Post by americangrime on Feb 28, 2022 23:38:59 GMT -5
Regret.
What else could she be feeling in this moment? She was inches away from sealing her ticket, her place at one of the biggest shows she could possibly see herself working at this time in her life. She’d made it on the card last year, sure, out of sheer luck and being in the right place at the right time. This year, she had purpose, a desire to improve, a desire to move onward, a desire to try again-to get a rematch against a woman who’d beaten her handily.
She outlasted a bastion of women-nearly half the field-to get damn near that goal, too. It was a misstep, a strategically misplaced decision, a poor bit of timing, one shot at a woman who’d go on to win. Her axe kick had dropped a little too slowly, and Rebecca Filth was able to dump her over. When her neck and back hit that ground, hard, she felt the hope and faith she’d put in herself seep out of her faster than it had gotten there. Her eyes watered as she heard the words ‘FINAL DESTINATION IV’ echo through the arena, she breathed heavily, and she sat up to allow Filth to have her moment of pride.
She’d earned that much, at least.
Now, Elizabeth Karlson couldn’t let the prior day’s events slow her down. She’d found a pollock painting of bruises and burst capillaries up and down her back, legs, even a bit on her face. Beatings at the hands of such names like The Banshee and April Song and the aforementioned Rebecca Filth would do that to a girl, would leave her in some frame of agony that would keep others in bed for days and days at a time, but here she was. She’d shoved a heavy bag to the ground time and time again, dropped to give as many push ups as she could muster, and then dragged the bag back to its ‘feet’ as she prepared to do the same. It was a high intensity training method developed by one Michael Bishop-the same of which she was tagging with, the same of which was watching her as she laid prone against the bag.
Bishop was giving her some grace and allowing her to take her time-god knows the Dreadknight knew what it was like to survive a Clash bout, even if he hadn’t quite performed as she had before. Liz began to pull herself to her feet, and she heard a hesitant noise from Bishop, but she’d already adjusted the weight-pull harness against her torso, and was slowly backing up toward him, keeping her back facing him, the heavy bag slowly rising to a ‘standing’ position as she yanked it forward. She gritted her teeth, almost certainly feeling the cold stare of Bishop sizing her up, before she charged forward with all of the force she could muster and SLAMMED into the heavy bag like a bullet from the barrel of a gun. The heavy bag buckled, and after a few moments of counterweights trying to offer a bare minimum of resistance, it sank to the ground.
Liz laid atop it for just a second, before undoing the harness, rolling away, and firing off a series of sit-ups. Her stomach ripped and tore at itself, trying desperately to keep temporary measures it had put in place to dull the pain and keep the body moving intact. However, Liz wasn’t willing to stop. Agony ripped across her as lactic acid pooled in each of her limbs, and at the fiftieth sit-up in the section, she rolled back onto the heavy bag. She quickly adjusted the harness again, and as she got to a kneeling position, she felt something in her back snap. She let out a gasp of pain, knowing something wasn’t right-not severe enough to be an injury, but an ache, a setback, something that would hold the two of them back. She wanted to push through, but the sudden shock of pain caused her knees to buckle, caused her to fall to all fours. She let out a barely-suppressed cry of pain, gritting her teeth so hard they almost reduced themselves to dust, before she felt the weight of the heavy bag release itself and fall to the ground. She remained in a four-posted position, and was unsurprised to see heavy footfalls standing in front of her.
“Sorry, Mike.” Liz barely got out. “Just…lemme take ninety seconds an’ I’ll get goin’ again, alright?”
“Nah, Liz. Take a break.” A water bottle and towel were placed right in front of her. ”For a bit. Please. You did a lot already, and I need you to be in decent shape for our match this week. Can’t contend for the tag titles with a herniated disc, can you?”
Liz laughed. Bishop returned the laugh, but Liz could hear a tinge of concern as he went off to do his own exercises. She waited for a moment longer, before collecting the water bottle and towel, wiping some of the gathered sweat off of her face. She took a long swig from the bottle, quickly realizing how dehydrated she must have been as the cool liquid quenched a fire burning in her throat, and she allowed herself to hit a sitting position. Already, the pain in her back was starting to fade, barely a memory of the intensity it had a few minutes prior. Already, the upon her spine was alleviated. She polished the bottle of water, and stewed in her shame for a moment longer, the inability to continue her exercise.
But she’d made it this far, right? No less than 24 hours than nearly killing herself to nearly win the Clash, here she was, still working. Those other bitches may as well have still been in bed.
At least, that was what she told herself.
-
“FUCKING BFG DIVISION! WE’RE HERE TO KILL SHIT!”
Liz is back in the locker room and she’s hyped up. Go figure.
“Mike and I? We’re an unlikely team, you think? Two of us have come up under ocmpletely different circumstances, while Mikey was hanging out on the Frontline with some of the gnarliest bastards in this industry, I was training under the tutelage of the one, the only, the Gaijin Kaiju, Graham Baker! I don’t give two fucks about Graham, what he’s done, and what he’s been up to, while Mike’s still best friends with all his boys for the most part, so that’s where we differ. You may ask yourself, considering all of that, why are we here teamed up as we are? Why didn’t Mike bring someone along like Jeff X or reunite his Mafia ties with Jason Long? Hell, why is Jeff even bothering to waste time on some little brick shithouse like me, when he could pick a more suitable partner from anyone who’s been on this roster for longer than a lick of time!?
Well, I’ll answer that question for you, cueball-it’s because I’m the REAL FUCKING DEAL! I’m the full FUCKING package! I’m a girl who’s taken any challenge thrown her way, be it legends like Cloud Matsuda, be it fiends like Rebecca Filth, be it, I don’t fucking know, five other women in a Full Metal Mayhem bout for a title hung well above the fucking ring, and I’ve taken that shit on the GODDAMN CHIN! I don’t let people slow me the fuck down, I SLOW people the fuck down with a kick to the back of the head flashier an’ faster than anything they’ve EVER SEEN! I stop people in their goddamn tracks, because my meteor’s so big and so shiny that each of you fuckers have not a goddamned CHANCE to outshine me! I am just that fucking good! I am Liz FUCKING Karlson, and I’m the girl who puts the FUCKING in BIG FUCKING GUY DIVISION! Fuck yeah, up top baby!”
Liz throws a hand up, and no one responds…because she’s in the room alone with a camera. It’s done for effect, of course. She clears her throat.
“Man, I haven’t had a chance to go apeshit like this in a LONG goddamned time. I haven’t had a shot at being a bit more of myself since, god knows, before I fucked around with the WWC over in OWA. I don’t have any sponsorship money running on this shit anymore, either, it’s just me and my own fucking words keeping me going! I’m hurting like hell after last night, but my spirit’s strong-a ‘flesh is bruised, soul is willing’ situation if I’ve ever felt one! And I know with big fucking stakes on the line, I gotta amp myself up, I’ve gotta be ready to keep going beyond where I’ve gone before, to go further beyond and take those steps that limpdick PUSSIES like our opponents aren’t fucking WILLING to take!
Speaking of opponents, let’s TALK ABOUT ‘EM!
We got some dumb cunt like Sonya Benson who’s been here on a forced excursion to keep getting her hands on daddy’s money, I presume, if the dossier’s anything to fucking go off of. I do a bit of research here and there, and seeing the volume of zeroes stacked up behind this bitch got me looking at my own bank account in envy. If I could be as lucky as this girl was, I wouldn’t have to shack up in the same shithole i’ve been living out of in Philadelphia for the past five years. Benson’s had all the luck in the world, all the wealth one could fucking ask for, and all she has to do to keep it is wrestle.
That’s right, y’know, the thing the rest of us go around the world getting paid peanuts to do.
But she can’t even fucking manage it. I don’t even hate her for being uber-wealthy, sometimes you can’t control that shit. I do hate her for being unable to adapt to circumstance. If my father came out of his grave and threw a million dollars at me to take a few back bumps and call it a fucking night, I’d stare at the lights until I torched my corneas and my blind ass would learn to echolocate to keep myself going to keep that cash flow up. What kind of pity is there for me to have? What kind of sadness is there gonna be in my heart to know that this woman’s going home to a bed made of benjamins whether or not she and her partner make it to the tag titles? It’ll be fucking minimal at best, and I doubt it’ll exist, period. I’ve got no fear in my heart of this woman, she’ll take a haymaker from me and turn into ashes like a goddamned cartoon character. If I get her up onto my shoulders, she’ll faint like the dainty, thin waif she is, and someone’ll have to get the smelling salts and carry her ass out of the ring.
That’s not even counting Bishop, and the dude hits way fucking harder than I do. Combined, the two of us will make sure that daddy’s money pile grows bigger and bigger, thanks to some life insurance policy cashing out. It’s the least we could do, Mr. Benson, for delivering to us such a fucking solid opponent for me to make an example out of in my debut.
Johnny Levy, meanwhile, appears to be so deep within his own ass that you could call his whole deal the Nutty Putty Cave Incident. That reference may not be topical, but neither is a guy who’s whole deal is being a fucking superstar. What is this, The Real World ‘01? I abhor people who get into wrestling for the potential fame it can bring them, because there’s not a goddamn thing in this world of ours that’ll bring you glory and gold. You get your lights punched out and you lose your face for film sometime within your first ten matches, and I can tell you that for a fact, because the modeling calls stopped coming after some jackoff broke my nose during an early brawl somewhere in Dayton, Ohio. I’d love to do the same to this smug prick, with his allegory and his posse and whatever the fuck else his deal is, but I’d like to give him a fighting chance, first. Like to see him come to the ring and put his dukes up.
Like to see Bishop break his jaw off a single punch, too.
You see, it’s the difference in motivation-Levy might wanna be the best all around so he can get the fame from it, but I wanna be the best fighter in any company in the world. The wrestling part of it doesn’t matter nearly as much to me so long as every ass in every seat be it at home or in the arena knows I can win a fight against them, their dad, their mom, and every relative of theirs in a five hundred mile radius with a blindfold on and a hand tied behind my back. I don’t need kids to recognize me in the goddamn airport, I don’t need autograph lines out the fucking door every time I walk into the arena.
I just need people to know I’m THE GODDAMN BEST!
Beating someone like Levy, who’s the antithesis of what I am, is a big goddamn step for Liz-Kind toward that. Crushing this dude into the pavement with all of the grace and ease of a particularly juicy ant under a size twelve isn’t just something that’ll achieve a bit for me in the way of establishing reputation, i’ll also get a fucking kick out of it. And when I’ve had my fun, I can always let Mike come in and pick up the scraps, play around with our food a bit before we send ‘em packing. I pity this fool in particular, the more I think about it, because I know he’s gonna have a hell of a bad time before we decide to end it, assuming we don’t just DOOM THEIR ASSES at the ringing of the bell and make it to the local dive bar before last call.
Guess we’ll have to see where we stand.”
Liz breathes.
“Lots of talking, lots of assurances, lots of letting all you folks back home know exactly who I am, because you’re gonna be seeing quite a bit of me. This’ll be the first step of a thousand, the idea that I’ll be stepping into my Project: Honor debut with quite the prize on the line, and cashing those casino chips in for an even bigger depository of gold against some dudes who’ve held the shit for a goddamn minute. I’m making big promises here, now, not just for all of you back home to get invested, but for myself to get back on track. I’m a nearly-woman in almost every promotion I’ve been in, I’ve almost got my hands on the big gold each and every time I’ve shot for it lately, but I haven’t quite made that leap. Haven’t quite connected with that award-winning punch.
Mike’s the same as me, really. It’s why we bonded. Places begin to give us what we’re owed, our just desserts, and the shit starts to crumple around us the minute it hits our hands. It’s a hard mindset to adapt to in this industry, where people like Levy and Benson get in and get lucky and get opportunities quite like this. Granted, I’m not saying that they haven’t earned the opportunity at the opportunity we’re about to get, nor am I saying that they entirely deserve the ass beating that they’re assuredly gonna get, but you can’t look at their work ethic, what they’ve done, why they’re fucking here, and say they’ve earned it more than we have. You can’t look at the combined gallons of sweat and blood and tears that Mike and I have spilled across every canvas we’ve set foot on and say that this isn’t a debut that totally, entirely, wholly encompasses everything that we are, everything that we are going to be.
The two of us have been on the cusp of a breakout for fucking years, and it’s just now that people are starting to come around, people are starting to get behind us, people are starting to put us in MORE than the fucking rear view, than the spots to make other clowns look good.
I’m glad that Project: Honor at least appears to respect that facet, and has given us this gracious opportunity.
I’m glad that I’ve signed my contract, so I don’t need to negotiate SHIT when we cave the collected skulls of Julius Fairweather and Slade Castle in with the ease of shattering eggs to make some fucking breakfast.
I’m glad that I’m WILLING to come out here, time and time again and a-fucking-gain, to prove why I’m one of the best in the world, why I can win all those fights, why I’m going to pull a match out of these overinflated-ego fucking goobers who we’re stacked up against. Moreover than that, I’m glad that I get to share the spotlight with someone who’s better than me, who’s more deserving than me, who formed this team on a whim because he saw that hunger, he saw that rage, he saw that pride building up in me. He saw that my thousand-step journey is only at its’ beginning, the rising action is STILL rising, and that Liz Karlson is going to BE SOMETHING, SOMEDAY, even if it ain’t yet. Even if I lost to Cloud Matsuda, even if I came in second in the fucking Clash, I’ve still got it, I’ve still got potential, I’ve still got firecracker energy and the attitude to KEEP PUSHING FORWARD even when I have nothing left to give.
That’s why I’m part of BFG-because it’s not the size of the fucking guy, but the fight in ‘em, and I’ve got fight that’ll make the biggest, rowdiest pitbulls shit their fucking guts out.”
Gross.
“You’re gonna want to watch this bout, folks. I don’t give a fuck if you’re at home or you’re in the arena cheering my name, screaming for me like I know you’ll be doing. You’re gonna see something special, here. You’re gonna see what happens when an unstoppable force meets an unmovable object, and instead of fighting, they decide to kick the shit out of literally everybody else. You’re gonna see what happens when I hit my stride, my full potential, without needing a fucking warmup, without needing too many stretches, without needing anything other than the heart that beats inside my chest every single day of my fucking life.
You’re gonna see just how driven, just how motivated, just how ready to fucking go that I fucking am, and you’re gonna be stupefied. You’re gonna be amazed. You’re gonna sell my goddamn shirt out at every merch stand around this fucking arena.
But more than that, you’re getting a preview.
No…you’re getting a spoiler.
Because you’re going to see the team that will, in short order, become the Project Honor Tag Team Fucking Champions, and hold those glimmering straps forever-fucking-more.
Tune in. Keep your eyes glued to the screen. Get on this goddamned hype train now, because BFG is here, we’re ready to rock shit, we’re ready to fucking wreck house.
We’re ready to make this bitch our own.
Let’s fucking go.”
Liz breathes heavily. She leans against a locker, and with a cocky smile, sends us out with a bang.
-
If she had any desires of keeping herself down for long, they faded shortly after Mike got fully into his stride. Liz was unwilling to sit by and let the Dreadknight impress upon her that he could do it better, faster, stronger than she could, so she set up another heavy bag and went right back to work. Still, her back tore at her. Still, her body shined and shimmered with bruises from the night before. Still, she was in almost-unspeakable soreness, a surge that flowed through her muscles with each movement she made.
But it was no longer agony. The adrenaline flowing through her veins prevented that.
Liz pushed herself to her utter fucking limits with all of the piss and vinegar she could muster in her heart, with all of the rage and anger she could push forward. She imagined Filth dumping her over the top rope. She imagined Cloud Matsuda choking her out. She imagined falling from the heights of a ten foot ladder mere moments away from grabbing the Goddesses Championship. She imagined every loss within her, and let it boil up, let it rise to the top of her lungs and stomach, and with a massive roar she speared the ever living shit out of the heavy bag with such a thunderous sound that it didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even wait to crumple to the goddamned ground. The Silver Bullet to the skull of the exercise was something that she was unsure she could have delivered, but here she was, successful. Here she was, victorious.
She rolled through, and immediately pounded out pushups. Pounded out sit-ups. She kept fucking going. Her pace increased Mike’s, and Mike’s increased pace kept hers going, and going. They fed off of one another, a chaotic, frenetic energy that kept the two nearly-people going, kept their midnight oil burning, kept their engines running hot and heavy until they nearly goddamned burned out.
It was an hour and countless reps later when they both lay on the floor of the gym, sweat pooling, dehydration setting in, surrounded by water bottles and bags of ice. Wordless, they laid separate, nearly a world between them as Liz tried to pull herself up, but the boiling acid in her body prevented her from contracting enough muscles to do so. Eventually, she got her eyes on Mike, who appeared to be in a similar state. She mustered up a few words.
“Killer workout, eh?” She smirked.
“Yeah, ‘course.” Bishop mused. They returned to silence, but Liz wasn’t quite done. She held a fist out, and Mike raised a brow.
“Come on. Fist bump me. We did good, and it sets the team in motion so we can kick these two silver spoon motherfuckers’ asses in a few days’ time. BFG for life, right?”
Bishop hesitated. Then, he nodded.
“BFG for life.”
He bumped her fist, and from there, it was settled.
They’d fucking do this, one way or another.
What else could she be feeling in this moment? She was inches away from sealing her ticket, her place at one of the biggest shows she could possibly see herself working at this time in her life. She’d made it on the card last year, sure, out of sheer luck and being in the right place at the right time. This year, she had purpose, a desire to improve, a desire to move onward, a desire to try again-to get a rematch against a woman who’d beaten her handily.
She outlasted a bastion of women-nearly half the field-to get damn near that goal, too. It was a misstep, a strategically misplaced decision, a poor bit of timing, one shot at a woman who’d go on to win. Her axe kick had dropped a little too slowly, and Rebecca Filth was able to dump her over. When her neck and back hit that ground, hard, she felt the hope and faith she’d put in herself seep out of her faster than it had gotten there. Her eyes watered as she heard the words ‘FINAL DESTINATION IV’ echo through the arena, she breathed heavily, and she sat up to allow Filth to have her moment of pride.
She’d earned that much, at least.
Now, Elizabeth Karlson couldn’t let the prior day’s events slow her down. She’d found a pollock painting of bruises and burst capillaries up and down her back, legs, even a bit on her face. Beatings at the hands of such names like The Banshee and April Song and the aforementioned Rebecca Filth would do that to a girl, would leave her in some frame of agony that would keep others in bed for days and days at a time, but here she was. She’d shoved a heavy bag to the ground time and time again, dropped to give as many push ups as she could muster, and then dragged the bag back to its ‘feet’ as she prepared to do the same. It was a high intensity training method developed by one Michael Bishop-the same of which she was tagging with, the same of which was watching her as she laid prone against the bag.
Bishop was giving her some grace and allowing her to take her time-god knows the Dreadknight knew what it was like to survive a Clash bout, even if he hadn’t quite performed as she had before. Liz began to pull herself to her feet, and she heard a hesitant noise from Bishop, but she’d already adjusted the weight-pull harness against her torso, and was slowly backing up toward him, keeping her back facing him, the heavy bag slowly rising to a ‘standing’ position as she yanked it forward. She gritted her teeth, almost certainly feeling the cold stare of Bishop sizing her up, before she charged forward with all of the force she could muster and SLAMMED into the heavy bag like a bullet from the barrel of a gun. The heavy bag buckled, and after a few moments of counterweights trying to offer a bare minimum of resistance, it sank to the ground.
Liz laid atop it for just a second, before undoing the harness, rolling away, and firing off a series of sit-ups. Her stomach ripped and tore at itself, trying desperately to keep temporary measures it had put in place to dull the pain and keep the body moving intact. However, Liz wasn’t willing to stop. Agony ripped across her as lactic acid pooled in each of her limbs, and at the fiftieth sit-up in the section, she rolled back onto the heavy bag. She quickly adjusted the harness again, and as she got to a kneeling position, she felt something in her back snap. She let out a gasp of pain, knowing something wasn’t right-not severe enough to be an injury, but an ache, a setback, something that would hold the two of them back. She wanted to push through, but the sudden shock of pain caused her knees to buckle, caused her to fall to all fours. She let out a barely-suppressed cry of pain, gritting her teeth so hard they almost reduced themselves to dust, before she felt the weight of the heavy bag release itself and fall to the ground. She remained in a four-posted position, and was unsurprised to see heavy footfalls standing in front of her.
“Sorry, Mike.” Liz barely got out. “Just…lemme take ninety seconds an’ I’ll get goin’ again, alright?”
“Nah, Liz. Take a break.” A water bottle and towel were placed right in front of her. ”For a bit. Please. You did a lot already, and I need you to be in decent shape for our match this week. Can’t contend for the tag titles with a herniated disc, can you?”
Liz laughed. Bishop returned the laugh, but Liz could hear a tinge of concern as he went off to do his own exercises. She waited for a moment longer, before collecting the water bottle and towel, wiping some of the gathered sweat off of her face. She took a long swig from the bottle, quickly realizing how dehydrated she must have been as the cool liquid quenched a fire burning in her throat, and she allowed herself to hit a sitting position. Already, the pain in her back was starting to fade, barely a memory of the intensity it had a few minutes prior. Already, the upon her spine was alleviated. She polished the bottle of water, and stewed in her shame for a moment longer, the inability to continue her exercise.
But she’d made it this far, right? No less than 24 hours than nearly killing herself to nearly win the Clash, here she was, still working. Those other bitches may as well have still been in bed.
At least, that was what she told herself.
-
“FUCKING BFG DIVISION! WE’RE HERE TO KILL SHIT!”
Liz is back in the locker room and she’s hyped up. Go figure.
“Mike and I? We’re an unlikely team, you think? Two of us have come up under ocmpletely different circumstances, while Mikey was hanging out on the Frontline with some of the gnarliest bastards in this industry, I was training under the tutelage of the one, the only, the Gaijin Kaiju, Graham Baker! I don’t give two fucks about Graham, what he’s done, and what he’s been up to, while Mike’s still best friends with all his boys for the most part, so that’s where we differ. You may ask yourself, considering all of that, why are we here teamed up as we are? Why didn’t Mike bring someone along like Jeff X or reunite his Mafia ties with Jason Long? Hell, why is Jeff even bothering to waste time on some little brick shithouse like me, when he could pick a more suitable partner from anyone who’s been on this roster for longer than a lick of time!?
Well, I’ll answer that question for you, cueball-it’s because I’m the REAL FUCKING DEAL! I’m the full FUCKING package! I’m a girl who’s taken any challenge thrown her way, be it legends like Cloud Matsuda, be it fiends like Rebecca Filth, be it, I don’t fucking know, five other women in a Full Metal Mayhem bout for a title hung well above the fucking ring, and I’ve taken that shit on the GODDAMN CHIN! I don’t let people slow me the fuck down, I SLOW people the fuck down with a kick to the back of the head flashier an’ faster than anything they’ve EVER SEEN! I stop people in their goddamn tracks, because my meteor’s so big and so shiny that each of you fuckers have not a goddamned CHANCE to outshine me! I am just that fucking good! I am Liz FUCKING Karlson, and I’m the girl who puts the FUCKING in BIG FUCKING GUY DIVISION! Fuck yeah, up top baby!”
Liz throws a hand up, and no one responds…because she’s in the room alone with a camera. It’s done for effect, of course. She clears her throat.
“Man, I haven’t had a chance to go apeshit like this in a LONG goddamned time. I haven’t had a shot at being a bit more of myself since, god knows, before I fucked around with the WWC over in OWA. I don’t have any sponsorship money running on this shit anymore, either, it’s just me and my own fucking words keeping me going! I’m hurting like hell after last night, but my spirit’s strong-a ‘flesh is bruised, soul is willing’ situation if I’ve ever felt one! And I know with big fucking stakes on the line, I gotta amp myself up, I’ve gotta be ready to keep going beyond where I’ve gone before, to go further beyond and take those steps that limpdick PUSSIES like our opponents aren’t fucking WILLING to take!
Speaking of opponents, let’s TALK ABOUT ‘EM!
We got some dumb cunt like Sonya Benson who’s been here on a forced excursion to keep getting her hands on daddy’s money, I presume, if the dossier’s anything to fucking go off of. I do a bit of research here and there, and seeing the volume of zeroes stacked up behind this bitch got me looking at my own bank account in envy. If I could be as lucky as this girl was, I wouldn’t have to shack up in the same shithole i’ve been living out of in Philadelphia for the past five years. Benson’s had all the luck in the world, all the wealth one could fucking ask for, and all she has to do to keep it is wrestle.
That’s right, y’know, the thing the rest of us go around the world getting paid peanuts to do.
But she can’t even fucking manage it. I don’t even hate her for being uber-wealthy, sometimes you can’t control that shit. I do hate her for being unable to adapt to circumstance. If my father came out of his grave and threw a million dollars at me to take a few back bumps and call it a fucking night, I’d stare at the lights until I torched my corneas and my blind ass would learn to echolocate to keep myself going to keep that cash flow up. What kind of pity is there for me to have? What kind of sadness is there gonna be in my heart to know that this woman’s going home to a bed made of benjamins whether or not she and her partner make it to the tag titles? It’ll be fucking minimal at best, and I doubt it’ll exist, period. I’ve got no fear in my heart of this woman, she’ll take a haymaker from me and turn into ashes like a goddamned cartoon character. If I get her up onto my shoulders, she’ll faint like the dainty, thin waif she is, and someone’ll have to get the smelling salts and carry her ass out of the ring.
That’s not even counting Bishop, and the dude hits way fucking harder than I do. Combined, the two of us will make sure that daddy’s money pile grows bigger and bigger, thanks to some life insurance policy cashing out. It’s the least we could do, Mr. Benson, for delivering to us such a fucking solid opponent for me to make an example out of in my debut.
Johnny Levy, meanwhile, appears to be so deep within his own ass that you could call his whole deal the Nutty Putty Cave Incident. That reference may not be topical, but neither is a guy who’s whole deal is being a fucking superstar. What is this, The Real World ‘01? I abhor people who get into wrestling for the potential fame it can bring them, because there’s not a goddamn thing in this world of ours that’ll bring you glory and gold. You get your lights punched out and you lose your face for film sometime within your first ten matches, and I can tell you that for a fact, because the modeling calls stopped coming after some jackoff broke my nose during an early brawl somewhere in Dayton, Ohio. I’d love to do the same to this smug prick, with his allegory and his posse and whatever the fuck else his deal is, but I’d like to give him a fighting chance, first. Like to see him come to the ring and put his dukes up.
Like to see Bishop break his jaw off a single punch, too.
You see, it’s the difference in motivation-Levy might wanna be the best all around so he can get the fame from it, but I wanna be the best fighter in any company in the world. The wrestling part of it doesn’t matter nearly as much to me so long as every ass in every seat be it at home or in the arena knows I can win a fight against them, their dad, their mom, and every relative of theirs in a five hundred mile radius with a blindfold on and a hand tied behind my back. I don’t need kids to recognize me in the goddamn airport, I don’t need autograph lines out the fucking door every time I walk into the arena.
I just need people to know I’m THE GODDAMN BEST!
Beating someone like Levy, who’s the antithesis of what I am, is a big goddamn step for Liz-Kind toward that. Crushing this dude into the pavement with all of the grace and ease of a particularly juicy ant under a size twelve isn’t just something that’ll achieve a bit for me in the way of establishing reputation, i’ll also get a fucking kick out of it. And when I’ve had my fun, I can always let Mike come in and pick up the scraps, play around with our food a bit before we send ‘em packing. I pity this fool in particular, the more I think about it, because I know he’s gonna have a hell of a bad time before we decide to end it, assuming we don’t just DOOM THEIR ASSES at the ringing of the bell and make it to the local dive bar before last call.
Guess we’ll have to see where we stand.”
Liz breathes.
“Lots of talking, lots of assurances, lots of letting all you folks back home know exactly who I am, because you’re gonna be seeing quite a bit of me. This’ll be the first step of a thousand, the idea that I’ll be stepping into my Project: Honor debut with quite the prize on the line, and cashing those casino chips in for an even bigger depository of gold against some dudes who’ve held the shit for a goddamn minute. I’m making big promises here, now, not just for all of you back home to get invested, but for myself to get back on track. I’m a nearly-woman in almost every promotion I’ve been in, I’ve almost got my hands on the big gold each and every time I’ve shot for it lately, but I haven’t quite made that leap. Haven’t quite connected with that award-winning punch.
Mike’s the same as me, really. It’s why we bonded. Places begin to give us what we’re owed, our just desserts, and the shit starts to crumple around us the minute it hits our hands. It’s a hard mindset to adapt to in this industry, where people like Levy and Benson get in and get lucky and get opportunities quite like this. Granted, I’m not saying that they haven’t earned the opportunity at the opportunity we’re about to get, nor am I saying that they entirely deserve the ass beating that they’re assuredly gonna get, but you can’t look at their work ethic, what they’ve done, why they’re fucking here, and say they’ve earned it more than we have. You can’t look at the combined gallons of sweat and blood and tears that Mike and I have spilled across every canvas we’ve set foot on and say that this isn’t a debut that totally, entirely, wholly encompasses everything that we are, everything that we are going to be.
The two of us have been on the cusp of a breakout for fucking years, and it’s just now that people are starting to come around, people are starting to get behind us, people are starting to put us in MORE than the fucking rear view, than the spots to make other clowns look good.
I’m glad that Project: Honor at least appears to respect that facet, and has given us this gracious opportunity.
I’m glad that I’ve signed my contract, so I don’t need to negotiate SHIT when we cave the collected skulls of Julius Fairweather and Slade Castle in with the ease of shattering eggs to make some fucking breakfast.
I’m glad that I’m WILLING to come out here, time and time again and a-fucking-gain, to prove why I’m one of the best in the world, why I can win all those fights, why I’m going to pull a match out of these overinflated-ego fucking goobers who we’re stacked up against. Moreover than that, I’m glad that I get to share the spotlight with someone who’s better than me, who’s more deserving than me, who formed this team on a whim because he saw that hunger, he saw that rage, he saw that pride building up in me. He saw that my thousand-step journey is only at its’ beginning, the rising action is STILL rising, and that Liz Karlson is going to BE SOMETHING, SOMEDAY, even if it ain’t yet. Even if I lost to Cloud Matsuda, even if I came in second in the fucking Clash, I’ve still got it, I’ve still got potential, I’ve still got firecracker energy and the attitude to KEEP PUSHING FORWARD even when I have nothing left to give.
That’s why I’m part of BFG-because it’s not the size of the fucking guy, but the fight in ‘em, and I’ve got fight that’ll make the biggest, rowdiest pitbulls shit their fucking guts out.”
Gross.
“You’re gonna want to watch this bout, folks. I don’t give a fuck if you’re at home or you’re in the arena cheering my name, screaming for me like I know you’ll be doing. You’re gonna see something special, here. You’re gonna see what happens when an unstoppable force meets an unmovable object, and instead of fighting, they decide to kick the shit out of literally everybody else. You’re gonna see what happens when I hit my stride, my full potential, without needing a fucking warmup, without needing too many stretches, without needing anything other than the heart that beats inside my chest every single day of my fucking life.
You’re gonna see just how driven, just how motivated, just how ready to fucking go that I fucking am, and you’re gonna be stupefied. You’re gonna be amazed. You’re gonna sell my goddamn shirt out at every merch stand around this fucking arena.
But more than that, you’re getting a preview.
No…you’re getting a spoiler.
Because you’re going to see the team that will, in short order, become the Project Honor Tag Team Fucking Champions, and hold those glimmering straps forever-fucking-more.
Tune in. Keep your eyes glued to the screen. Get on this goddamned hype train now, because BFG is here, we’re ready to rock shit, we’re ready to fucking wreck house.
We’re ready to make this bitch our own.
Let’s fucking go.”
Liz breathes heavily. She leans against a locker, and with a cocky smile, sends us out with a bang.
-
If she had any desires of keeping herself down for long, they faded shortly after Mike got fully into his stride. Liz was unwilling to sit by and let the Dreadknight impress upon her that he could do it better, faster, stronger than she could, so she set up another heavy bag and went right back to work. Still, her back tore at her. Still, her body shined and shimmered with bruises from the night before. Still, she was in almost-unspeakable soreness, a surge that flowed through her muscles with each movement she made.
But it was no longer agony. The adrenaline flowing through her veins prevented that.
Liz pushed herself to her utter fucking limits with all of the piss and vinegar she could muster in her heart, with all of the rage and anger she could push forward. She imagined Filth dumping her over the top rope. She imagined Cloud Matsuda choking her out. She imagined falling from the heights of a ten foot ladder mere moments away from grabbing the Goddesses Championship. She imagined every loss within her, and let it boil up, let it rise to the top of her lungs and stomach, and with a massive roar she speared the ever living shit out of the heavy bag with such a thunderous sound that it didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even wait to crumple to the goddamned ground. The Silver Bullet to the skull of the exercise was something that she was unsure she could have delivered, but here she was, successful. Here she was, victorious.
She rolled through, and immediately pounded out pushups. Pounded out sit-ups. She kept fucking going. Her pace increased Mike’s, and Mike’s increased pace kept hers going, and going. They fed off of one another, a chaotic, frenetic energy that kept the two nearly-people going, kept their midnight oil burning, kept their engines running hot and heavy until they nearly goddamned burned out.
It was an hour and countless reps later when they both lay on the floor of the gym, sweat pooling, dehydration setting in, surrounded by water bottles and bags of ice. Wordless, they laid separate, nearly a world between them as Liz tried to pull herself up, but the boiling acid in her body prevented her from contracting enough muscles to do so. Eventually, she got her eyes on Mike, who appeared to be in a similar state. She mustered up a few words.
“Killer workout, eh?” She smirked.
“Yeah, ‘course.” Bishop mused. They returned to silence, but Liz wasn’t quite done. She held a fist out, and Mike raised a brow.
“Come on. Fist bump me. We did good, and it sets the team in motion so we can kick these two silver spoon motherfuckers’ asses in a few days’ time. BFG for life, right?”
Bishop hesitated. Then, he nodded.
“BFG for life.”
He bumped her fist, and from there, it was settled.
They’d fucking do this, one way or another.