park just because I could. Drinking hot cocoa with vanilla syrup and chocolate sprinkles on top, while idly chatting about last night's Sex & The City or my dream wedding.
These days, I absolutely awake to the sound of my own skeleton complaining. I do yoga, but only because you can do it indoors and I have to, not because I want to. I drink unsweetened espressos that taste utterly disgusting, but they give me the caffeine boost necessary to make it through a 2-hour boardroom session about TPL accounts without dozing off. I can never find any time in the day to Netflix-and-chill. And I'm divorced. Well, annulled. That sounds slightly less awful.
And I'm still going to beat you just fine.
Sure, a submissions match benefits you, Bailey. Guess what? It's my forté too. And while your wet-behind-the-ears self is relying on tricks that got drummed into you by whichever mentor you're still being schooled under over at RISE - here's the part where I quietly bemoan how mortifying it is to expend this much effort into making someone openly representing a developmental league seem like worthy opposition - I've been doing this all across the world for over a decade now. The holds I use are ones I innovated, not the sort you find detailed in a textbook. So while you're trying to embarrass me with techniques that were old before you were born, I'll be twisting you in half with things you've never read about. Because I don't write books. Who has the time?
Oh, and it's all no-DQ, which suits me just fine. I could be wrong here, but I don't think Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu is the optimal defence against barbed wire, or steel chairs, or tasers, or any of the other hurtful objects people seem to always leave laying around places like this. Since we brought it up though, BJJ? Really? I get it's a discipline recognized by the Olympics, and I'm sure you're an excellent practitioner of it, but Phoenix is not the place for sports. It's where we fight tooth and nail, and you can identify the ones who care about rules of engagement by looking to the bottom of the ranks, or the injured list.
But, all that very rational, practical reasoning? That's not really why I'm going to beat you, Bailey. The truth of it is, my confidence isn't what it was. I've only recently recovered from a humiliating defeat, and while my edge is back, my mind isn't yet at the point where I can approach someone like you with the complacency I once would've done. So instead I've fretted, I've plotted, and I've spent these past weeks preparing to tear you apart. That's why you're going to lose, Bailey.
You have my full attention.
~V~