Post by dawnhalliwell on Feb 8, 2018 13:36:21 GMT -5
The opening notes of ZZ Top's La Grange began to play. Dawn stirred and grumbled under her blankets, tousled hair poking out well away from where a head would usually be resting in a hotel bed. The young woman growled irritably as she reached a hand out, fingers stretching to reach the damned alarm clock so that she could strike it with enough force to convince it to leave her alone. Unable to reach it without shifting, she grumpily emerged from her den of pillows and blankets, bloodshot eyes finding the clock. Dawn froze.
"Five fucking thirty AM?"
Lest her eyes be decieving her, she rolled over to face the window, and saw to her growing discontent that the sun had not yet, in fact, risen. The main driving beat of La Grange kicked in, and Dawn began to regret her choice of alarm clock music. She may not have particularly liked the song, but she hadn't met anyone who could sleep through it... but it wasn't supposed to go off for another six hours.
Her mind put together what had happened a fraction of a second before the newest target of her ire burst through the door.
"WAKE UP, LAZY-ASS!" Ciara shouted agonizingly as she stepped in, holding a large mug of coffee and the most evil smile Dawn could comprehend without giving in to a sort of Lovecraftian madness.
"'M gonna fuckin' kill you..." Dawn muttered, burrowing deeper into her rat's nest of bedding. "Gonna break y'er neck... living dead girl... you'll tap but no ref will save you..."
"Not with that hangover you won't," Ciara replied. She took out her iPhone and turned on the flashlight, shining it in Dawn's eyes as the girl screeched in protest, covering her head with as many pillows as she could. Ciara chuckled, setting the coffee down on the end table before starting to rip the bedding away and toss it to the far side of the room, rapidly leaving Dawn with little place to hide. "You pinned Zelda Knite, and I told you that you earned a night of hardcore celebrating because she's a legend. Never said anything about giving you Saturday off."
"... gonna break all your little Irish bones..."
Ciara laughed. "You're half Irish, remember? Or did you think that Spike Kane was a Canuck?"
"Fuck off."
Ciara pulled the last blanket away and shook her head. "Right. Well that's another difference between you and Viv. Well, wake the fuck up, drink your coffee, and get out here and ready for training after you put on some clothes. If you're not out in fifteen minutes I'll come back with a bucket of ice water." Ciara moved to the door, glancing back one last time with a playful grin. "Nice ass, though."
"OUT!"
"Five fucking thirty AM?"
Lest her eyes be decieving her, she rolled over to face the window, and saw to her growing discontent that the sun had not yet, in fact, risen. The main driving beat of La Grange kicked in, and Dawn began to regret her choice of alarm clock music. She may not have particularly liked the song, but she hadn't met anyone who could sleep through it... but it wasn't supposed to go off for another six hours.
Her mind put together what had happened a fraction of a second before the newest target of her ire burst through the door.
"WAKE UP, LAZY-ASS!" Ciara shouted agonizingly as she stepped in, holding a large mug of coffee and the most evil smile Dawn could comprehend without giving in to a sort of Lovecraftian madness.
"'M gonna fuckin' kill you..." Dawn muttered, burrowing deeper into her rat's nest of bedding. "Gonna break y'er neck... living dead girl... you'll tap but no ref will save you..."
"Not with that hangover you won't," Ciara replied. She took out her iPhone and turned on the flashlight, shining it in Dawn's eyes as the girl screeched in protest, covering her head with as many pillows as she could. Ciara chuckled, setting the coffee down on the end table before starting to rip the bedding away and toss it to the far side of the room, rapidly leaving Dawn with little place to hide. "You pinned Zelda Knite, and I told you that you earned a night of hardcore celebrating because she's a legend. Never said anything about giving you Saturday off."
"... gonna break all your little Irish bones..."
Ciara laughed. "You're half Irish, remember? Or did you think that Spike Kane was a Canuck?"
"Fuck off."
Ciara pulled the last blanket away and shook her head. "Right. Well that's another difference between you and Viv. Well, wake the fuck up, drink your coffee, and get out here and ready for training after you put on some clothes. If you're not out in fifteen minutes I'll come back with a bucket of ice water." Ciara moved to the door, glancing back one last time with a playful grin. "Nice ass, though."
"OUT!"
"One. Two. Three.
When you're a professional wrestler, those three numbers shouted out loud makes for just about the most important damn thing you can hear. Usually for me it's not a good thing, because nine times outta ten I aim to end my matches via submission. Usually if a match goes to a three count it's because things have gone against my favor. In the company that first got me wet behind the ears, that was especially true - that place was full of ladies who had a good chunk of height and weight on me, and to them? To them pinning a comparative pipsqueak like myself was a hell of a lot easier than it's likely to be here. Back there there are a bunch a gals pushing six foot tall, hulking colossi of muscle and anger who tower over even some of the men. Here, though? Here I'm on the tall end of the spectrum, which I gotta admit is kinda weird for me. The only girl in the company who's taller than I am is only barely so, and I have a 20 pound weight advantage on the only gal who can look me right in the eyes. Pinning me isn't as easy here as it was in the old stomping grounds, and being able to pin others is actually something I can look to as a legitimate strategy.
'Sup, Zelda?
But the point I'm getting at is that it's kinda weird to be looking down to meet people eye to eye, lately. For so long I've been looking up, and now I gotta look down. It reminds me a lot about my journey, about where I am now as opposed to where I've been. Gets me thinking a lot about how once upon a time I was at the bottom of the pecking order, but through hard work, unrelenting ferocity, and a pinch of luck, I've earned my way to damn close to the top.
That puts me in stark fucking contrast to Lizzy Fucking Dalmon, who's been getting off on looking down on people since the day she was fucking born.
Lizzy, I only had to look once into your smug little rat-face to realize how much I absolutely fucking despise everything about you, you lop-eared piece of gold-plated refuse. You and people like you are a virulent disease coursing through the veins of this industry, rubbing your wealth and your social status in everyone's face to make them think that you're better than you are. I am so sick of people like you sneering down on the rest of us just because your daddy whored himself out to corporate America to make you and your sycophant brother enough money that you never had to worry about whether you had enough food to make it through the fucking week. You might love to lord that over the rest of us, Lizzy, but as far as I'm concerned? The only important thing that your wealth and privilege tell me is this:
You've never had a real fight before in your life.
Hello Lizzy.
I'm Dawn Motherfucking Halliwell.
Let me give you a reality check."
When you're a professional wrestler, those three numbers shouted out loud makes for just about the most important damn thing you can hear. Usually for me it's not a good thing, because nine times outta ten I aim to end my matches via submission. Usually if a match goes to a three count it's because things have gone against my favor. In the company that first got me wet behind the ears, that was especially true - that place was full of ladies who had a good chunk of height and weight on me, and to them? To them pinning a comparative pipsqueak like myself was a hell of a lot easier than it's likely to be here. Back there there are a bunch a gals pushing six foot tall, hulking colossi of muscle and anger who tower over even some of the men. Here, though? Here I'm on the tall end of the spectrum, which I gotta admit is kinda weird for me. The only girl in the company who's taller than I am is only barely so, and I have a 20 pound weight advantage on the only gal who can look me right in the eyes. Pinning me isn't as easy here as it was in the old stomping grounds, and being able to pin others is actually something I can look to as a legitimate strategy.
'Sup, Zelda?
But the point I'm getting at is that it's kinda weird to be looking down to meet people eye to eye, lately. For so long I've been looking up, and now I gotta look down. It reminds me a lot about my journey, about where I am now as opposed to where I've been. Gets me thinking a lot about how once upon a time I was at the bottom of the pecking order, but through hard work, unrelenting ferocity, and a pinch of luck, I've earned my way to damn close to the top.
That puts me in stark fucking contrast to Lizzy Fucking Dalmon, who's been getting off on looking down on people since the day she was fucking born.
Lizzy, I only had to look once into your smug little rat-face to realize how much I absolutely fucking despise everything about you, you lop-eared piece of gold-plated refuse. You and people like you are a virulent disease coursing through the veins of this industry, rubbing your wealth and your social status in everyone's face to make them think that you're better than you are. I am so sick of people like you sneering down on the rest of us just because your daddy whored himself out to corporate America to make you and your sycophant brother enough money that you never had to worry about whether you had enough food to make it through the fucking week. You might love to lord that over the rest of us, Lizzy, but as far as I'm concerned? The only important thing that your wealth and privilege tell me is this:
You've never had a real fight before in your life.
Hello Lizzy.
I'm Dawn Motherfucking Halliwell.
Let me give you a reality check."
"Why do you hate her so much?"
Dawn snarled as she sparred against her manager in the Combat Wrestling Training center, lunging at Ciara with barely contained fury. She wasn't nearly as capable a striker as Ciara was, and her manager was able to keep her at bay with a few stiff kicks, but Dawn's anger kept her relentless, dropping her elbows onto Ciara's legs whenever she kicked out to wear her offense down so that she could keep close.
"Why do you think?" she growled. "Bitches like her... they're the girls in high school who see kids at other tables struggling to eat lunch, and respond by having their parents double how much food they get to bring to school. They're the kids who drive around the block multiple times in their fancy just-turned-sixteen sports cars to drive past the kid who has to walk three miles to school every day just to rub their wealth in poor kid's face. She's the girl who goes out of her way to find out what a poor kid wants for her birthday so that she can buy it for herself and bring it to school and wave her money around like a fucking flag."
Ciara raised an eyebrow. "... I get the feeling you're not speaking from a hypothetical perspective, here."
Dawn grinned through the rage. "What gives you that impression?" she replied sarcastically.
Her manager chuckled in reply. "I suppose I can't blame you. Got a lot of the same crap myself when my parents shipped me off to boarding school. Fancy twat boarding school."
Dawn gritted her teeth and continued trying to get through Ciara's kicking game. "Must have been hell."
Ciara shrugged. "Well, one good thing kinda came out of it. Didn't last as long as it... well. Anyway." She shook the thought away. "Point is, harness that anger. I've managed a gal who took Dalmon down before, remember, and Viv has a hell of a lot more difficulty turning her frustration into strength. If nothing else I know you'll never need me to play anger translator."
Dawn laughed as the two of them broke apart, each of them moving to lean against the ropes for a quick rest break. "Am I ever not pissed off?"
"Occasionally you sleep."
Dawn snarled as she sparred against her manager in the Combat Wrestling Training center, lunging at Ciara with barely contained fury. She wasn't nearly as capable a striker as Ciara was, and her manager was able to keep her at bay with a few stiff kicks, but Dawn's anger kept her relentless, dropping her elbows onto Ciara's legs whenever she kicked out to wear her offense down so that she could keep close.
"Why do you think?" she growled. "Bitches like her... they're the girls in high school who see kids at other tables struggling to eat lunch, and respond by having their parents double how much food they get to bring to school. They're the kids who drive around the block multiple times in their fancy just-turned-sixteen sports cars to drive past the kid who has to walk three miles to school every day just to rub their wealth in poor kid's face. She's the girl who goes out of her way to find out what a poor kid wants for her birthday so that she can buy it for herself and bring it to school and wave her money around like a fucking flag."
Ciara raised an eyebrow. "... I get the feeling you're not speaking from a hypothetical perspective, here."
Dawn grinned through the rage. "What gives you that impression?" she replied sarcastically.
Her manager chuckled in reply. "I suppose I can't blame you. Got a lot of the same crap myself when my parents shipped me off to boarding school. Fancy twat boarding school."
Dawn gritted her teeth and continued trying to get through Ciara's kicking game. "Must have been hell."
Ciara shrugged. "Well, one good thing kinda came out of it. Didn't last as long as it... well. Anyway." She shook the thought away. "Point is, harness that anger. I've managed a gal who took Dalmon down before, remember, and Viv has a hell of a lot more difficulty turning her frustration into strength. If nothing else I know you'll never need me to play anger translator."
Dawn laughed as the two of them broke apart, each of them moving to lean against the ropes for a quick rest break. "Am I ever not pissed off?"
"Occasionally you sleep."
"There's Rich... and then there's Dalmon Rich.
Pity you couldn't buy a decent trainer.
I watched your match last week, Lizzy, and to say that I'm not impressed would be a woeful understatement. By cheating to win in your first match, you proved to me and the rest of the women in this division that you're weak. You might parade yourself around and claim that it means you're smart, or you'll pass it off as just being ruthless or some other bullshit excuse, but when I look at you all I see is a girl too out of her depth to actually succeed in the company without breaking the rules. As first impressions to your new company go, that's probably not the one that you want to walk away with - but as it stands, welcome to your reputation.
Lizzy Dalmon can't handle a real fight.
And if you needed to cheat in order to take out the Minnesotan Bouncing Betty, then you're sure as hell going to pull out even more stops to beat me. See, I still have a hell of a lot to prove to this company, because right now while they've seen me win with a friend at my side, I still haven't shown them what it is I do when I walk into that ring solo. I know damn well that if people are going to take me seriously then I have to show that I can win without a flying super-friend Shoryukening people out of the air - so that leaves you and me. Miss 'can't win clean' against a girl with more rage issues than an anger management class who's just looking for an opportunity to put a rich tit like you in the fucking ground.
Don't get me wrong - I'm not doing this for some altruistic cause because you're a bitch everyone wants to see put down a few pegs. I'm not here to stand for the little girls you've cheated to beat in the past. Frankly, Lizzy, when it comes down to it I don't really give a fuck about what you have or haven't done to other people in the past. I'm not bothered by the fact that you cheated to win in your debut, and I'm certainly not out to avenge Amber's honor or some crap like that. The only thing that matters to me is how much I am going to personally enjoy the experience of clipping your little Dalmon wings while your fuckwit of a brother watches from the sidelines. I want to fucking humiliate you, because humiliating arrogant little dipshits like the Dalmon Family gets me nice and fucking moist.
Take it from this Salem girl, Lizzy, because I'm over here getting a witchy little prophecy -
On Friday Night you and I are going to step into that ring. Your tiny self is going to go out there and you're going to try pulling off all that flippy shit that you're so proud of, and you might even knock me over a few times. You're going to go in and brawl with me, and you'll probably get a few decent shots in. But it won't be enough to take me down the way you need it to, because nothing is as relentless as the Iron Maiden Enraged. You're going to realize that you don't have what it takes to beat me fair, so you're going to try to cheat. It's not going to work. The ref is going to catch you, or I'm just going to make cheating so fucking painful that you and your mani-pedi won't be able to take it. So little Lord Landon's going to try to help you out, but he's going to fail in that, too - because as much as I love putting down spoiled rich fucks, my manager loves it even more. Ciara O'Connor is going to see what your brother is doing, and she is going to make him cry like the spoiled little bitchling he is.
And then you're going to be out of options. You will experience fear. You will experience desperation. The Mixed Drinks won't be enough to keep me down. The Plastic Surgery won't be nearly as effective at covering your flaws as you hoped it would be. And you won't even be able to land the Trust Fund Flip, because I'll be too prepared to not be able to evade your one and only finisher. You'll panic. You'll slip.
And then I'll catch you.
And once I catch you it'll be all fucking over. I'll latch onto your ass like an iron vice, you will be subjected to the Living Dead Girl. You will choke. You will feel the air leaving your lungs as you see Landon unable or unwilling to help break you out. Your eyes will bulge out of your head a little as you begin to choke on your own blood because I'm crushing your larynx. You will know what it is to feel utterly and completely hopeless as you lay helplessly locked in the grips of the Iron Maiden. And then, as your vision starts to become clouded with red mist as lack of oxygen causes the capillaries in your eyes to stretch and burst, a gut instinct will rise up inside you as you realize that you're at risk of brain damage if you don't twitch your perfectly manicured hand...
... and that's how you'll tap out in the center of the fucking ring.
Because there are submissions... and then there are Halliwell Submissions.
ALL.
BLOODY.
HAIL."
Pity you couldn't buy a decent trainer.
I watched your match last week, Lizzy, and to say that I'm not impressed would be a woeful understatement. By cheating to win in your first match, you proved to me and the rest of the women in this division that you're weak. You might parade yourself around and claim that it means you're smart, or you'll pass it off as just being ruthless or some other bullshit excuse, but when I look at you all I see is a girl too out of her depth to actually succeed in the company without breaking the rules. As first impressions to your new company go, that's probably not the one that you want to walk away with - but as it stands, welcome to your reputation.
Lizzy Dalmon can't handle a real fight.
And if you needed to cheat in order to take out the Minnesotan Bouncing Betty, then you're sure as hell going to pull out even more stops to beat me. See, I still have a hell of a lot to prove to this company, because right now while they've seen me win with a friend at my side, I still haven't shown them what it is I do when I walk into that ring solo. I know damn well that if people are going to take me seriously then I have to show that I can win without a flying super-friend Shoryukening people out of the air - so that leaves you and me. Miss 'can't win clean' against a girl with more rage issues than an anger management class who's just looking for an opportunity to put a rich tit like you in the fucking ground.
Don't get me wrong - I'm not doing this for some altruistic cause because you're a bitch everyone wants to see put down a few pegs. I'm not here to stand for the little girls you've cheated to beat in the past. Frankly, Lizzy, when it comes down to it I don't really give a fuck about what you have or haven't done to other people in the past. I'm not bothered by the fact that you cheated to win in your debut, and I'm certainly not out to avenge Amber's honor or some crap like that. The only thing that matters to me is how much I am going to personally enjoy the experience of clipping your little Dalmon wings while your fuckwit of a brother watches from the sidelines. I want to fucking humiliate you, because humiliating arrogant little dipshits like the Dalmon Family gets me nice and fucking moist.
Take it from this Salem girl, Lizzy, because I'm over here getting a witchy little prophecy -
On Friday Night you and I are going to step into that ring. Your tiny self is going to go out there and you're going to try pulling off all that flippy shit that you're so proud of, and you might even knock me over a few times. You're going to go in and brawl with me, and you'll probably get a few decent shots in. But it won't be enough to take me down the way you need it to, because nothing is as relentless as the Iron Maiden Enraged. You're going to realize that you don't have what it takes to beat me fair, so you're going to try to cheat. It's not going to work. The ref is going to catch you, or I'm just going to make cheating so fucking painful that you and your mani-pedi won't be able to take it. So little Lord Landon's going to try to help you out, but he's going to fail in that, too - because as much as I love putting down spoiled rich fucks, my manager loves it even more. Ciara O'Connor is going to see what your brother is doing, and she is going to make him cry like the spoiled little bitchling he is.
And then you're going to be out of options. You will experience fear. You will experience desperation. The Mixed Drinks won't be enough to keep me down. The Plastic Surgery won't be nearly as effective at covering your flaws as you hoped it would be. And you won't even be able to land the Trust Fund Flip, because I'll be too prepared to not be able to evade your one and only finisher. You'll panic. You'll slip.
And then I'll catch you.
And once I catch you it'll be all fucking over. I'll latch onto your ass like an iron vice, you will be subjected to the Living Dead Girl. You will choke. You will feel the air leaving your lungs as you see Landon unable or unwilling to help break you out. Your eyes will bulge out of your head a little as you begin to choke on your own blood because I'm crushing your larynx. You will know what it is to feel utterly and completely hopeless as you lay helplessly locked in the grips of the Iron Maiden. And then, as your vision starts to become clouded with red mist as lack of oxygen causes the capillaries in your eyes to stretch and burst, a gut instinct will rise up inside you as you realize that you're at risk of brain damage if you don't twitch your perfectly manicured hand...
... and that's how you'll tap out in the center of the fucking ring.
Because there are submissions... and then there are Halliwell Submissions.
ALL.
BLOODY.
HAIL."