Post by Deleted on Mar 11, 2018 4:32:02 GMT -5
The night of Revolution……
In her backstage dressing room after her humiliating defeat at the hands on Camila Gonzalez…..
The raven haired beauty leans over the wash basin, emerald eyes lost in the reflection the mirror gives back. Tender flesh swells. Black and blue and purple - a mess. Beauty lost. She presses the skin and whines, the sting and warmth of the fresh wound still throbbing her face. It’s not the first time she’s been roughed up, but it’s the single biggest beating she’s ever received, that’s for sure. She closes her mouth and feels a dull crunch, then spits out a tooth.
Catskill Jack: She knocked your tooth out.
Her coach peers over her shoulder, shaking his head in both sadness and anger over what Camila did.
Lisa: Yeah? And the sky is blue.
Moving from the basin, the MMA star turned wrestler plops onto the oakwood bench and pulls her knees into her chest, resting her battered and crestfallen head against the wall.
Catskill Jack: I’ll call and make you an emergency appointment with the dentist.
He fiddles with his phone.
Lisa: Call my agent too. Tell him to start figuring out a way to get out of my Action Wrestling contract.
His jaw drops and he stops mid fiddle on the cell.
Catskill Jack: Uuuuh, what? You can’t be serious.
Lisa: Oh come on! You know I can’t show up on Clash anymore after what Camila did to me tonight. The BITCH did everything she said she was going to do. She demolished me. She humiliated me. She d… d…..
The concept is too foreign for her to say, but she knows she must, if only to accept it and swallow that pride, or what little there is left to swallow.
Lisa: Dominated me. I’m garbage. I think I made the wrong choice coming into professional wreslting.
It had never happened in her fighting career. What few losses she accrued came in fights where she gave as good as she received. But with Camila, that all changed. Lisa was force fed a can of decimation. Catskill’s aged eyes take in the sight of the broken woman, noticing dejection written in every line of her body for the first time ever.
Catskill Jack: Well no shit, Lisa. She was able to do all that because she got the jump on you before the bell. She beat the shit out of you with a metal laden belt for cryin’ out loud. You showed your fighting spirit. Didn’t you hear the fans applauding you afterward?
She snaps her head up at him, an uncharacteristic snarl and hiss joining it.
Lisa: I heard pity applause! That’s what it was! Camila made me into her own personal practice dummy out there. And you know what else? Action Wrestling’s security detail sat on their asses while she assaulted me with that belt. They didn’t lift a finger to help. Those things never happen in MMA, but in Action Wrestling it seems like it’s an allowable thing.
Catskill Jack: Whoa now, calm your tits. This one’s on me. I failed to prepare you for the actions some squalid hags would take, like the low road Camila took. Let me make it up to you. Just calm down, and I’ll be right back.
Before Lisa can offer a rebuttal he’s out the door, speeding his way down the corridor. IN his absence, Lisa shuts her eyes and battles back the sorrow water collecting at the ducts of her eyes. Her mind wanders into a rehashing of the mauling she received less than an hour prior, forcing her to jolt to a stand and pace about the room, unsure of what to do. Suddenly the door flings open and Catskill slides back into the room doing his best theatrical bit, like Kramer from Seinfeld.
Catskill Jack: Problem solved! Just spoke with the digger of graves and I got you a match on Clash with an upstanding young gent, a real nice guy and an honorable one too.
Lisa perks a brow, interest peaked.
Lisa: Well?
Catskill scratches his head and seems vexed.
Catskill Jack: heavens ta betsy I just said his name in Gravedigger’s office and for the life of me already forgotten it. Damned old age! Uh, he’s the, uh, the guy … the big purple penis pump looking fellow. The Galtanis Warrior or whatever.
Lisa: The Galactic Warlock? TakMak.
He claps his hands and give her the thumbs up.
Catskill Jack: Yes! That’s the guy. We know he won’t attack you before the match at least. He’ll be your first real test. Camila knew she couldn’t take you straight up one on one, which is why she did what she did. With Tic-Tak you won’t have that problem and you can get an accurate portrayal of where you stand. So what do you say? Tough it out for one more week? Give this match a go, you’ll do great, I swear it.
She runs a hand through her hair, stressing the roots among the follicles. Finally, she gives a favorable nod, and retires into the shower to get some peace of mind for the time being.
______________________________________________________________
”Holy Mary mother of God in heaven and on earth at the exact same time! A Warlock. A Galactic one at that. A cartoon come to life. That’s who I’m pitted against this week.”
The voice, twanged with Texas tongue, rattles off the words in a scoffing tone as the camera flickers to life. Sporting form fitting stone washed jeans, a Dallas Cowboy throwback Staubach jersey, and roller skates is Lisa Foster. Lost is the smile, presumably now tattooed on the end of Camila’s fists, that normally graces her pretty face. Her emerald eyes stare into the lens, brows dipped.
Lisa: I want to like you, TakMak, I really do. You’re always so respectful, and so nice. You go out of your way to shake hands with your opponents before and after the match. You’re a good man, it seems, and probably have a good heart too. You don’t like to even raise your voice to people, even when they deserve it. You’re a unique spirit, my man. But you see, Camila.. She… she changed me. As much as I despise every fiber of her being after what she’s done to me, she opened my eyes at Revolution. She showed me that being nice gets your dignity and pride ripped from you. That’s what it gets you.
The camera pans out alot more, showcasing area around Lisa. It’s a boardwalk near one of the many beaches that tuck California, the state that will host this week’s Clash. She glides back and forth some on the skates before delivering on more drops of wisdom.
Lisa: I would say ‘just look at me’ as the example of what being nice gets you, but I think you’re the foremost expert on all of that wouldn’t you say? Rose had to win your tag team match for you, and she treated you like a puppy that pooped in her shoes. Later you had the advantage of being in a 3 on 1 handicap match, and you still lost, in fact you ate the pin. Then at Revolution you were the first one eliminated. All of that happened to you, yet you still strut around with that chest puffed, smile on your face, as if everything is going to work out and the fans still love you.
She does a quick spin on the skates then comes to an abrupt halt. A frustrated expression comes over her. She doesn’t want to be mean to the man, but he needs to hear it.
Lisa: I’m not saying you suck at wrestling, all I’m saying is that for a guy who has traveled different world lines, has access to powers, is well versed in masterful wrestling arts favored in Mexico and Japan, and is possibly immortal… you can’t win a match to save your life. Your whole goal is to win enough title reigns and fan receptions to bring unity among our races, yet your wrestling career is stuck in first gear, no, actually you haven’t even pressed the clutch yet. There’s a saying us earthlings have, it goes like this: you can’t save people if you can’t save yourself. For the love of God, dude, you have space symbols on your tights because they give you power to defeat your enemies. Something isn’t adding up here. I don’t think those symbols mean what you think they mean, otherwise you’d be in a much better place among the roster here, and be much closer to uniting the Mass'a'rahts and the hume'a'rahts
She snaps her fingers as if just realizing something.
Lisa: Ah, that’s it. You’re struck with a mental affliction. What is it? Schizophrenia? Multiple personalities? Dissociative disorder? You try to solidify your claim of being an extraterrestrial by speaking in an abnormal way, but let’s face it, anybody can do that. Let me try….
She clears her throat and holds her hands out, palms up toward the cloudless sky.
Lisa: Verily I say unto you, upon the descending moon on the days of Mon, I shall come against you like a storm upon the land. I shall drown you in the sea of your own arrogance and enter you into a pained sleep for a single fortnight, so sayeth Uhl Uh Gar'oth, so sayeth the flock! Uhl Uh Gar'oth hu akbaaaaaaar!
She back skates up to a wall full of graffiti.
Lisa: See? Too easy. I’m starting to think you’re someone who stopped by the Wrestling Gimmick Store and picked up the first thing on the clearance aisle, to be honest. What’s even worse is you’ve somehow convinced yourself that no matter how many times you lose, it was supposed to happen because some grand cosmic scheme says so. It must be nice to wake up every morning with a smile on your face and no ill will over yet another loss the night before, huh? I wish I could do the same, but I can’t. After what Camila did to me, I have to beat you to reclaim some of my pride and dignity. I won’t get all of it back until I get her in the ring again to vindicate myself, but you’re a damn good start. Did that get through to you? I don’t ‘need’ to beat you. I don’t ‘want’ to beat you. I HAVE to beat you. This is non-negotiable. Do you understand my uttering, ole wisened one of worlds traversed?
Alas, finally, a smile. It’s a small one. Brief. It’s better than nothing though.
Lisa: If you still don’t get it, that’s fair. I’ll just let my fists and feet do the talking when the bell rings, that way I’ll know for sure that nothing gets lost in translation. I’m not going there to be nice, to shake hands, to hold you in high regard. Not anymore. I’m going there to show the world that I’ve learned from my mistakes and that what Camila did to me was not the true measure of what I’m capable of. Afterwards, sure, I’ll gladly grab a bite to eat and a beer with you… or buy you one of your favorite comic books or coloring books. Got it? Get it? Good.
With that said, she skates out of frame, while the eye of the media device focuses on the graffiti art showing a rendition of classic 80s icon E.T. smoking a phat Philly blunt.
In her backstage dressing room after her humiliating defeat at the hands on Camila Gonzalez…..
The raven haired beauty leans over the wash basin, emerald eyes lost in the reflection the mirror gives back. Tender flesh swells. Black and blue and purple - a mess. Beauty lost. She presses the skin and whines, the sting and warmth of the fresh wound still throbbing her face. It’s not the first time she’s been roughed up, but it’s the single biggest beating she’s ever received, that’s for sure. She closes her mouth and feels a dull crunch, then spits out a tooth.
Catskill Jack: She knocked your tooth out.
Her coach peers over her shoulder, shaking his head in both sadness and anger over what Camila did.
Lisa: Yeah? And the sky is blue.
Moving from the basin, the MMA star turned wrestler plops onto the oakwood bench and pulls her knees into her chest, resting her battered and crestfallen head against the wall.
Catskill Jack: I’ll call and make you an emergency appointment with the dentist.
He fiddles with his phone.
Lisa: Call my agent too. Tell him to start figuring out a way to get out of my Action Wrestling contract.
His jaw drops and he stops mid fiddle on the cell.
Catskill Jack: Uuuuh, what? You can’t be serious.
Lisa: Oh come on! You know I can’t show up on Clash anymore after what Camila did to me tonight. The BITCH did everything she said she was going to do. She demolished me. She humiliated me. She d… d…..
The concept is too foreign for her to say, but she knows she must, if only to accept it and swallow that pride, or what little there is left to swallow.
Lisa: Dominated me. I’m garbage. I think I made the wrong choice coming into professional wreslting.
It had never happened in her fighting career. What few losses she accrued came in fights where she gave as good as she received. But with Camila, that all changed. Lisa was force fed a can of decimation. Catskill’s aged eyes take in the sight of the broken woman, noticing dejection written in every line of her body for the first time ever.
Catskill Jack: Well no shit, Lisa. She was able to do all that because she got the jump on you before the bell. She beat the shit out of you with a metal laden belt for cryin’ out loud. You showed your fighting spirit. Didn’t you hear the fans applauding you afterward?
She snaps her head up at him, an uncharacteristic snarl and hiss joining it.
Lisa: I heard pity applause! That’s what it was! Camila made me into her own personal practice dummy out there. And you know what else? Action Wrestling’s security detail sat on their asses while she assaulted me with that belt. They didn’t lift a finger to help. Those things never happen in MMA, but in Action Wrestling it seems like it’s an allowable thing.
Catskill Jack: Whoa now, calm your tits. This one’s on me. I failed to prepare you for the actions some squalid hags would take, like the low road Camila took. Let me make it up to you. Just calm down, and I’ll be right back.
Before Lisa can offer a rebuttal he’s out the door, speeding his way down the corridor. IN his absence, Lisa shuts her eyes and battles back the sorrow water collecting at the ducts of her eyes. Her mind wanders into a rehashing of the mauling she received less than an hour prior, forcing her to jolt to a stand and pace about the room, unsure of what to do. Suddenly the door flings open and Catskill slides back into the room doing his best theatrical bit, like Kramer from Seinfeld.
Catskill Jack: Problem solved! Just spoke with the digger of graves and I got you a match on Clash with an upstanding young gent, a real nice guy and an honorable one too.
Lisa perks a brow, interest peaked.
Lisa: Well?
Catskill scratches his head and seems vexed.
Catskill Jack: heavens ta betsy I just said his name in Gravedigger’s office and for the life of me already forgotten it. Damned old age! Uh, he’s the, uh, the guy … the big purple penis pump looking fellow. The Galtanis Warrior or whatever.
Lisa: The Galactic Warlock? TakMak.
He claps his hands and give her the thumbs up.
Catskill Jack: Yes! That’s the guy. We know he won’t attack you before the match at least. He’ll be your first real test. Camila knew she couldn’t take you straight up one on one, which is why she did what she did. With Tic-Tak you won’t have that problem and you can get an accurate portrayal of where you stand. So what do you say? Tough it out for one more week? Give this match a go, you’ll do great, I swear it.
She runs a hand through her hair, stressing the roots among the follicles. Finally, she gives a favorable nod, and retires into the shower to get some peace of mind for the time being.
______________________________________________________________
”Holy Mary mother of God in heaven and on earth at the exact same time! A Warlock. A Galactic one at that. A cartoon come to life. That’s who I’m pitted against this week.”
The voice, twanged with Texas tongue, rattles off the words in a scoffing tone as the camera flickers to life. Sporting form fitting stone washed jeans, a Dallas Cowboy throwback Staubach jersey, and roller skates is Lisa Foster. Lost is the smile, presumably now tattooed on the end of Camila’s fists, that normally graces her pretty face. Her emerald eyes stare into the lens, brows dipped.
Lisa: I want to like you, TakMak, I really do. You’re always so respectful, and so nice. You go out of your way to shake hands with your opponents before and after the match. You’re a good man, it seems, and probably have a good heart too. You don’t like to even raise your voice to people, even when they deserve it. You’re a unique spirit, my man. But you see, Camila.. She… she changed me. As much as I despise every fiber of her being after what she’s done to me, she opened my eyes at Revolution. She showed me that being nice gets your dignity and pride ripped from you. That’s what it gets you.
The camera pans out alot more, showcasing area around Lisa. It’s a boardwalk near one of the many beaches that tuck California, the state that will host this week’s Clash. She glides back and forth some on the skates before delivering on more drops of wisdom.
Lisa: I would say ‘just look at me’ as the example of what being nice gets you, but I think you’re the foremost expert on all of that wouldn’t you say? Rose had to win your tag team match for you, and she treated you like a puppy that pooped in her shoes. Later you had the advantage of being in a 3 on 1 handicap match, and you still lost, in fact you ate the pin. Then at Revolution you were the first one eliminated. All of that happened to you, yet you still strut around with that chest puffed, smile on your face, as if everything is going to work out and the fans still love you.
She does a quick spin on the skates then comes to an abrupt halt. A frustrated expression comes over her. She doesn’t want to be mean to the man, but he needs to hear it.
Lisa: I’m not saying you suck at wrestling, all I’m saying is that for a guy who has traveled different world lines, has access to powers, is well versed in masterful wrestling arts favored in Mexico and Japan, and is possibly immortal… you can’t win a match to save your life. Your whole goal is to win enough title reigns and fan receptions to bring unity among our races, yet your wrestling career is stuck in first gear, no, actually you haven’t even pressed the clutch yet. There’s a saying us earthlings have, it goes like this: you can’t save people if you can’t save yourself. For the love of God, dude, you have space symbols on your tights because they give you power to defeat your enemies. Something isn’t adding up here. I don’t think those symbols mean what you think they mean, otherwise you’d be in a much better place among the roster here, and be much closer to uniting the Mass'a'rahts and the hume'a'rahts
She snaps her fingers as if just realizing something.
Lisa: Ah, that’s it. You’re struck with a mental affliction. What is it? Schizophrenia? Multiple personalities? Dissociative disorder? You try to solidify your claim of being an extraterrestrial by speaking in an abnormal way, but let’s face it, anybody can do that. Let me try….
She clears her throat and holds her hands out, palms up toward the cloudless sky.
Lisa: Verily I say unto you, upon the descending moon on the days of Mon, I shall come against you like a storm upon the land. I shall drown you in the sea of your own arrogance and enter you into a pained sleep for a single fortnight, so sayeth Uhl Uh Gar'oth, so sayeth the flock! Uhl Uh Gar'oth hu akbaaaaaaar!
She back skates up to a wall full of graffiti.
Lisa: See? Too easy. I’m starting to think you’re someone who stopped by the Wrestling Gimmick Store and picked up the first thing on the clearance aisle, to be honest. What’s even worse is you’ve somehow convinced yourself that no matter how many times you lose, it was supposed to happen because some grand cosmic scheme says so. It must be nice to wake up every morning with a smile on your face and no ill will over yet another loss the night before, huh? I wish I could do the same, but I can’t. After what Camila did to me, I have to beat you to reclaim some of my pride and dignity. I won’t get all of it back until I get her in the ring again to vindicate myself, but you’re a damn good start. Did that get through to you? I don’t ‘need’ to beat you. I don’t ‘want’ to beat you. I HAVE to beat you. This is non-negotiable. Do you understand my uttering, ole wisened one of worlds traversed?
Alas, finally, a smile. It’s a small one. Brief. It’s better than nothing though.
Lisa: If you still don’t get it, that’s fair. I’ll just let my fists and feet do the talking when the bell rings, that way I’ll know for sure that nothing gets lost in translation. I’m not going there to be nice, to shake hands, to hold you in high regard. Not anymore. I’m going there to show the world that I’ve learned from my mistakes and that what Camila did to me was not the true measure of what I’m capable of. Afterwards, sure, I’ll gladly grab a bite to eat and a beer with you… or buy you one of your favorite comic books or coloring books. Got it? Get it? Good.
With that said, she skates out of frame, while the eye of the media device focuses on the graffiti art showing a rendition of classic 80s icon E.T. smoking a phat Philly blunt.