Shea London Vs. Irma Irons: Casket Match

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the ring announcer proclaims, “the following contest is scheduled for one fall, with NO time limit.”

Naturally enough, as rare as a time limit draw is in FAWN, learning that there would be ZERO possibility of one for a contest is enough to draw an excited roar from the capacity crowd.

“Introducing first…”

As the announcer’s voice trails off, the arena's speakers roar back into life... with a loud, sudden, and very orgasmic "OHHHH..." coming over the PA system, which is soon followed by a similar, "AHHHHH..."

The music has become instantly recognizable over the last few months, but the announcer still looks utterly perplexed. Clearly, this is not who he was expecting to introduce. But as Garbage’s “#1 Crush” starts to pump over the sound system, the FAWNatics begin to boo and jeer in anticipation of the arrival of the driving force behind Generation Next.

The curtains part, and a voluptuous young blonde strides into view, the vast majority of those jeers transform into whistles of appreciation. The Cali blonde saunters down to the ring, her lips curled into a smile—but it’s an expression of predatory intent rather than joyful feelings. While her bosom is currently sheathed in a black “Generation Next" t-shirt, the garment is unable to suppress the glory of her bounty in any way. Below decks, her undercarriage is encased in a set of purple lycra bikini bottoms with black trim. Black boots tie up the ensemble.

DARLA DIANA DAVIS


Ascending the ring steps, Davis strides to the middle of the apron before turning her back to the ropes. There, she waits for one of the ringside camera jockeys to find her. She then demonstrates that, while the Internet stream and the DVD sales of the Jungle might pale in comparison to FAWN, they still learn how to play to the lens up in Bangor. Slowly… aaaaaaaaaaaaagonizingly so… Darla peels the tee up her body, bringing into view the cleavage that had spelled doom for a plethora of girls, on the Cali sands, the Maine arena and now in Orlando, magnificently framed by a purple top, knotted between the cups by pink lace. Finally pulling the shirt over her head, Darla looks down into the lens, her smirk only accentuated by her bitten bottom lip...

… and then she tosses the tee over the camera, blacking out the shot.

Three D then pulls herself through the ropes, joining the announcer in the ring. Striding over to the suited man, Davis slings her right arm around his neck, her left foot rising into the air behind her as she leeeeeeeeaaaanns into him. No doubt enraptured by the blonde’s proximity, not to mention her bosom pressed against his chest, he fails to notice Darla’s left hand until it had snatched the microphone away.

Having acquired her prize, Darla Diane abruptly pulls away from the man, wheeling to face the crowd as she brings the stick to her lips. “It’s like we told you last fall, OUR TIME has come! And clearly, the powers that be and the dinosaurs in the back are getting more and more scared by the card. I mean, we all saw the lengths Becky and Roxie sank to in order to keep their tag titles. And just who was it rewarded last month with a shot at Emily West’s title? Was it me? No. Was it Brewster or Eisenberg? Nope. Was it even a sell out like Fletcher or Treymane? HELL no. No, the woman given a title shot last month was none other than Irma Irons’ favourite BYTCH!”

Needless to say, London’s Legion take considerable exception with their beloved being addressed so disrespectfully.

“Now clearly,” Davis resumes, “I’m out here tonight not to praise Shea London... but to BURY her.”

The moment the word ‘BURY’ had left Darla’s lips, the curtain had been parted. And Three D’s sentence ends just swiftly enough to allow the FAWNatics to turn the gaze toward the stage, where Rose Evans and Gabby Mendoza have pushed through the curtains a rather ominous coffin.

ROSE EVANS


GABBY MENDOZA


“Tonight,” Darla continues, “history WILL be made. After tonight, NO ONE will be able to deny Generation Next’s place at the top of this company, and as the undisputed future of women’s professional wrestling. Ladies and gentlemen, your next match... is a CASKET MATCH! No pinfalls, no submissions, no count outs, no disqualifications! The ONLY way to win will be when that casket lid is sealed, once and for all, on a certain, overrated blonde has-been!”

It’s a decidedly mixed response that comes from the FAWNatics: displeasure over the way Shea was being dismissed, but absolute eagerness for the carnage that was on the horizon.

“Introducing first,” Davis says with a smile, “I give you the legend killer. She stands five feet four inches tall, and weighs in at one hundred and twenty-five pounds of unadulterated, unconquerable hate and rage... She OWNS this yard, as Shea and you ALL are soon to witness... IRRRMMMAAA IRRROOONNNSSS!!!!!”

www.youtube.com/watch?v=e8-sMJZTYf0

IRMA IRONS


The curtains parted and Iron’s burst through, tearing a path across the stage with such aggression her heavy duty footwear all but tore a trench in her wake. She paused, just before the ramp, raven tresses free and wild about her shoulders as she stood imperiously with feet braced wide apart and whipped both her arms upwards, biceps flexing as she delivered the double, two fingered salute to one and all!

She was breathing heavily, full of fire and volcanic fury, sheeted with a layer of sweat that suggested she had already been wailing on some hapless victim. Her dark eyes were unflinching, her gaze unbroken as she bore a glare towards the waiting ring, every muscle in her powerhouse build pulsing and tensing, a fuse waiting to be lit.

The FAWNatics responded, for there could be few who could be more reviled in wrestling, the future of the industry making herself known for all the wrong reasons. She revelled in it, the curtain of catcalls and boos, the overwhelming negative reception that Irma threw back at them a thousand fold, justifying her spite against mankind and feeding off it in turn.

She dropped her arms to the sound of violent pyrokenetics and snarled, filled with a sickening amount of vindication as her intro ended with a sudden, ear splitting and shrieking screeeeeeeech! The packed arena cringed as one following the auditory assault and Iron’s only grimaced all the more, a vein threatening to split beside her temple as the video package upon the massive screen behind her rigid shoulders began juddering, squealing and then snapping back into stark clarity, new footage replaying before the eyes of a shocked crowd.

It was a series of five second sequences that repeated over and over, looping a mind numbing number of times, taken from the Highlight Reels of several PPV’s and House Shows, moments in history that no-one had ever wanted to see. The chain link choking of the People’s Princess, Samantha Sinclair, the dry humping of Cassandra Vale, the beating of Tulip Morrison and, most poignant for this evening, the merciless beat down of a Sensational One at Thrills, Chills and Spills.

BITCHES! GET! BROKE!!

The three words appeared over and over as the spectacle continued, plastered across the almost hypnotic imagery that had been seen by every FAWNatic across the world.

BITCHES! GET! BROKE!!

There was no laugh from Iron’s tonight, cruel or otherwise, her expression twisted into a permanent scowl and grinding teeth as though she were gnawing on a pound of bloodied flesh. She marched with stomping strides, wrapped in a tank top and well worn shorts that was the same stark raven as her hair, her fists clenched and wrapped in gloves as a now infamous chain was wrapped tightly about her midriff.

The FAWNatics who had paid good money to be the closet to the action had apparently learned their lesson and leaned back as far as possible, the timid display only proving to encourage the young woman’s aggression further. She pivoted and kicked the metal gratings with the suspiciously heavy duty toe caps of her boots at random intervals, rattling them with gusto, behaving in a manner that suggested no-one was going to stop her.

She had every reason to believe that they wouldn’t.

There was not even a moment’s hesitation, a moment’s concern as she stomped her way up the steel steps and ducked between the ropes, tearing a path about the four corners of the squared circle as if she were gripped by some manic, internal mania. The various officials on hand, on this occasion, had perhaps now spent enough time in the company of Iron’s to know when it was best to keep a moderation of distance and, as it seemed the near ventilating Irma was about to turn sharply about and begin a fresh, frenzied circuit, Darla interposed her path and placed a palm against her torso.

Others had been beaten for far, far less and the FAWNatics held their breath as they half expected to witness a sudden reversal in allegiance. And yet, whilst the raven haired destroyer did indeed flinch with a violent tick, her stride was halted and she listened, the words that Davis uttered lost upon the audience as she deliberately pulled away the microphone. Irma nodded slowly, even though she did not make eye contact, her seething glare now reserved purely for the unopened curtains and, as she rolled her shoulders back, the Ravenous Rottweiler’s pure, unfettered focus became unrivalled. Iron’s blood curdling aggression had always been fearsome, but by whatever means Darla had found to direct it, that spite fuelled fury had now been truly weaponised.

It was a thought that filled the FAWNatics with trepidation...

“And her opponent,” Darla resumes with a sneer. “This evening, she KNEELS three feet six inches tall and weighs in tonight at one-hundred and twenty pounds of soon-to-be humbled and humiliated geriatric garbage... Ladies and gentlemen, she is none other than the Sensational Chew Toy... SHHHEEEAAA LOOONNNDDDOOONNN!!!!!”

the arena's speakers roar back into life, posing one question to the amped crowd:

"Do you wanna get rocked?"

Def Leppard's "Let's Get Rocked" pumps over the PA, and Shea London strides from backstage to a rapturous reception from the Orlando faithful.

Shea London


The British Bombshell darts down to the ring, slapping hands with the fans as she does, her usual million dollar smile momentarily dulled by Darla’s words... but the unconditional love and support of the FAWNatics soon puts it back on full display.

The Sensational One returns to action tonight sporting what 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. Though in this case of this Union Jack, the image is broken up by an expanse of scrumptious tummy. Her kneepads display the emblem in a much more traditional fashion, with white wrist tape and boots completing the ensemble.

The gorgeous blonde makes a complete circuit around ringside, continuing to slap hands and accept the well wishes of her fans. London stops at the casket, the brats of Barely Legal remaining along each side of it, their eyes locked on Shea’s while the Brit’s dance from Rose to Gabby. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about tha two of ya...” the Sensational One hisses, then turns to the ring.

Climbing the steps, Shea slips between the ropes, entering the ring and marching to the nearest corner, claiming it as her own. Pausing just long enough to fix Irma with a warning glare, London climbs onto the middle turnbuckle and raises an arm to a triumphant roar from her fans. When the FAWNatics leave absolutely no doubt who they’re behind tonight, the Sensational One hops back down, ready to avenge her last encounter with the Weaponised Wolverine.

If there was a bell, no-one could remember hearing it, none the less Iron’s stepped out towards centre ring with a barely restrained snort, her fingers clenched so tightly at her sides that her fists bled her knuckles white. As the forever undaunted Shea met her pace, the two Manchester Rivals met eye to eye with nothing more to separate them. Finally a smile cracked the corners of Irma’s lips, but it was one born of nothing else but malice, any thoughts of sportsmanship ground out long ago. “Yer done London,” she warned, wrenching her own neck sideways with a wicked crack, “yer dug yer f***ing grave.”

“Oh, I’ve dug a grave, alright,” Shea snarls, her eyes narrowed in hatred. In a shockingly short amount of time, Irma Irons had managed to earn a place on par with Chrissy, Portia and Anciline on the list of the Sensational One’s most despised opponents. “But it’s fer YOU, not me. Tanight, I’m puttin’ you out o’ OUR misery!”

Suddenly, London’s hands flash to the younger Manchester girl’s chest, the FAWN Original sending her foe staggering backward with an abrupt shove. That’s enough of a cue for the timekeeper to ring the bell... and already, Shea is charging forward, looking to drive Irma back into the ropes with a barrage of forearms to the chest.

The FAWNatics erupt, ecstatic by the sudden and unexpected flurry of aggression from the beloved heroine, their cheers almost deafening as she drove the flat footed Iron’s into the waiting coils. Once! Twice!! Thrice!!! Shea slammed a plethora of hammering forearms down against Irma’s bosom, earning a grunt of pain tinted anger from her opponent with each strike and swiftly willed the audience watching to begin counting.

The Malevolent Malcontent was differently inspired, all but roaring with spittle laced contempt and she surged forwards, powering through the smashes against her chest with the single mindedness that could only be achieved by the blindly furious. It was her turn to shove; propelling the flag attired beauty backwards before she made a small duck, tightly grasp a pair of stunningly firm thighs and determined to both lift and then whip SLAM the blonde she hated most in the entire world towards the canvas by way of Spinebuster!

Of the two of them, Shea London was the one known for speed and agility. And certainly, given a footrace, the Sensational One most likely wins. When it comes to throwing out death-defying displays of acrobatic grace, the British Bombshell clearly has the edge as well. But marrying swiftness to sheer brutality? THAT is the realm of the Weaponised Wolverine. Irma proves quite adept at ensnaring Shea’s legs and RIPPING the blonde clear of her moorings. The brunette then wheels and drops to her knees, SLAMMING Shea down with ample force. As Irma rocks back onto her haunches, London howls, arching her nearly shattered spine off the mat.

Iron’s roared, howling as she powered back up onto her feet and tore herself about into a sharp circle, smashing a fist against her chest after the dominant display of violence, one that shoved the merriment for Shea’s ambitious start right down the FAWNatics throats.

“YER DUG MY GRAVE!?!” she spat downwards at the recoiling Brit, “WITH WHAT!?!” she demanded to know, “THESE DAINTY LITTLE FINGERS!?!” With a snatching grab she seized one of her rival’s arms and, with a savagely tight grip, squeeeeeeeeeeeed the digits in question inside unflinching fist, “BYTCH! YER AIN’T HAD TO DIG THROUGH SH*T IN YER ENTIRE F***ING LIFE!!!”

As Irons’ grip increasingly lived up to her surname, the Sensational One bites her bottom lip, trying to keep from giving any further voice to the anguish her opponent was causing. But the Malevolent Malcontent was only attempting to crush ONE of Shea’s hands--her other one was free. And the Sensational One balls that free hand into a fist, slinging a punch toward Irma’s midriff. With any luck, her fist would provide a far more effect response to the younger Brit’s taunts than anything she could say.

To London’s credit, it was enough to enforce a half step backwards from her tormentor, Irma grunting between clenched teeth as the blonde within her tightening grasp showed she had more than enough fight to back up her infamous spirit. Iron’s reply was equally as physical, YANKING on Shea’s entrapped arm to snap her Rival back up to standing... only so that she could meet a savage short arm clothesline!!

The Sensational One is ripped from her knees harshly enough that she can’t refrain from offering a small yelp, as it feels like her arm might pop out of its socket thanks to her rival’s tug. And that sudden, sharp jolt of agony creates enough of a distraction for London that she can’t react to Irma’s clothesline before the scythe-like arm SMASHES into her collarbone. Shea’s shapely legs fly out from underneath her, the force of the shortarm clothesline sending the blonde flipping through the air. Shea crashes to the deck in a heap, face down, groaning as she struggles to push her way to her hands and knees.

Outside the ring, Darla Diane Davis--who had remained to watch her attack dog dismantle arguably the biggest icon in FAWN history--applauds Irma’s early success. When the FAWNatics don’t share her enthusiasm for what’s transpiring, she turns to address a particularly mouthy group behind her. “Do you mind?” Three D asks. “Funerals are supposed to be very solemn occasions.”

Momentum, meanwhile, carried Iron’s through like an avalanche, the Anarchist of Anarchy clearly beginning to enjoy herself as a crooked grin added nothing of merriment to her malice. “Sh*t B*tch,” she scorned with a fresh scowl, “did yer really come out here for a f***in’ fist fight!?!” Irma wasn’t inviting a reply, not as she ducked low and wrapped her arms about the tummy of the face down Shea, synching her wrists together before, with a dominant grunt, she began to not only scrape the lightweight off the canvas, but began hurling her skywards for a Gutwrench Slam!

@2:00
www.youtube.com/watch?v=UKgsRL5hlow

It’s somewhat remarkable how two women, so nearly alike in build, could be so different in how their offensive skill sets have been put together. Irma, for example, demonstrates her raw power when she is able to hoist the Sensational one up from her hands and knees to very nearly slung across her shoulder, and make it look almost effortless. But as London rises, the Brit swings one leg over Irons’ noggin, allowing the veteran to trap Irma’s skull between her thighs. Clinching her gams shut, Shea starts to swing her weight downward a little bit ahead of the Weaponised Wolverine’s attempt to do the same, hoping to transform the Gutwrench slam into a Hurricanrana.

An attempt that succeeds, Iron’s curse lost somewhere between the beloved blondes thighs as more than a few voices in the locker room were surely raised in cheers, Shea whipping her perfectly crafted physique about and ripping a Ravenous Rottweiler clean off her feet. More curses followed, but while far from muffled following London’s release, they were equally incomprehensible before the Irma was slammed down hard across her shoulders and the back of her noggin. After being upended head over heels, Iron’s grunted an enraged shout as she continued to roll over, slamming her own knuckles down into the canvas as she arrived back up onto her knees.

But as Irma rumbled and grumbled, the Sensational One had scrambled back to her feet--and as the Weaponised Wolverine rises up to her knees, Shea is sprinting into the rubber coated steel cables behind her opponent. The ropes propel the FAWN legend toward her now kneeling prey, London now well and truly in her element. And as she closes in on Irons, Shea launches into a dive over the attack dog’s left shoulder, her hands reaching to grab the back of Irma’s head so that she can SLAM the younger Brit’s face into the canvas.

Just as Iron’s was rising, London demanded that she go straight back down, one Manchester native dragging the other off balance and, with gravity as an ally, she DROVE the spite filled Brits face into the canvas. The THUNK!! that was to follow was like a nail being driven into hardwood, Irma recoiling from the collision as though she had been shot. Dropping back to the mat soon after, the Malevolent Malcontent could scarcely bring her thoughts into order, although that did not cease the string of foul syllables from emerging as her momentum rolled her beneath the bottom rope.

To the FAWNatics disappointment, now in high voice following their heroine’s resurgence, like some rag tailed feline Iron’s landed on her feet, fiercely scrubbing the back of her hand across her bruised forehead as her dark eyes struggled to refocus.

While the Weaponised Wolverine attempted to gather up her scattered marbles, Darla Diane strides over to her. While Irma’s hand continues to rub at the back of her head, Three D places hers on each side of Irons’ noggin. Gently but with intensity, Davis pulls her attack dog’s head forward, until their foreheads rest against one another. And though the curvy blonde’s lips are clearly moving, she speaks so softly that even those in the front row cannot make out what she might be saying.

Inside the ring, the Sensational One proves to have little patience to wait for this conference to come to an end. Spinning on one heel, Shea sprints into the far ropes, rebounding off the cables and racing across the ring at ever increasing speed. Suddenly, London throws herself into the heavens, the blonde Brit flying over the top rope, hoping to take out TWO members of Generation Next with her suicide dive.

The decibels in the arena went up by about a thousand as Shea took flight, an angelic sight that inspired an uproar... and Iron’s met it head on! Delight turned to horror as the Weaponised Wolverine transformed malice into movement, pivoting on the spot with her boots braced, flinging her right arm about like a thunderbolt from God... an Iron Fist for the ages if she could but catch Shea across her features whilst she remained in midflight...

London’s Legion draws in a collective sharp hiss of breath, holding it in as they desperately wish for their beloved to be able to adapt on the fly--quite literally. But Irma’s response comes SO out of nowhere, the only response from the Sensational One is an involuntary widening of the blonde’s eyes... before Irons’ knuckles BLAST right between them. The Iron Fist immediately transforms the final stage of London’s graceful dive over the top rope into an ungainly crash to the floor, Shea knocked so senseless by the punch that her hands and feet barely even make a move to break her fall.

“HEY!” Iron’s snapped as if she hadn’t just smacked the beloved Brit from the heavens, shaking out her numbed fist before delivering a swift, painful stomp to the small of the splayed London’s back. “We were talking Bytch!”

Unsympathetic to the laments of the FAWNatics, the Anarchist of Anarchy turned grievances into reality and scraped the blonde from off the concrete deck. Slapping one arm between the veteran’s thighs and another across her shoulders, Irma hefted the import from England up and prepared to demolish the other women’s sublime midriff with a swift, vicious drop across a posted knee!

Double Gutbuster: @0:45
www.youtube.com/watch?v=lx5Mo7oxcZ8

Shea barely even moans as Irma peels her off the floor--consider it a testament to the power of the Iron Fist. But when the attack dog of Generation Next drops to one knee, London comes back to life with a wail of anguish. And as the Sensational One’s cry begins to fade from the air, it’s replaced by a pleading cry from the FAWNatics as the Weaponised Wolverine rises--with Shea still firmly in her grasp.

But Irons simply laughs at their request for mercy, genuflecting a second time--and again viciously depositing Shea’s abdomen against her posted thigh. Only now does she relent, sending London spilling to the floor with a dismissive shove. Hitting the concrete, London rolls to her left hip and curls into a tight ball, retching as she tries to recover some of her displaced oxygen.

Satisfied for the time being, Iron’s stood tall over the crumpled London, the ascendency of the two Manchester Natives shifting dramatically in this, their third contest, a smile as crooked as her humour betraying Irma’s intentions. Feeling the throb of her temples, the dark haired slapped her palm against her forehead to dim the screaming of her temples, her eyes soon finding the casket... on the other side of the squared circle.

“Sh*t,” she cursed, her good mood soured as she snarled, leaning low to shovel the blonde turtled as her feet back up to boot leather. “F***ing London, don’t be making me drag yer scraggly ass all the way over there!” With a handful of hair, Iron’s heaved, the cruel variation of the Irish Whip designed to send Shea hurtling in the right direction...

Only she seemed to change her mind at the last moment, retaining her fierce grip and turning tightly on the spot, the intended long run exchanged for a savagely short one, London directed tummy first into the guard rail right beside them!

As Irma prepares to launch Shea on her not so merry way, it appears to the most observant that some awareness is returning to the Sensational One’s eyes. And maybe, if the Malevolent Malcontent had done as it had initially appeared she would, London might have been able to summon a reversal. But Irons own about face catches the FAWN icon flat-footed...

Not the she remains in that condition long.

Shea’s sudden sprint comes to an abrupt end when her stomach SLAMS into the steel guardrail. London’s upper body lurches over the railing, and one extremely lucky fan comes THIIIIIIIIS close to getting a lapful of the Sensational One’s face. Shea’s boots rise into the air, heels pointed toward the rafters, the legend left bent in half and folded across the steel.

“BACK OFF!” Iron’s snaps, directing her suddenly ill humour at every spectator clustered around London’s perch. Paying customers or not, those in question felt immediately compelled to do so, a full half dozen evacuating their chairs and leaving the space about Shea quarantined, the closest friendly face for the Brit now no closer than a few feet away.

Irma seemed to enjoy this, grabbing the shuddering blonde by her waistband and holding her in place. “Yer see that,” she grinned, even if the icon couldn’t witness it, “so much for f***ing loyalty right? Wait until you hear this!” Suddenly, and to the astonishment of those watching, Irons SLAPPED her own hips forwards, possessively smacking her pelvis into the upturned, firm buttocks of one of wrestling most adored names.

The next time the good folks at Gladiatrix compile a list of “I Own Your Ass” moments in FAWN, this might very well check in near or at the top. Suspended across a relatively narrow steel beam, about all Shea can do is kick her feet absently--and harmlessly, Irma stationed between her thighs. Each thrusts of Irma’s hips lifts Shea’s upper body into the air, but also forces London’s abdomen momentarily deeper into the steel.

“Nyyyyyyyyyuuuunnnnnhhhhh...” the FAWN legend utters in a breathy moan, the combination of metal digging into her belly and Irons’ stimulation of her hindquarters producing an expression that is both anguished and ecstatic in equal measure--and, sure enough, a modest sized but VOCAL portion of the audience expresses its approval.

“You see that London!?!” Iron’s snarled, reaching forwards over the barricade to reclaim a fistful of golden mane, YANKING her head back as the Photographers (and Gabby with her cell phone) made certain to capture the unfolding spectacle for prosperity. “That’s how quickly they f***ing turn against you!!”

With her point well and truly made, Irma released her prize just long enough to instead lean forwards and wrap her arms about London’s increasingly punished midriff. Synching her wrists together tightly, the Weaponised Wolverine ROARED as she hurled her power packed frame backwards, whipping her Rival right along with her for a Release German Suplex!!

And just like that, the black hearts in the crowd relishing Irma’s display of dominance are drowned out by the vast majority suddenly fearful for the Sensational One’s wellbeing. Having realized by this point that there’s little hope of Irons being moved to be merciful, London’s Legion instead IMPLORES their champion to summon an answer. But a breathless Shea is little match for the Malevolent Malcontent’s raw power--especially when Shea has no base to react from, neither her hands nor feet in contact with anything but air.

Irma pops her hips, bridging back and LAUNCHING London off the railing, the crowd gasping in horror at the sight of the Sensational One’s head and shoulders being BLASTED into the concrete floor!

Shea crumples into a spasming heap of flesh, and the FAWN Arena falls into near silence.

“Not so mouthy now, are yer sh*t stain!?!” Iron’s questioned the near insensible blonde, shoulders rolling as, like the oncoming apocalypse, she continued to zero in on one of FAWN’s most decorated Champions. The lack of a reply caused a vein to pulse and the Anarchist of Anarchy didn’t take kindly to being ignored, regardless of the reason, “well? WELL!?!”

Dropping down onto one knee, the shell shocked Shea was ripped up off the sweat smeared floor and shoved up to sitting, several sharp, severe movements from Irma further compounding the increasingly demolished blonde’s critical state. With her left arm Irma locked in a Half Nelson, slapping her palm down tight across the back of her Rivals abused neck and, in order to solidify her hold, Iron’s tensed her bicep and SMACKED her right about with unnecessary force to synch in the Sleeper, one that increasingly becoming known as the Iron Lock!!

The sudden restriction of blood flow to Shea’s brain not only snaps the Sensational One’s eyes open, but sends them threatening to pop OUT of her head... at least for moment. Nearly as soon as they open, London’s eyelids begin to flutter, her ensnared left arm flailing almost pitifully above her head. Fortunately, Shea still has her right arm, and she cocks her elbow, slinging it backward as best she can. Unfortunately, the Sensational One is not only firing blind, but doing so with an arm that increasingly feels like it is encased in cement, growing ever harder to hold up, much less use against the Weaponised Wolverine.

Aimless as they are, each determined strike that lands home manages to earn a pained grunt from Irma, although the flare of hurt that speared her ribs and, more potently, the flagging defiance from her rival provokes a crooked grin on the Dark Haired Destroyers features. Irma growled, a rumble echoing upwards from her torso as she leaned her one hundred and twenty-five pounds forwards, boring down on her hold all the harder.

“Dug my grave have yer?” Irma taunted, feeling the much loved Brit slackening and relishing every moment, tormenting London with her own promises, “put me out of your misery will yer? Well? WELL!?! COME ON BYTCH!! F***ING END ME!!”

The elbows keep coming... but each one impacts weaker than the one before it, Irma’s leverage folding Shea over further, making the task of breathing ever more difficult. But in spite of this, London keeps slinging elbow after elbow, desperately attempting to make good on her vow... for another half dozen seconds. After that, her arm is simply too heavy a club to wield. A low, soft, unintelligible gurgle pushes past the Sensational One’s lips, as does a little stream of saliva, trailing down London’s cheek until it reaches Irma’s arm.

Iron’s breaths in sharply, long and ragged breadths accompanied by a persistent pulsing of her restricting bicep as she painfully wrung the life from her rival. When a shake, firm and fierce, brought nothing forth from the blondes incredible physique other than a mournful gurgle, Irma finally released, shoving the insensible blonde back down onto the concrete.

Blinking several times herself, the Malevolent Malcontent seemed to be emerging from some manner of hallucination, albeit one she was more than pleased with the outcome of. That is until she looked up across her surroundings and swiftly found the casket was no closer to her current position than it had been before...

“F****************CK!!” she cursed, aggravated beyond words by her lack of progress in the right direction and, as she stomped back up onto her feet, Irma’s focus became unrivalled. Grasping her makeshift belt, the FAWNatics reacted as one in increasing worry as she snapped her infamous chain free from her shorts. She ignored the protests, leaning downwards and, with malicious intent, began to tightly loop the solid steel links about the neck of the defenceless Shea!!

Securing the noose, Irma wrapped her end of the slack about her knuckles and, pulling the impromptu rope taunt and growling, Iron’s began to DRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAG Shea on the long journey about the outside of the squared circle and towards the waiting casket.

As the metallic links draw tight, Shea’s eyes remained sealed, but her hands raise toward the improvised collar. As London’s fingers frantically try to pry underneath the chain, the Sensational One’s jaw drops open, the blonde’s tongue beginning to protrude from her lips. Shea’s nails dig at her own flesh in the efforts to create some slack... but of course, with the chain drawing tighter and tighter around her neck, London’s hands HAVE to claw at that rather than floor. The Sensational One’s boots kick and thrash, but that doesn’t present much of an obstacle toward Irma leading her to her demise.

The trip was long, and yet with the sounds that Shea was gargling, it was far from arduous for Iron’s, Irma grinning with far too many teeth on show as she put her head down and set her shoulders, pulling, tugging and jerking on London’s lead as the coffin grew ever closer. As soon as it was within reach, the Weaponised Wolverine finally on the right side of the squared circle, she turned about and released her chain, exchanging her white knuckled grip for a fistful of blonde locks and the crowd favourite’s shorts, GRUNTING!! as she heaved and then released, driving the FAWN Original headfirst towards what was soon to be her grave!

But as the Brit shoots toward her impending coffin, Shea’s hands fly out, bracing against the side of her tomb and halting the Sensational One’s advance. The sight of some renewed London resistance earns a cheer from the FAWNatics, albeit one still tinged with concern as Irma approaches from behind. With Shea still leaning against the coffin, her chest heaving with every breath, the legend appears only to have given herself a brief stay of execution... until she pushes away, spinning and SLAMMING a forearm into Irons chest.

And another.

And ANOTHER!

Each blow staggers the British upstart (lowercase U), but Irma’s chuckle suggests a lack of concern on her part. That is, until the Sensational One SURGES forward, lowering her shoulder toward Irma’s stomach, looking to drive her foe back toward the ring--and slam the brunette’s lower spine into the edge of the apron.

“Son of a BiiiiiiiAAAAATCH!!” a wide eyed Iron’s cursed as she was driven bodily backwards, the short backpedal none the less packing more than enough momentum to DRIVE the base of her back into the rings edge, the sharp angle and solid construction popping a vertebra fiercely enough to force her to hiss. With a pained snarl she rained down a forearm, determined to drive it into her rivals own spine in a fit of spiteful retaliation, “F***ing Sh*thead!!”

Stooped as she is, there’s little defence against Irma’s blow--and the Weaponised Wolverine’s forearm shot has the predictable effect of driving the Sensational One to her knees with a howl of pain. But what happens next flies very much in the face of predictability. With few options available to her, but with NO options off the table in a no disqualification casket match, Shea trusts that London’s Legion won’t hold it against her when the blonde balls her fist and swings an uppercut up between Irons’ thighs...

Irma’s threats of impending violence were not always coherent at the best of times, but after a fist is SLAMMED!! up between her most private of regions, the resulting vulgarity could only be heard by the most sensitive of hearing. The Anarchist of Anarchy was standing with mouth open, stuttering with fury and yet finding her required vocabulary lacking, the pained heaving of her chest expelling plenty of air as she grimaced, and yet very little language. With one awkward step soon followed by another, Irma finally reached between her thighs and grabbed out to instinctively grasp the coffin, using it for support as she puffed out her cheeks.

“Y...y....yo...y...you shhhhh... shhhhhhiiiiiii... “

Meanwhile, London allows herself the briefest of pauses, in order to reach up and pull Irma’s slackened chain away from her still-reddened throat. For a moment, she considers using it against its owner, but then opts to let the metal links drop into a pool of steel on the floor.

As her left hand massages her throat, Shea marches toward the recovering Irons, grabbing her by the shoulder and pulling her away from the coffin. Spinning the Weaponised Wolverine around to face her, the blonde Brit slams a kneelift into Irma’s navel, doubling Irons over. She then wraps her left arm around the brunette’s skull, preparing to deliver a snap suplex and DRIVE Irons’ back not into harsh canvas, but this time into thoroughly unforgiving concrete.

Powering Irma into the air was no easy feat, even for those who weren’t classed as Lightweights, and yet Shea wasn’t known for being Sensational for nothing and, as the FAWNatics whooped into a renewed cheer, the Dark Haired Destroyer was whipped up and over, ‘snap’ being the key word in this suplex as the short stacked Brit was launched skywards rapidly and sent plummeting earthwards just as swiftly. Only cold concrete awaited the landing and it was with a HOWL! that Iron’s met it with her spine, a meaty THWACK!! preceding her pained spasm that jolted her up to sitting. Irma cradled the base of her back as ground her teeth together painfully, her ever increasing anger keeping pace with her growing, and sudden list of hurts.

Regaining her footing, the Sensational One BLASTS a short, swift kick into Irma’s back. Now, most people experience such a blow would whimper or moan, but the Weaponised Wolverine lets out a cry of, “BYYYYTTTTTTTTCCCCCCHHHHHHHH!!!!” The brunette slumps over onto her hip, and another kick from London sends Irons rolling to her stomach.

With the crowd growing more and more confident in their beloved, Shea drops to her knees--making a point of bringing them down against Irma’s spine. As the younger Brit lets out another expletive, London reaches one hand toward Irons’ chin and the other toward her feet. That’s enough to bring the FAWNatics LEAPING to their feet. No, London Bridge couldn’t earn the Sensational One a submission victory in THIS match. But it could definitely further torture Irons’ spine.

And if it prompted the Malevolent Malcontent to do a little begging and pleading for mercy, then all the better...

What was to emerge from Irma’s lips resembled nothing that could be called begging or pleading, but with the persistent punishment that Shea had rained down upon the back of her Manchester Rival in short order, the howl was understandably filled with anguish. With muscles spasming and links popping, a spine that was not overly flexible to begin with twisted and contorted further in the wrong direction, the Anarchist of Anarchy guttering and gurgling as she was forced to endure a submission that she had tapped out to once already in her career.

The temptation was evident, even if it were pointless, Iron’s raising her hand up and clenching her fist, fingers hovering above the concrete and perhaps, just perhaps, just moments away from slapping the ground and signalling her submission. It would not result in victory, and yet the FAWNatics willed her to surrender regardless, London’s triumph symbolic and Irma’s humiliation mounting.

Her fist hovered... but instead of slapping the concrete she snatched for Shea’s hand, her bicep tensing as she freed just enough leverage to tuck her ensnared chin inwards, her teeth snapping closed to BITE down on a set of gripping fingers!

Suddenly, it was Shea’s turn to shriek, as her rival’s teeth gnawed at her fingers. And as galling as it was to relinquish her finisher under such circumstances, there was little to be gained tonight by being stubborn. Releasing Irons’ ankles, London uses her legs to send Irma rolling off on her way, the blonde Brit yanking away her hand and her throbbing fingers as her victim departs.

Shaking some feeling back into her digits as she climbs to her feet, the Sensational one turns not toward Irma, but instead to the crowd. “Make way, lads,” Shea tells the FAWNatics before climbing up and over the railing, joining the paying customers out in the seats. Gripping the steel beam with both hands, London watches as Irma starts to rise, then rocks back--ready to launch over the guardrail and execute a unique take on her slingshot DDT.

SLINGSHOT DDT:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=KIHTSjTLyVk

The Sensational Shea London was always more than welcome amongst the audience and, as she seized hold of the ascendency, they were more than happy to vacate the space they needed and slap her on the shoulders in support. As an unwilling participant in the unfolding spectacle that was a London Run, Iron’s staggered up to vertical just in time for the beautiful blonde to take flight, a WHOOP filling in the air as Shea found her target.

Looping an arm over the back of Irma’s head, gravity proved that she was Shea’s ally as she was pulled back earthwards at the most opportune moment, the Dark Haired Destroyer yanked right along with her, her skull moments away from being planted into the concrete...

Only that impact didn’t happen, the FAWNatics too shocked by the turn of events to stop themselves from cheering the expected success. Instead, at the very precipice of falling, Irma’s upper body tucked forwards as far as humanly possible without her crown being smashed into the flooring, Iron’s tensing every single muscle in her compact body to prevent that very outcome! With a throaty growl growing swiftly into a roar, the Malevolent Malcontent SURGED, wrapping an arm about Shea’s stunning thighs and, with bestial effort, FLUNG her blonde rival about in a jaw dropping, Cradle Suplex!

DDT INTO CRADLE SUPLEX COUNTER: @0:10
www.youtube.com/watch?v=_M7BekMBxH0

The fact that she was suddenly going up rather than, as she had intended, down was a bit too much to comprehend in the viciously brief time the Sensational One’s brain had to process it. For no sooner that the blonde Brit was beginning to understand what was happening does her back SLAM into cold concrete, in much the same way she had forced Irma’s to do only moments ago. But it’s quickly clear that Irons’ suplex is even more devastating, partly because of the Weaponised Wolverine’s power advantage on her opponent, but also Irma’s use of Shea’s own momentum against her. With a sobbing wail, the Sensational One tumbles over to her stomach, her left boot drumming the floor while her right hand reaches toward the base of her spine.

“Yer feel that Bytch?” Iron sneered, pushing over onto her front before spitting, the glob of red tinted mucus staining the ground beside her hated counterpart. She ground her own knuckles down into the concrete as she glowered, every inch of her straining with repressed rage, every muscle tightening and preparing to explode. “That’s me rolling through the best yer f***ing got!!”

As Shea began to rise, indomitable in spirit, Irma could smell blood and snorted, surging to her feet and, with a cry that was chilling, she HURLED herself into a spear that possessed nothing of restraint.

And when the Weaponised Wolverine exploded into her spear, her shoulder RAMMED into the yielding midriff of the Sensational One with all the force of a container lorry. “GYYYYYYUUUUNNNNGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!” Shea cries out, driven backward by Irons’ shoulder and churning legs, the blonde’s backpedal ended only when her back CRASHES into the guardrail.

Attacking with zero abandon, it should be noted that the crown of Irma’s skull makes fairly solid contact with one of the vertical steel beams as well, but London is left in little condition to take advantage. The fact that her arms had spilled over the railing proves to be the only thing that keeps the Sensational One somewhat upright, Shea’s backside hovering just a little ways off the floor, her legs left parted in a loose ‘V’, her boots in contact with the floor only by the balls of her feet. Groaning, Shea’s head slumps forward, lolling toward her chest.

Iron’s growled, cradling the crown of her own head as her temples thrummed with pain, the agonised misfiring of her own synapses only adding fire to her nurtured rage. She shook her braincase, ignoring the surge of dizziness, snarling as she turned about and found her footing, deep breadths accompanying her pain induced stamina.

“Are yer gettin’ it yet London?” Iron’s sneered, wrenching her neck sideways with a wayward tic and self inducing, worryingly loud CRACK! “I was givin’ yer a way out! I was givin’ yer the chance to lie down!”

With a rough snatch, Irma seized a severe fistful of her rivals shimmering, blonde locks and peeled the lithe legend from the railings, jerking her forwards into a firm embrace. “But yer had to be a bytch! But that’s fine,” leaning for just a moment, Iron’s slapped a powerful arm between the thighs of the other Brit, snarling as she powered the flag attired heroine off the concrete and into a cross body press. “Yer want to be a bytch,” inhaling one last deep breath, the Malevolent Malcontent prepared to repeat an earlier lesson, this time driving a spine across bended knee, “I CAN TREAT YER LIKE A BYTCH!!”

DOUBLE BACKBREAKER: @6:45
www.youtube.com/watch?v=lx5Mo7oxcZ8

Irons drops to one knee, DRIVING the Sensational One’s back down across her thigh with a brutal backbreaker, London’s Legion grimacing in sympathy for their howling heroine. But when the British brunette straightens back to her full height STILL cradling the Sensational One against her chest, a small number of them are forced to offer their begrudging applause as the rest of the FAWNatics show appreciation for Irma’s strength. And that strength is then put on full display when the Weaponised Wolverine slings her cargo upward, very nearly lifting Shea ABOVE her head before she genuflects again, SLAMMING the blonde’s spine down onto her posted knee.

London wails as she bounces off Irma’s thigh, crashing to the floor on her stomach. Yet despite the anguish radiating through the entire length of her spine, Shea presses her elbows against the concrete and starts to drag herself away from Irons--and, more importantly, away from the coffin...

“Not on yer life bytch!” Iron’s tone brooked no argument, glowering down at the defiantly crawling London and, after a vicious stomp between the blondes, slender shoulders pinned her to the concrete with a pained grunt, she leant back down to retrieve a fistful of golden hair. “I ain’t draggin’ yer ass back over there again!”

Hauling backwards, Irma scraped her Manchester Rival off the cold concrete and bullied the near limp limbed Shea to her feet. Unfortunately for the Sensational One, the Anarchist of Anarchy had no intentions of allowing her to try and stand under her own power, not as she dipped low, shoved a shoulder into the heroine’s trim tummy and then muscled London up across her shoulders. The hold was to quickly become an Argentine Backbreaker, one that Iron’s intended to use to carry her gorgeous burden... the long way round the outside of the squared circle!

The respect that the crowd had shown Irma for her power quickly becomes a thing of the past as Shea London finds herself strapped across Irma’s brawny shoulders. For one thing, the transition of the Sensational One from FAWN Original and icon to a trophy that Irma seems intent to parade around ringside with is NOT a gesture the fans appreciate. But more importantly, despite the scenic route, each step the Weaponised Wolverine takes brings her foe that much closer to the casket...

... and there doesn’t seem a damn thing the British Bombshell can do about it. London’s arms flail with each jostling step Irons takes, her free leg--the one NOT restrained by Irma’s hand against her thigh, kicks weakly behind the dark haired Brit. It’s a desperate hope for London’s Legion, but at this point, there’s little they can do but pray London’s thrashing might be enough to knock the Malevolent Malcontent off balance...

If nothing else, the fading embers of Shea’s efforts to wriggle free encouraged Irma to make a brief pit stop, the Dark Haired Destroyer halting at the final corner and slinging her dazzling trophy free. Freedom, however, seemed to be a poor choice in wording as Irma tugged her flagging rival in close, bosom to bosom, to synch in a thunderous Bearhug, determined to grind out the last dregs of her indomitable spirit the only way that was fitting, the same way they had started... eye to eye.

It takes one shuffle of Irma’s grip to send the Sensational One off her feet, Shea’s shapely gams wrapping around the Malevolent Malcontent’s hips. London’s ankles cross behind Irons’ back, the blonde Brit’s loose scissors attempting to ease some of the pressure of Irma’s embrace... with little success. Irons’ joined fists grind into the base of London’s tenderized spine, forcing the British Bombshell to throw her head back with a whimper.

Her head rolling back so that her dulled eyes can again meet Irma’s cruel gaze, Shea’s trembling arms rise up, her elbows cocked. Trying to keep in another moan by biting her bottom lip, the British Bombshell struggles to summon enough strength to send her elbows moving toward Irons’ ears...

Driven by tactical awareness or perhaps simple, ravenous desire, Irma darted her head forwards, snapping her noggin to within London’s minimum range for effective clubbing and, with a snarl that was possessive, locked her lips down HARD upon her hated rivals, unblemished neck. Persistently pulsing her embrace, the Malevolent Malcontent jostled the stunning blonde up and down, stepping forwards to SLAM her into the nearest ringpost for additional leverage!

Shea’s eyes widen in surprise at the first sensation of Irma’s lips contacting her throat, and then offers a groan as the Weaponised Wolverine’s teeth take possession of her soft flesh. And when the brunette begins to toss her prey like some rabid dog with a bone, the motion ATTEMPTING to send London’s noggin whipping along with her body but with her head somewhat restraining by Irons’ possessive jaws, the Sensational One’s brain winds up throttled inside her skull. It’s debatable whether the legend is even aware of Irma’s charge toward the ringpost UNTIL her back is SLAMMED into the steel, at which point London’s legs begin to slide down her foe’s hips and her arms spill over Irons’ powerful shoulders...

Iron’s would have been incapable of controlling her laughter had she not possessed a mouthful of succulent Shea, her own shoulders shaking as she thrust her hips between the Bombshells thighs with firm, fierce, deliberately intensive grinds. Finally her lips released, Irma almost spitting out her rival and she flashed a grin with far too many teeth, “Yer mine now London!” she boasted, and few could seem to argue, “try to f***cking remember it!”

She dropped her hold, but only enough so that she could readjust it, keeping the athletic stems of Shea wrapped about her hips as her Manchester Rival’s upper body slumped downwards. With her left arm Iron’s synched in a butterfly, with her right she moved to firmly tuck the blonde’s rattled noggin beneath her shoulder. With a HEAVE Irma would swing her new possession upwards... and perhaps sickeningly downwards with a Cradle Brainbuster!

CRADLE BRAINBUSTER: @0:15
www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ef9FDOWVwQ

Inside the ring, the cradle Brainbuster would be a considerably frightening maneuver. Out on the floor, the FAWNatics can’t refrain from begging and pleading with Irma Irons to show some mercy. Alas, to the shock of absolutely no one, the Malevolent Malcontent does no such thing, falling backwards and SPIKING the cranium of the Sensational One into the concrete floor!

The concussive force of the impact sends Shea rolling through and to a seated position, which--somewhat remarkably--she remains in. The blonde’s legs are left splayed open wide, both hands falling inside her thighs as her arms hang in a limp ‘V’, London’s head again slumped toward her chest. Long blonde tresses obscure her features, leaving it a mystery to one and all whether she even remains conscious.

Under any reasonable circumstances, the match would be considered over, but tonight was anything but that. With London’s Legion shocked into fretful silence, Iron’s graced one and all with her crooked, spiteful smile before reclaiming their heroine’s long, proud and golden mane with a tight fist. There remained the formality of burying the beloved bytch alive and Irma took far too much delight in draaaaaaaaaaagin the limp limbed icon across the concrete by her own mane.

“OPEN IT!” Irma shouted, Rose and Gabby eager to obey, lifting the lid of the casket to reveal the velvet insides, a crypt fit for a legend.

Finally at her destination, Irma adjusted her hold and HAULED London upright, impolitely bundling the Fawn Original into the coffin. Closing it seemed to be a formality, a certainty even as Shea offered nothing by way of protest, only for Iron’s to begin climbing in after...

Gabby seemed to be about to voice the perplexed question that the FAWNatics were all thinking, only for a hand on her shoulder from Darla to keep it unsaid.

Iron’s remained standing, towering over London, holding her arms out wide victoriously in drinking in the boos. The photographers of Gladiatrix swooped in, capturing history, before Irma leaned low and, perhaps for the last time, pulled her Manchester Rival back to some semblance of vertical. It was only so that she could fold the blonde forwards, securing the stunning Shea’s noggin between her tensed thighs, and synch her arms about the battler’s tummy.

After all, a heroine deserved a suitable send off...

DOUBLE POWERBOMB: @7:55
www.youtube.com/watch?v=lx5Mo7oxcZ8

The Weaponised Wolverine again puts her considerable strength on display, almost effortlessly swinging Shea’s deadweight up onto her shoulders and into the stall position. In this particular instance, “stall” proves to be a very fitting description, as Irons holds her prey aloft for about eight seconds before sending London CRASHING down into the coffin...

... only to pull her up again.

The second lift of the Sensational One appears more challenging, as Irma grunts through the dead lift of getting London once again seated on her shoulders. But while the ascent might have been more difficult, this time the Malevolent Malcontent holds her rival stalled for a full TEN seconds before swinging her down again. And this time, when Shea’s head and back BLAST into the confines of the coffin, the impact BREAKS the gurney holding it aloft. The casket collapses atop that wreckage, sending Irma plummeting to her backside.

Under ordinary circumstances, the FAWNatics may have felt confident in heckling the unintended pratfall, under other circumstances, Iron’s may well have raged against it. Tonight, there was to be neither, Irma’s grin as dark it was crooked, her ragged fringe almost obscuring her vision and yet allowing her to see the broken doll that was her rival, Shea London a splayed mess. Tossing the Icons athletic stems aside like so much trash, the Malevolent Malcontent pulled herself from the coffin, breathing heavily after spitting out a wad of blood, her own tongue bleeding from where she had bitten it during the catastrophic drop.

Iron’s was no longer watching Shea, the blonde almost dismissed from her immediate thoughts as she instead glared out across London’s Legion, reaching out to grasp the casket’s open lid with one hand. She sneered, exposing her bloodied teeth, prolonging the torment before she flexed her bicep, shouting as she SLAMMED the coffin closed...

As soon as the lid crashes into place, Rose Evans pumps a fist, while the referee signals for the bell. “Ladies and gentlemen,” declares the announcer, albeit with little joy, “your winner of the match, IRRRMMMAAA IRRROOONNNSSS!!!!!”

There’s clearly one woman who is overjoyed, as Gabby Mendoza rushes up behind the Weaponised Wolverine and latches on a tight bearhug worthy of the victorious woman herself. It’s almost a replay of the scene the last time Irma had stood triumphant over the Sensational One, though the British brunette seems a little more at ease. Meanwhile, an applauding Darla Diana Davis approaches the duo, with Irma’s prized chain slung casually over her shoulder. “DON’T KID YOURSELVES ANYMORE, LOSERS,” the buxom blonde shouts at the silenced masses. “WE ARE THE FUTURE, AND WE ARE NOW!!!”

London’s Legion finally found their voices again at that, booing vigorously and yet, for all their condemnation, not a hint of it managed to dent the victorious resolve of the triumphant Gen Next. Irons had buried Shea, just as she said she would, no question marks remaining as to who was the modern day force from Manchester... and yet...

Irma’s fingers twitched, an involuntary spasm that was echoed by an eye twitch, a low growl slowly emanating from the Anarchist of Anarchy, the brunette pressing her palm flat against her thrumming temple. “There’s another one...” Irons snarled lowly, pulling her hand away from her forehead and retrieving her faithful chain from Darla’s shoulder, snapping her wrist to whip the steel links about her rapidly clenched fist with the sound of a viper striking.

“The red headed little sh*t, the knock off London,” Irma expanded, more to herself than anyone as the control that Davis had somehow managed to exert over her attack dog was perhaps proving to be less than utter, the Dark Haired Destroyer deviating off script as she stormed back on over the sealed coffin. “Bytch will go getting herself in my business, Bytch thinks she can own MY town! I want that Bytch out here now!!”

Seizing the coffin lid, Iron’s swung it back open with a THUNK, revealing the barely breathing Shea inside, Irma’s snarl as crooked as it was red stained, “I know how to get her out here...”

The Malevolent Malcontent’s unquenched bloodlust helps the FAWNatics continue in their transition through denial and anger, and now onto bargaining with the brunette. And, perhaps surprisingly, the crowd appears to have one unexpected ally. None other than the Babyfaced Killer herself takes a halting step forward, looking just a little bit uncomfortable with Irma’s clear intent to pile on. But the lovely Latina is halted by a hand on her shoulder, belonging to her BFF, Rose Evans. After a quick glance over her shoulder at the Smartest Girl in the Room, Evans shaking her head, Gabby turns to Three D.

“We’ve got the coffin,” Darla says with a sneer. “Seems a shame not to take FULL advantage of it, don’t you think?”

After a moment, Mendoza nods... and, oblivious to all of this discussion, Irma Irons grabs a handful of Shea’s damp, dirty blonde locks, tugging the Sensational One up to a semi-seated position, and getting nothing but a faint, feeble groan from London for her efforts.

It was enough; Iron’s tightening her grip, almost as if she were trying to tear the FAWN Favourites mane from her scalp, towering over the Lightweight as the former Champion moaned meekly. Like a wolf catching the scent of blood, Irma’s pulse quickened, the rush of blood pounding against her eardrums before brought her free fist back, clenching her fingers so tightly her chain drove grooves into her own flesh. As her knuckles threatened to crack, the Weaponised Wolverine cried out, unleashing but the first of several, vicious blows to the Sensational One’s exposed heart...

It only takes three of those dastardly punches before the curtains part, and a diminutive redhead EXPLODES through the fabric and out from the back. Jaime charges down the aisle, the legendary London speed clearly not having skipped a generation--but as fast as Baby London’s legs can carry her, Irma still manages to fire off a couple more savage punches to Shea’s chest...

JAIME LONDON


... and perhaps she’d have time for even more.

Gabby Mendoza’s discomfort of a moment ago becomes a distant memory at the sight of the intruder, and neither Rose nor Darla Diane lift a finger to keep her from moving to intercept the Sensational One’s niece. The Babyfaced Killer is quick to welcome the newcomer with a forearm to the sternum, but Jaime blocks it. And, quickly snatching two handfuls of Gabby’s dark locks, London 2.0 sends Mendoza’s forehead SMASHING into the guardrail. The Barely Legal lass slumps to her bottom, and for the first time in a long while, as she sinks the FAWNatics sense of hope begins to head in the opposite direction...

It was hope enough for them to begin cheering, willing the Upstart to surge through, riding the momentum of her arrival to victory. They were so loud they almost failed to hear the blood curdling ROAR!! from Irma, the Anarchist of Anarchy abandoning her last victim now that she had successfully ensnared another, the brunette Brit charging the newly arrived red head down with all the subtly of a bulldozer, leaping into the air as she prepared to unleash an Iron Fist!!

For all the spectacle however, only half the FAWNatics could keep track of it, not as the sound system burst into renewed life at the very same moment...

www.youtube.com/watch?v=b5zXinAj5TI

...heralding the equally rapid arrival of the People’s Princess, and Leader of FAWN’s most Babyface Faction, the Upstart Nation, Samantha Sinclair! She tore through the curtains as she own blur of gold and blue, the Loyalist Legionnaires beginning to lose their collective sh*t as she bust a gut to catch up with the arguably suicidal charge of one of her closest friends, Shea’s chances of leaving tonight in one piece increasing by the moment.

SAMANTHA SINCLAIR


And while the FAWNatics had scarcely heard Irma’s battle cry, Jaime too is oblivious, turning away from the fallen Mendoza just in time to thoroughly EAT Irma’s Iron Fist. Short, crimson hair and just a bit of saliva fly as Jaime’s head is sent swivelling, Baby London’s legs buckling as she staggers away from the wicked punch. Fortunately for Jaime as she sinks to her knees, the Weaponised Wolverine is prevented from following up as the charging Golden Girl LEAPS at Irons, apparently intent on riding her fellow countrywoman to the floor with a Thesz press.

Just one problem: Irma’s powerful legs allow her to remain upright. But, no doubt with memories of their previous encounters flooding her brain, Irons remaining upright doesn’t stop Sinclair from going to town with punch after punch after punch after punch, unloading with a vengeance that, for her, was almost startling.

Alas, just when it looked like Sammie’s fists might take her adversary down, a forearm from Three D slams into her kidney region, causing the Upstart Supreme to cry out and slump backward. As she does, Darla Diane’s arms slip under hers, the buxom blonde securing a full nelson that leaves Sinclair’s torso open for Irma Irons to start slinging bombs of her own.

That still leaves on Gen Next beauty unaccounted for: that is, until Rose Evans arrives beside the kneeling Jaime and SMASHES the redhead’s face into the side of the guardrail. Gripping Baby London’s locks tightly, the Smartest Girl in the Room grrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnddddddsss Jaime’s face into the steel, seemingly intent on drawing blood! After a few seconds, though, Evans tosses her away, London 2.0 landing on her stomach. Moving to the second generation starlet’s feet, Rose takes a shapely gam and applies a single leg Boston crab.

Meanwhile, not bothering to rise, a recovering Gabby scoots toward Jaime on her tush, her legs beginning to snake around the crimson haired Brit’s noggin in an inverted figure four headscissors.

Jaime’s eyes fluttered open just in time for a pair of thighs to clamp shut about her cheeks, Little London’s still visible features tinting rosy with alarming swiftness as she muffled out a cry of pain. It went largely unheard, the sound buried somewhere between the hips of Gabby, but the Babyface Killer sure felt it as she intensified her grip with her athletic stems. The cry of frustrated woe only grew in intensity as the Boston crab ensured her entrapment, the London Legend in the Making curled vindictively backwards.

Sammie endured her own imprisonment, the Leader of the Upstart Nation ensnared by her counterpart from Gen Next, the far stronger Davis securing the Full Nelson with lock and key. Sinclair refused to give in, acutely aware that this was to be her first encounter with the commander in chief of a Rival Faction, and this was hardly how she had hoped to imagine it going.

She groooooaned as Darla bore down on her firm hold, the blonde cricking the neck of the petite brunette and rendering the young heroines arms all but impotent. Samantha was reminded of her predicament as she was jerked from side to side, Davis beginning to toy with her with impunity, especially when the numbers came into play. A great GUFF! of air escaped her small body as a fist from Iron’s was slammed into her trim tummy, her softly sculptured midriff fully exposed as she was forced to violently exhale, weak at the knees almost immediately as she remained restrained and, as Sammie proceeded to grunt and groan with short, sharp gasps, Irma followed through with several more...

And the Weaponised Wolverine continues to go to town, drilling punch after punch into the Golden Girl’s weakening abdomen. The only thing that stops the brunette are the words of Darla Diane Davis, the curvaceous blonde tilting her head to look over Sammie’s shoulder with a playful smirk. “Thought you said you wanted the other London?”

Irma takes a moment’s deep breath to steady herself, then offers the tiniest of nods in acknowledgment. Turning away, Irons shifts her focus to the redhead being brutalized under the combined forces of Barely Legal. “Get your own, bytches!” the Malevolent Malcontent snaps. “And get THAT bytch up on her feet!”

Rose and Gabby both bristle, but only for an instant. Both women know better than to take the words of Irma Irons personally when her bloodlust is running completely unchecked. The Barely Legal brats disengage their holds, scrambling to the feet before dragging Jaime up as well, holding Baby London’s slumping form between them.

A few feet away, Three D releases her nelson and spins the Golden Girl around to face her. Ducking underneath Sinclair’s right arm, Darla Diane reaches across the Upstart Supreme’s chest and starts to shuffle Sammie up against her back, Hurricane Darla ready to make landfall out on the concrete floor...

HURRICANE DARLA @7:22:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=huNGh-ruQDE

With her back shuffled up against Darla’s, Sammie was in no condition to offer more than a token protest as she was perilously secured horizontal above the waiting concrete. With her right arm and leg hooked, it was down to Sinclair’s left stem to kick out, but if anything the efforts to unbalance Darla only proved to drive the smugness of the blonde to greater heights. She began to spin, slowly at first, taking the People’s Princess with her, the hurricane rotating faster and faster towards an inevitable conclusion...

The FAWNatics weren’t sure whose fate they should have been more concerned for, Jaime hoisted to her feet and held steady, Iron’s grabbing her by the chin and squeezing her delightful cheeks together. “You seein’ that Bytch? This sh*t is on you...”

Baby London’s watering eyes burn with a cold fury. What had been done to her aunt, and now what appeared certain to happen to Sammie... Jaime violently shakes her head free of Irma’s grasp, and tries to do the same with her arms. Unfortunately, Rose and Gabby prove equally relentless in serving as human shackles for the redheaded Upstart. As they keep London 2.0‘s arms locked, Jaime is clearly all but defenceless against Irons’ reprisal for her insubordination...

... only none comes.

No, for once, the Weaponised Wolverine seems content to step back, and watch Jaime suffer through the redhead’s own imposed spectator status. The helpless Baby London can only cry out at Darla Diane lays out, slinging Sammie Sinclair from her back and SLAMMING the Golden Girl to the harsh concrete, face and chest first. The leader of the Upstarts is sent bouncing over to her back, arms and legs splayed, her eyelids fluttering shut. Meanwhile, after rising to her knees, Three D swings one exquisite gam over Sinclair’s midsection, straddling the Brit on one knee in a wordless show of Gen Next dominance.

The People’s Princess winced, her trim tummy taking the weight of her Faction Rival, lips parting in a soft gasp before she lay fully idle, a compliant throne for the self proclaimed Queen of FAWN.

Iron’s rolled her shoulders, as satisfied as she ever could be, turning back to Jaime and, with a savage grip, replacing the one the red head had shaken herself free from with a fistful of crimson mane. Jerking the Upstarts head back, the Dark Haired Destroyer readied her fist, a violent tic twitching her upper lip as she prepared to make the sight of the young women’s leader’s submission her last one of the evening... that is until the demeanour of the FAWNatics shifted alarmingly...

The arena might have already been filled to the brim with battling beauties--even if some of those had been well and truly pacified--but things are about to get considerably more crowded. For charging down the aisle come the rest of Upstart Nation, Katya Michalka, Chloe Fields and Bunny Cooper... and they are NOT alone. Trailing behind them are a trio of Upstart adjacent starlets, in Mary Sinclair, Charlie Dawson and Skylar Mitchell. The six newcomers quickly pair off into three sets, Bunny and Mouse making a beeline toward Darla Diane, the Pretty Rave Girl and Strawberry zeroing in on Irma Irons, and America’s Sweethearts heading straight toward Barely Legal...

KATYA MICHALKA


CHLOE FIELDS


BUNNY COOPER


CHARLIE DAWSON


SKYLAR MITCHELL


MARY ‘MOUSE’ SINCLAIR


What follows is nothing more than a pure brawl, all ten woman opting for nothing more technical than a closed fist or a forearm shiver. And when Baby London recovers enough to join Charlie and Skye in pounding away on Evans and Mendoza, it doesn’t take long for Darla Diane to signal for a retreat.

Evans and Mendoza heed that call almost straight away. To the shock of absolutely no one, Gen Next’s attack dog needs a little more convincing, Rose and Gabby forced to start dragging Irma back up the ramp. Gen Next repulsed, Charlie and Skylar start to offer comfort to Jaime, but the fiery redhead isn’t interested, violently shrugging away their supportive arms before sinking to her knees. Baby London then crawls over to the coffin, sitting on the edge before pulling a STILL insensate Sensational One up to a seat and into a tight hug.

Charlie Dawson, meanwhile, joins Mary Sinclair in tending to the weakly stirring Golden Girl, while the rest of the forces of light use their bodies to draw a line in the sand, creating a barrier between the vacating Gen Next and the carnage they had wrought, just in case those four women had second thoughts about calling it an evening. Bunny Cooper even beckons the quartet back down the aisle with a wave of her hands, but Darla Diane shakes her head.

“YOU WANT US?” Three D shouts to the assembled Upstarts. “YOU CAN COME GET US! PLENTY OF COFFINS TO GO AROUND!”