Post by dawnhalliwell on Feb 22, 2018 18:20:51 GMT -5
For the third time, Ciara burst into Dawn's room at five thirty on a Saturday Morning. For the third time she had prepared a large mug of extremely potent coffee, spiked with a shot of whiskey to help knock out the inevitable hangover. For the third time she expected to see Dawn sprawled out, naked on the bed and wrapped in her blankets and sheets in such a way that seemed to defy the very laws of nature. For the third time she prepared herself for what she had come to realize would be the unnecessarily long and arduous process of getting Dawn awake and down to the training center for morning training. She knew in the back of her mind that she was a bit of a stickler for her fitness regimen, but she prided herself on managing women who had chances to reach the heights of the company they were in, and that meant ensuring they were in the peak of their possible physical potential. Dawn had been... a struggle. The girl had a rebellious streak a mile wide that reminded Ciara more than a little of herself when she was in primary school. Dawn wanted to do things her way, and her way was usually junk food, booze, and waking up past noon. But she was trying, and she was succeeding in the ring... and there was a drive in her that Ciara couldn't deny. Dawn had managed to surprise her in many ways since she started managing the Iron Maiden, and in her heart Ciara had begun to believe that she really had a chance to make it to the end of this tournament... and win it. It wasn't just a pipe dream anymore.
"WAKE UP, LAZY-Aaa... uh. Dawn?"
Dawn was not asleep naked in bed. She was, in fact, none of those things. Dawn was awake, hanging upside-down from the ceiling like a bat using a ceiling-mounted exercise bar the apartment had let her install. She was not, however, doing anything with it. Instead she was simply dangling, staring at her phone in her hand with what looked like burgeoning panic.
"Um. Are you... alright what the fuck is going on right now?"
Dawn dropped the phone to the floor and stared at Ciara with horrified eyes. She swallowed hard. "I... I don't think I can do training today, boss."
Ciara felt frustration bubbling in her chest. If this girl was going to start slacking off NOW... "You'd better have a damn good explanation for the why of that statement, missy."
Dawn nodded. "Uh... that... that was Pandora."
Realization struck Ciara as her eyes slowly grew wider. "Pandora..."
"... My Stepmom just invited me to lunch."
"WAKE UP, LAZY-Aaa... uh. Dawn?"
Dawn was not asleep naked in bed. She was, in fact, none of those things. Dawn was awake, hanging upside-down from the ceiling like a bat using a ceiling-mounted exercise bar the apartment had let her install. She was not, however, doing anything with it. Instead she was simply dangling, staring at her phone in her hand with what looked like burgeoning panic.
"Um. Are you... alright what the fuck is going on right now?"
Dawn dropped the phone to the floor and stared at Ciara with horrified eyes. She swallowed hard. "I... I don't think I can do training today, boss."
Ciara felt frustration bubbling in her chest. If this girl was going to start slacking off NOW... "You'd better have a damn good explanation for the why of that statement, missy."
Dawn nodded. "Uh... that... that was Pandora."
Realization struck Ciara as her eyes slowly grew wider. "Pandora..."
"... My Stepmom just invited me to lunch."
"There's a look that hits someone's eye right before they tap out to the Living Dead Girl. I'd describe it you you, because it's a hell of a thing to witness... but I don't have to, because now you've all seen that shit twice.
I know, I know, that's something of a cheap and easy shot. But honestly? I don't fucking care right now. I'm not one of those ultra-noble hero-complex namby-pampies who's all for love and tolerance and being ridiculously nice to one another no matter what. I'm damn proud of my reputation for being someone who talks and kicks shit in equal fucking measure, and I'm not about to sit around and let some fucking notion of nobility or humility get in between me and being fucking pleased with what happened last week. I got to go into the ring against two ladies I had serious fucking grudges against, and then I got to beat 'em both. The best part is, the proverbial one that got away has a chance to get into the Finals, so even though in the end it was Crystal who but the bullet for the team - Amber Cooke has a shot of having to come at me one on one.
Which means I still might be able to squeeze Amber's throat until her head pops like a zit.
Either that, or I get to go one on one against the disappointing legend that is Zelda Knite. Yeah, I'm still watching you, Zelda. Tell me - have you crushed the dreams of any of your kid fans today? I know you apparently love scarring them for life and teaching them that the gal they look up to, the gal who inspired them, is nothing more than a self-absorbed thundercunt who eats joy and dreams for breakfast. Oh, did you think I wouldn't notice the shit you were talking about my gal Caitlyn? Bitch, aren't you supposed to be one of the good guys? Here I thought you were supposed to be one of the big faces that the fans were supposed to look up to, but I gotta say - you might even be more of a greasy-haired slimeball heel than Lizzy 'might be fucking her brother' Dalmon. Just let that sink in for a second. I mean, damn girl, there's calling someone out for their failings and then there's THAT. Now I mean, I'm down for THAT, I've done my fair share of THAT, and if you somehow manage to squeeze by Amber Cooke this week, I'll be more than happy to give your ass THAT - but as I said about Amber, if you give THAT to one of the few people in this company who I actually fucking LIKE? Then I am looking forward to making you cough up blood so bad you'll be choking through your next week's promo.
Though maybe it'll be an advantage given that apparently choking is what you do best.
No matter which one of you bitches makes it to the finals, I call it a win. You're both the sort of gals I absolutely adore putting down as hard as I can. Zelda, you already know all about that - I've done it to you, and now I've done it to your friend. Amber, while you've never been the full victim of the Iron Maiden, this time you won't be able to hide behind a Hollywood glitz-job to keep you safe. One of you will win on Friday, but whoever wins is really just going to be the alpha loser - because one of you two is going down.
There's just one thing in may way. A newcomer to the company who thinks she's hot shit because she married a walking credit card and then won her debut match. Someone who walks into this division and immediately goes around calling herself The Queen.
Hello, Gwendolyn.
I'm Dawn Motherfucking Halliwell.
Normally they call me the Iron Maiden - but if you're a Queen, then this week?
I'm the Guillotine.
"Okay but seriously you're going to change into something else... right?"
Dawn looked down at herself, holding out her arms. She was wearing what she usually wore - torn and patched black denim jeans, leather jacket, fading black T-Shirt with the logo of one of her favorite albums. Combat boots. Fingerless gloves. She looked back at Ciara with a baffled expression.
"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"
"What, apart from the fact that you look like you just rolled out of a Ragstock? Your shirt literally says S&M on it. Are you sure that's the impression you want to make?"
"Oy! Don't you dare shit-talk Symphony and Metallica! James never sounded better than he did in that album, and even I think the addition of the San Francisco Symphonic Orchestra just-"
Ciara covered her eyes and tried not to laugh. "That's... not the reason I was..." she stopped herself, realizing that this particular explanation was pointless. She changed tracks. "Point is, it's what you always wear. I swear, girl, do you own anything other than black jeans and band shirts?"
"I..." Dawn hesitated. "Um... well, in my defense..."
"If the word aesthetic comes out of your mouth Dawn I swear to the God I don't pray to-"
"Well, it's either that or athletic gear at this point. I don't wear much outside what you've described, it's comfortable and looks good on me. Can you see me in a dress?"
Ciara clasped her hands. "Dawn... I just want to make sure you're taking this a little more... I dunno. This is the first time you've spoken to her since you announced that your dad's her husband. You've been avoiding her, but she's reaching out. She's... I don't know. She might want a relationship with you, she might see you as family. It's not a second chance that everyone gets, and I want you to at least show that you're not treating this the way you treat everything else that isn't wrestling. Some things you shouldn't just laugh off, you know?"
Dawn sat down. "I... I know you're probably right. Just... I dunno. This is all so fucking strange. I'd given up on the whole family thing, but Spike... Dad... he wants me in his life. I... I kinda want that too. But... what if... what if she doesn't, though? What if she wants him to choose between me and her? I dunno, I just... I'm shut at this."
Ciara sat down next to her, resting a hand on Dawn's shoulder. "Pandora's a good gal. She's looked out for you before, and I don't think that'll stop... and if I'm wrong, Viv and I will help you kick her fucking teeth into the ground. Promise. Just... give her a chance, though, okay? Don't deflect, and take it seriously."
Dawn sighed. "Alright. Fine. I won't wear the S&M shirt."
"Thank you."
"I'll wear the misfits one instead. Everything fancy's in the laundry."
"That's not what I... ugh, you know what? Never mind." Ciara sat down heavily in the chair and turned on the PS4, thumbing through the options and turning on Netlfix. "I'll just take what small victories I can and savor 'em. Least I still have Vivienne staying sane with her life choices."
Dawn looked down at herself, holding out her arms. She was wearing what she usually wore - torn and patched black denim jeans, leather jacket, fading black T-Shirt with the logo of one of her favorite albums. Combat boots. Fingerless gloves. She looked back at Ciara with a baffled expression.
"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"
"What, apart from the fact that you look like you just rolled out of a Ragstock? Your shirt literally says S&M on it. Are you sure that's the impression you want to make?"
"Oy! Don't you dare shit-talk Symphony and Metallica! James never sounded better than he did in that album, and even I think the addition of the San Francisco Symphonic Orchestra just-"
Ciara covered her eyes and tried not to laugh. "That's... not the reason I was..." she stopped herself, realizing that this particular explanation was pointless. She changed tracks. "Point is, it's what you always wear. I swear, girl, do you own anything other than black jeans and band shirts?"
"I..." Dawn hesitated. "Um... well, in my defense..."
"If the word aesthetic comes out of your mouth Dawn I swear to the God I don't pray to-"
"Well, it's either that or athletic gear at this point. I don't wear much outside what you've described, it's comfortable and looks good on me. Can you see me in a dress?"
Ciara clasped her hands. "Dawn... I just want to make sure you're taking this a little more... I dunno. This is the first time you've spoken to her since you announced that your dad's her husband. You've been avoiding her, but she's reaching out. She's... I don't know. She might want a relationship with you, she might see you as family. It's not a second chance that everyone gets, and I want you to at least show that you're not treating this the way you treat everything else that isn't wrestling. Some things you shouldn't just laugh off, you know?"
Dawn sat down. "I... I know you're probably right. Just... I dunno. This is all so fucking strange. I'd given up on the whole family thing, but Spike... Dad... he wants me in his life. I... I kinda want that too. But... what if... what if she doesn't, though? What if she wants him to choose between me and her? I dunno, I just... I'm shut at this."
Ciara sat down next to her, resting a hand on Dawn's shoulder. "Pandora's a good gal. She's looked out for you before, and I don't think that'll stop... and if I'm wrong, Viv and I will help you kick her fucking teeth into the ground. Promise. Just... give her a chance, though, okay? Don't deflect, and take it seriously."
Dawn sighed. "Alright. Fine. I won't wear the S&M shirt."
"Thank you."
"I'll wear the misfits one instead. Everything fancy's in the laundry."
"That's not what I... ugh, you know what? Never mind." Ciara sat down heavily in the chair and turned on the PS4, thumbing through the options and turning on Netlfix. "I'll just take what small victories I can and savor 'em. Least I still have Vivienne staying sane with her life choices."
As if on cue, the phone next to Ciara rang.
"Now, despite being a bit of a bitch with no real filter who loves talking smack about other people, generally I try to be pretty open minded about people's personal lives. I have a lot of friends, for instance, in the LGBT community. My manager's a Lesbian. I've dated a few Bi guys. I am never going to be the sort of person to judge someone's sexuality or lifestyle so long as you're not hurting anyone else. In fact, nine times out of ten I am going to celebrate the fuck outta that shit, because this world is godawful enough that anyone who manages to find happiness in the arms of another is one lucky bitch.
In that vein, I wanna congratulate Amber Cooke and Lizzy Dalmon for their secret marriage, and for their fucked up lovechild: Gwen Price-King.
I mean, I don't know how you did it, but science really can work miracles these days. I mean, look at her! Clearly you gals didn't use a donor, because she takes after both of you so damn well. Amber, you must be so proud of your daughter for following in your footsteps by joining the military. She even took after you by getting her ass discharged, though she at least managed to do it by getting legitimately injured instead of... I dunno, getting bored and wandering off base one day only for the entire army to lock the gates behind you and not let you back in because you're SUCH an aggravating bitch? I'm just spitballing, here. And Lizzy! She's got your money, your blueblood-fueled ego, your thing for men who have money. If you were legally allowed to marry your brother you'd make almost as good a trophy wife for Landon as Gwen does for that cheating prick Ethan. And the two of you must be so proud that she got both of your personalities all mixed up in a fucking blender (as a side note - I hope that thing got thrown away, because that's the sort of infectious bile that you just can't wash off.) She has the violent cruel streak of insulting people when they're down from Momma Amber, and the arrogant snobbishness that makes her think she's better than everyone around her because of her money and social status from Momma Lizzy. She's so much of an upper-crust blueblood that she un-ironically has a hyphenated name!
And this is the bitch who comes in here and tries to call herself my Queen?
I have to love all of the presents that I keep getting here in Combat Wrestling. I haven't had a single qualm about breaking a single self-righteous bitch that's been thrown in my way, and this week isn't any different. I don't know what I did to wrangle all this phenomenal fucking karma, but whatever it is I plan to keep on fucking doing it until the end of the world. See, if there's one thing I love - and I mean really LOVE - about this business, its the chance to put uptight snobs like you on the fucking ground. I've spent my whole damn life getting looked down on because I grew up poor, grew up on the social fringe, grew up different. I've never been much of a whore for the mainstream, never been one to conform to the world's dreams of total societal homogeneity, and that means that fuckers like Lizzy or Crystal or Amber or so many others have sneered down their noses at me because I'm the freak sitting on the outside.
But here? Here in this ring, all of that goes away. In this ring there is no societal advantage. In this ring you can't strut around and order a more expensive meal than I can afford in front of me to show off how much money you make. In this ring you can't stand at the top of your tower and gloat down at me in the mud. In this ring you don't have the safety of a plexiglass window keeping my fists away from your face. You rich fucks at the top, living high and mighty while people like me struggle to not starve to death, build these fortresses around yourselves and then convince yourselves that the world bends to your goddamn whim. Those of you jacked in to the mainstream, even if you're not ruling from your towers, still find ways to insulate yourself from anything different than yourself, and then convince yourself that whatever doesn't conform is somehow aberrant. Flawed. Lesser.
But this ring is the great equalizer.
In this ring I can take a girl like Gwen Price-King, multimillionaire blue-blood cockbag whose husband lets her do whatever she wants, and show her some of the grit of the real world. In this ring I can grab her by the throat and toss that bitch around like a fucking ragdoll, and there's nothing she'll be able to fucking do about it. Her husband won't be able to save her. Her Senator Daddy won't be able to pay off the media to sweep me under the rug. She won't be able to call on some old ex-military buddies to pay me a visit in the middle of the night. In this ring, it's just me and her, grit to grit, blood to blood. This ring is a miniaturized version of revolutionary anarchy - where victory goes to those who can best fight for it, and anyone else gets eaten.
Revolutions are historically bad for Queens, Gwen. And this one, even on the miniature scale, is going to be bad for you. The people have risen up to cast you out of your palace. The people you told to eat cake are breaking through your windows and setting fire to your halls. Your servants who you have long berated are taking up arms with us, showing us all the secret passages in and out of the palace so that you can't escape. We're going to drag your ass out into the public square where you will be forced to stand and fight for your life, and all of the suffering you've inflicted upon the world because you thought you were so much better than the people you were hurting will come raining down on you. The people will cheer as their champion walks into the arena - the representative of revolution, anarchy, and freedom from the fattened rats who have been keeping all the rest of us in the muck.
No escape. No respite. You might try to fight, but our will is stronger. You'll realize too late that all your money, all your riches, all your influence and all your privilege will not be enough to save you. And then I'm going to lock around your neck - and take your head for the screaming crowd.
Because its like I said. This week, I'm the Guillotine.
And when you fall, I will stand above you - the instrument of your defeat, of your humiliation. The people will watch as the embodiment of everything that has been keeping them down for all of these years lies broken on the ground... and they will cheer. They will roar in the victory that we all share together, because with your defeat comes our rise. And together they will raise their voices and cheer three simple words...
ALL.
BLOODY.
HAIL."