Post by Deleted on Mar 17, 2018 21:58:46 GMT -5
“Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never—in nothing, great or small, large or petty—never give in, except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force. Never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.”
― Winston S. Churchill
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LISA!
LISA!
LISA!
The bulwark of humanity packed the backstage corridors of the Golden-1 Center, lending Lisa Foster their strength of voice. How could they not declare their pleasure at her good deed a half hour prior? She’d saved them from the possibility of being subjugated under the goddess’s foot had Camila won the main event then advanced to Battlefield and won the World Championship. Their hero, still clad in her ring attire, couldn’t penetrate the throng of fans so she scurried onto a large crate and broke out into a victory dance, which only served to work them into a bigger frenzy. Hero and fans alike rejoiced together, for they were full of mirth!
After a few moments of celebration, Lisa slowed her roll and gestured for them to calm down. They did, and hung on her every word as she rattled off at the mouth, her words laden with excitement and conviction.
Lisa: We did it! We knocked TakMak the Galatic Warlock right out of his moon boots then we made DAMN sure that sperm spittoon with the bad weave didn’t climb another daggone inch up that mountain! Let this be a rallying cry for all those who’ve been knocked in the dirt and stomped while they were down, like I was at Revolution. You can get back up! You can dust yourself off! You can get knocked in the dirt again! You can get right back up again! The only one keeping you in the dirt is yourself! Camila almost broke me wholly - mind, body, spirit - but I picked myself up and pieced myself together despite wanting to flat out quit. If I can do it, and you can do it, then WE! CAN! DO! IT!
Another spark of rambunctious cheer crippled the corridor they had wedge themselves into. Once again she calmed them with gestures and face cratering grins.
Lisa: So there’s really only one thing left to say…..
She let her sweet, honeyed words linger on them to build suspense.
Lisa: SOMEBODY DO ME!!!!!
For the first time since they greeted her there, not a peep was heard in reply. They were shocked. It only lasted a few seconds though. Men shoved their wives and girlfriends aside and elbowed each other for the pole position at the crate, glad happy hands stretching out in need of her. Then, giggling innocently, Lisa shot out her hand and caught a fresh cold bottle of Mountain Dew, which brought the men to a collective groan and halt over their snafu. Nonetheless, the party was back in full tilt as she shook the bottle up, opened it, then sprayed it all over herself and the fans before guzzling the rest down with the same zest Camila does her favorite dick gravy. It was like she, no, they had all won 1st place at the Nascar 500!
Lisa: YYYYYIIIPPPPIIIEEE DIIIPITY!!!
She threw herself off the crate and they took great liberty in crowd surfing her all the way out of the building and into the night, where the gang kicked up some lyrics fitting their attitude…
“I GET KNOCKED DOWN, BUT I GET UP AGAIN, YOU’RE NEVER EVER GONNA KEEP ME DOWN! YEAH, I GET KNOCKED DOWN, BUT I GET UP AGAIN, YOU’RE NEVER EVER GONNA KEEP ME DOWN”
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"If you cannot win, make the opponent pay a steep price for victory." - Unknown author
"If you cannot win, make the opponent pay a steep price for victory." - Unknown author
”I don’t know what Gravedigger is thinking.”
The familiar, honeyed tone of Lisa’s voice was heard as the feed flicked to life. The eye of the camera followed her at feet level as she walked atop a wide cemented path flanked by a masterwork of lush grass.
Lisa: Maybe he’s punishing me for meddling in main event matches involving Camila Gonzales? Maybe he’s punishing both of us? Maybe he’s using our feud as a ratings grab? I just don’t know.
As she continued to speak, the camera made a slow path upward, making damn sure to capture those legendary legs wrapped in form fitting white jeans. The man behind the camera wouldn’t be doing his job if he didn’t get the obligatory butt shot in too.
Lisa: But what I do know is this..
The camera continued upward showcasing her fit frame when, suddenly, she spun toward it and smiled. The device settled on her Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle themed shirt, which had the words ”I WOULD HAVE DATED DONATELLO SO HARD!” written across it joined by a winking illustration of the famed turtle. She rattled a set of golden keys tauntingly.
Lisa: I’ve got the keys to Camila’s mansion.
Her cute countenance was alive with mischief as she twirled the keys around her finger and innocently whistled. From there the scene widened out to its full range, allowing the viewer to take in the sight of the magnificent, expansive domicile crafted from precious stones and materials from the far reaches of the globe.
Lisa: And Camila, sugar booger, get some better security. I took them out with ease. Don’t worry, I didn’t kill em’. I just knocked them out for a bit. That’s how I got the spare keys actually.
Without saying a word more, she broke into a skip the rest of the way then opened the door, strutting right on in like a boss. The sweet aroma of cherry vanilla hit her and she smiled. Camila may be a rancid bitch, but the girl had good taste in house scent, Lisa had to give her props on that. She cut left and strolled into the kitchen, where she rummaged the lavish stainless steel refrigerator and came away with expensive organic only foods. Plopping them onto the marble countertop, she perched herself atop a stool and busied herself fixing some goodies.
Lisa: So, yeah, about this tag match, Camila. Let’s be honest here yeah? It’s a handicap match for me. That’s the way I’m looking at it. This is why I wanted to come by here and pay you a little visit, you know? I wanted to have a “come to Jesus” meeting with you and coat your beautiful lawn red with the very life-force coursing your body. The match would have been called off and I’d be facing one of those two instead of essentially both of them. But naaaaaaaaw, you’re out there somewhere impaling your mouth on some zipper rocket or getting a new weave put on that fugly half sucked milk dud you have for a head. I guess I’ll have to wait here until you get back.
She stopped long enough to suck on her finger some then dipped it into a jar of peanut butter. She dipped another finger into a jar of jelly. As soon as she stuck them in her mouth, she was overcome with the foul taste of the sugar free all organic shitty food and nearly puked. Bolting to a stand, she grabbed the jar of jelly and Nolan Ryan fast-balled it through the pricey kitchen window Camila had imported from the Aborigines, shattering the window into many pieces.
Lisa: Good lawd, Camiller! For realies? Seriously? I can’t even right now. Nope. I won’t.
She threw the rest of the food all over the marbled floor and left the kitchen, opting to head up the long, winding staircase while changing focus from her “partner” to her opponents.
Lisa: So I guess while I await your return, I’ll go ahead and address my two opponents, Brooke Bell and Dion-something-or-another.
As Lisa continued her commute up the steps, she nonchalantly yanked mesmerizing glass framed portraits of Camila off the wall and shattered them too bits on the stairs.
Lisa: Brooke Bell, I’m sorry you got roped into this. I’m ready to explode over what Camila has done to me, and come Monday I’m afraid that explosion will finally go off and you’re gonna be right there in the blast radius. Which sucks because I find you admirable in a way. You refuse to let the ‘one hit wonder’ label define you. Here you are doing everything you can to make your children proud of you and to shed all that negativity. You were willing to step into the ring with one of the best out there right now, Shadowlove, and though he destroyed you in much the same way Camila did me, you showed your fighting spirit in there. That goes a long way. The fans see it. Other wrestlers see it. I see it. Heck, you even adopted the same submission hold as me to finish off opponents with. Very admirable.
At the apex of the stairs, she came to a halt and twirled toward the camera, jutting up a stern finger.
Lisa: Buuuuut…. As much as you are trying to shed that ‘one hit wonder’ label, it’s still following you around isn’t it? You won the NBW Women’s Title, which is nothing to scoff at, though I’m sure my “partner” would disagree, but that’s really all you’ve done isn’t it? No offense to the great talent there, but their women’s division isn’t very stacked, so being their champion is like being the mayor of a town with population zero. How do you know you weren’t a shark in a small pond over there? How do you know you’re not a fish in a ocean full of sharks here in Action Wrestling now?
A brow arched skyward after the last sentence, an imploring expression finding its way to Brooke Bell.
Lisa: People like you are the reason I don’t boast about the championships I won previously. I’m smart enough to realize winning such and such title in such and such place amounts to SQUAT coming into a new organization. You have to prove yourself all over again, otherwise you wind up like, well, you. Getting your head dribbled across the canvas like a basketball, and embarrassed. So far the only thing you’ve proven is you can headbutt the mat. Me? I proved I can fight through and overcome two on ones, three on ones, Camila as a special referee, and I’ve proven I can set records for fastest victory when I speared TakMak straight out of his exoskeleton. It took a goddess using dirty tactics to beat me. Keep those things in mind before you stroll into Utah with those two pimples you call breasts all stuck out and proud inside that wittle training bra. At Clash you better pray Dion-blabasaur is everything he says he is, otherwise people are gonna be calling you Blue Bell afterward, and for once in your life it’s not gonna be a pun about the best ice cream in the country. If you don’t have the deductive reasoning ability to figure out what I’m getting at, then ask your kiddos - they seem a bit smarter than you already.
With a sharp turn and hard whip of her hair, Lisa picked back up where she left off and traversed the red carpeted hallway.
Lisa: As for you, Dion, I have to ask why. Just, why? Huh? Can you tell me why? Why oh WHY have you sheath yourself in the armor of a mythological god such as Dionysus? Out of all the Titans and Greeks and major deities you could have chosen, you in your infinite idiocy selected a minor deity who was coined “womanly” and “man-woman” by his followers. Dionysus was a wimp. The Titans ripped him apart and ate him. Zeus had to come along and spare his heart, that’s the only way Dionysus was rebirthed. In another version Zeus had to sew Dionysus into his thigh for several months in order for the little weakling to survive. The only thing he was famous for was looking like a girly-man and drinking copious amounts of wine, yet week after week you come out to the ring flanked by spartan styled warriors, and even worse, you ride down in a chariot made out of tacky spray-on gold. Yeah, you’re busted, sir. I’m a woman and we women have an innate ability to spot fake gold from a mile away, so you’re no longer fooling anyone with the golden chariot routine. So again I ask simply… WHY?
She snapped her fingers and whacked herself across the forehead, admonishing herself for not realizing the answer sooner.
Lisa: Uh, duh Lisa! I think I know why, Dion. It’s because you’re sponsored by Tide. Soooo… yeeeeah…. Tide…. Tide Pods…. Yeeep. You’ve been dunking tide pods in your wine haven’t you? I can imagine you sitting at your kitchen table each morning pouring a big bowl of Tide Pods and drowning them in milk and wine. Ugh, th-
A room with two huge oak wood doors caught her eye and she ceased her diatribe on Dion’s idiosyncrasies. Pushing them open, she barged right on in with the camera trailing in her wake. It was a bedroom fitting a goddess. Large with everything in excess size and value. A huge movie theater screen was fixed across an entire wall. Camila’s bed, however, was the most noticeable feature.
Lisa sprinted forward and dived onto it. Surprisingly it sunk in, swallowing her a little bit. She squealed in shock and climbed her way out.
Lisa: A WATER BED? REALLY CAMILLER? Nuh-uh, we can’t have that. You don’t deserve it, bitch.
She whipped out a small personal defense blade and slashed the valve off, sending a torrent of water gushing out from under the bed onto the floor. From there she broke out into a case of sneezes - apparently she’s allergic to bitch skank residual. Her eyes watered up and reddened, and her nose began running crazily. Nabbing some of Camila’s pillows and sheets, she blew her nasty snot rockets all over them then moved on to the goddess’s clothes and did the same until she was all cleared up.
Lisa: Dang, sorry! Not sure what that was about. Where was I? OH, yeah, Dion. Look man, don’t get it twisted. You’re pretty entertaining during your entrance and you’re a talented wrestler in addition to that. I’m a big fan of your ring work. I wish I had a quarter of the ring skill you do. I even feel a certain kinship with you. Both of us are practitioners of martial arts. We both love history. We both are being forced to tag with weak link partners on Clash. Our movesets even complement each other some. That’s where the similaires end though.
She wagged a finger matter-of-factly and sauntered into Camila’s gigantic bathroom. Of course everything was plated in gold and silvers. That goes without saying. Vengeful Lisa spied the room with keen interest before snatching up a gold colored futuristic looking toothbrush. She looked at the camera, then at the toothbrush, then back to the camera. A wicked grin dominated her face before she suddenly ran it under her shirt and brushed her armpits nice and good and deep.
Lisa: This right here is one way our similarities end, Dion. While you boast about chaos and unpredictability, you always show up on your homestead in your vignettes. In your vineyard. At your fireplace. Predictable. Nobody could have predicted me showing up at Camila’s place and owning it. Another reason our similarities end is our methods of strategy. While you regale us with the list of martial arts and fighting styles you've mastered, I’ve been setting aside specialized training foreign to you, because I want to truly be chaotic and unpredictable... not just someone who spouts it off and shows their hand before the cards are dealt like you do. No spoilers here. I want you caught off guard completely. So go ahead and pump yourself up you poor man’s flea market edition Leonidas. Pontificate on how I’m comparable to a type of wine or a certain type of flower petal. It’s just more fuel to my fire at this point.
She produced the desecrated toothbrush and pointed it threatening at the lens, more so at Dion himself, before discarding it across the lavatory. Emitting a breathy huff, she exited the bathroom and nearly slipped on water flooding the bedroom floor, but luckily rolled a nat 20 on her reflex save and hydro-glided all the way across it and into the hallway. The camera operator carefully navigated across it, and caught up with her as she was sliding down the stairway rail on her butt. Again he cautiously navigated the terrain full of shattered picture frame glass and met up with her at the bottom of the stairs.
Lisa was all smiles and gave him a wink before diving right back into her tangent on Dion.
Lisa: Perhaps the most important difference is our ideologies. You put all your eggs in the Dionysus basket - a mythological god who never existed. You overwhelm your mind and body with overindulgence in tide pods and wine, which throw you into a mode where you trick yourself into thinking you’ve been commandeered by an actual Greek god. In reality, Dion, you’re just a dude. A dude who looks like he got lost on his way to a LARP event. A dude who is mega talented in the ring. I, on the other hand, put my eggs in the tangible basket. I put my faith in myself, my family, my trainers, my friends, and the fans. I am my own god. I am the voice of my own deity. Instead of wine and tide pods, I channel myself by training my ass off until I pass out. I study film until the vessels in my eyes burst. That is what separates us, and come Clash time, if you haven’t taken heed of this, you’re going to wind up planted in the middle of the ring so deep and far they’ll be able to grow a Dion tree with the remains! It’ll behoove you to hear my words too, Brooke, otherwise you’ll wind up right next to him deader than your one hit wonder music career!
She looked at her watch, noting the time and decided to leave. When she went to signal the man to cut the camera off, the garage door caught her attention, so she held up a finger and motioned him to follow her. He obeyed and the pair wound up in the largest and most lavish garage ever put on film. However, only one thing was present in the room aside from them. It was a vintage super car from the 60s. A marvelous German design with it’s convertible hatch down, indicating it’d been taken for a spin recently. The hood ornament stood out in prominence from the beautiful car - it was a solid gold crafting of Camila herself, striking a goddess pose in all her glory and wealth. Must have cost as much as the car itself.
Lisa: BITCH!
Lisa stormed over and issued many hard kicks to the emblem before finally tearing it off. Turning to the camera, she taunted Camila with it.
Lisa: It’ll fetch a pretty penny at the pawn shop. I’ll hold on to it until after Clash, just in case you want to come and try to take it back.
Challenge issued, she stuffed it in her pocket.
A sudden pain in her tummy crippled her a moment later. The nasty food from Camila’s fridge was coming back to haunt her. She turned to make haste for the bathroom but stopped and turned back to the car, eying the driver’s seat. She signaled the operator to cut the feed, which he did.
When it sparked back to life it was aimed directly on the driver seat. There, all over the seat, the backrest, the console, and even the steering wheel was disgusting piles and erratic spray patterns of brown-green diarrhea dookie. The camera swung toward Lisa, who was sneering and sweaty.
Lisa: A shit vehicle for a shit person, I say. See ya Monday, “partner”.
And with that, the feed cut to black for good.