Blackheart II: Deep /\ Cuts
Apr 24, 2020 19:30:00 GMT -5
Jordan, “The RevolutiDaddy” Wesley, and 9 more like this
Post by Lissie Hope on Apr 24, 2020 19:30:00 GMT -5
Promo citations from Havoc 2019
Lissie Hope wilts in the spotlight.
Dandy DiVito
***
What am I doing?
She sat across from a circular vanity mirror in her bathroom, the bright-orange bulbs providing a halo around the frame. She pressed the cotton across her eyelid, removing the stained makeup that had crusted from a mixture of sweat and tears. She almost rejected the red-eye flight from Lexington that Action Wrestling had arranged for her and Estrella Luiz, not knowing where she wanted to go… but it sure as hell wasn’t home.
She held her finger to her carotid, feeling her heart-rate rising. She could feel the blood pulsating as she pressed harder, resisting the temptation to wrap her own bony fingers around her neck. She was devilishly curious about the sensation if she were to crush her own larynx. Would it feel any different than Bull’s grip? Balfore’s?
The bathroom window was open, the curtains fluttering with the slight changes in wind. She planted her feet on the tile and stuck her head out into the chilled air, peering over the ledge. The street was empty. New Orleans was a ghost-town.
It would be a thirty-foot drop. It would end quickly. The paralyzing fear would last, at most, three seconds. The same amount of time a championship could change hands. And then it’d be over. She didn’t think anyone would find her, not until the sunlight would peer over the horizon and illuminate the streets.
She wondered if the concierge would take her to the rooftop. He was young. Wide-eyed. Naive. He certainly was enamored with her, transfixed by her beauty everytime she meandered through the lobby in designer shoes or form-fitting athletic gear. She was unlike anyone else in the building. Someone of stature. Importance. But even if she could be quite convincing, she couldn’t impress that guilt onto his conscience.
Two World Championships ended by one man who exploited her weaknesses. She had never lost to the same man twice… not until Battlefield. That was supposed to be the venue that established her as the star of this industry. As the fighting champion this company could get behind, burying any-and-all doubt. Instead, it left her with more questions than answers. Instead, it left her feeling broken, as if she needed to start over.
Remembering the euphoria of climbing the ladder and snatching the All-In briefcase from seven hungry competitors, all more seasoned and experienced than her. Remembering her entry into the Turmoil tournament as the ultimate underdog, the only woman, fighting her boss who’d been winning championships since she was in grade school. She thought about how she snatched the World Championship from Dandy DiVito despite brutal interference from Alex Richards.
The ultimate revenge. DiVito and Richards bloodied her with her own belt, and an opportunistic Frank Venable didn’t waste a second. They wrote the script of a seven-day champion, they defined a legacy that she tried her damndest to leave behind. One that is still criticized and ridiculed to this day.
Corey Bull, Kevin Bishop, and Odin Balfore: three of the most devastating and intimidating forces had all begun targeting her. They all tried to crush her will and spirit, yet she eclipsed them with victories and deception. Instead of letting their punishment derail her, they propelled her to finally write her own legacy. When she won the championship a second time, it was on her own terms. She rewarded herself for a year of steadily climbing Action Wrestling ranks. But she broke trust along the way. Bonds she’d forged, hearts she’d captured.
Dandy put her on the shelf for 42 days. Her back was wrecked from Odin’s powerbombs and Corey’s chokeslams. Her teeth; chipped from Kevin’s big-boot. Her arms; still scarred from the barbed-wire ropes. There was still a faint white line running across her calf from the jagged scissors. But that had invigorated her. Rejuvenated her. She was a fighter. A survivor. A champion. But it all ended with the sound of a hand slapping the mat three-times, and the loud, shrill dinging of the timekeeper’s bell. She looked in the ring, and saw Frank Venable defeating Adelaide Ainsworth. The wounds would open again.
She looked down at her empty waist. She thumbed her flesh, poking out of the top of her underwear. She rose to her feet, grabbed the blade, took a deep breath... and sliced open her skin, gashing two-inches across, puncturing deeper than she wanted. And she felt the sting, the burn, the warmth as blood pooled down at her feet. She remembered violating her body before, and how it drove her to victory. But this time, high-waisted wrestling tights wouldn’t suffice. She had chosen a spot that could be covered by one thing, and one thing only.
Why am I here?
She held her finger to her carotid, feeling her heart-rate rising. She could feel the blood pulsating as she pressed harder, resisting the temptation to wrap her own bony fingers around her neck. She was devilishly curious about the sensation if she were to crush her own larynx. Would it feel any different than Bull’s grip? Balfore’s?
How do I fix this?
The bathroom window was open, the curtains fluttering with the slight changes in wind. She planted her feet on the tile and stuck her head out into the chilled air, peering over the ledge. The street was empty. New Orleans was a ghost-town.
Would they even care?
It would be a thirty-foot drop. It would end quickly. The paralyzing fear would last, at most, three seconds. The same amount of time a championship could change hands. And then it’d be over. She didn’t think anyone would find her, not until the sunlight would peer over the horizon and illuminate the streets.
This isn’t good enough.
She wondered if the concierge would take her to the rooftop. He was young. Wide-eyed. Naive. He certainly was enamored with her, transfixed by her beauty everytime she meandered through the lobby in designer shoes or form-fitting athletic gear. She was unlike anyone else in the building. Someone of stature. Importance. But even if she could be quite convincing, she couldn’t impress that guilt onto his conscience.
I’m not good enough.
Two World Championships ended by one man who exploited her weaknesses. She had never lost to the same man twice… not until Battlefield. That was supposed to be the venue that established her as the star of this industry. As the fighting champion this company could get behind, burying any-and-all doubt. Instead, it left her with more questions than answers. Instead, it left her feeling broken, as if she needed to start over.
I could’ve been great.
Remembering the euphoria of climbing the ladder and snatching the All-In briefcase from seven hungry competitors, all more seasoned and experienced than her. Remembering her entry into the Turmoil tournament as the ultimate underdog, the only woman, fighting her boss who’d been winning championships since she was in grade school. She thought about how she snatched the World Championship from Dandy DiVito despite brutal interference from Alex Richards.
What went wrong?
The ultimate revenge. DiVito and Richards bloodied her with her own belt, and an opportunistic Frank Venable didn’t waste a second. They wrote the script of a seven-day champion, they defined a legacy that she tried her damndest to leave behind. One that is still criticized and ridiculed to this day.
Could I recover?
Corey Bull, Kevin Bishop, and Odin Balfore: three of the most devastating and intimidating forces had all begun targeting her. They all tried to crush her will and spirit, yet she eclipsed them with victories and deception. Instead of letting their punishment derail her, they propelled her to finally write her own legacy. When she won the championship a second time, it was on her own terms. She rewarded herself for a year of steadily climbing Action Wrestling ranks. But she broke trust along the way. Bonds she’d forged, hearts she’d captured.
I thought I was healed.
Dandy put her on the shelf for 42 days. Her back was wrecked from Odin’s powerbombs and Corey’s chokeslams. Her teeth; chipped from Kevin’s big-boot. Her arms; still scarred from the barbed-wire ropes. There was still a faint white line running across her calf from the jagged scissors. But that had invigorated her. Rejuvenated her. She was a fighter. A survivor. A champion. But it all ended with the sound of a hand slapping the mat three-times, and the loud, shrill dinging of the timekeeper’s bell. She looked in the ring, and saw Frank Venable defeating Adelaide Ainsworth. The wounds would open again.
What’s the point?
She looked down at her empty waist. She thumbed her flesh, poking out of the top of her underwear. She rose to her feet, grabbed the blade, took a deep breath... and sliced open her skin, gashing two-inches across, puncturing deeper than she wanted. And she felt the sting, the burn, the warmth as blood pooled down at her feet. She remembered violating her body before, and how it drove her to victory. But this time, high-waisted wrestling tights wouldn’t suffice. She had chosen a spot that could be covered by one thing, and one thing only.
The World Championship.
***
***
Hope is what you are;
And hope is what you’ll remain.
Casey Holliday
Havoc Rumble can be any tool you need it to be. It can be a vehicle for restoration, or an apparatus for validation. It can be a stepping stone, an ultimate challenge to climb the mountain. It can be humbling, it can derail even those shining the brightest. It could cement your status as one of the best this sport has ever seen.
But there can only be one winner of the Havoc Rumble. Only one who punches the ticket to Evolution to fight for the World Heavyweight Championship.
I’m going to hear sixty-different-ways, from sixty-different-mouths, that I have choked on the grandest of stages. That I’ve neutered my own legacy with failure when I held the world in my hands. That I led the biggest company in the universe, twice, and I didn’t have the heart or the dedication to keep my feet stable at the mountain’s peak.
And you’re right.
Lissie Hope is in over her head.
Michael X
I’ve not forgotten a single thing you’ve ever said, Action Wrestling. I know everything you’ve always thought, and even when things are going right, I hear all of your doubts echoing in my head. When I sleep; when I dream; when I’m in that ring. I know I’ve never been the champion you envisioned, or the one you wanted to stand behind. You were never going to lift me up. I was an idiot for ever thinking I could change your minds.
I was naive for hoping I could ever be accepted. I was wrong for feeling like I’d ever garnered your respect. I was stupid to think twenty-seven days was ever sufficient. Because it’s not.
Lissie Hope is no better than mediocre.
Jared Holmes
I know I can do better.
No matter how many ways I have to indulge that I’m an accidental champion, a fluke, a gutless coward who didn’t have balls to go All-In, no matter that I have to hear these sentiments from fifty-some-odd bootlickers who’d suck dick on a streetcorner to get on my level, to attain the accolades I’ve given my blood for, in under a year…
I agree with you.
I’m not satisfied, Action Wrestling. Not with how things have gone. Not with how my legacy has come under scrutiny. Not with what little I accomplished after winning the strap twice. I’m not gonna lie; your hatred and your vitriol for me has affected me deeply. It cuts deep. But no one will ever be harder on me than I am on myself.
There’s still a lot we need to see from Lissie Hope.
Spencer Adams
But that’s the beauty of the Havoc Rumble, ain’t it? We all decide how we choose to use it. I’m choosing to wipe the slate clean. I’m using it to replenish my drive, harness my energy, fulfill my destiny. My heart was fucking broken. But now, it’s time for restoration. My heart won’t bleed for you anymore. You’ve ripped it out too many times already, and all that remains is an empty vessel. Hardened. Blackened.
And believe me, Action Wrestling: that makes me your fucking nightmare.
Everyone is hoping Lissie
can be the next breakout star.
Kyle Kemp
Lissie Hope hasn’t even scratched the fucking surface.
I’ve done everything most of you’ve only dreamed of - All-In winner, two-time World Champion - and I’m still getting better. And that’s what scares you the most, doesn’t it? The fact that I have ambitions of being the next Joey Flash, going on an unbeatable run for the ages; the difference being that I won’t be satisfied if I flame out after match-sixty, praying to the wrestling gods for any kind of victory so I don’t tarnish my name any more than I already have. The fact that I have the talent to usurp Ryan Lockhart, an unprecedented champion of eight-months, who finally saw a surge of challengers not named Jaice Wilds and it tickled his loins so much that he poked his head out of the bunker.
I will scream it from the rafters until I fucking get them, but I still have two World Championship rematches that I’ve yet to collect, and that puts me right in line to become only the second three-time World Champion, equaling the most disingenuous of them all, Frank Venable. A ‘good’ man in this business. A man with two championship wins over me that are clouded with asterisks, as he needed two others to beat me in November and needed to pin the third wheel two weeks ago.
These are the facts.
There are no ‘good’ men left in Action Wrestling. If Frank Venable is the model to emulate, the effigy you worship, then I’m burning it to the fucking ground!
These are the facts!
I know you don’t wanna hear ‘em, I know your revisionist history likes to discredit ‘em, but these are the fucking facts. Venable came into Havoc last year as a surprise entrant, riding on prestige from WCF but it never felt like he was arriving with championship aspirations. He hooked his claws into a burnt-out Roy Speede with a joke of a money-grab, and formed a tag-team-that-never-was with his biggest cheerleader, Corey Black. Two legendary names that are indisputably past their prime, who had settled and didn’t push for more. And if it wasn’t for a sponsorship opportunity and a fan-vote to get into Turmoil, Venable would have settled himself.
This complacency is not the hallmark of a World Champion to stand behind. Black, you never strived to be the best. You have the pedigree, and the momentum; you’ve had the legacy and the support and the fucking ability to be the greatest, but you ducked and hid behind him and let him steal your shine. You’re a fucking coward.
You’ve allowed yourself to set records against the likes of do-nothings like Wayne Austin, Alex Scott, and that Pizza Guy. Are you fucking kidding me, Corey? This is what you’ve come to? This is how you arrived at 245? Peeling cheese and pepperoni off yourself instead of thumbtacks and barbed-wire? Disgraceful.
Frank, somehow, you’re even worse.
Three-times, you’ve lost your World Championship, and you’ve just carried on, like nothing’s changed. You enter little-league lockerrooms and act as if your shit-don’t-stink, bringing Corey along for the ride. Since the Man Made Frauds have been a futile non-entity in Action Wrestling, used only as a vehicle to keep Kaiju Collins in our collective conscience, you want them to mean something… somewhere. So you collect these straps and place them on your mantle, not realizing that you’re undermining the one that fucking matters!
Losing the World Championship crushed me. Twice. By your own admission, it’s back-to-work as usual for you. You were more devastated by that boy-toy of yours finally kicking your ass to the curb. No, Frank. It’s supposed to hurt. I welcome the hurt. I feed off the punishment. It takes a little bit of self-reflection, but it pushes me forward, because I’m hungry to reclaim that glory. I’m prepared to fight, to win, to survive - to kill all else’s hope.
Lissie Hope is just the flavor-of-the-month.
Claire Hawkins
J.C. Keeton and Noris Cranley are seeing their stocks rising as they’ve picked up huge victories the past few weeks. The wrestling world is beginning to talk these two young bucks up as a couple of darkhorses who could shock the system. James Nightingale and Graham Baker are mildly different, as their near-victories over Corey Black and their blood-feuds with Sam Kidsgrove and Carnivore have thrusted them into the spotlight.
I identify a lot with these four.
A year ago, I came in hot. I collected two victories, one over a recent friend in Derrick Vayden, and was awarded an opportunity to gun for Kidsgrove’s International Championship. Like Baker, like Nightingale… I was humbled. I was still forcing myself into the headlines… the ‘next!big!thing!’... and I carried that into Havoc and Uprising and, well, y’all saw what happened next.
Can you run with the torch? Can you make as big-a-splash as I did? As Lockhart did? Are you able to step out of my shadow and strike when the fire’s hot? You’ve got the world at your fingertips, boys! I co-wrote the blueprint to having one of the most memorable rookie seasons in Action Wrestling history! If I were you, I’d heed my advice. Nobody was there, handing me the tools.
Consider it a courtesy.
Or, and I feel this is more likely, you’re gonna hop on the bandwagon. You’re gonna swing your ax at my head and try to discredit the impact I’ve had on this business. You’ll echo what you’re hearing from degenerates like DiVito and Balfore. Venable and Black. That I’m just a mental bum, cratering when I’ve got the spotlight over my head. But at least they’ve been there. At least there’s some credibility behind their vitriol. At least people believe them. As for you? You’ll need to get that spotlight first, before you’ll ever have a case to fucking say it.
You can swing, boys. But you’ll fucking miss.
I’m not losing to any woman [like Lissie Hope].
Lincoln Kuechly
When you hear men like Kevin Bishop and Corey Bull and Cassidy Adler speak about me, and target me; torture and humiliate me… there’s that tinge of misogyny in their words, ain’t there? I can’t be the only one who hears it. They view me as weak, inferior, a lesser being. Bishop, in particular, thought he could ride my success because he’s desperate for some of his own. He knows his time’s passed, his UCI legacy floating in the shitter, and he wanted to use me to reclaim it. But I’m no one’s pawn. And he had to learn that lesson the hard way.
Three times, he’s had the chance to swallow me whole, reinvent himself in Action Wrestling as someone who could best a champion. Just like he tried with Casey Holliday. With Shadowlove. And every time, he failed so fucking badly that now he’s a running joke, disappearing for months at a time after every hopeless attempt to dick-ride someone else, but getting a boot to his chest, right back in that grave in the process. Bishop is Resurrection Man himself! Sorry, Jason O’Neal… he’s trademarked that shit already.
I’m no one’s toy, Corey Bull. I can’t believe you’re still lugging that puppet around, running your fingers through it’s hair, channeling my spirit like it’s a fucking voodoo doll. It hasn’t worked for you, so just let it go already, you fucking lunatic. You aren’t going to become a champion just ‘cause you’ve stuck your dick in that thing. The biggest menace in this industry needs the championship recipe from a 5’5”, 135-pound-warrior. It’s sad, Corey. I thought you were better than that. Show me something. Show me something real. Don’t make the same mistake that Karlie Nash did, who thought she could finger-fuck a tunnel to my soul, and pull the heart of-a-champion out my ass. Don’t travel the same road as Adelaide Ainsworth, who thought driving her snatch into my own fucking brother’s face would actually carry her to superstardom.
It’s sad how much you’re all so obsessed with me.
Lissie, for shame... you’re not our hope.
TFK
But I get it. I understand how I’ve been the model to emulate. The one you could look up to. I broke through every wall, blazed every trail, and now, upstarts like spooky-bois Raging Dead and Kancer, Jeremiah Gail and Azurine Vebbins, Kagura Yamamoto and Masuda Teijin, Grayson Ward and Carter Shaw… y’all have a little hope in this industry. For a while, I wanted to be your hero. I welcomed that responsibility.
But then I came back to reality. You haven’t earned my blood. You don’t respect it. Acknowledge it. Appreciate it. It took awhile to realize it, but seeing how quickly your backs can turn, and feeling that dagger in the center of my spine, I have clarity. And now, I bleed for no one but myself.
That’s the champion’s way, ain’t it? Cassidy and Olive Adler are so goddamn narcissistic that they can’t even appreciate the roles they fulfill. They spend so much time at each other’s throats, trying to one-up one another, that they don’t even realize they’re sabotaging themselves. It’ll happen sooner than later; they’re so fucking ego-driven and it’s driving a wedge in that partnership before they even blink.
It happened quickly for KOS and Crow McMorris. They had the world fooled when they formed this unbeatable alliance, two future Hall-of-Famers burying the hatchet and striking fear in a blossoming tag-team division. They both have the credentials to challenge for more, but they chose to stay dormant. They didn’t strive for greatness. Until they finally realized that they would be better off independent, that is…
And it ain’t wrong to be a little selfish. When you’re aiming at the bullseye, an’ya want the world to bow at your feet, you don’t take a page out of Frank Venable’s playbook.
What you do, is push hard. Cut the cord. There’s no fear in failure.
I’m not sure who’s worse:
Lissie Hope or Hazel Overton.
Zombie McMorris
One year ago, Wesley was a joke in the lockerroom. He had a promising pedigree, a championship lineage, but found he had shackled himself to inadequacy. And it was comfortable for him. He didn’t want the pressure, so he contained himself to levels where he didn’t need to feel any pressure. But it finally dawned on him; becoming one of the greatest tag-team champions ever, now a defending US Champion, and carrying that momentum into a BattleBowl victory. Wesley embraced his black heart.
One year ago, QDT was dominating the Cruiserweights. He decided to punch-above his weight, came out firing with a little plaster in his glove, set the record for eliminations. He was on the road-to-superstardom! The little engine that could! QDT was destined to become a World “Champion… but two things stopped him dead. The Leviathan… and Lissie ‘fuckin Hope. All-In was supposed to be QDT’s shining moment. That was going to propel him into the main-event, and I stuck my heel on his throat. With no other choice, he took his banishment back to the Cruiserworld on the chin. That’s where our paths crossed. And that’s where they diverged.
A tale-of-two trajectories. Question for all the rookies trying to use Havoc as a stepping-stone. Would you rather be like me? Carrying forward your momentum to great heights, proving every-and-all doubter wrong in the process? Or do you want to be like Quixote, seeing the promised land just beyond your grasp, and watching as someone else snatches it from you?
Lissie Hope is not worth minimal contemplation.
QDT
What are your names, anyway? Not that I care. There’s about fifteen-of-you who won’t get the satisfaction of hearing your names uttered tonight. It’s nothing personal, I just don’t do things like everyone else. I don’t need to shit-talk everyone in this thing. I’m not Flash or DiVito. I’m certainly not going to trash my friends Estrella, Geri, or Derrick (sick burns, bro). And I’m absolutely not going to give any thought to secret entrants, either (Hi, Kennedy!).
There’s a reason why my name is on the tongues of sixty-mouths, and yours won’t be. I’m a threat in this game. I’m expected to be standing towards the final bell, whether I arrive at #1, or #20, or #50. I’ve infected all of your brains, while you’re jumping up-and-down, hoping I notice you. Don’t worry, children. It could come for you… it just won’t be on my time.
Y’see, you’re all toddlers, pushing each other on my swings. But Havoc is my playground, and I’m the bully in the yard.
Dandy DiVito thinks he’s a bully. He’s a vulgar and quick-witted troll who just happens to find himself dick-deep in the title picture five-months of isolation - at my hand, mind you. I wouldn’t say people respect him, especially when he spent months face-fucking Alex Richards’ cum-crusted taint, but they do acknowledge that’s he’s got the brain to weasel his way into and out of anything.
Walter does it by force. He terrorizes his way through Wrestler of the Year, wins a World Championship, loses in seconds to Odin Balfore of all people - and disappears off the face of the earth. And now, at Higher Ground, he chose to make his grand-return to strike more fear in everyone’s hearts - but here’s the truth, Walter. A black heart fears nothing. Not even Action Wrestling’s cancer.
A black heart doesn’t ignite in the inferno, Teo Blaze. There isn’t a soul left to burn. A black heart doesn’t crush under your boots, Balfore. You strengthened it, hardened it, with every powerbomb.
You’ve made me this way. You’ve all held a role in creating the killer. You’ve all pushed me to a point of no return.
Even you, Bonnie Blue. You can try to take credit for ushering in an era of female dominance, but you couldn’t ever take the reigns, could’ya? You planted the seeds, you watched it harvest… and you’re responsible for lowlifes like Jacqui M, someone no-one even realized was still employed. A manifestation of the perpetual revolving-door of dry, boring clones who come to the ring looking their best, and trying their least.
But when ghosts from your past like Damien Kaine come out of hiding to shit on your parade, that really undermines any claim you’ve had of being World Championship calibre.
I thank you, though. You’ve given me the tools to harvest seeds of my own. I am responsible for an archetype like Adelaide Ainsworth, a heavyweight-challenger that blossomed from my womb, who now realizes that anything is possible for her! Pathetic fucking slut, so far up my ass that she’ll fuck her way to a first-hand account of what it takes to be a fucking champion.
Lissie Hope is years away.
Alex Richards
44 days.
I am not satisfied until I beat Alex Richards in 44 days.
Y’see, he told me I was years away from even being relevant in Action Wrestling. You’ve all told me I wasn’t good enough from the day I arrived. And week-by-week, I’ve made you eat all your fucking words. Here we are, drawing up to my second Havoc, and I’m hearing from sixty-more of you… that I’m not good enough.
That I wilt under the spotlight.
That I’m in over my head.
That I’m no better than mediocre.
And y’know what? Keep fucking saying it. Because that’s what drives me. That’s what keeps me going. Those are just flesh-wounds. I’ve been cut way deeper than that. Heed my warning: keep my head in your fucking crosshairs, and don’t hesitate. Pull the trigger. Take your fucking shot.
But you better make damn sure you don’t fucking miss.