Post by SammieSinclair on Feb 7, 2015 17:10:03 GMT
www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBcsCn9QyUQ
There were a few things that were absolutely guaranteed to make the FAWNatics, packed from wall to wall within the capacity arena, to collectively lose their sh*t without fail. ‘Let’s Get Rocked’ by Deff Leppard was amongst them, heralding the inevitable arrival of the Sensational Shea London, an undisputed legend of FAWN and, tonight, the one who was no doubt about to lay the smackdown upon those who truly deserved it.
Anticipation was running high, growing since the moment the blonde beauty had made her unscheduled arrival at the show’s opening and thrown down the gauntlet. With each match that had passed since that volatile moment, the FAWNatics needs had grown only greater, and now the time had come for Gen Next to reap what they had sown.
The crowd was cheering from the very first beat, shaking the rafters with their applause and whooping themselves breathless, each waiting for the Babyface Favourite to arrive.
Only she didn’t...
Confusion spread like wildfire as, in place of London, instead burst out an entirely different native of Manchester, one with a dark raven mane and a grin that was as crooked as it was cruel. Irma Iron’s erupted out onto the stage, whipping her arms out to either side as she spiralled, mocking everyone and all as she made an instant mockery of the spectator’s hopes and dreams, a vicious little malcontent who was unrepentant.
Irma Irons
At five foot four, she carried her compact, powerful frame with disdain for everyone around her, wrapped in a tank top and well worn shorts of the deepest black, she had made the bare minimum effort required to be presentable tonight. As the shell shocked fans of Shea caught up and switched their adulation for horror, Iron’s kept her crooked grin in place and planted her feet firmly, heavy duty footwear of the steel toe capped variety setting her posture to unyielding as she whipped her arms up and delivered a double, one fingered salute, swinging her arms back down to slap the steel chain that she wore by way of belt about her hips.
If she hadn’t stuck the knife in enough just yet, the Weaponised Wolverine had one last twist to get the job done as she began storming down the aisle as if the announcer waiting within the squared circle owed her money, the Titantron fizzing and popping with violent static until, with a ear splitting screech, the usual video package of a triumphant London were replaced by something far more dire. Instead of the highlights from a Sensational career, instead the FAWNatics were treated to a revolving package of Shea’s most heart breaking failures, a seemingly endless stream of the fan favourite being beaten into submission as she tapped out, was driven to unconsciousness and lost titles, a haphazardly edited montage of one heroines darkest hours.
If anything, Irma revelled in the mounting displeasure that she was inflicting, sharply cracking her head from side to side and heaping additional abuse where she could before she even reached the squared circle. Storming up the steal steps, she ducked low and whipped her small, hardbody frame into the ring, storming her way across the matt as she snatched the microphone from the announcer and warned the flat footed official off with a glare that had swiftly lead towards violence against his kind more than ounce.
“F*CK YEAH!!” she welcomed one and all as she brought the stick up to her chin and grinned like an especially violent Cheshire Cat, sweeping her free fist towards the Titantron just to make sure that everyone was watching. “NOW THAT IS F*CKING TELEVISION!!”
The FAWNatics disagreed, but it didn’t seem too much matter, if anything Irma was only encouraged to go further.
“NOW THAT IS SOME SH*T TO BE ASHAMED OF,” Iron’s mocked, clearly relishing the sight of her fellow Manchester Natives lowest points, “YOU BYTCHES LOVE YERSELVES A LOSER DON’T YOU?” The question was, predictably, met with a torrent of fresh boos, “BUT YOU’RE RIGHT, THIS SH*T, THIS IS OLD NEWS,” she paused, the quirk of her lips instinctively filling those closest with an increasing tide of dread, “LET’S SEE US SOME CURRENT EVENTS!!” With that, the Titantron SQUEELED a second time and the video package dissolved, replaced by a live feed from somewhere disturbingly close by...
And by “close by”, read “immediately backstage.” Clearly, the Sensational One had been on her way to the ring, for the gorgeous Brit is clad in her standard battle garb, which could best be described as a Union Jack two piece: her top presents a white cross with the quadrants above in red and below in blue, and white trim leading into the shoulder straps. Her bottoms are primarily blue, save for the red, upside-down ‘V’ that start at each thigh and meet at her waist, the waistband and bars both trimmed in white. Ordinarily with this Union Jack, the image is broken up by an expanse of scrumptious tummy.
Shea London
Tonight, London’s belly is every bit as inviting as usual--but it’s also GULPING quite urgently, thanks to the electrical cord drawn tight around her throat by one Rose Evans. From her knees (thus obscuring the view of her Union Jack knee pads), Shea’s hands claw at the black cable, but the Smartest Girl in the Room plants a knee between London’s shoulder blades and reeeeeeefs back harder. Of course, wherever Rose Evans goes, Gabby Mendoza is not far away--and with Shea’s preoccupied by trying to halt her strangulation, the Babyfaced Killer reaches in to plunge two sets of talons into the Sensational One’s heaving bosom.
Rose Evans
Gabby Mendoza
Obviously, those claws should have the blonde Brit squalling in agony--but that would require air, and Shea can draw in precious little of that. Already, London’s body displays a sheen of perspiration--this battle has apparently been going on for some time before the FAWNatics became privy to it. Smirking, Mendoza RIIIIIIIIPS away her claws--but not before digging them in a little deeper, leaving a few telltale gashes in Shea’s top. A moment later, and Rose pulls away the electrical cord, allowing a red-faced and gasping Sensational One to topple forward to her hands and knees. Wheezing for breath, She begins to crawl away from the Barely Legal brats...
... only, her path takes her directly to the feet of Three D.
Darla Diane Davis
Darla Diane Davis stoops down, gathering a handful of hair and roughly YANKING the FAWN Original back to verticality. Releasing London’s already slightly dishevelled mane, Davis ducks a little further, nudging her head between the Sensational One’s thighs before straightening up. London soon finds herself hanging across Darla’s back, in prime position to become the victim of one of her waterwheel slams. Usually, Three D would deliver this wicked maneuver into a corner, thus SLAMMING the back of her foe’s head into the top turnbuckle. Backstage, of course, there are no ring posts...
... so Davis settles for the edge of a large, metallic trunk.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=c3p9fna5cKw
An instant after the ‘CLAAAANK!’ of the back of Shea’s skull with the steel, the FAWNtron goes dead, and London’s Legion fall into stunned, alarmed silence. A few moments later, the curtain is parted... and Rose Evans strides through first. But she is followed, on all fours, but the Sensational One. Evans leads the way to the ring, guiding Shea with a tug of her blonde locks. The Brit is also spurred on her way by Gabby Mendoza, trailing juuuust behind--close enough to pepper London’s tush with the occasional swat. Darla Diane brings up the rear, her evil grin threatening to engulf the entirety of her face.
Reaching the ring, Evans and Mendoza haul Shea up, stuffing the Sensational One underneath the bottom rope. For her part, Darla Diane halts just at the point where the aisle meets ringside. “How about it, folks?” she asks. “What do you say we get this show on the road?”
The Official didn’t appear to be too keen on the idea and, as the FAWNatics voiced his worry for him, for a moment it seemed as though he may very well be about to call the whole thing off (at the risk of his own career), only for the decision to be taken out of his hands. The bell sounded with an audible CLANG, largely to his surprise being as he had called for no such thing, only to find that Evans and Gabby had seen fit to give the Time Keeper at ringside a ‘gentle reminder’ concerning his duties.
Iron’s barely acknowledged any of it, her eyes only for Shea, the Weaponised Wolverine leaning forwards and snorting as she smelled blood, lining up her victim as, purely by instinctive reaction to the loud chime, London was struggling to her feet. The very moment that she found boot leather, Irma stormed into a charge, leaping at the last moment to positively SLAM a rigid shoulder into the trim, tenderised tummy of her local rival with a merciless spear!!
Back at the time keeper’s table, the Smartest Girl in the room plops herself down in the time keeper’s lap--much to his surprise and considerable awkward discomfort. Rose slips her left arm around his neck... while her right hand takes possession of the bell. “We don’t want any... accidents, do we?” she asks. “I’ll keep an eye on this.”
Meanwhile, Gabby skips over to the ring, flicking its skirt up onto the apron as she fishes underneath. It doesn’t take long for her to find what she’s looking for--a set of pom poms! A gleeful Mendoza then turns to the crowd, and attempts to get the FAWNatics cheering for Irma... with predictable results.
In the ring, Irons’ spear--executed with the skill and flare that would make any American football defensive coach proud--RIPS the Sensational One off her feet and DRIVES the increasingly breathless blonde down to the mat, the back of London’s head taking another wicked shot on her descent. While the canvas doesn’t have much padding, though, it still has a little more give than the trunk backstage had. While Irma rises to her knees between Shea’s stems, London attempts to roll to her left hip, one arm swaddling her tummy as she offers a ragged cough.
With a dual sounding thump, Irma SLAMMED both of her fists down to either side of the shattered London’s stunning noggin, the dark haired destroyer leaning forwards over the already battered blonde and allowing herself the brief indulgence of lording over her opponent. With a thrust of biceps, Iron’s surged her way back up to standing, whipping her arms out and demanding acknowledgement from the masses, standing behind the ‘cheer’ leading Mendoza as the other dark haired member of Gen Next did her thing outside the ring.
After the Gladiatrix photographers had captured the moment, Iron’s dropped her arms and, with a ripple of trepidation engulfing the FAWNatics, Iron’s reached down for her chain link belt. She ripped it free from her shorts with a wicked snap, holding it tightly about her knuckles before... turning to Triple D at ringside. Deciding that it wasn’t time yet, the Anarchist of Anarchy surrendered her prized possession into the safe keeping of the new Patriarch of her Mayhem before returning to her splayed out victim.
“Keep an eye on that for me,” she rolled her shoulders before reaching downwards, snatching a double handful of gloriously golden locks before she ripped Shea back up to standing with a fierce yank, “I’ll be needing it again later.”
London’s footing was far from certain, but it was more than good enough for Iron’s who reefed her arm back and delivered a BLISTERING chop to the flagged bosom of the English Export. “Come on London!!” Irma demanded with a snarl, delivering a second chop to drive her demand home, “this is what you’re here for right? This is where you give me what for right? Then hit me bytch!! HIT ME!!”
The second open-hand blow very nearly proves too much for London’s luscious legs. The British Bombshell’s knees visibly buckle as she staggers back, Shea’s bum lowering ever so slightly toward the mat before the Sensational One is able to right herself. HOWEVER, right herself she does. And though the act of remaining upright appears very much a chore to the sweat-drenched Sensational One, and though Shea’s eyes retain a bit of a dulled glaze, a little fire flickers through as London takes a step toward Irma, launching a forearm toward the younger Brit’s chest.
With a bosom voluntarily left open, London’s impact landed true, THUNKING home with far more gusto than Shea had any right to summon. It resounded proudly about the entire arena, speaking proudly of defiance and daring to fill a few hearts with hope as Irma ‘guffed’ a slightly surprised grunt and took a short, half step backwards.
It didn’t last, not as Gen Next’s Attack Dog regained the surrendered ground immediately and, with a haymaker swing, SMASHED her clenched fist into the undefended forehead of the crowd sweetheart. This time London did crumply downwards onto her weary knees, penitent as her bright eyes stared blurry, her noggin lolling backwards as Irma leaned forwards just long enough to take the blondes paws within her own.
“Well sh*t, how f*cking soft are these?” Irma observed with disdain as she tightened her grip about Shea’s fingers, “just how in the f*ck have you won anything with these dainty f*cking girl hands?” She wasn’t waiting for an answer, not as she began to SQUEEEEZE, her fists turning into a vices that were worthy of her namesake!!
As offense goes, it’s a pretty basic approach--but there’s little denying its effectiveness. The Sensational One utters the smallest of groans, before her teeth clamp down on her bottom lip, desperate to prevent any other cries from emerging past her lips as Irma slowly CRUSHES her fingers. On her knees as she is, London’s boots are next to useless to her in trying to find her way out of this. Her only two hopes lie in either pulling her hands loose, or rising to her feet. Unfortunately, Irma’s grasp is powerful--and only growing tighter. And as they do, the increasing anguish not only overwhelms Shea’s ability to push up, it soon has her going in the OPPOSITE direction, sinking back on her haunches.
London’s bottom lip slips free of her teeth, trembling as Shea screws her eyes shut against the pain.
Iron’s twisted her lips into a scowl as she continued to crush two sets of delightful digits in her steadily constricting fists, deliberately enticing a series of worrisome cracks and pops. “F*cking hell bytch, are you going to start crying?” she mocked with a fresh sneer before she tossed the crowd favourites paws away with disgusted disdain, “sh*t, you should be used to smelling of loser stink by now.”
Turning on a dime, Irma stormed into a charge in the opposite direction, taking off towards the ropes behind her and throwing herself into them. Her miniature, hardbody frame rebounded with shocking force, the younger women from Manchester heading straight back towards the legend like a steam train, one boot finally raised high and ready to kick a head right of its shoulders.
Freed from their crushing prison, Shea’s enflamed fingers curl inward, toward her palms... and her hands, in turn, instinctive draw in toward her chest. There’s another involuntary movement, in the form of London’s head drooping down to examine her crushed fingers. Pleased to see no outward signs of damage, the Sensational One lifts her noggin... just in time for the heel of Irma’s boot to smash into her forehead. The massive running kick sends Shea sprawling to her back, the blonde’s legs still bent at the knees, her arms spilling absently above her head. London’s eyes blink repeatedly as she stairs emptily toward the rafters.
Iron’s WHOOPED!! as she threw up her arms, holding her hands high in victory as she grinned maliciously from ear to ear, clearly enjoying the sensation of creating sensational road kill. She barely spared the splattered Shea a backwards glance as she leaned forwards against the top rope, grasping the coil as though she wanted to strangle the ring itself as she balanced as close as she could towards the heckling FAWNatics, mocking them as she made a pretence of listening to their discontent.
“What?” she queried, encouraging them to shout louder, “you don’t approve? Of this?” she threw a lazy arm backwards in the vague direction of the suffering London. “I see, you want it stop, is that it, you want it to stop? Alright then, let’s make it stop.”
With an offer made that could be taken too many ways, Irma dropped down to the matt and, with a slightly less than graceful slide, slid her way off the apron and outside the ring, joining Gabby as she continued her frankly heroic efforts to get the FAWNatics to cheer Irons. The Malevolent Malcontent reached back into the ring and secured both of Shea’s wrists, those that were helpfully laid out above the blondes noggin, and tugged her to the outside of the squared circle without a great deal of kindness.
With her blurry eyed package secured, Irons lead/carried/dragged the near insensible beauty within her grasp over to the barricade and, after picking out a practically dimple cheeked, broken hearted looking spectator, took the remains of the poor girls heroine right on over to her. Grabbing a handful of a gloriously golden mane, Irma jerked Shea’s face up to look into her fans eyes, Iron’s speaking to the singled out girl in a tone that brooked no argument.
“You want this to stop?” Irma demanded to know, “then tell her to give up. Go on, BEG HER TO GIVE UP!!”
The young woman’s eyes were watering as she met the dulled gaze of her champion... but the longer they held eye contact, something strange seemed to happen. Almost imperceptible, the Sensational One’s peepers seem to regain some focus, some purpose... Maybe no one else in the building could see it, but SHE could. And so, she pulled her eyes away from London’s to meet Irma’s dead on. “You might break Shea’s body,” she snaps, “but you’ll NEVER break her spirit. Or mine!”
The Weaponised Wolverine starts to offer a retort, but before she can, Shea stuffs a sharp elbow back into her midsection. Irma grunts in pain, but her fingers don’t release London’s locks. So the British Bombshell fires a SECOND elbow, which at least succeeds in loosening Irons’ clutches. With hope returning to the FAWNatics, Shea drags back her elbow for a third time, she and her fans both hoping it would prove to be the charm.
It did, at the very least, secure her freedom, a winded Irons releasing her hold and taking several involuntary steps backwards, the blonde beauty finding herself with room to breadth for the first time tonight since she had strapped on her beloved Union Jack. With her heart beating swiftly, Shea blinked fiercely, prepared to remind the world why so many feared the renowned London Ru... an enraged Irons STOMPED back forwards into the breach and a swung a wicked kick upwards for a steel toe capped PUNT of a beloved blondes womanhood.
A kick downstairs is not a fun experience, even from a bare or stocking-footed Ivy Armstrong. Factor in the Malevolent Malcontent’s reinforced footwear, and, well... The Sensational One’s jaw drops almost to her bosom, tears flooding her eyes almost immediately--yet she can’t form the first sound of anguish. Even Gabby Mendoza halts her pom pom routine long enough to grimace and cross her legs, while London staggers forward on liquefied gams. One stride and a half is all they can support her before the blonde crumples to her knees and pitches to her chest. One cheek pressed against the cold floor, Shea’s hands slip between her clinched thighs, the Sensational One’s hips shimmying as she tends to her wounds.
“Her spirit?” Iron’s questioned no-one in particular as she nudged the shuddering frame of Shea at her feet with the toe of her boot. “Well sh*t,” she took to standing with her hands on hips, shaking her head with mock air of disappointment, “well it looks like we’re been plain undone!!” Throwing up her arms in resignation, Irma then reached down and grabbed London by a duel handholds of her golden locks, once again dragging her to vertical and leading her knock kneed rival right on over to Darla Diana Davis.
“You hear that?” Iron’s asked the new Patriarch of her Mayhem, the Weaponised Wolverine all the while preparing to bounce the head of London off the nearby steal steps, “we clean forgot about her f*cking spirit!!”
‘CLAAAAAANGG!’
The Babyfaced Killer might have had a somewhat sympathetic reaction to Irons’ c*nt punt, but Three D just chuckles as Shea’s forehead meets the edge of the steps. The Sensational One whiplashes away from the vicious collision--and already, there’s a small splotch of crimson above London’s left eye, in testament to just how brutal an impact she had just endured. There’s not even a half-step from the FAWN Original this time before her knees hit the floor, the shell shocked blonde tumbling forward and landing on her chest and stomach.
Somehow, a mere two seconds later, the British Bombshell attempts to push back to her hands and knees... but the effort proves short-lived, Shea crashed back to the floor with a soft moan. Darla Diane turns toward the young fan Irma had just taunted with an extremely smug smirk. “She’s not looking very SPIRITED right now, is she?”
“She’s still awake,” Iron’s observed with an guttural sniff, tilting her head before jabbing the temple of the near prone Shea with the toe of her boot, “which is too f***ing spirited for my liking.” Iron’s shifted her foot and shoved it beneath her blonde opponents shoulder, flipping her ragdolled rival over onto her back and, in a act of malice, delivered a quick stomp to a defenceless bosom for good measure. With the fan favourite gagging and her limbs twitching, the Anarchist and Anarchy leant down and scooped Shea up in a cross body press, juggling the smaller women securely before turning in a half circle.
“Just so there ain’t no confusion later, London” Iron’s snorted, lining up her target, “as much as a f***ing hate you, yer little more than practice. Once we’re done putting you passed it bytches out to pasture, we’ll be doing likewise to yer Spin Offs.” Irma allowed herself a crooked smirk, her heart beating with a fierce rhythm, preparing to deliver the package of Shea’s spine into a ring post on the back end of a mad rush, “Little London won’t know what f***ing hit her!!”
The threat to her niece is enough to give Shea strength, the Sensational One’s hands balling into fists and rising away from Irma’s back... Unfortunately, before they can return there, SHEA’S back is brutally RAMMED into an unyielding steel beam. “GyyyyyyYYYYYAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” London wails as Irons releases her cargo, allowing the FAWN Original to crash at her feet in a drenched, mewling heap.
The Weaponised Wolverine takes a step back, but before she can pull TOO far away, Shea’s hand latches around her ankle. Though the ringpost might have robbed the Sensational One of the vast majority of her adrenaline boost’s advantage, London still has enough left in the wake of Irma’s ominous words to start using the younger Manchester lasses’ legs to pull herself up.
“Aww, did that offend you?” Iron’s taunted, pushing the words out from between her teeth before viciously backhanding Shea across the cheek with the clenched knuckles of her backhand. “Did that upset you? Tell that little red headed step child of a bytch to stay at home or there won’t be enough of her f***cking spine left for me to use as a gawd damned belt! F*** it,” Irma yanked her leg away, robbing her opponent of her already impaired balance and tucked in around the smaller fighter, dragging her up to a semblance of standing before moving to secure a firm, Half Nelson Sleeper. “We both know she won’t listen. She’ll either come out to help you, or when we turn Sinclair into a sh*t smeared road stain, either way, both of you are getting buried together.”
Irma’s half nelson instantly renders Shea’s left arm useless, the wing able to do little more than flail ineffectually over her head. Instinct immediately commands London’s right hand to reach over her shoulder, her fingers seeking out the brunette’s head, hair, anything to latch onto. But again, while the Sensational One might still have enough of her wits to think of options, the ambush Darla, Rose and Gabby had sprung on her--not to mention the punishment Irons herself has piled on after--has robbed the legend’s body of the strength to carry those options out. The combination of the immediate restriction of blood and oxygen flowing to her brain, coupled with the vigour with which Irons applied the hold, send an instant quake through Shea’s gams, sinking London to her knees...
... and BOOSTING the leverage Irma is able to employ with her hold. The British Bombshell continues to reach behind her for Iron’s, and for the briefest of moments her fingers latch on to the brunette’s tresses. But nearly as soon as they do, her digits relax, Shea’s arm beginning to slump toward her side. The arm regains some strength--considerably diminished, to be sure, but enough to sweep out in front of her... for what? The ropes? Was London even aware that she wasn’t inside the ring at this point? Or that, even if she had been, the referee would have no power to compel Irons to break the hold in a No DQ match?
The Weaponised Wolverine lived up to her namesake, bearing down upon the wilting body of her rival and wringing the life out of her hometown legend, shaking the blonde out from side to side as though she was gnawing on a bone. It felt good, too good; Iron’s tightening her grip and flexing her constricting bicep, snarling in tune with the gasps, chirps and embattled sighs that she forced out of the fading London, history being set straight as to who was now the biggest bytch of Manchester.
Just as Shea’s eyelids had nearly fluttered shut, Irma relaxed her grip but not her posture, hauling the dead weight of her opponent up before tossing her beneath the bottom rope and back into the ring. Her ragdolled rival hadn’t even stopped rolling before Iron’s joined her, the dark brunettes pursuing the battered blonde with nefarious purpose. For a second time in less minutes, Shea was hauled upwards again, her back to Irma’s front before the Attack Dog of Gen Next ducked low, shoving her head before the barely responsive thighs of London and, by way of Electric Chair and a dominant grunt, lifted the multi time Champion up high.
“The next time you ain’t booked for a PPV,” Iron’s delivered the warning with a dangerous rumble, her fists palming the back of the blondes neck, folding her down into a viciously compact package before dropping, “keep yer f***ing mouth shut!!”
@1:25
www.youtube.com/watch?v=bevdRipdhY8
The Sensational One’s arms hang limp behind Irma’s powerful guns, Shea held snug in the tightest of grips from her adversary. If London had managed to hang on to even the tiniest shred of consciousness following Irons’ unique sleeper hold, there’s no outward sign of it. And when the Malevolent Malcontent sits out, swinging Shea from her shoulders and SPIKING the back of the blonde Brit’s head and neck into the canvas, it’s almost inconceivable that any such tie to the Land of the Living remained. London’s body is engulfed in a massive tremor, though Irma keeps a firm hold on her prey, keeping the Sensational One bound in an emphatic matchbook, Shea’s rump pointed up at the lights.
With London’s shoulders flat against the mat, the official slides down beside them--and considering everything that had happened to the British Bombshell, he has to fight the urge to speed his count through...
ONE...
TWO...
THREE!!!
Iron’s shoved the blonde’s gams aside without even a moments formality, the athletic stems flopping to the canvas as the Sensational Shea London remained a limp limbed starfish. Irma was on her feet in no time, twisting in an aggressive half circle, her sneer securely plastered in place as she took in the entirety of the shell shocked FAWNatics, their hopeful visions of this event at the show’s opening reduced to a frightful nightmare as Rose Evans needlessly, yet quite smugly chimed the bell in victory.
With a threatening roll of her shoulder, Iron’s shrugged off the Officials efforts to raise her arm in victory and, with a glint in her eye that swiftly reminded the man in black and white of Irma’s past behaviour, he thought better of pursuing the matter further.
“YOU SEE THIS SH*T!?!” Irma roared, forgoing the use of the mic as she made herself heard clearly enough, her latest tirade not directed towards the masses, but instead her venom focused solely towards backstage. “THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS FROM NOW ON!! YOU CALL US OUT, THIS IS HOW WE F***ING END YOU!! OUR HOUSE!!” she shouted, spittle fermenting upon her lips as she stomped about the sprawled Shea, “OUR!! HOUSE!!”
She paused, breathing heavily as she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, calming down just fractionally as the adrenaline of victory called for more blood, her gaze turning towards her new patriarch at ringside, “our house.”
Rose remains at the timekeeper’s table, but her gaze is fixed beyond the ring--specifically down the aisle, watching for signs of any cavalry and ready to ring the bell to alert her compatriots should they come. Gabby and Darla, meanwhile, both move to the ring. Davis does so in a fairly reserved fashion, climbing onto the apron before beginning to pull herself through the ropes...
But “reserved” is about the last way Mendoza’s efforts can be described. First, the Babyfaced Killer slings away her pom poms. Then she dives underneath the bottom rope, springing to her feet and bounding toward Irma. Beaming, the lovely young latina slings her arms around Irma from behind, securing a TIIIIIGHT hug. Irons doesn’t seem to know what to make of it, at first.
Fortunately, before Gabby possibly found herself on the wrong side of Irons’ ire, Darla Diane convinces her to release the embrace with a tap on her shoulder. “Well done,” Three D says, making a cautious move to claim the Weaponised Wolverine’s wrist.
Irons doesn’t have nearly the same problem with Davis raising her arm as she had the referee, however. As the FAWNatics finally recover enough from their shock to begin booing, blonde and brunette cast their attention down to the wreckage of the Sensational One. “What is it you say?” Darla asks. “Bytches get broke? You think this bytch is broken yet?”
Irma didn’t answer at once, chewing over the forthcoming words with a cracking of her jaw, dark eyes glaring through the matted fringes of her wild hair. “No,” she conceded, although her tone held the barest hint of amusement as she bore her hatred down into the mewling, unconscious Legend at her feet, London beaten into oblivion by her replacements. “Not yet, but soon, very soon... then she’ll be f***ing dead...”
There were a few things that were absolutely guaranteed to make the FAWNatics, packed from wall to wall within the capacity arena, to collectively lose their sh*t without fail. ‘Let’s Get Rocked’ by Deff Leppard was amongst them, heralding the inevitable arrival of the Sensational Shea London, an undisputed legend of FAWN and, tonight, the one who was no doubt about to lay the smackdown upon those who truly deserved it.
Anticipation was running high, growing since the moment the blonde beauty had made her unscheduled arrival at the show’s opening and thrown down the gauntlet. With each match that had passed since that volatile moment, the FAWNatics needs had grown only greater, and now the time had come for Gen Next to reap what they had sown.
The crowd was cheering from the very first beat, shaking the rafters with their applause and whooping themselves breathless, each waiting for the Babyface Favourite to arrive.
Only she didn’t...
Confusion spread like wildfire as, in place of London, instead burst out an entirely different native of Manchester, one with a dark raven mane and a grin that was as crooked as it was cruel. Irma Iron’s erupted out onto the stage, whipping her arms out to either side as she spiralled, mocking everyone and all as she made an instant mockery of the spectator’s hopes and dreams, a vicious little malcontent who was unrepentant.
Irma Irons
At five foot four, she carried her compact, powerful frame with disdain for everyone around her, wrapped in a tank top and well worn shorts of the deepest black, she had made the bare minimum effort required to be presentable tonight. As the shell shocked fans of Shea caught up and switched their adulation for horror, Iron’s kept her crooked grin in place and planted her feet firmly, heavy duty footwear of the steel toe capped variety setting her posture to unyielding as she whipped her arms up and delivered a double, one fingered salute, swinging her arms back down to slap the steel chain that she wore by way of belt about her hips.
If she hadn’t stuck the knife in enough just yet, the Weaponised Wolverine had one last twist to get the job done as she began storming down the aisle as if the announcer waiting within the squared circle owed her money, the Titantron fizzing and popping with violent static until, with a ear splitting screech, the usual video package of a triumphant London were replaced by something far more dire. Instead of the highlights from a Sensational career, instead the FAWNatics were treated to a revolving package of Shea’s most heart breaking failures, a seemingly endless stream of the fan favourite being beaten into submission as she tapped out, was driven to unconsciousness and lost titles, a haphazardly edited montage of one heroines darkest hours.
If anything, Irma revelled in the mounting displeasure that she was inflicting, sharply cracking her head from side to side and heaping additional abuse where she could before she even reached the squared circle. Storming up the steal steps, she ducked low and whipped her small, hardbody frame into the ring, storming her way across the matt as she snatched the microphone from the announcer and warned the flat footed official off with a glare that had swiftly lead towards violence against his kind more than ounce.
“F*CK YEAH!!” she welcomed one and all as she brought the stick up to her chin and grinned like an especially violent Cheshire Cat, sweeping her free fist towards the Titantron just to make sure that everyone was watching. “NOW THAT IS F*CKING TELEVISION!!”
The FAWNatics disagreed, but it didn’t seem too much matter, if anything Irma was only encouraged to go further.
“NOW THAT IS SOME SH*T TO BE ASHAMED OF,” Iron’s mocked, clearly relishing the sight of her fellow Manchester Natives lowest points, “YOU BYTCHES LOVE YERSELVES A LOSER DON’T YOU?” The question was, predictably, met with a torrent of fresh boos, “BUT YOU’RE RIGHT, THIS SH*T, THIS IS OLD NEWS,” she paused, the quirk of her lips instinctively filling those closest with an increasing tide of dread, “LET’S SEE US SOME CURRENT EVENTS!!” With that, the Titantron SQUEELED a second time and the video package dissolved, replaced by a live feed from somewhere disturbingly close by...
And by “close by”, read “immediately backstage.” Clearly, the Sensational One had been on her way to the ring, for the gorgeous Brit is clad in her standard battle garb, which could best be described as a Union Jack two piece: her top presents a white cross with the quadrants above in red and below in blue, and white trim leading into the shoulder straps. Her bottoms are primarily blue, save for the red, upside-down ‘V’ that start at each thigh and meet at her waist, the waistband and bars both trimmed in white. Ordinarily with this Union Jack, the image is broken up by an expanse of scrumptious tummy.
Shea London
Tonight, London’s belly is every bit as inviting as usual--but it’s also GULPING quite urgently, thanks to the electrical cord drawn tight around her throat by one Rose Evans. From her knees (thus obscuring the view of her Union Jack knee pads), Shea’s hands claw at the black cable, but the Smartest Girl in the Room plants a knee between London’s shoulder blades and reeeeeeefs back harder. Of course, wherever Rose Evans goes, Gabby Mendoza is not far away--and with Shea’s preoccupied by trying to halt her strangulation, the Babyfaced Killer reaches in to plunge two sets of talons into the Sensational One’s heaving bosom.
Rose Evans
Gabby Mendoza
Obviously, those claws should have the blonde Brit squalling in agony--but that would require air, and Shea can draw in precious little of that. Already, London’s body displays a sheen of perspiration--this battle has apparently been going on for some time before the FAWNatics became privy to it. Smirking, Mendoza RIIIIIIIIPS away her claws--but not before digging them in a little deeper, leaving a few telltale gashes in Shea’s top. A moment later, and Rose pulls away the electrical cord, allowing a red-faced and gasping Sensational One to topple forward to her hands and knees. Wheezing for breath, She begins to crawl away from the Barely Legal brats...
... only, her path takes her directly to the feet of Three D.
Darla Diane Davis
Darla Diane Davis stoops down, gathering a handful of hair and roughly YANKING the FAWN Original back to verticality. Releasing London’s already slightly dishevelled mane, Davis ducks a little further, nudging her head between the Sensational One’s thighs before straightening up. London soon finds herself hanging across Darla’s back, in prime position to become the victim of one of her waterwheel slams. Usually, Three D would deliver this wicked maneuver into a corner, thus SLAMMING the back of her foe’s head into the top turnbuckle. Backstage, of course, there are no ring posts...
... so Davis settles for the edge of a large, metallic trunk.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=c3p9fna5cKw
An instant after the ‘CLAAAANK!’ of the back of Shea’s skull with the steel, the FAWNtron goes dead, and London’s Legion fall into stunned, alarmed silence. A few moments later, the curtain is parted... and Rose Evans strides through first. But she is followed, on all fours, but the Sensational One. Evans leads the way to the ring, guiding Shea with a tug of her blonde locks. The Brit is also spurred on her way by Gabby Mendoza, trailing juuuust behind--close enough to pepper London’s tush with the occasional swat. Darla Diane brings up the rear, her evil grin threatening to engulf the entirety of her face.
Reaching the ring, Evans and Mendoza haul Shea up, stuffing the Sensational One underneath the bottom rope. For her part, Darla Diane halts just at the point where the aisle meets ringside. “How about it, folks?” she asks. “What do you say we get this show on the road?”
The Official didn’t appear to be too keen on the idea and, as the FAWNatics voiced his worry for him, for a moment it seemed as though he may very well be about to call the whole thing off (at the risk of his own career), only for the decision to be taken out of his hands. The bell sounded with an audible CLANG, largely to his surprise being as he had called for no such thing, only to find that Evans and Gabby had seen fit to give the Time Keeper at ringside a ‘gentle reminder’ concerning his duties.
Iron’s barely acknowledged any of it, her eyes only for Shea, the Weaponised Wolverine leaning forwards and snorting as she smelled blood, lining up her victim as, purely by instinctive reaction to the loud chime, London was struggling to her feet. The very moment that she found boot leather, Irma stormed into a charge, leaping at the last moment to positively SLAM a rigid shoulder into the trim, tenderised tummy of her local rival with a merciless spear!!
Back at the time keeper’s table, the Smartest Girl in the room plops herself down in the time keeper’s lap--much to his surprise and considerable awkward discomfort. Rose slips her left arm around his neck... while her right hand takes possession of the bell. “We don’t want any... accidents, do we?” she asks. “I’ll keep an eye on this.”
Meanwhile, Gabby skips over to the ring, flicking its skirt up onto the apron as she fishes underneath. It doesn’t take long for her to find what she’s looking for--a set of pom poms! A gleeful Mendoza then turns to the crowd, and attempts to get the FAWNatics cheering for Irma... with predictable results.
In the ring, Irons’ spear--executed with the skill and flare that would make any American football defensive coach proud--RIPS the Sensational One off her feet and DRIVES the increasingly breathless blonde down to the mat, the back of London’s head taking another wicked shot on her descent. While the canvas doesn’t have much padding, though, it still has a little more give than the trunk backstage had. While Irma rises to her knees between Shea’s stems, London attempts to roll to her left hip, one arm swaddling her tummy as she offers a ragged cough.
With a dual sounding thump, Irma SLAMMED both of her fists down to either side of the shattered London’s stunning noggin, the dark haired destroyer leaning forwards over the already battered blonde and allowing herself the brief indulgence of lording over her opponent. With a thrust of biceps, Iron’s surged her way back up to standing, whipping her arms out and demanding acknowledgement from the masses, standing behind the ‘cheer’ leading Mendoza as the other dark haired member of Gen Next did her thing outside the ring.
After the Gladiatrix photographers had captured the moment, Iron’s dropped her arms and, with a ripple of trepidation engulfing the FAWNatics, Iron’s reached down for her chain link belt. She ripped it free from her shorts with a wicked snap, holding it tightly about her knuckles before... turning to Triple D at ringside. Deciding that it wasn’t time yet, the Anarchist of Anarchy surrendered her prized possession into the safe keeping of the new Patriarch of her Mayhem before returning to her splayed out victim.
“Keep an eye on that for me,” she rolled her shoulders before reaching downwards, snatching a double handful of gloriously golden locks before she ripped Shea back up to standing with a fierce yank, “I’ll be needing it again later.”
London’s footing was far from certain, but it was more than good enough for Iron’s who reefed her arm back and delivered a BLISTERING chop to the flagged bosom of the English Export. “Come on London!!” Irma demanded with a snarl, delivering a second chop to drive her demand home, “this is what you’re here for right? This is where you give me what for right? Then hit me bytch!! HIT ME!!”
The second open-hand blow very nearly proves too much for London’s luscious legs. The British Bombshell’s knees visibly buckle as she staggers back, Shea’s bum lowering ever so slightly toward the mat before the Sensational One is able to right herself. HOWEVER, right herself she does. And though the act of remaining upright appears very much a chore to the sweat-drenched Sensational One, and though Shea’s eyes retain a bit of a dulled glaze, a little fire flickers through as London takes a step toward Irma, launching a forearm toward the younger Brit’s chest.
With a bosom voluntarily left open, London’s impact landed true, THUNKING home with far more gusto than Shea had any right to summon. It resounded proudly about the entire arena, speaking proudly of defiance and daring to fill a few hearts with hope as Irma ‘guffed’ a slightly surprised grunt and took a short, half step backwards.
It didn’t last, not as Gen Next’s Attack Dog regained the surrendered ground immediately and, with a haymaker swing, SMASHED her clenched fist into the undefended forehead of the crowd sweetheart. This time London did crumply downwards onto her weary knees, penitent as her bright eyes stared blurry, her noggin lolling backwards as Irma leaned forwards just long enough to take the blondes paws within her own.
“Well sh*t, how f*cking soft are these?” Irma observed with disdain as she tightened her grip about Shea’s fingers, “just how in the f*ck have you won anything with these dainty f*cking girl hands?” She wasn’t waiting for an answer, not as she began to SQUEEEEZE, her fists turning into a vices that were worthy of her namesake!!
As offense goes, it’s a pretty basic approach--but there’s little denying its effectiveness. The Sensational One utters the smallest of groans, before her teeth clamp down on her bottom lip, desperate to prevent any other cries from emerging past her lips as Irma slowly CRUSHES her fingers. On her knees as she is, London’s boots are next to useless to her in trying to find her way out of this. Her only two hopes lie in either pulling her hands loose, or rising to her feet. Unfortunately, Irma’s grasp is powerful--and only growing tighter. And as they do, the increasing anguish not only overwhelms Shea’s ability to push up, it soon has her going in the OPPOSITE direction, sinking back on her haunches.
London’s bottom lip slips free of her teeth, trembling as Shea screws her eyes shut against the pain.
Iron’s twisted her lips into a scowl as she continued to crush two sets of delightful digits in her steadily constricting fists, deliberately enticing a series of worrisome cracks and pops. “F*cking hell bytch, are you going to start crying?” she mocked with a fresh sneer before she tossed the crowd favourites paws away with disgusted disdain, “sh*t, you should be used to smelling of loser stink by now.”
Turning on a dime, Irma stormed into a charge in the opposite direction, taking off towards the ropes behind her and throwing herself into them. Her miniature, hardbody frame rebounded with shocking force, the younger women from Manchester heading straight back towards the legend like a steam train, one boot finally raised high and ready to kick a head right of its shoulders.
Freed from their crushing prison, Shea’s enflamed fingers curl inward, toward her palms... and her hands, in turn, instinctive draw in toward her chest. There’s another involuntary movement, in the form of London’s head drooping down to examine her crushed fingers. Pleased to see no outward signs of damage, the Sensational One lifts her noggin... just in time for the heel of Irma’s boot to smash into her forehead. The massive running kick sends Shea sprawling to her back, the blonde’s legs still bent at the knees, her arms spilling absently above her head. London’s eyes blink repeatedly as she stairs emptily toward the rafters.
Iron’s WHOOPED!! as she threw up her arms, holding her hands high in victory as she grinned maliciously from ear to ear, clearly enjoying the sensation of creating sensational road kill. She barely spared the splattered Shea a backwards glance as she leaned forwards against the top rope, grasping the coil as though she wanted to strangle the ring itself as she balanced as close as she could towards the heckling FAWNatics, mocking them as she made a pretence of listening to their discontent.
“What?” she queried, encouraging them to shout louder, “you don’t approve? Of this?” she threw a lazy arm backwards in the vague direction of the suffering London. “I see, you want it stop, is that it, you want it to stop? Alright then, let’s make it stop.”
With an offer made that could be taken too many ways, Irma dropped down to the matt and, with a slightly less than graceful slide, slid her way off the apron and outside the ring, joining Gabby as she continued her frankly heroic efforts to get the FAWNatics to cheer Irons. The Malevolent Malcontent reached back into the ring and secured both of Shea’s wrists, those that were helpfully laid out above the blondes noggin, and tugged her to the outside of the squared circle without a great deal of kindness.
With her blurry eyed package secured, Irons lead/carried/dragged the near insensible beauty within her grasp over to the barricade and, after picking out a practically dimple cheeked, broken hearted looking spectator, took the remains of the poor girls heroine right on over to her. Grabbing a handful of a gloriously golden mane, Irma jerked Shea’s face up to look into her fans eyes, Iron’s speaking to the singled out girl in a tone that brooked no argument.
“You want this to stop?” Irma demanded to know, “then tell her to give up. Go on, BEG HER TO GIVE UP!!”
The young woman’s eyes were watering as she met the dulled gaze of her champion... but the longer they held eye contact, something strange seemed to happen. Almost imperceptible, the Sensational One’s peepers seem to regain some focus, some purpose... Maybe no one else in the building could see it, but SHE could. And so, she pulled her eyes away from London’s to meet Irma’s dead on. “You might break Shea’s body,” she snaps, “but you’ll NEVER break her spirit. Or mine!”
The Weaponised Wolverine starts to offer a retort, but before she can, Shea stuffs a sharp elbow back into her midsection. Irma grunts in pain, but her fingers don’t release London’s locks. So the British Bombshell fires a SECOND elbow, which at least succeeds in loosening Irons’ clutches. With hope returning to the FAWNatics, Shea drags back her elbow for a third time, she and her fans both hoping it would prove to be the charm.
It did, at the very least, secure her freedom, a winded Irons releasing her hold and taking several involuntary steps backwards, the blonde beauty finding herself with room to breadth for the first time tonight since she had strapped on her beloved Union Jack. With her heart beating swiftly, Shea blinked fiercely, prepared to remind the world why so many feared the renowned London Ru... an enraged Irons STOMPED back forwards into the breach and a swung a wicked kick upwards for a steel toe capped PUNT of a beloved blondes womanhood.
A kick downstairs is not a fun experience, even from a bare or stocking-footed Ivy Armstrong. Factor in the Malevolent Malcontent’s reinforced footwear, and, well... The Sensational One’s jaw drops almost to her bosom, tears flooding her eyes almost immediately--yet she can’t form the first sound of anguish. Even Gabby Mendoza halts her pom pom routine long enough to grimace and cross her legs, while London staggers forward on liquefied gams. One stride and a half is all they can support her before the blonde crumples to her knees and pitches to her chest. One cheek pressed against the cold floor, Shea’s hands slip between her clinched thighs, the Sensational One’s hips shimmying as she tends to her wounds.
“Her spirit?” Iron’s questioned no-one in particular as she nudged the shuddering frame of Shea at her feet with the toe of her boot. “Well sh*t,” she took to standing with her hands on hips, shaking her head with mock air of disappointment, “well it looks like we’re been plain undone!!” Throwing up her arms in resignation, Irma then reached down and grabbed London by a duel handholds of her golden locks, once again dragging her to vertical and leading her knock kneed rival right on over to Darla Diana Davis.
“You hear that?” Iron’s asked the new Patriarch of her Mayhem, the Weaponised Wolverine all the while preparing to bounce the head of London off the nearby steal steps, “we clean forgot about her f*cking spirit!!”
‘CLAAAAAANGG!’
The Babyfaced Killer might have had a somewhat sympathetic reaction to Irons’ c*nt punt, but Three D just chuckles as Shea’s forehead meets the edge of the steps. The Sensational One whiplashes away from the vicious collision--and already, there’s a small splotch of crimson above London’s left eye, in testament to just how brutal an impact she had just endured. There’s not even a half-step from the FAWN Original this time before her knees hit the floor, the shell shocked blonde tumbling forward and landing on her chest and stomach.
Somehow, a mere two seconds later, the British Bombshell attempts to push back to her hands and knees... but the effort proves short-lived, Shea crashed back to the floor with a soft moan. Darla Diane turns toward the young fan Irma had just taunted with an extremely smug smirk. “She’s not looking very SPIRITED right now, is she?”
“She’s still awake,” Iron’s observed with an guttural sniff, tilting her head before jabbing the temple of the near prone Shea with the toe of her boot, “which is too f***ing spirited for my liking.” Iron’s shifted her foot and shoved it beneath her blonde opponents shoulder, flipping her ragdolled rival over onto her back and, in a act of malice, delivered a quick stomp to a defenceless bosom for good measure. With the fan favourite gagging and her limbs twitching, the Anarchist and Anarchy leant down and scooped Shea up in a cross body press, juggling the smaller women securely before turning in a half circle.
“Just so there ain’t no confusion later, London” Iron’s snorted, lining up her target, “as much as a f***ing hate you, yer little more than practice. Once we’re done putting you passed it bytches out to pasture, we’ll be doing likewise to yer Spin Offs.” Irma allowed herself a crooked smirk, her heart beating with a fierce rhythm, preparing to deliver the package of Shea’s spine into a ring post on the back end of a mad rush, “Little London won’t know what f***ing hit her!!”
The threat to her niece is enough to give Shea strength, the Sensational One’s hands balling into fists and rising away from Irma’s back... Unfortunately, before they can return there, SHEA’S back is brutally RAMMED into an unyielding steel beam. “GyyyyyyYYYYYAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” London wails as Irons releases her cargo, allowing the FAWN Original to crash at her feet in a drenched, mewling heap.
The Weaponised Wolverine takes a step back, but before she can pull TOO far away, Shea’s hand latches around her ankle. Though the ringpost might have robbed the Sensational One of the vast majority of her adrenaline boost’s advantage, London still has enough left in the wake of Irma’s ominous words to start using the younger Manchester lasses’ legs to pull herself up.
“Aww, did that offend you?” Iron’s taunted, pushing the words out from between her teeth before viciously backhanding Shea across the cheek with the clenched knuckles of her backhand. “Did that upset you? Tell that little red headed step child of a bytch to stay at home or there won’t be enough of her f***cking spine left for me to use as a gawd damned belt! F*** it,” Irma yanked her leg away, robbing her opponent of her already impaired balance and tucked in around the smaller fighter, dragging her up to a semblance of standing before moving to secure a firm, Half Nelson Sleeper. “We both know she won’t listen. She’ll either come out to help you, or when we turn Sinclair into a sh*t smeared road stain, either way, both of you are getting buried together.”
Irma’s half nelson instantly renders Shea’s left arm useless, the wing able to do little more than flail ineffectually over her head. Instinct immediately commands London’s right hand to reach over her shoulder, her fingers seeking out the brunette’s head, hair, anything to latch onto. But again, while the Sensational One might still have enough of her wits to think of options, the ambush Darla, Rose and Gabby had sprung on her--not to mention the punishment Irons herself has piled on after--has robbed the legend’s body of the strength to carry those options out. The combination of the immediate restriction of blood and oxygen flowing to her brain, coupled with the vigour with which Irons applied the hold, send an instant quake through Shea’s gams, sinking London to her knees...
... and BOOSTING the leverage Irma is able to employ with her hold. The British Bombshell continues to reach behind her for Iron’s, and for the briefest of moments her fingers latch on to the brunette’s tresses. But nearly as soon as they do, her digits relax, Shea’s arm beginning to slump toward her side. The arm regains some strength--considerably diminished, to be sure, but enough to sweep out in front of her... for what? The ropes? Was London even aware that she wasn’t inside the ring at this point? Or that, even if she had been, the referee would have no power to compel Irons to break the hold in a No DQ match?
The Weaponised Wolverine lived up to her namesake, bearing down upon the wilting body of her rival and wringing the life out of her hometown legend, shaking the blonde out from side to side as though she was gnawing on a bone. It felt good, too good; Iron’s tightening her grip and flexing her constricting bicep, snarling in tune with the gasps, chirps and embattled sighs that she forced out of the fading London, history being set straight as to who was now the biggest bytch of Manchester.
Just as Shea’s eyelids had nearly fluttered shut, Irma relaxed her grip but not her posture, hauling the dead weight of her opponent up before tossing her beneath the bottom rope and back into the ring. Her ragdolled rival hadn’t even stopped rolling before Iron’s joined her, the dark brunettes pursuing the battered blonde with nefarious purpose. For a second time in less minutes, Shea was hauled upwards again, her back to Irma’s front before the Attack Dog of Gen Next ducked low, shoving her head before the barely responsive thighs of London and, by way of Electric Chair and a dominant grunt, lifted the multi time Champion up high.
“The next time you ain’t booked for a PPV,” Iron’s delivered the warning with a dangerous rumble, her fists palming the back of the blondes neck, folding her down into a viciously compact package before dropping, “keep yer f***ing mouth shut!!”
@1:25
www.youtube.com/watch?v=bevdRipdhY8
The Sensational One’s arms hang limp behind Irma’s powerful guns, Shea held snug in the tightest of grips from her adversary. If London had managed to hang on to even the tiniest shred of consciousness following Irons’ unique sleeper hold, there’s no outward sign of it. And when the Malevolent Malcontent sits out, swinging Shea from her shoulders and SPIKING the back of the blonde Brit’s head and neck into the canvas, it’s almost inconceivable that any such tie to the Land of the Living remained. London’s body is engulfed in a massive tremor, though Irma keeps a firm hold on her prey, keeping the Sensational One bound in an emphatic matchbook, Shea’s rump pointed up at the lights.
With London’s shoulders flat against the mat, the official slides down beside them--and considering everything that had happened to the British Bombshell, he has to fight the urge to speed his count through...
ONE...
TWO...
THREE!!!
Iron’s shoved the blonde’s gams aside without even a moments formality, the athletic stems flopping to the canvas as the Sensational Shea London remained a limp limbed starfish. Irma was on her feet in no time, twisting in an aggressive half circle, her sneer securely plastered in place as she took in the entirety of the shell shocked FAWNatics, their hopeful visions of this event at the show’s opening reduced to a frightful nightmare as Rose Evans needlessly, yet quite smugly chimed the bell in victory.
With a threatening roll of her shoulder, Iron’s shrugged off the Officials efforts to raise her arm in victory and, with a glint in her eye that swiftly reminded the man in black and white of Irma’s past behaviour, he thought better of pursuing the matter further.
“YOU SEE THIS SH*T!?!” Irma roared, forgoing the use of the mic as she made herself heard clearly enough, her latest tirade not directed towards the masses, but instead her venom focused solely towards backstage. “THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS FROM NOW ON!! YOU CALL US OUT, THIS IS HOW WE F***ING END YOU!! OUR HOUSE!!” she shouted, spittle fermenting upon her lips as she stomped about the sprawled Shea, “OUR!! HOUSE!!”
She paused, breathing heavily as she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, calming down just fractionally as the adrenaline of victory called for more blood, her gaze turning towards her new patriarch at ringside, “our house.”
Rose remains at the timekeeper’s table, but her gaze is fixed beyond the ring--specifically down the aisle, watching for signs of any cavalry and ready to ring the bell to alert her compatriots should they come. Gabby and Darla, meanwhile, both move to the ring. Davis does so in a fairly reserved fashion, climbing onto the apron before beginning to pull herself through the ropes...
But “reserved” is about the last way Mendoza’s efforts can be described. First, the Babyfaced Killer slings away her pom poms. Then she dives underneath the bottom rope, springing to her feet and bounding toward Irma. Beaming, the lovely young latina slings her arms around Irma from behind, securing a TIIIIIGHT hug. Irons doesn’t seem to know what to make of it, at first.
Fortunately, before Gabby possibly found herself on the wrong side of Irons’ ire, Darla Diane convinces her to release the embrace with a tap on her shoulder. “Well done,” Three D says, making a cautious move to claim the Weaponised Wolverine’s wrist.
Irons doesn’t have nearly the same problem with Davis raising her arm as she had the referee, however. As the FAWNatics finally recover enough from their shock to begin booing, blonde and brunette cast their attention down to the wreckage of the Sensational One. “What is it you say?” Darla asks. “Bytches get broke? You think this bytch is broken yet?”
Irma didn’t answer at once, chewing over the forthcoming words with a cracking of her jaw, dark eyes glaring through the matted fringes of her wild hair. “No,” she conceded, although her tone held the barest hint of amusement as she bore her hatred down into the mewling, unconscious Legend at her feet, London beaten into oblivion by her replacements. “Not yet, but soon, very soon... then she’ll be f***ing dead...”