Post by EmmaWoods007 on Nov 11, 2020 18:43:41 GMT
ALEXIS ATLANTIC
IRMA IRONS
…Irma Irons was as perpetually pissed off as a person could be, and still be considered functionally human, a state of mind she personified as she released a blood curdling, frustration fuelled cry as she damn near broke Alexis Atlantic in half, spearing the pocket blonde clean off the apron. The hellacious collision sent both Babes of Brawl sailing through the air, the FAWNatics gasping as the gutted Atlantic gagged and Iron’s roared, the camera crew scrambling to keep up and just barely catching their near catastrophic collision with the barely padded concrete outside the ring.
Neither young woman landed well, even with Irma on top, the ground providing an all too sudden stop to the pull of gravity on both of their physiques, loud grunts, cries and gasps accompanying their shared tumble. As Iron’s crawled away, Alexis was left gagging, struggling to inhale as she rolled over onto her side and curled up into a ball, hugging her punished midsection. Irma was cursing as she turned over onto her back, the string of released profanity growled in the direction of no-one in particular, the Apex Enforcer merely venting her ire at the world as a whole.
The Official, still inside the squared circle, watched on with mounting concern as he resorted to the only tool he had to hand, waiting several seconds before reluctantly beginning his ten count. The loud pronouncement of…
“ONE”
…seemed to spur both competitors into renewed action, even wounded as they were, and Iron’s spat something distinctly unhealthy looking onto the concrete before she rolled over onto her hand and knees. Atlantic was following suit, much to the relief of the FAWNatics, albeit much slower, the shoulders of the All-American Ass Kicker quivering as she stubbornly struggled to push herself upwards.
It was a race that only one of them was going to win, Irma stumbling her way back up to her feet as Alexis was only finding one knee. Shoulders squared, Iron’s was back on her opponent in an instant, feeling especially vindictive as she advanced and grabbed Atlantic by her golden mane, sharply yanking the American’s head backwards, preparing to crack her square in the features with a vicious right jab.
The Little Lioness, however, didn’t take kindly to such treatment and, with a snarl of her own, ripped her noggin free from Irma’s grip, swinging her forehead forwards so SLAM an impromptu Headbutt into her foes unprotected gut. Eyes wide, the Manchester Malcontent gagged as she stumbled backwards, instinctively cradling her midriff as air refused to re-enter her powerfully compact body.
Seizing her momentum, regardless of her aches and pains protesting otherwise, Alexis pushed back onto her feet, adrenaline pumping as she lined up her target for a kill shot.
“Iron’s,” she growled, pulling back her clenched fist even as Irma continued her stumbled retreat. A moment later, she unleashed a beautiful right hook, catching her adversary clean across her cheek and snapping her head sideways. “GET!” she shouted, forcing the single syllable word out through her clenched teeth as she connected with the intensely satisfying blow, following up with an equally effective second from her left paw, “THERAPY!!”
Irma’s knees gave out, the young woman collapsing sideways like a puppet with her strings cut, slumping heavily against the announce table which was suddenly the only thing keeping her upright. She was breathing heavily, folded forwards over the furniture, incoherently sputtering something or other which was clearly less than kind about her opponents Grandmother.
Atlantic, taking a moment to calm, inhaled a deep breath as she steadied the shaking of her fists. Fifty percent aggression, fifty percent focus, one hundred percent bad ass. In full control of her fury, Alexis renewed her progress, full prepared to…
…Iron’s roared, blood curdling and primal as, with her vision bleeding red, she heaved her way back up to vertical, grabbing a monitor from the Announcers table as she did so and ripping it free from its placement.
Those watching from the front rows cried out a warning, but it came far too late as the Personification of Pissed Off swung the heavy object up and over as an improvised mace, OBLITERATING it across the noggin of the Miniature Marine who went down as though she had been shot.
A hush fell across the assembled FAWNatics as Atlantic teetered for a moment before tumbling, all vigour vanishing in a heartbeat as she slumped to the concrete. There she lay, barely moving, crumpled on her side with her right stem kicking with the smallest of twitches.
“Bytch,” Iron’s cursed almost absently, inhaling deeply as she tonged her own, bloodied lip, shaky on her own two feet before she tossed aside the buckled remains of the monitor that she had weaponised. She exhaled, long and loud before rolling her shoulders, snorting as her blood slowing worked its way back up to boiling, “this is therapy.”
“SEVEN!!” the Official declared from inside the ring.
“Shut up, Dickhead,” Irma cussed him out with the absence of respect she always displayed to the gentlemen attired in black and white. With single minded purpose, she bent low to scrape the remains the All-American Ass Kicker back off the concrete, bodily woman handling the petitely packaged, limp limbed hardbody blonde over to the apron before shoving her remains beneath the bottom rope. Iron’s followed suit, finding her feet and grabbing Alexis by her wrist.
Like a cavewoman, she dragged the Little Lioness across the canvas before picking her spot at centre ring, peeling Atlantic off the deck as the defenceless, barely conscious Miniature Marine put up nary a protest. With seemingly little effort, Irma muscled Alexis up into the air until she carried the mass of her foe across her shoulders in a Fireman’s Carry, the Apex Enforcer scowling at the Hard Camera before she put the final nail in the coffin.
The FAWNatics cried out a protest, but such calls fell on deaf ears, Iron’s throwing herself to the side and, taking Atlantic with her, SLAMMED the back of her opponent’s head, neck and shoulders into the barely yielding plywood with ring rattling force!!
IRON VALLEY DRIVER
www.youtube.com/watch?v=JgIqbKlLpUA
The dreaded Iron Valley Driver could put away even the freshest of fighters for the evening, which left no hope at all for Alexis Atlantic who, barely clinging on as it was, would lose the next hour of her life as she cranium was DRILLED into the canvas. Her whole body stiffened with a sharp spasm just as she was released from Irma’s grasp and, without a fibre of resistance remaining in the whole of her body, she slumped out into a starfish across the mat.
Iron’s was on top of her in an instant, hooking one athletic leg of her foe and rolling the blonde up into a tight ball, the Manchester Malcontent pinning her adversary to the deck with unnecessary force.
ONE!
TWO!!
THREE!!!
The Official finished his count and the Loud Speakers burst into life with…
BURY YOU
www.youtube.com/watch?v=CLliftUOkmg
…to confirm that the Personification of Pissed Off was indeed the victor.
Irma held onto the cradle for a good four seconds longer before tossing the American’s lifeless leg aside, rolling her own way back up to sitting before exhaling deeply. She closed her eyes and growled softly, clenching her fists slowly before getting back up stiffly. Bruised, bloody and sheeted in sweat, she snatched a microphone from the hands of the Announcer and glared down the hard camera, the Apex Enforcer of the Apex Nation pushing her next declaration out from between clenched, bloodied teeth.
“Sinclair or not, I’m coming for what’s mine,” she promised, adding little by way of clarification. “And I’ll murder whatever Bytch gets in my way.”
IRMA IRONS
…Irma Irons was as perpetually pissed off as a person could be, and still be considered functionally human, a state of mind she personified as she released a blood curdling, frustration fuelled cry as she damn near broke Alexis Atlantic in half, spearing the pocket blonde clean off the apron. The hellacious collision sent both Babes of Brawl sailing through the air, the FAWNatics gasping as the gutted Atlantic gagged and Iron’s roared, the camera crew scrambling to keep up and just barely catching their near catastrophic collision with the barely padded concrete outside the ring.
Neither young woman landed well, even with Irma on top, the ground providing an all too sudden stop to the pull of gravity on both of their physiques, loud grunts, cries and gasps accompanying their shared tumble. As Iron’s crawled away, Alexis was left gagging, struggling to inhale as she rolled over onto her side and curled up into a ball, hugging her punished midsection. Irma was cursing as she turned over onto her back, the string of released profanity growled in the direction of no-one in particular, the Apex Enforcer merely venting her ire at the world as a whole.
The Official, still inside the squared circle, watched on with mounting concern as he resorted to the only tool he had to hand, waiting several seconds before reluctantly beginning his ten count. The loud pronouncement of…
“ONE”
…seemed to spur both competitors into renewed action, even wounded as they were, and Iron’s spat something distinctly unhealthy looking onto the concrete before she rolled over onto her hand and knees. Atlantic was following suit, much to the relief of the FAWNatics, albeit much slower, the shoulders of the All-American Ass Kicker quivering as she stubbornly struggled to push herself upwards.
It was a race that only one of them was going to win, Irma stumbling her way back up to her feet as Alexis was only finding one knee. Shoulders squared, Iron’s was back on her opponent in an instant, feeling especially vindictive as she advanced and grabbed Atlantic by her golden mane, sharply yanking the American’s head backwards, preparing to crack her square in the features with a vicious right jab.
The Little Lioness, however, didn’t take kindly to such treatment and, with a snarl of her own, ripped her noggin free from Irma’s grip, swinging her forehead forwards so SLAM an impromptu Headbutt into her foes unprotected gut. Eyes wide, the Manchester Malcontent gagged as she stumbled backwards, instinctively cradling her midriff as air refused to re-enter her powerfully compact body.
Seizing her momentum, regardless of her aches and pains protesting otherwise, Alexis pushed back onto her feet, adrenaline pumping as she lined up her target for a kill shot.
“Iron’s,” she growled, pulling back her clenched fist even as Irma continued her stumbled retreat. A moment later, she unleashed a beautiful right hook, catching her adversary clean across her cheek and snapping her head sideways. “GET!” she shouted, forcing the single syllable word out through her clenched teeth as she connected with the intensely satisfying blow, following up with an equally effective second from her left paw, “THERAPY!!”
Irma’s knees gave out, the young woman collapsing sideways like a puppet with her strings cut, slumping heavily against the announce table which was suddenly the only thing keeping her upright. She was breathing heavily, folded forwards over the furniture, incoherently sputtering something or other which was clearly less than kind about her opponents Grandmother.
Atlantic, taking a moment to calm, inhaled a deep breath as she steadied the shaking of her fists. Fifty percent aggression, fifty percent focus, one hundred percent bad ass. In full control of her fury, Alexis renewed her progress, full prepared to…
…Iron’s roared, blood curdling and primal as, with her vision bleeding red, she heaved her way back up to vertical, grabbing a monitor from the Announcers table as she did so and ripping it free from its placement.
Those watching from the front rows cried out a warning, but it came far too late as the Personification of Pissed Off swung the heavy object up and over as an improvised mace, OBLITERATING it across the noggin of the Miniature Marine who went down as though she had been shot.
A hush fell across the assembled FAWNatics as Atlantic teetered for a moment before tumbling, all vigour vanishing in a heartbeat as she slumped to the concrete. There she lay, barely moving, crumpled on her side with her right stem kicking with the smallest of twitches.
“Bytch,” Iron’s cursed almost absently, inhaling deeply as she tonged her own, bloodied lip, shaky on her own two feet before she tossed aside the buckled remains of the monitor that she had weaponised. She exhaled, long and loud before rolling her shoulders, snorting as her blood slowing worked its way back up to boiling, “this is therapy.”
“SEVEN!!” the Official declared from inside the ring.
“Shut up, Dickhead,” Irma cussed him out with the absence of respect she always displayed to the gentlemen attired in black and white. With single minded purpose, she bent low to scrape the remains the All-American Ass Kicker back off the concrete, bodily woman handling the petitely packaged, limp limbed hardbody blonde over to the apron before shoving her remains beneath the bottom rope. Iron’s followed suit, finding her feet and grabbing Alexis by her wrist.
Like a cavewoman, she dragged the Little Lioness across the canvas before picking her spot at centre ring, peeling Atlantic off the deck as the defenceless, barely conscious Miniature Marine put up nary a protest. With seemingly little effort, Irma muscled Alexis up into the air until she carried the mass of her foe across her shoulders in a Fireman’s Carry, the Apex Enforcer scowling at the Hard Camera before she put the final nail in the coffin.
The FAWNatics cried out a protest, but such calls fell on deaf ears, Iron’s throwing herself to the side and, taking Atlantic with her, SLAMMED the back of her opponent’s head, neck and shoulders into the barely yielding plywood with ring rattling force!!
IRON VALLEY DRIVER
www.youtube.com/watch?v=JgIqbKlLpUA
The dreaded Iron Valley Driver could put away even the freshest of fighters for the evening, which left no hope at all for Alexis Atlantic who, barely clinging on as it was, would lose the next hour of her life as she cranium was DRILLED into the canvas. Her whole body stiffened with a sharp spasm just as she was released from Irma’s grasp and, without a fibre of resistance remaining in the whole of her body, she slumped out into a starfish across the mat.
Iron’s was on top of her in an instant, hooking one athletic leg of her foe and rolling the blonde up into a tight ball, the Manchester Malcontent pinning her adversary to the deck with unnecessary force.
ONE!
TWO!!
THREE!!!
The Official finished his count and the Loud Speakers burst into life with…
BURY YOU
www.youtube.com/watch?v=CLliftUOkmg
…to confirm that the Personification of Pissed Off was indeed the victor.
Irma held onto the cradle for a good four seconds longer before tossing the American’s lifeless leg aside, rolling her own way back up to sitting before exhaling deeply. She closed her eyes and growled softly, clenching her fists slowly before getting back up stiffly. Bruised, bloody and sheeted in sweat, she snatched a microphone from the hands of the Announcer and glared down the hard camera, the Apex Enforcer of the Apex Nation pushing her next declaration out from between clenched, bloodied teeth.
“Sinclair or not, I’m coming for what’s mine,” she promised, adding little by way of clarification. “And I’ll murder whatever Bytch gets in my way.”