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Post by Josh Duncan on Oct 31, 2014 22:36:19 GMT -6
1 RP Max. 300 word minimum. Deadline is November 15th at 11:59 PM Eastern.
Jamie Steel vs. Matt Kail vs. Suzume Mitsuyoshi vs. Whiskey Ayano vs. Zack Lifer vs. Laurel Anne Hardy
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red
PWP Competitors
Posts: 6 
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Post by red on Nov 15, 2014 21:52:54 GMT -6
Her hand sapped against the cold metal doorframe and pushed it open slowly. A slow pulse in her head made her groan as she made the effort. As she stepped into the gym, her eyes were overcome with the lights hanging from the ceiling, starkly contrasting with the ever present grey in the sky outside. The lights made her grumble with even more disdain.
As she stumbled into the gym, a loud, high pitched and aggressively cheerful voice berated her ears, “Goooooooood morning Miss Steel!”
Jamie pulled the aviator glasses from her eyes and stared at the short, black haired woman before her. Nikki Song gave a small wink, and Jamie grunted at her in response, “Why do you still insist on doing that every bleeding time?”
Jamie walked past Nikki, and threw her gym bag onto a chair pressed against the wall. She turned and dropped onto a seat and glanced up at the irritatingly chipper Song. Nikki followed her, a grin spread on her face. While she may have been one of Jamie’s best friends, she supressed the urge to punch her frequently for this very reason.
“Why do you still insist on going out most nights and getting so drunk that you come to the gym like this?” Nikki countered, planting herself firmly on the spot in front of Jamie before producing a steaming cup of coffee.
Taking the cup from Nikki’s hand, Jamie leaned back, “Because I have some severe problems that I should probably look into?”
Nikki made an audible hum, and then nodded, “That’s probably why you agreed to this whole hardcore thing, I suspect.” Nikki concluded, before seating herself next to her room mat and training partner.
Jamie only nodded, nursing the pulse in her head with the hot liquid in her cup. She took a moment before opening an eye and glancing to Nikki, “No, I just like hitting people, love.”
“Well, keep in mind that two of the people you’ll be trying to hit are technically students of mine.”
A slow nod met the reminder, and Jamie scoffed, “The Kail kid is one hundred percent devil, we both know that. And the same can be said for Laurel, all be it devils that lack the big guys specific charm.”
Nikki only chuckled in response, and dropped the subject, “So, are you sure you’re up to this thing. You’re a good wrestler Jamie, but you’re not exactly the most familiar with the format.” Nikki wore a concerned expression.
“Yeah, I’m good to go. How hard can it be to hit some people with some chairs and such junk?” She acted out the motion in the air, aiming her imaginary weapon in slow motion at Nikki’s head, “And who am I to turn down some tape time. It’s been a long time since I was in anything but a gym match.”
“Which is okay of course. I’ve never really been involved in wrestling for fame or anything. A little recognition every now and then is just nice, ya know?” She tacked on hastily, as Nikki shot her a knowing smirk.
Jamie had a mixed bag of issues when it came to her wrestling career. On one hand, she was a fantastic wrestler, dedicated to her craft and constantly improving. In the other hand, her other big love in life made her a bit of a risk in the eyes of many promoters. She had wrestled her fair share of poor matches, and it was a sure bet that most of those poor matches were wrestled with a headache and less sleep than anyone should have to perform well.
“It may not be hard, but some of these people are bred to be aggressive, trained in the hardcore style like it is an art form… You’re a purist. Not exactly the same sort of animal.” Nikki pressed the issue, a note of concern lacing itself into her words.
Jamie waved off the concern, “That’s why we come here then, isn’t it?” She gestured to the gym ther were sitting in, “And last I checked, you had a hand in two of these psychos training. So I assume you know what sort of shit they got put through. Why not help me out?”
Jamie stood up as her headache ebbed and took a deep breath. She wasn’t fond of saying such things out loud, but she was scared. Nikki was very right, Jamie had a small number of hardcore matches under her belt. And she had won very few of them. And even further still, many people claimed that the single hardcore win she had was in fact an accident.
Jamie pulled her bag off of the chair, but kept her eyes locked on Nikki. She knew that the other woman had some things that she needed to come to grips with. Especially when it came to things that she associated with him. Nikki had been there for the training of two of Jamie’s opponents. She knew methods and tactics and the psychology that needed to be taught to help wrestlers embrace the hardcore nature.
“Look, Nik… I know you don’t want to. And you’ve been trying to reinvent yourself, and shake that image. But I need your help, all right?”
Nikki smirked as Jamie continued to press the question, “Is the invincible Jamie Steel asking little old me to make her into a monster?”
Jamie nodded, “Yeah, I s’pose I am.”
Nikki nodded slowly, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Jamie smiled coolly, “All right then. I’ll go get into some proper training duds then.” She threw her bag over her shoulder and headed toward the changing rooms across the gym.
“Oh, and Jamie.” Nikki called and Jamie stopped, glancing over her shoulder. There was an unfamiliar look on Nikki’s face, “Keep in mind that when we train like THIS, I’m not your best friend anymore.”
Jamie looked away and visibly shuddered. There was a surprising amount of punch behind those words. Even coming from a lady the size of Nikki. She felt fear beginning to creep up on her, and tried her best to supress it. This would go a long way. It had to, right?
=-=
The image on the screen comes to life, and Jamie Steel is on screen, pacing slowly. Behind her, is a hastily thrown together bed, with a dozen mismatched pillows piled on top, and what appears to be a handmade cover draped over everything else. There are a couple of shelves located high on the walls, holding a variety of items, from replica wrestling titles, to large stuffed animals.
Steel stops her pacing and glances at the camera, “I’m going to jump straight out on this thing by saying that this is not what I normally do. I’ve never been really good at talking about wrestling. The entire idea just seems weird, ya know?” Jamie runs a hand through her hair, which is one step away from being a complete mess. By all appearances, she must have jumped out of bed and then immediately set up the camera.
“What I am used to, is getting a match, going to gym while the promoter handles all of this shit, and then showing up at a gym somewhere in the Southern US, or the UK and wrestling for a handful of people who generally tolerate my shit.”
“What I don’t do is stand back and talk shit. I don’t run my mouth, saying that I can beat wrestler A with my hand tied behind my back, or that I’m going to make wrestler B tap like a little bitch.” She stops and then shakes her head, “Because if anyone knows shit about me, they know that I’m just not that good at the end of the day.”
Jamie begins to pace again, her nerves are becoming evident, but she doesn’t appear to be losing her mind at the idea of the match, more at the uncomfortableness of being in front of a camera, “I mean yeah, I’ve won my fair share of matches. And I’ve held a few pieces of gold doing it. But it’s mostly shit none of you have ever heard of. And what those victories and titles most certainly were not, was hardcore.” The word comes slowly, pushing forward the serious nature of a hardcore contest.
“And if you’re watching this, then you know that at PWP 13, I am one of the lucky people to jump into the ring for the Laurel Anne Hardy Death Match Invitational.” She stops and closes her eyes, taking in a deep breath, “Which I repeat, I normally do not do. In this case though, I couldn’t turn it down.”
“I did this time because I may not be some sort of violent prodigy, who has built my career of smashing people with chairs, or putting folks through tables, or throwing them off of fifteen foot ladders, but I am someone who appreciates a rush.”
“I’ve lived the vast majority of my adult life with a non-stop, do or die attitude. I am up all night, and more often than not, up all day. At night I drink until my lung says ‘fuck this shit’, at day I hit the gym so hard, it gets a restraining order against me.” She stops pacing and begins to stare into the camera, “So when I got this little invitation I thought, yeah, why the fuck not. Why is it that Jamie Steel can’t be a hardcore wrestler? So I called up Laurel, and I said fuck yeah.”
“Which of course I’ve been kicking myself for ever since. I mean hell, I agreed to step into a ring with five other people who not only are good at this kind of thing. And on top of that, I also agreed to fight a bunch of folks who actually fucking like this sort of thing.” A look of bewilderment comes onto Jamie’s face, and she shakes her head.
“Let’s break down a little bit shall we. We have Matt Kail and Laurel Anne Hardy, who both trained underneath Shane fuckin’ Tallin. Both of them are not only absolutely brilliant in the ring, but trained underneath a certified lunatic. Laurel has won entire tournaments based off of this thing, and they were part of a faction that killed an entire company that prided itself on being ridiculously violent.” She shakes her head listing off the facts, but she keeps the uncomfortable expression from earlier away.
“Then you have the Kansai Star graduate Suzume Mitsuyoshi. A tag team specialist who likes to fly around the ring. And while sure, she may not have a ton of hardcore nonsense attached to her name, bt if you have ever witnessed a Japanese style death match, then you have seen some serious shit.” Jamie nods slowly, as if trying to empathize with whomever may watch the video, “So we have a little Japanese chick who wants to jump around the ring in a hardcore match and prove herself as a competitor… I don’t care what you see. I see dangerous.”
“And then we have Zack Lifer…” She pauses, she knows the name carries some weight and some amount of recognition, “I mentioned a certified psychopath earlier. And I’m pretty damn positive I’m talking about one now. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Zack. But what I do know is that this is a dangerous man who can sway people to his way of thinking. Who probably likes smashing people with chairs and shit. And someone who, if I am being totally honest, I’m not exactly pleased about having to fight.”
“And last, but most certainly not least. Whiskey fuckin’ Ayano.” Jamie stops and lets out a full sigh, “I have a lot of respect for Whiskey. Again, we’ve never had the pleasure. But what I know is that like myself, and young Miss Hardy, is that she is a nonstop, full tilt kind of gal. And she likes to fight just as much as the next person. And because of that alone she is dangerous. That’s not even counting just how damn good she is in the ring.”
Jamie lifts her arms quickly, gestures to herself and chuckles a little bit, “So that just begs the question of what the hell I am going to do to try and hang with this batch of psychos, rising stars, and all ‘round bad ass mother fuckers?” She drops her arms and steps a little closer to the camera, “I, ladies and gentlemen am going to do what Jamie Steel does better than even drinking. I am going to go in the ring, try my damndest to not get my skull crushed by a pipe or set of steps, and I am going to fight. And while it may sound like I am playing myself down. I want to put you all on notice. I am not to be trifled with, regardless of being utter shit at hardcore matches. And I will claw, bite and smash my way through all of you to try and win this son of a bitch.” Jamie gives one final nod and reaches toward the camera to flick it off.
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Post by whiskey on Nov 15, 2014 22:41:54 GMT -6
(November 15th, 2014)
The sunlight beamed through the slight opening in her living room drapes to land - naturally - squarely on the face of the passed out form of one “Deep-South Dragon”... she grunts painfully at the bright glare of what she had often jokingly referred to as God’s flashlight as it enters her bleary, hungover vision with the power of a thousand screaming meteors. Trying to blink the pain away unsuccesfully, she she starts to take a physical inventory to double check she didn’t lose anything vital during the previous night’s festivities.
… she wiggles her fingers…
… she wiggles her toes…
… miraculously her mouth doesn’t taste like vomit…
… she WAS a little bit chilly, a moment more of awareness and she realizes the reason for that is that she passed out ass-naked under her own coffee table.
Satisfied that there were no injuries beyond her liver cashing in the receipt for last night’s booze-binge she finally does a visual take of her surroundings. The stack of booze, empty bottles and cans surrounding made her feel as if she had spent a good portion of her evening creating beer-can angels on the hardwood. On the couch slightly to her right her roommate Mikaela Kidman was passed out face down on the cushions, a thankfully empty bucket resting alongside the couch beside her.
Wherever Suzume - who had also been there the previous night - had slept was thus far a mystery, the possibility of her tag-team partner being a drunken wanderlust through downtown Nashville earned an attempt at a chuckle that came out like a thunderclap in her rattled head. She groans, lifting lead-like arms to clutch at her own skull a moment until it stopped ringing.
As her wherewithal comes back she steals herself for the hardest thing she’d have to do all weekend: get up. A deep breath and she shifts her weight against her bodies’ protestations, aches and pains sear her as she rotates onto her stomach, her head bumping off the coffee table earns a grumbling curse, the popping all down her back and even through her hips is an indicator that when she went down for the count from the booze last night it was hard, it was as if she hadn’t moved at all.
The shift spikes her nausea and she sets her forehead against the cool hardwood, willing the bile back down her throat, her mind basically pleading with her own body to stop the suspicious rumbling that was likely to leave the contents of her stomach to decorate her floor. She was in enough pain, and furthermore she really, REALLY didn’t wanna wake up Mika to the sounds of her heaving her guts up all over the recently refurbished room she’d put so much effort into.
Trying to focus solely on her breathing and the sound of her pulse thruming through her ears… she dimly gets dragged out of it by light tugging on her hair. She looks up concerned to instead find herself staring into the bright eyes of a kitten.
It takes a second longer for Whiskey to even comprehend why the fuck there was even a cat in her apartment until the previous day’s events came rushing back. That was right… Suzume had been looking at getting a cat for the past several months now, anytime the Deep-South Dragon had travelled to meet or even WITH each other, be it in North America or the odd times Whiskey had made the trip across the Atlantic to meet with her friends their journies eventually seemed to take them to a pet store.
Every single time consisted of her friend fawning over the adorable furry creatures behind the glass, a total emotional investment in the innocent little animals in the span it normally took the woman known as the “Fireball” to finish a shot of rye, and EVERY SINGLE TIME Whiskey had to be the voice of reason to her friend.
It was simple logistics really… Suzume didn’t have a roommate in Raleigh, and often she was on the road when they found an animal she desperately wanted so there was no real way for her to care for it when they had to wrestle or travel.
The moment when Mika had looked at Whiskey and asked about getting a dog - as well as promised that she could look after one while Whiskey travelled - gave her the opportunity she needed to help her friend out. After all, what was one more animal?
And with that, Suzume Mitsuyoshi finally got her pet kitty… that had to stay at Whiskey’s apartment under the watchful eye of her roommate.
The look that had crossed Suzume’s face when she walked in the door was one Whiskey was sure she was going to keep in her mental rolodex for the rest of her life… the “squee” she made though was the sorta memory that aggrivated her hangover.
Smiling at the small animal Whiskey reaches out and scratches behind the cat’s ear, earning a satisfied purr.
“Where’s your owner-u, huh?”
Between the cat purring and the until recently homeless woman passed out on the couch just mere feet from her, it really meant a lot to Whiskey to see how far along she’d come in regards to how she was able to treat her friends… it seemed not too long ago that all her friends had either abandoned her, or were never there to begin with…
The Deep-South Dragon pushes her way to her feet, scooping the cat up with her.
“Let-u us see if we can-u find your mama-cha- *URK!*”
Momentarily losing sight of her blazing hangover in the kittens cuteness, she feels her stomach heave, shutting her mouth against the cascade of bile threatening to surface, the Drunken Joshi barely avoids puking on Suzume’s pussy… cat, her pussy cat, Jesus Christ…
Unwilling to toss the tiny animal she hurriedly scurries through to the washroom, trying desparetely not to eat shit over the plethroa of can and bottles nor wake Mika who was still blissfully unconscious on the couch.
Bursting into the washroom Whiskey discovers exactly where Suzume had spent her night, half-naked in a bathtub, seeing a chance to set the kitty down, Whiskey all but drops the cat on her passed out friend, and as she flips up the toilet lid and gets into position to bow to the porcelain god, three things happen.
Number one: Suzume wakes up as the kitten lands on her chest.
Number two: Suzume discovers the kitten has not been de-clawed.
Number three: Projectile vomiting harmonizes remarkably well with pained screams.
The Deep-South Dragon isn’t cognizant of the kitten-caused nipple perforation behind her as her stomach get it’s revenge for her latent abuse.
And so off into the morning they go…
____________
[[The camera fades in from black to reveal Whiskey Ayano, currently looking like death and alternating swigs from a bottle of vodka and a bottle of water… realizing we’re now filming she sighs and sets everything down]]
“Hello PWP fans, it-u is me, the drunken Japanese lady you all-u watched V-kun attempt to murder just-u over a month ago, Whiskey Ayano. Whiskey bets you didn’t expect to see her-u back in a PWP ring again-u so soon and frankly, if-u you were to ask Whiskey neither did she! Not-u to take anything from Josh Duncan, he’s got-u something really fun going on-u with this company, but considering how Whiskey left-u the arena last time… you remember: unconscious, bleeding and what not. It just didn’t-u seem like it was-u in the cards.”
“Well-u, here was are just-u a s hort time later and Whiskey’s back-u, and shockingly, in another deathmatch. Whiskey has-u recieved a few inquiries, the why and-u the how. She’s also received some-u criticism about-u it… people wonder if-u Whiskey enjoyed getting torn to shreds-u by glass, and dumped on barbed wire and-u what not. They ask-u if Whiskey’s gone made to jump-u into this scenario again considering how her last-u time went”
“Well-u the thing it Whiskey can’t really decide if-u she enjoyed her first death match-u or not, she wasn’t in-u the mindset to have a good time then-u, she kinda had-u her mind on other things… like not getting dumped into a chastity belt-u and an upcoming match-u against Legacy, so this-u is gonna be the sophomore run of-u how Whiskey works in an environment where all weapons are legal”
“It-u only makes sense, who knows, Whiskey might-u end up liking it! Whiskey means it-u is not like everyone liked-u anal sex their first time, maybe Whiskey has to break herself in-u on it. Hell Laurel-chan-u seems to be really taken with the match type-u in the context of an-u art-form, and who is Whiskey to argue?”
“Besides, the entire context-u surrounding this match is-u far different from how Whiskey approached her first one-u. This match-u wasn’t pitched to Whiskey because somebody wants to hurt her, she was ASKED to be in-u this match by her good friend Laurel-chan for the purpose of-u fun!”
“Some of-u you more close-minded people must-u be sitting at home wondering how bleeding and-u getting sliced to ribbons could be fun-u? You think Laurel-chan might be ‘off’ and-u to you Whiskey says to loosen up-u and jerk it to some BDSM porn, people are into what-u they’re into, and Laurel-chan has-u been wound so tight by some of-u the jerks she fights day in and day out-u elsewhere that she needs to cut-u loose how SHE wants to”
“Frankly, Whiskey’s flattered that-u she was asked…”
“Now there are an-u assortment of other wrestlers in this-u match, two Whiskey doesn’t know much of-u, one she knows from-u Twitter and some mild viewing of IWF, Laurel-chan-u herself, and Suzu-chan, who is-u Whiskey’s new tag team partner”
“To Jamie and-u Matt… Whiskey apologizes if this-u seems unprofessional of-u her but she didn’t take-u the time to look either of you up-u, between the travel and-u her personal life being in upheaval this past-u few weeks, Whiskey is following the lead-u of Laurel-chan and-u is taking this as an opportunity to relax in sheer, mindless-u violence. She looks forward-u to seeing what the two of you can-u do out there and hopes that-u you both have fun!”
“Zach-kun, Whiskey has heard some stuff-u about you, and interacted with-u you very little over Twitter. You seem-u to be entertaining, and-u have an air about you that-u really indicates that you at least appear to be trying to have-u fun when you’re in the ring, even if-u the business often times doesn’t allow it. You’ve been-u in a lot more of these matches than Whiskey ever has-u, so maybe you can-u keep Laurel-chan from killing us all in-u her own version of a playground!”
“Suzu-chan… Whiskey is happy you decided-u to get involved in this too, we’re partners and-u if there’s one way for a new tag-u team to bond, it’s blasting each other in-u the teeth with foreign objects! Whiskey kids, she kids… but-u seriously Suzu-chan, Whiskey cost-u you your first match-u in Sin City Wrestling and-u if you wanna take out any of that-u frustration on-u Whiskey - or the frustration from HKW or SSWA - than-u you go ahead and-u do so, you deserve a lot-u more than the raw deals you’ve been-u given over the past month-u and the sooner you dump-u that mental weight? The better off-u you’ll be. This-u isn’t a match with the intent to murder, Suzu-chan, this-u one is for fun… also Whiskey knows you have some-u history with this sorta stuff, so even if you deny it-u, Whiskey knows you’ll have them weapon-swinging arms ready!”
“Lastly to Laurel-chan-u… thank you for inviting Whiskey to be a part-u of this. Seriously, it-u might not seem like much, but-u spilling blood is-u one of those things that-u only a certain type is able to do on a regular basis, even-u within the paradigm of-u pro-wrestling… Whiskey knows she is-u new to death matches and-u she hopes she won’t leave-u you wanting. Whiskey hopes this-u is exactly the thing you need-u to get your head on straight, and-u that once this match is done we can-u celebrate with some cold drinks… even-u if some of us might-u haveta wait to get out of the hospital with fresh stitches and-u slings”
“Whiskey can’t lie that she is-u a bit nervous… that-u maybe she’s out of her element and-u the match against V-kun was her just being first-match lucky, but-u she’s not willing to back down-u or leave, because a friend needs Whiskey here, a friend WANTS Whiskey here to share in-u the experiences, in-u Laurel’s art, and-u for a friend - a TRUE friend-u - Whiskey will go some long distances… even-u if it means she’ll need an intravenous blood-u transfusion afterwards. So get-u ready everyone, the Fireball is-u in this for the right-u reasons!”
[[The camera fades to black… then from the blackness we hear the parting line]]
“... and-u Whiskey hopes Laurel-chan finally sleeps with-u Whiskey for this!”
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sam
PWP Competitors
Posts: 6 
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Post by sam on Nov 15, 2014 22:56:33 GMT -6
Another loss--another loss to pile on. It marked 4 straight, and 5 matches since she'd won one. The fact that she'd gone the entire past 30 days without a victory--and only one draw keeping her above a complete 0-fer--was starting to drive Suzume crazy. None of them were decent defeats either; at the SSWA SuperShow, AJ Thomas didn't want to fight in the ring, and the match ended in a count out; in Sin City Wrestling's Queen of Sin, she was eliminated illegally when Sherry Diamond came back in after being eliminated; she was disqualified by AJ Thomas in her first United Kingdom Cup match, eliminated her from the tournament; she and AJ again brawled out of the ring, resulting in Alexa Corra putting down Sylar Drake; and lastly, back in Sin City Wrestling, Sherry Diamond tripping her from outside the ring saved Marissa Kane from being beaten, and Suzume was unable to save Whiskey Ayano from being pinned by "Champagne."
In no way, in any of her last 5 matches, had Suzume been outperformed...she hadn't been BEATEN, she hadn't been out-wrestled. And yet, she stood with a record in the last thirty days of 0-4-1; the irony of it all being that she'd yet to be pinned. She hadn't taken a fall in the month, yet she hadn't managed to win a match. She hadn't been pinned...yet she hadn't won anything. If she had just been beaten...that was something she could swallow. If she was out-wrestled, in whatever style her opponent had, that was something Suzume could respect: competition; she knew that wins and losses were consequence of a competitive sport. The fact that she was facing so many ridiculous losses, because of so many things that directly impact her career being blatantly disregarded...
It was a constant search for the proper motivational mindset for the young woman, but something she couldn't quite seem to capitalize on--she needed the win, maybe too desperately. She needed to make the points, but in her struggle to make them, she put herself in jeopardy. She took risks she might not need to take; hell, she added a moonsault to a double foot stomp just for the sake of the extra thrill of it. She picked fights that might not need to picked; AJ Thomas, Marissa Kane, Alexa Corra...Suzume's mouth had gotten her in trouble with all 3 of them...but rather than take up their grievances fairly, they choose to fight dirty--AJ hit her with a pipe, cheating her out of not only the SSWA Title, but the SSWA Pure Title as well; Marissa and Sherry cheated her out of the Queen of Sin and a tag team match; Alexa...well, Alexa was just the beneficiary of AJ's attacks--that didn't stop Suzume from getting herself in trouble with the current SSWA Champion, though.
But her desperation to make up for the various defeats was making her reckless...and she didn't know how to get out of the spiral. She didn't know how to rescue herself from the drain; no victories in 5 matches, despite even returning to Japan, to the Kansai Star dojo, to focus herself...to shut out the outside world, to prevent all the distractions that she thought had been her issues. To focus on the Queen of Sin battle royal, a chance to win something very few ever would...to focus on the inaugural United Kingdom Cup, to potentially become the first ever winner...but none of it happened. None of her plans worked quite to her satisfaction, nothing was going quite the way she'd intended...after a hot start in the USA and in England, she'd slowed to a crawl...and despite being 4-6-1 in her eleven matches in America, she'd only suffered one pinfall defeat...and it was only after interference from AJ Thomas that that happened.
She was desperate...desperate for a win, desperate for the attention that a winning record, a winning reputation, afforded a wrestler. She was desperate to be seen in the same light as her peers--not from the likes of a Marissa Kane or AJ Thomas, people who would write her off as "Whiskey's sex slave," or "another worthless Jap cunt," but from wrestlers who had a sense of pride in what they did...wrestlers who had a sense of honor in their craft.
She was desperate to be seen in the same light as Whiskey Ayano--people could make jokes about the Drunken Joshi, they could crack about her rather excessive alcohol consumption or her choice of sexual partners, but the simple fact was...when Whiskey Ayano stepped into a ring, you had no choice but to respect her.
She was desperate to be seen in the same light as Laurel Anne Hardy--people could call her "crazy," they could call her "a maniac," they could throw any of a countless number of perceived insults at the FGA Tag Team Champion, but again...the fact is, if you're in the ring with Laurel Anne Hardy and you don't respect her...she makes you pay for it.
Suzume knew her reputation didn't measure up to theirs...regardless of ability, regardless of success, she hadn't had the exposure that Whiskey or Laurel had...but she looked at them with envious eyes regardless. She'd watched Whiskey's deathmatch with V; she'd watched Laurel in Pro Wrestling: FRONTIER; she'd watched so much of her friends compete, enviously, wishing she was anything but an afterthought...even in their recent foray into performing as a tag team in Sin City Wrestling, it was impossible to dance around the fact that the team was "Whiskey Ayano...and that other one."
She wasn't Suzume Mitsuyoshi.
She wasn't her own wrestler.
Those who even knew how to pronounce her name might have at least used it, they might have even considered using their team name to avoid the whole issue of naming one first...but to the average joe watching SCW Wildcard last week...she was just "that other Japanese girl." She didn't even have an identity...let alone a reputation to most fans. She was just, in the words of OOKAMI no Chi, "another hard-drinking, fun-loving, hardcore-kawaii lesbian" attached to the Drunken Joshi.
That, she supposed...was why she signed up for this deathmatch; why she'd agreed to fight not one but two good friends, in Whiskey Ayano and Laurel Anne Hardy, and 3 other wrestlers with no rules. That, she supposed, was why this match made sense to her...to fight with no restrictions against not just one, but FIVE people. It was reckless, it was a risk, it was a gamble...but it was perfect. It was a match worth fighting for; not inspired by malice, or by greed, but by a simple need for catharsis...something that anyone who'd so much as spoken to Suzume about wrestling knew she needed.
It was another match that she had something to prove. Another match that she could make a statement, that she could potentially be the one to be remembered...to be talked about. She needed it...more than she cared to admit to herself, it was something she was desperate for...a chance to be the center of attention. It was a selfish motivation, without question--but Suzume wouldn't lie and say she was anything but self-indulgent. Her (regular) drunken nights, both with and without Whiskey...the reckless nature with which she threw herself into conflict, just for the sake of it...more than once, the random women (and, rarely, men) taken back to a hotel room in England...Suzume knew she was a fairly self-indulgent person. The catharsis of a deathmatch not inspired by hatred, but by a mutual need to get frustration out...so what if she needed stitches after?
Hardcore wrestling wasn't outside Suzume's experience--her time in Garbage/Pure Wrestling in Japan included a decent, 6-defense reign as the Flashpoint Champion, forcing her to mix a pure wrestling style with hardcore matches. She'd go from a pure grappling match one show to having the end of a light tube carve her forehead open; she'd go from trading armbars and shoulder locks to thumb tacks and baseball bats. She didn't entirely relish the idea of digging into her G/P bag of toys to fight friends; she wanted to save that for the next SSWA SuperShow, when she has AJ Thomas in an I Quit match; she wanted to save her bag of toys--particularly her favorite G/P keepsake, a barbed wire baseball bat hung like a trophy in her home in Raleigh--for someone who deserved it...
But no sooner was the contract signed...no sooner had she taken the match on...than out the toys came. No sooner had she signed the one-time contract than she was planning the best way to use her trophy-bat...if she chose to bring it along, and not save it for England and AJ Thomas. The part of Suzume that enjoyed the violence, the part of Suzume that didn't mind the taste of her own blood, that didn't worry about stitches or injuries, the part of Suzume that could fight through any pain...that was the part of her that was looking most forward to the match.
Some people aim for titles. Some people aim for to claim superiority in a rivalry. Some people want to burn a company down, start anew. Suzume just waned to be talked about...she just wanted her own identity. She wanted to escape the constant shadows, the overwhelming "but" that followed her throughout her career. "She's good, BUT she's no Candy;" "she's tough, BUT she's no Nomura;" "she's skilled, BUT she's not great." She had to get out from under the shadow of that asterisk, that "but." This match at least gave her the opportunity...
And she needed a chance...
Just a chance...
To stand on the same level as the people she so envied.
OOC: Ugh...sorry guys, I wanted to do more, but between working all day today and writing all night last night, I'm completely fried...this is about the best I could get up. Sorry to Josh and everybody for disappointing.  |
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styg
PWP Competitors
Posts: 9
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Post by styg on Nov 15, 2014 22:58:47 GMT -6
The darkness crystallises around the edges of the screen, growing darker and sharper as orange flare fills the centre. As the flame settles on the tip of the match-head its dirty yellow haze glows against the knowing smile of a young woman.
She winks at us.
As she puts the match to her pipe, the darkness dissipates until we're in soft, low light - bright enough to illuminate the old-fashioned fireplace and wallpaper behind her, not bright enough to be obtrusive. The woman smooths a few creases from the brown tweed of her 1920s-cut three-piece suit, then straightens her kaleidoscope print tie. The deerstalker, I'm afraid, is missing. She smiles as she pretends to notice the camera and rests one elbow on the mantelpiece casually.
"Ladies... gentlemen. I am of course your humble host for this event, The Living Breathing Installation Event of the Millennium, Laurel Anne Hardy. Glad you could join me for this important occasion," she announces, nodding gravely before continuing, "You may be wondering why I've assembled you here in the parlour."
She pauses to tap her pipe, allowing us a little more time to take in the post-Edwardian décor of her surroundings, like the deep crimson-on-burgundy pattern of the wallpaper and the sepia photographs mounted in frames all over the walls. For those with the technology and the patience to zoom in and study them, the photographs are all of various friends of Laurel's from the world of professional wrestling. On a table to the side of the image a gramophone breathes music - hypnotic, bluesy, barely-anachronistic acid jazz - into the edge of audibility.
"It is my sorry duty to inform you," she continues, "That there has been a murder. Gasp you indeed may!" she adds, reacting to her (offscreen) audience, "This has been a heinous crime - one of the worst I've seen in all my years. Perhaps the very worst." She shakes her head sadly. "Worse still, this was not a quick death. The poor victim suffered for years - nay, decades - at cruel, selfish hands. The victim's vitalism, energy, indeed very soul taken advantage of by the callous-minded, layers of flesh gradually stripped away one at a time, until now what remains of the body is unrecognisable." Laurel's disgust and pity are palpable in the sorrow in her icy grey eyes, the lines beneath the Coco Chanel makeup on her face, and the deep, cracking faultlines in her naturally high-pitched voice.
After clearing her throat, she says, "In the case of any murder, no matter how tragic, it must of course fall to someone to conduct an investigation and in this instance, it fell to me. And, ladies and gentlemen, after much flatfooting I am ready to present my findings. The evidence has been weighed, the pieces are in place, and I'm about to reveal the answer to the whodunnit of our generation:
Who killed hardcore wrestling?
Who indeed..."
She raises an eyebrow just a fraction, and one corner of her mouth goes up with it. "You may suppose," she says with the playful menace detectives have earned when it comes time to reveal the villain's identity, "That this is where I get all dramatic, like, 'A killer is you!!', but no my dears, it's at once quite, quite simpler than all that and yet much more complex. You see, hardcore wrestling was killed not by an individual but by a militia, of people who think they're hardcore wrestlers and aren't."
Laurel folds her arms.
"There's more - a lot more - to hardcore wrestling than swinging a chair around or smashing a light tube over someone's head. Anyone can do a few garbage spots," she shrugs. Then she tilts her head down and to the side a little, presenting that eyebrow which has again been raised. She says, "Now, don't accuse me of not knowing my art history. I'm well aware that this is a medium founded on hate - the pioneers of our birth needed ways to express their hatred for one another in ways beyond the conventions of the wrestling match. But the thing to remember is it was born of emotional honesty, not silly alpha contest posturing. It was a true, pure art - originally. But somewhen since then hardcore wrestling was jumped, robbed of its spirit and beaten into a coma by philistines who didn't understand that."
She's grimacing at this point, at once derisive and aggressive, "I'm talkin' about everyone who sees it nothing above an excuse to indulge their depravity. Everyone who uses the word 'badass' unironically. Everyone who has to talk in their promos about how oh-so-cold and oh-so-brutal they are because otherwise, people might forget. Oh yes... I'm all tuned in, I see all the programs. I see people runnin' around with their fists on fire, so desperate to prove how much of a headcase they are. 'No conscience' is the zeitgeist... like that's something to be proud of," she sneers, and spits into the hearth. "The killer is a subset of you; you people who live by making a great show of how bleak and ruthless you are. You think a lack of remorse makes you a monster. You like making people bleed because somewhere deep down in your gut it squirts out into that dark hole of sympathy without empathy.
You're fucking idiots.
You destroy like children pulling the wings off ladybirds. Oh, big clap for you, being so tough," she says with an edge of a growl showing under the faux sympathy, and indeed gives a small round of applause before stating, "You ain't genuine tough, though. You're just underdeveloped toddlers. You destroy because your standby-mode, emotionally stunted brain got the wrong idea about all that FIGHTING SPIRITO~! stuff so you pick on undeserving targets or people who can't defend themselves, and you think that impresses people. You think that people will fear you - because you think that people need to fear you - if you act like a brat who's had their favourite toy taken away. You people are pathetic."
It's clear from the set of her diamond irises that she's genuinely angry now, not just acting it but channelling it. "You have NO. FUCKING. CLUE what it really feels like to be a monster. You think you have the whole story so you tell it with finger puppets - and when a real masterpiece is presented to you, you don't even understand what you're looking at." She throws her arms out to the side a little in disbelief before folding them. "You know what it's like to be strapped to a blast door, them big steel hinges strained to bursting by the nuclear hellstorm you're desperately trying to hold back? No. Course you fucking don't," she says bitterly, shaking her head, "All you know is the rote. You can move a weapon into a human being's flesh at high speed but there's nothing to it beyond lizard brain lashing out and gratification. Any higher understanding to the cultural context of your creations is lost. All it is for you is destruction, destruction, more destruction. And if I've learned one thing above all else in my time as a deathmatch artist, it's that the only people who can't see the problem with blasting an entire city to cinders are those who are simply not capable of it. If you felt the forces I got inside me for even the tiniest fraction of a second, you would learn to respect those forces and stop pretending to have them yourself."
Her body language deflates slightly, and that mournful sparkle comes back into her eyes. Her tone softens as she says, "Hardcore wrestling, the art of the deathmatch, is not about destruction - it's about creation. It's about removing all boundaries and creating an unbearably intense masterpiece in the medium of violence. To lesser hacks, the weapon shots and blood spatters are the finished piece. To the true artists, those are just tools in crafting something more abstract, more unified; an epic work of human emotional release in the form of a wrestling match."
Her gaze holds for a couple of seconds, but she doesn't seem to be looking properly at us anymore. She blinks and turns away momentarily, then gives her pipe a suck only to find it's gone out. Laurel reaches inside her suit jacket to the breast pocket and pulls out a pouch of tobacco, and leans on the mantelpiece to start refilling As she does, without looking up, she begins to speak.
"There's a reason I invited the people I did to this invitational," she starts, her tone calm again, "Witness for example: Matt Kail. Matt Kail is one of my best mates. I've know him longer than almost anyone in wrestling, and I know him better than anyone else in this match. Probably the only combination in this match who knew each other as well as Matt and I do are Whiskey and Suzume, and Matt and I have about five years of familiarity on them." She pauses for just a second to concentrate on her pipe. "I trained with Matt; used to spar with him pretty much every day when Shane Tallin was teaching us how to deathmatch. I broke out with Matt. Hell," she adds with a small dry laugh, "Matt and I were tag team partners, along with Evangelista, for our first televised match. Not that we actually wrestled in it, but... well, some of you know that story. Those who don't, ask me another time. Point is, I care a lot about Matt and he cares a lot about me, and I know he'll give me what I need in this match."
She finishes digging out the blackened tobacco with a small silver pipe tool and taps it into a pewter dish on the mantel, then unrolls the tobacco and starts filling the bowl. "I met Jamie Steel through one of my mentors, Nikki Song. Never shared a locker room with her, but I've trained with her a fair bit - Jamie's from Manchester originally, where I live now, so when she's back visiting her family or friends we try usually to get in a session. Been to parties with her too, and lemme tell ya, she's a girl after my own heart - work hard, play hard, puke up, pass out, do it all over again tomorrow. I don't know her as intimately as Matt or Whiskey or even Zack Lifer," she admits, "But she and I are pressed from the same mould and she's just the kind of person I need in this environment."
Laurel pauses to reseal the pouch, then picks up a metal stamp and starts patting the load down as she resumes speaking. "Don't be fooled by the fact Lifer and I are on last-name terms; that's just us being us. We have a lot of respect for each other." She looks up for a moment, staring off the side of the screen, and sighs. Then she goes back to her task. "I know he's made mistakes... I know he's burned a lot of bridges in his career. But I know he tries, too. Zack's that rarest of wrestlers: one who's willing to seriously examine himself and address his own weaknesses, as both a fighter and a human being. On top of that, whatever they think of him as a person, can't nobody be questioning Zack Lifer's deathmatch credentials. If you saw his barbed wire series with Brytain Rollins, or his war this year with Justin Brooks, you know how at home Lifer is in a world without rules - you know the bare human truths he's capable of expressing. Even if I didn't count him as a personal friend, he's still exactly the kind of person to add that special extra je ne sais quoi to a shindig like this." And she finally sets the tamper down, having finished packing the bowl about halfway through her thoughts on Zack Lifer.
She's addressing the camera directly again by now. "Suzume Mitsuyoshi is the person in this match I know least well," she says bluntly, "But any partner of Whiskey's is a friend of mine. We know Suzume's got form in the hardcore realm; we've seen her with her barbed wire bat over her shoulder, with blood pouring down her face. We know she was trained by 'The Most Dangerous Woman Alive', Harumi Gensai." Laurel extracts a book of matches from her trouser pocket. "I've seen some of her matches over in Garbage vs Pure and she might be young but she's got the knack for this stuff already. I like Suzume anyway, but what I really like about her is how open minded she is yet how determined she is. She's ready and willing to learn anything from anyone, but she won't stand for bullshit. Someone like AJ Thomas or Marissa Kane attacks her or makes false statements about her, she'll stand there and hold her own with a maturity beyond her years. Like everyone else I invited, she's bringing a unique perspective to this collaborative installation, and I've got a feeling we might just see a glimpse of the future."
As she strikes the match and puts it to the tobacco, she stops talking so she can suck on the pipe to get airflow going. Once she's satisfied, she resumes with, "Odd one out, I guess - though everyone's an odd one out in their own way - is Whiskey Ayano. A newcomer to the style... well..." - she smiles flatly - "You saw her match with V. I've been in a deathmatch with V myself. I know first hand what he can do - and V, lemme tell ya, is a true artist," she says with authority, "He ain't one of these dullard fools who 'just likes hurting people' or whatever crap it is this month; he makes statements with purpose. Nobody will push you so hard while remaining so fair. As crash courses in the spirit of the deathmatch go, Whiskey got the best there is. And I'm not ashamed to say I had tears of pride in my eyes when she signed up for the advanced class with yours truly. I like to think the fact she's willing to share in something that's so special, so important to me, speaks volumes about how much me and Whiskey mean to each other. As the least experienced in the deathmatch arts, I am perhaps more excited to see what Whiskey brings to this match than anyone."
Laurel starts to pack away her tobacco and tools, and as she does, she keeps her eyes on the camera to say, "This week I was in my first War Games match, and it was also the first match since summer - I think; my memory's never been the best - where I've gone full crimson mask. First time in months I've felt my own life lie hot on my face.
Truthfully?"
She smiles.
"I love it. That's when I feel most connected to the fabric of spacetime, when my reach to wrap it around myself, to shape it, is at its strongest. Here's why I selected these five people for this match: I need people I trust. People I care about, and who care about me. When the six of us destroy each other it won't be from hate, it'll be from love. Right now I need the rush, the escape, the reminder of that brilliant mad creative spark in the darkness that life is... I to need release the dragon-phoenix of my muse the right way before I do it the wrong way. I need to cause and feel pain on its own, shorn of all the dick measuring bullshit that clogs to it from the spew from the arse end of this business. And to do that I need the chance to do this in an environment without malice and selfishness, with people who - when we get backstage - will still be my friends."
Her smile grows wider, warmer.
"All five of you... I trust in you to give me what I need."
She crosses one leg over the other as she leans her shoulderblades back against the wall. "You guys know - hell, everyone knows, but you guys really know - the pressure I've been under lately," she says, smoking the pipe idly and slowly, "Everywhere I turn there's a lunatic who thinks my face would look pretty around their waist, or some wannabe demagogue who thinks they're the only one who ever gets screwed over by the establishment, or a gang of cunts who've escaped from a daycare centre and roll into town intent on doing at least one of raping and pillaging." She shakes her head. "This power that's been building up in me from dealing with The Black Hand, HATE, Apocalypse and all the rest... I need to siphon it off in a controlled environment, so it doesn't blow off in an uncontrolled one. Part of the responsibility of being a guardian is not justifying doing things that hurt the people you're protecting. But even so, all you bastards who want my head - you will not break me this way. All you're doing is giving me the fuel to accelerate the next great leap for the deathmatch as an art form. The harder you push me, the harder I will push back, not just with weapons against your skin but with a new wave of creative vision to blow open your ratty little playground."
Something strikes Laurel, and she begins to laugh.
"Heh... what started off as murder mystery turned into manifesto. But flux and development are the nature of art. And a new movement in the medium of deathmatch begins at PWP 13. Join us at Calihan Hall in Detroit, Michigan, USA, 29th of November, as Laurel Anne Hardy collaborates with five of the most exciting designers on the scene to present the First Laurelvitational Deathmatch Collection. Six artists, one fall, no rules. This is the pilot, folks. The opening gala. This is the exhibit that will stand in history to come as the opening salvo in the rebirth of hardcore wrestling, the brick through the window of the gallery of banality in which the form now so lifelessly hangs. Be a part of that moment with us. Be at PWP 13: Lucky 13, where the history of the deathmatch gets rewritten."
Laurel pushes herself from the wall and takes a few paces towards the camera, her smile now settled in and pleasantly passive. "Stay strong, guys, when the world is against you. Stay inspired in the face of convention. Stay vital in the age of the disposable. And above all... stay fabulous."
Fade. |
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