Post by americangrime on Apr 14, 2022 16:02:51 GMT -5
You were born for this.
It was a mantra, banging against the walls of her skull again and fucking again, no matter how many times she fell, no matter how much she faltered, it always came back. She’d pull her head up from the hard canvas below, peel herself off the wood of the gym floor, snap a shoulder back into place and just keep going.
No matter what they say, Liz, you were born for this.
It wasn’t an easy few months for Liz Karlson, light seemed dim and every time she felt like she was getting close to the end of the tunnel, it stretched on a few miles more. Still, she persevered. Opportunities came, she relished in them, she wrapped her hands around them and held on for dear life. It was how she’d gotten her mits on the OWA Openweight Championship[/i], how she’d damned near won the Clash of the Titans before Rebecca Filth outlasted her, how she managed to secure the APEX World Heavyweight Championship against all odds, against a legend like Jacob Senn.
You were born and bred to fight like hell, so fight like it.
Now, she found herself staring down the barrel of another gun. Grand opportunity coming her way in the form of the Project: Honor Tag Team Championships. She had a hell of a guy beside her in Mike Bishop, another nearly-man who seemed, himself, on the cusp of securing a victory beyond all other victories before it. She felt like this was a prelude to greater things for both of them-there was a legitimate chance that elsewhere, they could be standing tall, world championships strapped about their waists, war on their minds, dominance and supremacy alone in their future.
This is your shot. Don’t fuck it up.
In the past, she might have let that feeling bog her down, she might have let that self-doubt consume her whole and eat her alive-but here? Now? It wasn’t doing such a thing. She wouldn’t let her own brain cannibalize the parts of her body that so desperately wanted to win. She wouldn’t let her bravado fall as she stepped forward into a Public Execution, as the Troupe put themselves on the line against her and Bishop, as what seemed to some to be a forgone conclusion generated a bit more curiosity than anticipated.
She wasn’t going to fuck this one up.
Not at all.
-
“PHANTOM TROUPE!”
A pause, and then a roar of laughter. A full chested cackle from the belly of a woman like Liz, born and forged in war, ready to die if that was what it took to come out on top. The roar calms down to a chuckle, a half-wheezing sound, before it fades out entirely.
“I’m sorry-that’s who we’re fighting? The life-supported vestiges of something that died a death in Japan so long ago? I thought the Troupe went the way of the mammoth when Darkane and Senn hung their jerseys in the goddamned rafters and claimed it was time for a Dynasty to emerge. I thought the Troupe shuttered their doors when SSW came-and went-for the fifth time. I thought the Troupe was old fucking news based upon the way that they went from being ON TOP OF THIS LANDSCAPE to represented by a couple of fresh faced children with some gold around their waists in a company like this one.
I assure you-I’m not doubting your lineage, every big team has its dweebs…I’m just surprised to see that we’ve got the chance to exorcise this ghost so early on into our partnership. DJ Hunter, Kyle Valentine, the two of you couldn’t hold a candle to the individuals who made up the Phantom Troupe before. You couldn’t hang with Darkane and Aria Jaxon, you couldn’t even mess around with Wil Pierce despite how low on the totems he seemed to be back then. I watched SSW tapes like a motherfucker while I was training under Graham Baker, and I saw what those bastards were willing to do, how ruthless they were willing to be to secure the prizes that they wanted. What have the two of you done to protect your homestead so far, eh? What have you done to show that this is truly your division as you fucking claim?
Because if you look at the two of us, well…”
Liz snorts.
”We’re still fucking undefeated. We blew the goddamn doors off this place, and the rest of the fucking world away when every challenge thrown in our direction got cut down and run over without a goddamn second thought from either of us. Mike and I are natural born killers, but more than that, we’re big fucking guys, and our mission statement as BOTH of the above is to peel you two goofballs out of whatever petards you’ve hoisted yourselves from. You might think this is an easy defense, that the two of us are overhyped, but the reality of the situation is that neither of you have a CHANCE IN FUCKING HELL of putting myself and Michael, here, down.
I know you don’t buy that, because of…whatever fucking reason, really. Because you worked hard to get here? Because you got those belts off guys who had ‘em for a damn long time? Because you think that you deserve to keep them for a long fucking time?
Fuck you with all of that, honestly.
Bishop and I spent the better part of the last year struggling as individuals, coming inch after inch from big wins, saddled with the title of fucking nearly man time and time again, but we GOT THERE. We made it out of those respective rabbitholes with gold on our shoulders and opportunities in our foreground, we SURVIVED. The reason we came here was because we wanted to push that luck, because we understood that every missed opportunity we’d had in the past had a chance to be rectified sometime in the future, somewhere else, and right now, I’m looking to make a hell of a fucking cash out on EVERY TIME I STRUGGLED as long as I’ve been in this business.
That cash out’s coming at YOUR EXPENSE.
I’ve looked across this landscape for years and years, I’ve looked at my history, at the man who trained me and everyone else he’s trained, and I see a trend as he winds his career down. As Father Time claims Graham Baker, I’m well aware it’s coming for me, next. It may be a few decades, still, but I haven’t gone easy on this body in the twenty-two fucking years I’ve had her, and neither has Mike Bishop on his. I know that time is always fleeting, and the seconds you’re not spending competing at the absolute highest level you fucking can are seconds that you’re LOSING, are moments that are slipping through your fingers like the sands of fucking time, are memories that you had a million chances to make but NEVER COMPLETED. I’m well aware if we lose this opportunity, if we lose our hype, that this could be the only shot we ever get at his. That the next one might not be as much of an open contest.
That this is now or fucking never, as it always has been for me.
AS IT ALWAYS WILL BE!”
Heavy breathing for a moment segments us. We hear the uncapping of a water bottle, a quick ‘glug-glug’, and then an exhale. We’re back.
“I’ve worked too goddamn hard for too goddamn long to get to this point and I’m not about to let it fall from my grasp. I’ve let myself tumble down the path of self-doubt before and it’s nearly cost me everything, time and time again, but I’m not that same girl anymore. I’ve stood face to face with each and every champion in my way, I’ve given them the fight of a fucking lifetime, and I haven’t EVER given up. I’ve gone to war time and time again, I will do it each and every day until I fucking DIE if that’s what it takes! Both of you fuckers, Phantom Troupe, you try to coast on name value, you try to carry yourselves forward on the reputation of those before you, you’re gonna get fucked up, you’re gonna get shut down!
You’ll live up to that namesake, because like the ghosts you rep, you’ll be nothing but Phantoms haunting what’s left of this shit.”
Liz sneers, a vicious smile.
“See you at Public Execution II. Get your shit in order…you’re not gonna have it for much longer.”
It was a mantra, banging against the walls of her skull again and fucking again, no matter how many times she fell, no matter how much she faltered, it always came back. She’d pull her head up from the hard canvas below, peel herself off the wood of the gym floor, snap a shoulder back into place and just keep going.
No matter what they say, Liz, you were born for this.
It wasn’t an easy few months for Liz Karlson, light seemed dim and every time she felt like she was getting close to the end of the tunnel, it stretched on a few miles more. Still, she persevered. Opportunities came, she relished in them, she wrapped her hands around them and held on for dear life. It was how she’d gotten her mits on the OWA Openweight Championship[/i], how she’d damned near won the Clash of the Titans before Rebecca Filth outlasted her, how she managed to secure the APEX World Heavyweight Championship against all odds, against a legend like Jacob Senn.
You were born and bred to fight like hell, so fight like it.
Now, she found herself staring down the barrel of another gun. Grand opportunity coming her way in the form of the Project: Honor Tag Team Championships. She had a hell of a guy beside her in Mike Bishop, another nearly-man who seemed, himself, on the cusp of securing a victory beyond all other victories before it. She felt like this was a prelude to greater things for both of them-there was a legitimate chance that elsewhere, they could be standing tall, world championships strapped about their waists, war on their minds, dominance and supremacy alone in their future.
This is your shot. Don’t fuck it up.
In the past, she might have let that feeling bog her down, she might have let that self-doubt consume her whole and eat her alive-but here? Now? It wasn’t doing such a thing. She wouldn’t let her own brain cannibalize the parts of her body that so desperately wanted to win. She wouldn’t let her bravado fall as she stepped forward into a Public Execution, as the Troupe put themselves on the line against her and Bishop, as what seemed to some to be a forgone conclusion generated a bit more curiosity than anticipated.
She wasn’t going to fuck this one up.
Not at all.
-
“PHANTOM TROUPE!”
A pause, and then a roar of laughter. A full chested cackle from the belly of a woman like Liz, born and forged in war, ready to die if that was what it took to come out on top. The roar calms down to a chuckle, a half-wheezing sound, before it fades out entirely.
“I’m sorry-that’s who we’re fighting? The life-supported vestiges of something that died a death in Japan so long ago? I thought the Troupe went the way of the mammoth when Darkane and Senn hung their jerseys in the goddamned rafters and claimed it was time for a Dynasty to emerge. I thought the Troupe shuttered their doors when SSW came-and went-for the fifth time. I thought the Troupe was old fucking news based upon the way that they went from being ON TOP OF THIS LANDSCAPE to represented by a couple of fresh faced children with some gold around their waists in a company like this one.
I assure you-I’m not doubting your lineage, every big team has its dweebs…I’m just surprised to see that we’ve got the chance to exorcise this ghost so early on into our partnership. DJ Hunter, Kyle Valentine, the two of you couldn’t hold a candle to the individuals who made up the Phantom Troupe before. You couldn’t hang with Darkane and Aria Jaxon, you couldn’t even mess around with Wil Pierce despite how low on the totems he seemed to be back then. I watched SSW tapes like a motherfucker while I was training under Graham Baker, and I saw what those bastards were willing to do, how ruthless they were willing to be to secure the prizes that they wanted. What have the two of you done to protect your homestead so far, eh? What have you done to show that this is truly your division as you fucking claim?
Because if you look at the two of us, well…”
Liz snorts.
”We’re still fucking undefeated. We blew the goddamn doors off this place, and the rest of the fucking world away when every challenge thrown in our direction got cut down and run over without a goddamn second thought from either of us. Mike and I are natural born killers, but more than that, we’re big fucking guys, and our mission statement as BOTH of the above is to peel you two goofballs out of whatever petards you’ve hoisted yourselves from. You might think this is an easy defense, that the two of us are overhyped, but the reality of the situation is that neither of you have a CHANCE IN FUCKING HELL of putting myself and Michael, here, down.
I know you don’t buy that, because of…whatever fucking reason, really. Because you worked hard to get here? Because you got those belts off guys who had ‘em for a damn long time? Because you think that you deserve to keep them for a long fucking time?
Fuck you with all of that, honestly.
Bishop and I spent the better part of the last year struggling as individuals, coming inch after inch from big wins, saddled with the title of fucking nearly man time and time again, but we GOT THERE. We made it out of those respective rabbitholes with gold on our shoulders and opportunities in our foreground, we SURVIVED. The reason we came here was because we wanted to push that luck, because we understood that every missed opportunity we’d had in the past had a chance to be rectified sometime in the future, somewhere else, and right now, I’m looking to make a hell of a fucking cash out on EVERY TIME I STRUGGLED as long as I’ve been in this business.
That cash out’s coming at YOUR EXPENSE.
I’ve looked across this landscape for years and years, I’ve looked at my history, at the man who trained me and everyone else he’s trained, and I see a trend as he winds his career down. As Father Time claims Graham Baker, I’m well aware it’s coming for me, next. It may be a few decades, still, but I haven’t gone easy on this body in the twenty-two fucking years I’ve had her, and neither has Mike Bishop on his. I know that time is always fleeting, and the seconds you’re not spending competing at the absolute highest level you fucking can are seconds that you’re LOSING, are moments that are slipping through your fingers like the sands of fucking time, are memories that you had a million chances to make but NEVER COMPLETED. I’m well aware if we lose this opportunity, if we lose our hype, that this could be the only shot we ever get at his. That the next one might not be as much of an open contest.
That this is now or fucking never, as it always has been for me.
AS IT ALWAYS WILL BE!”
Heavy breathing for a moment segments us. We hear the uncapping of a water bottle, a quick ‘glug-glug’, and then an exhale. We’re back.
“I’ve worked too goddamn hard for too goddamn long to get to this point and I’m not about to let it fall from my grasp. I’ve let myself tumble down the path of self-doubt before and it’s nearly cost me everything, time and time again, but I’m not that same girl anymore. I’ve stood face to face with each and every champion in my way, I’ve given them the fight of a fucking lifetime, and I haven’t EVER given up. I’ve gone to war time and time again, I will do it each and every day until I fucking DIE if that’s what it takes! Both of you fuckers, Phantom Troupe, you try to coast on name value, you try to carry yourselves forward on the reputation of those before you, you’re gonna get fucked up, you’re gonna get shut down!
You’ll live up to that namesake, because like the ghosts you rep, you’ll be nothing but Phantoms haunting what’s left of this shit.”
Liz sneers, a vicious smile.
“See you at Public Execution II. Get your shit in order…you’re not gonna have it for much longer.”