Post by EmmaWoods007 on Apr 10, 2020 16:05:33 GMT
It wasn’t often that Amanda Dark regretted her life choices, but she was experiencing one such moment right now.
AMANDA DARK
As her would be protégé was releasing a veritable barrage of blows against a clearly outmatched punching bag, the ‘Mother of All Storms’ was laid out on her back across a bench, nursing what had become one of many hangovers from hell that were determined to kill her. The gymnasium of the Orlando Arena was largely empty this early in the morning, with just Amanda and her ‘pet project’ making use of the facilities on a weekday, and the heavily tinted shades she was wearing were doing little to block out the light that threatened to burn out her hyper sensitive retinas.
“Enough,” she cursed, her throat raw from activities she couldn’t even remotely remember from the night before, the rest of her feeling little better as a nausea inducing belch built up slowly in her torso. “You killed it already, let it die.”
Carla Crash, the Boulevard Bytch, unleashed one final, blistering salvo, at least a dozen punches in short order, before she wordlessly agreed to relent. The walls of the gym echoed with the SLAP of her fists cracking off the reinforced fabric, Carla stepping back as she breathed heavily, delivering one last, thunderous punch before pacing away for good.
CARLA CRASH
Perpetually surly, she was the personification of agitation, rolling her wrists and fitfully shadow boxing, running one hand through her half shaven scalp before she dropped down to sitting on the bench beside Dark.
“Something on your mind?” Amanda queried, utterly deadpan.
Crash snorted in response, ugly and aggressive in tenor.
“You’re right,” Dark didn’t bother sitting up, possessing zero desire to do so, “I don’t actually care.”
Carla continued to say nothing, the younger woman tightening the bandages about her fists until her knuckles bled white. There was little point in sharing her thoughts with her ‘sponsor’, Crash under no illusions as to the true nature of their ‘working relationship’, and so she left her misgivings to fester in her gut unattended.
Hopkins.
Summer Hopkins.
The walking, talking embodiment of everything she resented.
Fake.
Fraud.
A pretender who coasted by on her charisma and good looks, everything Carla had left Hollywood to escape.
Of course, Crash reminded herself as she flexed her fingers, feeling the muscles tightening in satisfying fashion as she balled them up tightly, she also represented everything Carla had joined FAWN to indulge in. Here, she didn’t have to play nice, here she could get away with whatever she wanted, here she could prove that she was the real deal.
In developmental, she had given Summer Hopkins a concussion, and the ‘Supergirl of Sheffield’ hadn’t seen enough sense to run home.
So be it, if the pretender wanted another, Carla was more than prepared to provide …
AMANDA DARK
As her would be protégé was releasing a veritable barrage of blows against a clearly outmatched punching bag, the ‘Mother of All Storms’ was laid out on her back across a bench, nursing what had become one of many hangovers from hell that were determined to kill her. The gymnasium of the Orlando Arena was largely empty this early in the morning, with just Amanda and her ‘pet project’ making use of the facilities on a weekday, and the heavily tinted shades she was wearing were doing little to block out the light that threatened to burn out her hyper sensitive retinas.
“Enough,” she cursed, her throat raw from activities she couldn’t even remotely remember from the night before, the rest of her feeling little better as a nausea inducing belch built up slowly in her torso. “You killed it already, let it die.”
Carla Crash, the Boulevard Bytch, unleashed one final, blistering salvo, at least a dozen punches in short order, before she wordlessly agreed to relent. The walls of the gym echoed with the SLAP of her fists cracking off the reinforced fabric, Carla stepping back as she breathed heavily, delivering one last, thunderous punch before pacing away for good.
CARLA CRASH
Perpetually surly, she was the personification of agitation, rolling her wrists and fitfully shadow boxing, running one hand through her half shaven scalp before she dropped down to sitting on the bench beside Dark.
“Something on your mind?” Amanda queried, utterly deadpan.
Crash snorted in response, ugly and aggressive in tenor.
“You’re right,” Dark didn’t bother sitting up, possessing zero desire to do so, “I don’t actually care.”
Carla continued to say nothing, the younger woman tightening the bandages about her fists until her knuckles bled white. There was little point in sharing her thoughts with her ‘sponsor’, Crash under no illusions as to the true nature of their ‘working relationship’, and so she left her misgivings to fester in her gut unattended.
Hopkins.
Summer Hopkins.
The walking, talking embodiment of everything she resented.
Fake.
Fraud.
A pretender who coasted by on her charisma and good looks, everything Carla had left Hollywood to escape.
Of course, Crash reminded herself as she flexed her fingers, feeling the muscles tightening in satisfying fashion as she balled them up tightly, she also represented everything Carla had joined FAWN to indulge in. Here, she didn’t have to play nice, here she could get away with whatever she wanted, here she could prove that she was the real deal.
In developmental, she had given Summer Hopkins a concussion, and the ‘Supergirl of Sheffield’ hadn’t seen enough sense to run home.
So be it, if the pretender wanted another, Carla was more than prepared to provide …