Post by LACKLAN on May 11, 2018 8:19:39 GMT -5
The car rolled down the street, eating up miles, a sleek monster of darkness in a land full of light and color. The Hollywood streets knew their share of that color, from the wild personalities of free spirits to the blinding glitz of the movie makers, those dreamers of the dreams, but all of those colors were dulled by the black beast, were pushed out of their tiny bubbles and safe spaces by the darkness of the car. Sleek and strong, with strong lines on the body and an engine which roared like some beast looking to proclaim its dominance in this billboard-strewn jungle, the car brought a mixture of darkness and hope, of pain and freedom, that could only be encapsulated in the House of Lacklan.
Le Bord de Dieu sat in the back seat of the unmarked car in a way we have never seen her before: Elegant. The Champion of Chaos was beautiful, no doubt, and eyes have seen her body on more than one occasion, but the world “elegant” fits her this night. The brunette’s grey streaks seemed to glisten with a sheen in a hairdo reminiscent of the 1930’s, a haircut that made her feel more like herself and less like the...thing...that she had been the last few years. Her makeup was light, as was her preference, with just a bit of base to smooth out the worry lines which had deepened in that time and brown lipstick with a touch of red. Her dark green eyes were tired, something that not even the great amount of rest she had had recently could cure, but they shone in a reflection of the light caught by her “chandeliers,” the large diamond earrings which dangled to her shoulders. Those shoulders were covered, of course, with a dress which clothed her from her ankles all the way up to her chin, a material dyed a deep green to match her eyes. But even then, the dress, while prudently cut as all dresses should be, was tight on her, clinging to her curves in a way which made her think of her departed husband. The lock, still with flakes of blood from several opponents, rested on its chain atop the swell of her bosom.
“Are you prepared for change, Mademoiselle?”
Bordy’s French accent is thick, not at all dulled by years lived away from her homeland, and can be hard to understand at times with its hard nasal sounds to ears accustomed to American English. Her face is turned as she speaks, those dark emerald eyes looking out the window at the brightly-lit streets passing by.
“Change can be difficult. Change can be arduous. Change can be painful. Not everyone is prepared for change, of course. Not even most. Most would prefer to hide away in their holes, hiding from the sun, from the Light, and stick to their sinful ways. Most would stay in the darkness, huddled in their own pits of mediocrity and call is success, instead of facing the change of the Light, instead of facing what true success means and can be. I am not one of those. I am not one who was hide away and enjoy an existence of darkness. No...no...I embrace change. I am embrace the chaos it causes. I embrace the order which comes from it.”
She pauses for a moment, her bottom lip slipping under her teeth for a moment in a nervous bite.
“I have gone through many changes in my life. Many transformations. As if God specifically created me as a lowly caterpillar so that, when I emerged from my cocoon, I would be the most colorful butterfly of them all. Pain and anguish, loss, betrayal.”
She gives a small nod to herself.
“Betrayal.”
She turns away from the window and looks into the camera, the dark emeralds looking through it, searching.
“Maideselle, you will NOT hear jokes from me. No jests. No laughter. I am not one to belittle an opponent by mocking how they look or act, not one to bring ridicule through mockery. Oh, I will certainly JUDGE, of course. Because poor lifestyle choices, the proof of sins against God, are bared open to me in ways few understand. I JUDGE those like Lucy and the Lockheart girl for laying with one another as they should a man. I JUDGE Necron for having the bravado of Goliath. I JUDGE Mathis for wallowing in the mud and thinking she swims in the stars. I JUDGE the entire roster, and even the entire business, on their inability to understand the glory of God. And I will ultimately execute God’s plan for them...whether or not they are prepared for it.
“Thus, you will not be mocked be me. Others may mock you...others who, due to small mistake on my behalf, I have someone connected myself to...others will cast their stones and beat with their sticks. They might mock you for your weight, for instance, but I will not. Oh, I might JUDGE you on your thumbing of the concept of gluttony, but I leave my jokes and jests for Ashley Williams, my petit cochon. So no. No jests. No jokes. Just judgement.
“Will you be able to accept change? Will you, in a time of pain and anguish, in a time of loss and betrayal, be able to change from what you are...from what you were...to what you NEED to be?”
She looks back out the window. The car approaches the Port of Los Angeles and, in the distance, looms a garishly loud red yacht. Her eyes flutter closed for a moment and the Champion of Chaos finds herself slipping into memories of change.
~~STILL a better love story than Twilight, Part II~~
~~July, 2013~~
Ava didn’t understand what had come over her in the last couple of months, but it had been the wildest of her life, and that was saying something!
Things had not gone...well...at home a few years ago. The fight with her family had left her locked up, but at least she didn’t have to serve actual jail time. So WHAT if she had stabbed her dad with that beer bottle? He had gotten WAY too grabby, anyway. Just as bad as her uncle. But then she went for that one dumb bitch’s eye when she got too close to her and then cops were called and that was kind of the end of that. Off to the institution for her.
But life changed while she was there. Because there...on the television...on the screen...was her hero:
Chris Extreme.
The man was a proud Nazi, though she didn’t care about that part, but he was SO sexy. He fucked people up in wrestling rings all around the world, most recently somewhere in Germany, and didn’t give a rat’s ass about silly rules. Fire, weapons, thumbtacks. She even saw him brand a swastika into someone’s ass once!
She was in love. And she knew that he was in love with her. All she had to do was meet him and he would KNOW. And she knew she had her chance when the television set in the common room told her what she needed to know:
Chris was bringing back SIN Wrestling, the wildest of the “outlaw” wrestling companies there had ever been.
So she did what any girl in love would do: She took a plastic spoon from the kitchen, ground it down into a shiv by rubbing it against the stone floor of her cell, and stabbed her way out of the place. It was messy, and smelly, and LOUD from all the SCREAMS, but what’s a girl in love to do?
The following two months were a blur. She hitch-hiked, slept, fucked, drank, lied, and cheated her way across Europe. She got to the coast, blew three pilots and busted out a strap-on for one of their wives, and earned herself a ticket across the Atlantic. And once she finally showed up at Chris’ apartment? When he saw the look in her eyes? When he saw the LOVE?
He was hooked.
Such a shame that she started cucking him less than two months later with Lacklan.
Jean was something else entirely. The man was WAY bigger than Chris. Chris was fun and all, what with his crazy parties and weapons and fire and all that, but there was just something so WEIRD and COOL about Jean. Sure, we was not exactly pretty to look at, what with the head burned so bad that he basically looked like Freddy Krueger when he took his mask off, but that body was like granite. And he was rich. Like, really rich. Like, she didn’t need to ask for a pony because he could buy her the entire species of horse kind of rich. Plus all of those weirdos who hung out around him and basically treated her like a queen.
Getting treated like a queen was pretty sweet.
And that daughter of his was pretty cool! She called her “Fangs,” like everyone else, but they shared something fun. Whenever her dad wasn’t looking, Ava would slip her cigs or a bottle of liquor. One night, when Jean was busy doing some media tour for the company, she and Fangs hung out and played “Truth or Dare” all night, and the stories the weirdo kid had to tell! She was already pretty wild, and liked to sneak around behind her dad’s back with several of the boys (and even one of the girls!), but Ava was still able to teach her a few tricks. She got her to flash a random person for the first time, which she did by leading by example, of course. The odd albino wannabe vampire chick looked like she was having the time of her life being naughty. It made Ava smile.
The story was that her mom had died giving birth do her. The girl never knew her mom. And she both needed and wanted one. Could she be that mom? Could Ava be the mom Fangs was looking for?
And then things changed. The last two weeks had been...different.
She started listening to Jean. Really listening. .Really listening. She had figured that his whole “Voice of God” schtick was just like Chris’ “Lord Christophe” thing, a way to make people do what he wanted them to do. But it wasn’t. He believed what he was saying. He really believed. He believed that God loved wrestling. He believed that God had sent him to change wrestling, to conquer it, to stand as its unified world champ. To be the pillar of Light for the world to look up to and aspire to.
Did she?
Burning Man. An insane idea of Chris’. SIN Wrestling, one of the most wild “outlaw” wrestling companies there ever would be. A ring in the middle of the Nevada desert, surrounded by the mixture of crazies, psychos, and Dead Heads that made the festival famous. And within the Burning Man structure itself? Chris.
If Jean-Paul Lacklan retained the SIN World Championship, the Burning Man would be set aflame with Chris inside.
If Ava Quinn beat Lacklan for the title, she would be able to save her boyfriend, the love of her life, and bring him out.
Jean won.
And Ava set the fire herself.
She believed. She believed in God. She believed in His plan. She believed that she could be Fang’s mother, and Jean’s wife, and bring this family together.
Ava died that night.
Aveline was born.
Eyes snap open.
Dark green.
Etches of red at the corners.
Light of mania.
“The lion’s den.”
Bordy’s voice fills the car with a complex and confusing mixture of apprehension, confidence, anger, longing, sadness, betrayal, and anger. So many emotions, some in direct conflict with others, mixed and swirled together in the cocktail that was Le Bord de Dieu. She looks out the window at the sea port before her, the dock but feet away, as the car comes to a slow stop. Her body moves as bodies leave the car, the sound of doors opening and closing being heard, but she stays where she is, eyes locked on the location of her special dinner.
“Do you study, Mademoiselle? Do you stalk? Do you do everything you need to do in order to approach an opponent to have all weapons beared? Or do you, as I have seen so much since I returned to this business, simply do the tiny bit of research through various online profiles? Do you obsess over the meaningless things like online antics, fashion, and preference in music?”
She pauses for a moment and the corners of her eyes tighten, small crows feet pushing their way passed the light base makeup smoothing out her face, the lines of the Frenchwoman clearing thinking showing more age on her face than there perhaps should be.
“One of the things I have encountered within the UGWC is people doing just that small amount of work, the work which might well be nothing more than skimming transcripts of promos or hitting the control and ‘F’ key on a keyboard and looking for your name. People like Mathis, of the televised revolution, and Rydell, longing for yesteryear, have spent all year doing as little actual work as possible, and thus have found themselves in abundance of failure and a dirth of success. Moments of success, of course. Bright little spots of clarity amidst the stink and squalor of failure. But always back down into the muck and mire with them. Because not only do they refuse to change, to evolve, to grow, they also do not study.”
She turns away from the window and looks into the camera.
“I am sure that you THINK you study, Mademoiselle. I am sure that you THINK you have everything understood. You verbally assaulted Roxy Cotton for dragging Angie down, for being the person who only seemed to win because she was attached to people better than her. And in your bravado, in your assurance of your understanding of the situation, you missed that fact that, in the relationship between Roxy and the Vaughn girl, it is Roxy who is the alpha. It is Roxy who drives competition. Yes, the Vaughn girl fights across the world, and has had her own share of success, but there has been very little of that within UGWC. I dare say that, if it were not for Roxy, the Vaughn girl would have found herself in more losing situations on the last two PPV events, just as she was the first one of the year. You see, you THINK that you understand the situation. You THINK that you have studied. But your appraisal of the situation is incomplete and arrogant. Much like Necron. The Harvester THOUGHT he studied me. He THOUGHT he had my measure. He was wrong. Much like you.”
She turns her head to look out the window, the small bits of her large earrings tinkling like a chime, filling the car with their light song.
“Though, you certainly have the measure of Mizore. A multi-time champion...but a champion, from what I can tell, from companies filled with people who the UGWC would only feel comfortable booking against the sandwich from the battles of Orson and Deimos. She did NOT earn the opportunity to fight for my title, did NOT earn the opportunity to become the Champion of Chaos, and then subsequently failed. She was NOT worthy, if we go by the barometer of past accomplishments, of being in contention for the title that I have elevated to its position of importance. But frankly…”
She turns back to the camera.
“Neither have you.”
She turns her head slightly, giving the appearance of a bird looking at a particularly tasty bug on the ground.
“You can say, all you want, about taking Roxy’s best shot at Chill and then slamming her through the table, but we both know better. In fact, anyone who watched that match live like I did knows better. It was not with authority and power that you drove her through that table. It was a defensive move fueled by your comparative bulk and helped by physics. And to say that you did ANYTHING OTHER than get through that match by the skin of your teeth, by the narrowest of margins, would be a lie. And we do not wish to make Baby Jesus cry, now do we?
“I, on the other hand, have DOMINATED my ‘big match’ wins. In the three PPV events this year, it is MY name which was on the lips of those in attendance, it was MY name which was spread all across the forms of media, it was MY performance that made everyone flit and flirt around like excited bees. Because THAT is what I do, THAT is what I am for. Making this business better. Making everything I touch better. Making it, and the people within it, change and evolve. Across the fourteen events the UGWC has held this year, I am the ONLY one to have been on every show, pushing the business, pushing everyone around around me, forcing them to change. The ONLY one. Not Wylde. Not MacLean. Not Scott. Me.”
Her head turns the other direction, going back to center and then to the other side, still looking as the predator watching its prey.
“Your OWN accomplishments within the UGWC bring your legitimacy at my title into question just as much as Mizore’s. At at least in her case, her situation is that she is a child who simply does not understand that she and her ilk are far out of their league at this point in their careers. You are not out of your league, child, and saying otherwise would be folly, but you are severally out of your depth. Your claim to fame within this company, as you have stated every time you open your mouth in worry that everyone would forget, is that you became the WrestleStock Cup winner when you spiked the legendary Travis Pierce on his head. The problem with that is two-fold: First, the Cup has been referred to as the Participation Award and was won last year by, of all things, a vlogger, and thus truly does mean little. And second, the man you defeated for the participation trophy is a ‘legend’ who has been unable to secure more wins in a year than I have in five months. All told together, your accomplishments in the UGWC give you as little legitimacy towards my title as anything you brought to the court with Mizore.”
Her head returns back to the center and she pauses for several seconds.
“I am the evolution of this business, child. I am what God wishes for our present and am the rock from which He shall build the future. I am confident in that. I have faith in that. And as such, I see no need to rely upon jokes or jests, or prods or attacks at your personal life. Are you a wretched heathen? Are you a dutiful daughter? Are you trapped in a painful cycle of eating because you are sad and then being sad that you eat? Do you spend your free time plunging into the rabbit’s hole of social media as you listen to whatever accounts for music today? I do not care. Let those concerns be handled by your fellow children and let me, clearly the adult in the group that is this company, take care of adult things. And that means taking you to task and showing you exactly how far out of depth you are.
“Ultimately, my question about you is whether or not you are willing to adapt and change in this world. You need to. When fighting me, you MUST evolve. People within this company have learned just how difficult it is to keep my shoulders on the mat for a few seconds, and even those who have did so earlier in the year when...well...let us just say that I was not at my best. But I know who I am now, child. I am fully awakened. I have evolved. Will you? Will you push yourself to be more than you are? Will you rise above that aforementioned muck and mire that holds down the likes of Mathis and Rydell? You have little hopes of actually winning, which I will get into later, but you DO have the chance to raise your stock in the eyes of many, including myself. While I disagree with many of her life choices, the Vaughn girl has proven to not be terrible. Will you do the same? Or will you simply stay who and what you are, which is a goldfish who has grown big-headed because it ate the other goldfish in the bowl but does not see the bettas in the pool it has been pour into.
“The Lockheart girl has been able to evolve, going from someone distracted by too much work into someone with a winning streak. The Vaughn girl, also distracted from too much work, has evolved into a champion within this company. Wylde, while offering just about the same thing creatively week in and out, has been able to evolve her quality into greatness and rightfully become the champion. But others like Rydell, Mathis, and Pierce have squandered their opportunities to evolve and have found themselves squashed on a regular basis. What of you? Will you evolve?”
She looks back out the window and watches as one of her men in the pressed uniforms approaches, preparing to open the door for her.
“Daniel walked into the den of lions with nothing more than the armor of God. And while His angel shut the mouths of the lions for Daniel to tell the tale to Darius, I can assure you that, in my judgement, you will find yourself wholly without armor. And as such, forced to defend yourself only with your ability to change. To evolve. God help you in that...for against me...you will need it.”
~~Presenting the PrincessTwilightSexyFang podcast, as viewed on the new totes badass #CoolTube app~~
This is NOT a happy Matron of Pigeons right here, let me tell you.
So, SOMEBODY, who shall remain NAMELESS and is totes NOT dear, sweet 😍Angelica😍, decided that THIS particular dinner date was a GOOD idea. That SAME SOMEONE is totes legit GUILTY PANTS of the cray cray awkward silence going on at the dinner table, whether or not the meant for it to be like this, but that NAMELESS person should absolutes of SEEN this was going to happen.
Wait...wait...let me back up a tad bit, here…
So! At some point last week, my Beloved, my dear wife, the owner of the SWEETEST booty in ALL the land (and chocolate tastes WAY better than butterscotch, no matter WHAT Stupid Roxy says) decided that, in a display of family, love, friendship, and a ton of other shit I don’t really embody (just refer back to how Lucy Wylde talks about me for confirmation; love you, too 😒), Kenzi extended the olive (or, in her case, ebony) branch to Bitchy McBitcherton, otherwise known as Le Bord de Dieu and asked her to come to dinner on the Red Queen.
{Editor’s Note for all you new Fang Gang members out there: The Red Queen is the legit amazeballs yacht that Kenzi and Roxy bought because Scientology, or something. It even has a landing pad for a helicopter, because how ELSE are you going to land a solid gold helicopter, amIright?}
N-E-Ways, my Beloved extends the hand of friendship/family/whatever to the chick who is TOTES NOT MY MOM 😡😡😡 and how does Frenchie respond? By saying that she WOULD come, she would GRACE US with her presence, on ONE condition. That condition? That we prepare her favorite meal. Because French, I assumed it was going to be something weird like snails or eels or something, right? But NO! It’s even worse! Her favorite meal?!
HA HA HA
HA
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Get it? Roasted pigeon? Because I have REALLY gotten into pigeon husbandry (wifadry? 🤔🤔) during my retirement, which is a totes legit KILLER way to send messages, let me tell you, and so the idea of having ROASTED PIGEON is FUNNY to Frenchie.
HA.
HA.
Now, for anyone that knows Mackenzie, you would probably expect her to freak the FUCK out and over exaggerate and take it personally and have such an explosion that you would have thought she had actually died or something, right?
That’s legit what happened.
Mackenzie was PISSED. So, UBER pissed. Like, I hid in our room for a few hours because I didn’t want to become victim of a stray bullet kind of pissed. Mackenzie was all “GRRRR” and “THAT BITCH” and “KENZI SMASH.” Usually, I’m all coolio when she gets super black on me and goes into KENZI SMASH mode, but this was NOT the fun kind of smashing that was gonna go down. But instead of making the situation even worse, silence luckily came over and we kinda-sorta let the whole thing pass.
And THEN!
Oh, AND THEN!
Ms. Nameless decided to talk to Mackenzie.
“She likes totes adorbs kitties, so she can’t be ALL that bad 😊”
Sigh. I obvs disagree with Ms. Nameless, but my better half, exercising that totes annoying “forgiveness” trait of hers that I legit don’t have even an ounce of, extended the offer of dinner again. And, amazingly, Frenchie accepted it WITHOUT some side remark. Holy shit, right?! So we were set for Thursday night, the night before the next LFL game.
Oh! Oh! Real quick! Speaking of the LFL, I would be REMISS if I did not mention this little thing which has been bugging me: Know how Maggie Lockheart has been making snide little remarks about girls playing football in their underwear? You know, girls who are legit badass athletes and go out and KILL each other every week? And you know how Maggie ALSO has been making snide remarks about some of the newest features in the Cool Network, like the #CoolKidsRPG (which you can download right HERE in the #CoolZone!), and thus is CLEARLY showing that, REGARDLESS of how she publically rides us, she is OBVI STALKING us, hitting that refresh button to see what we say or do next more often than her probs totes frustrated girl’s hotbox? Maggie has basically turned herself into Genie Carlson.
Good job, Maggie. You are basically the Coalition version of Genie Carslon.
And to think that I used to respect you.
Er...um...I kinda lost my train of thought. Where was I…?
Oh! Right! Dinner!
So! I MAY have purposefully worn the dress that I wore earlier in the week at Alicia Lukas’ wedding, you know the one with the plunging neckline which MAY have been used as a weapon to keep my Beloved’s eyes on me and OFF Alicia’s big ol’ booty. I MAY have worn jewelry handed down to me by my REAL mother. I MAY-
Wait...wait...one more tangent real quick:
Aveline Merovigian, who you all know as Bordy, and *I* know as Ava Quinn, is NOT my biological mother.
Got that, Maggie?
Got that, Lucy?
We, literally, look NOTHING alike. I *DO*, however, look MUCH like my REAL mother, Selena Jornagen, who while NOT being an albino princess of frosty awesomeness like me, DID pass down my sharp-ass cheekbones and cute-as-FUCK dimples. Now, while you two have shown a COMPLETE disregard for things we like to call “facts” and “understanding” at a level that would even rival Killian King, I would AT LEAST expect you two to be able to do things like, oh, I don’t know, use basic math. Ava’s age (28) subtracted by my age (20) = 8.
Guess what: Ava didn’t “shit out a kid” at 8 years old.
Good God, you two are as bad as Tubby McLardass, or Kem Dynamo, for those playing at home, with her declaration that Ava is “the bastard child of the Cool Kids.” Sweet Mother in Heaven, do NONE of you people actually pay attention to anything that isn’t Court-related?!
Ugh.
Oh! Hey! Real quick! You know what is, like, the ONLY cool thing about being retired due to these lame legs of mine? At least I don’t personally have to deal with dipshit jack-offs from shitty companies like JC, Emo Treamon, and Eavon Maloney jumping into my business for no better reason than them trying to get over on legit red-fire #CoolKid heat. I mean, shit, if it wasn’t for people like us, those heat-voids would be stuck having to do things like job-out in the opening matches of their OWN cards to crows of dozens AND DOZENS of people. And the BEST part of that BEST part? People like the aforementioned typically lose their dumbass challenges and, at least in the case Eav-Mal, do the rage-quit/unfollow/force unfollow routine in hopes of NOT getting Stupid Roxy's gum in their hair. And you know WHY they typically lose those matches?
#TheyCantSitWithUs
Oh! That reminds me of an amusing anecdote:
So, Stupid Roxy and I are talking the other day about the new Coalition Initiative: B.U.L.L.Y., right?
{Editor’s note: That would be the exclusive club, Blondes Upsetting Losers Like You. Buy the new shirt!}
And THIS little exchange occurred:
Stupid Roxy: Guess what, Sar?
Albino Hawtness: What Roxy?
Stupid Roxy: Do you know why Kem Dynamo can’t sit with us?
Albino Hawtness: Because she would break the chair!
#BULLYSisters: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Sorry...sorry…
Focus, Sar. Focus!
So! Dinner! I’m rocking my plunging neckline, right? Truth be told, Mackenzie could probably lose her entire HEAD in my cleavage, yeah? And the FIRST THING Frenchie says when she comes aboard the Queen?
"Sarah, did you forget to wear the other half of your clothes? Again?”
God, I hate her. And I don't mean in some "But, MoooOOOOOOooooom! I was going to Tosche Station to pick up power converters!" kind of way. I mean, like, lock up the dumb bitch in an insane asylum and forge a letter to Daddy that explains-
Wait...wait...getting ahead of myself.
N-E-Ways, the Wifey is ALL KINDS of icy eyes at Frenchie for saying that, but she takes in one of those deep breaths that they do in Scientology...or yoga...or Buddha...or whatever it is she is ZOMG I AM THIS NOW she is this month...and gets every to sit down. Well, not me anyway. Because wheelchair (~OF DOOM!) and all. So, all sitting down to dinner right, and Frenchie is all:
"A pleasure to see that you left at least SOME makeup in your vanity, child."
Naturally, I have my uber awesomo wings painted on my face to help make my red eyes jump out and all that, but hey, at least I'm not wearing as much makeup as JEM needs to in order to smooth away all of the lines created by her crying her eyes out over her failed revolution (its televised!), right? And just because SHE doesn't wear makeup...or deodorant...because French...doesn't mean that I have to hold myself to her low standards ya know? So I let that one go, but I could feel that Mackenzie's resolve isn't the greatest in the world. She already wanted to slap Frenchie's face off after the pigeon thing (not to mention that chocolate-stuffed pigeon joke after The Great Pigeon Massacre a few months ago), and this wasn't helping. But I figured that I, with my calm head and superior resolve, could diffuse the situation
"So," I said, as innocent and kind as an angel's butt, "You spread your legs for that Necron dude, yet?"
Frenchie was not pleased. Neither was the wifey. I think that it was a perfectly reasonable question, if I may say so. And then SHE gets all pissy, right? How face scrunches up and looks like she at a lemon or got WAY too intimate with a broomstick, if ya know what I mean, and then she asks,
”So, how many random people HAVE you had sex with today? You know, because slut.”
This one was an easy question to field.
“Um...none? Because my name isn’t Eden?”
I love you Auntie, but Jesus! Gabby Emostein?! In the words of dear, sweet 😍Angelica😍:
Ew!
But THE-EN, Frenchie said the thing that got us to the totes legit awkward silence we’re now at:
”Of course not. Because Eden can do things like stand up.”
And THAT is how we ended up at this Mexican standoff. And NOT the kind of Mexican standoff that Stupid Roxy is used to, because that is TOTALLY a different thing involving this weird bar in Tijuana that you do NOT want to go to at 2 in the morning, but the kind you see in movies where everyone has drawn their gun on each other and if even one person shoots, everyone dies. I’m, like, five seconds away from saying something about how she’s NOT my mother and just one of the MANY whores Daddy used over the years and thus CANNOT tell me how to live my life, thank you very much, and my Beloved is five seconds away from beating the stupid out of her like she did to that loser Corvin dude (my dad could have beaten up your dad in SIN, Corvin!), and I think Frenchie is always five seconds away from showing why she is the Chaos Champ, which is NOT something I can deal with in my present condition.
Crazy shit, right? And you know me...I loves me some crazy.
“How about you take take that lock of yours and shove it-”
“I swear, MOTHER, that if you miss ONE MORE BLOCK, I will-”
”You both WILL thank me la-”
Oh, family.
Good times. Good times.
Aveline Lacklan fumed as she stomped down the dock away from the Red Queen, her face flushed in anger, her heeled boots slamming to the wooden beams below hard enough to make them groan in protest.
“Despicable children! Three HOURS of insolent BRATS!”
She pulled off her long black gloves with jerky motions, finger by finger, as she stormed away.
“I am THROUGH with such BABIES!”
She cut hard on her heel as she stepped off the long, thin dock and headed towards the unmarked black car which had brought her to the bay.
“Open the trunk! OPEN IT!”
Men with the matching short haircuts and pressed uniforms with the silver pins scrambled to open the trunk, barely getting it up in time before she got to the car. She reaches into the trunk and spins back towards the following camera crew and shows the item retrieved from the trunk:
The United Global Wrestling Coalition Chaos Championship.
“THIS is what Monday is about, Mademoiselle! THIS is why MY name is whispered in fear in dark corners by cowards, as if saying my name too loudly might conjure me like some boogeyman from a child’s story. THIS is what awaits you on Monday. NOT some jokes from some insolent children. Not a conversation about which anime character could defeat another. Not public service announcements about bullies and whether or not someone’s actions and antics are justified. Not weekly tweets about how attractive your partner is or whether or not you like pineapple on your pizza.”
She shakes the title roughly, the sound of the gold plates shaking joining in with the melodic collision of her chandelier earrings and the lock against its chain around her neck.
“THIS is the new standard of the business. NOT the Cross-Hemisphere championship which has been hot-shotted so many times in the last year as to take all the credibility Wylde gave it and thrown it into an incinerator. NOT the Co-Op championships which have been defended this year by, of all things, a cardboard cut-out of a stalker. THIS. Because while the World Championship deserves a place of honor, the Chaos Championship is held by ME, and THAT makes it the most important thing in this company.
“And I will do ANYTHING to keep it that way, child. This is not some SILLY game where we pretend to play fight and then have tea and crumpets after and hug and say ‘good game’ while the crowd does some inane chant about how many stars we ranked. This is a BUSINESS where people like ME go out and beat up people like YOU. It is a business where people like ME take sad little children like YOU and teach them that they either evolve and survive and they get eaten within that den of lions. I will scratch, claw, rip, tear, cut, pierce. I will do ANYTHING in order to make sure that EVERYONE in this company realizes that I am not one to suffer fools who think that calling me a ‘Croissant’ makes them a superior competitor. And if YOU think that silly little names like that, or even your apparent belief that ANYTHING on TWITTER is real or any indication of quality, then you WILL find yourself eaten alive by Daniel’s lions, just as Necron found himself thrust into the Dragon’s Fire.”
She pauses as she wraps the Chaos title belt around her waist, pulling it tight against the surprisingly clingy dress which both hides and accentuates her pleasant curves, and latches it into place. She points down to it with fingers tipped by nails painted dark green to match her eyes and looks back into the camera.
“THIS is what you are fighting for on Monday child. THIS. The title belt that I have elevated through being in possession of it. The title belt which has vaulted over your ‘legendary’ Pierce’s Cross-Hemisphere championship and almost...ALMOST...supplanted the World Title earlier in the week. Only a few people at a time may be recognized by the UGWC as the best, and if you have ANY shred of hope of defeating me and becoming one of those, then you will have to do a MASSIVE evolution, child. Because if YOU come at me with the same thing you always do, if YOU come at me with the floating head segment filled with a voice-over without the need of a setting FILLED TO THE BRIM with fluff like song lyrics or entire passages of scripture to attempt to mock me, then you WILL find yourself staring up at the lights in a mixture of confusion and pain that all of my defeated opponents experience.”
She looks away from the camera and back towards the Red Queen and snarls.
“What am I even DOING in California?!”
She looks back at the camera.
“You know...in Maine...the part of this continent which understands and accepts who I am, where the groundswell of people who understand God’s vision are flocking...there is a saying. I am not a fan of it due to the language, but here it is: ‘SSDD.’ Or, ‘Same Shit, Different Day.’ It is meant as a commentary on life, a commentary on how every day has the same problems. But it is ALSO a commentary on how people refuse to evolve and change. How they refuse to progress. I had hoped that Lucy would NOT give me the same shit, different day approach last week and, to my sadness, I was only given the same lack of creativity as everyone else. But at least with her, her overall QUALITY as a wrestler keeps her ‘SSDD’ powerful and successful. The Vaughn girl fell to Lucy, cost us the match, but she will learn. But you?”
She shakes her head, her tight face scrunching up as if she smelled something foul.
“You are no Lucy Wylde, child. If YOU refuse to evolve or change, if YOU offer to me your own brand of ‘Same Shit, Different Day,’ then you WILL find yourself in the Embrace of God and you WILL find that He can be vicious and ruthless when He wants to be. I not only promise you, child, but I prophesize, that if you come at me with anything BUT an emotional and powerful assault on Monday?”
Another small shake of her head.
“You. Will. Lose.”
She pauses again to lick her lips. Her eyes shine with passion and mania and a soft tapping can be heard in the chill night on the coast of Southern California as she taps her nails against the faceplate of her championship.
“This is NOT you facing a struggling Pierce at the end of a long festival two years ago. This is NOT a defensive maneuver on the brand run by Chaos. This is NOT an unwarranted contendership match against an overwhelmed girl in a slump. This is not about racist nicknames, fat jokes, slut-shaming, television shows, lingerie football, amorous creative directors, or whether or not I prefer men with beards. This is the main event. This is me. The Edge and Blade of God. The chaos and order. The light and dark. And against you...in this venue?”
A pause.
“I AM.”
A final pause.
“Bonne nuit.”
x2