Post by SammieSinclair on Dec 20, 2014 18:54:14 GMT
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the ring announcer proclaims, “the following contest is scheduled for one fall, with a 20 minute time limit. Introducing first…”
As the announcer’s voice trails off, 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, the ring announcer stepping forth to resume his introductions. “Hailing from Manchester, England in the United Kingdom… Standing five feet four inches tall and weighing in this evening at one-hundred and twenty pounds…SEEENNNSSSAAATTTIIIOOONNNAAAL SHHHEEEAAA LOOONNNDDDOOONNN!!!!”
SHEA LONDON
Shea London strides from backstage to a rapturous reception from the Orlando faithful. The British Bombshell darts down to the ring, slapping hands with the fans as she does, her usual million dollar smile 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.
If the FAWNatics in any way feel let down by London’s performance against the Pleasant Valley princess, there’s no sign of the fact from their ovation. The gorgeous blonde makes a complete circuit around ringside, continuing to slap hands and accept the well wishes of her fans. Climbing the steps, Shea slips between the ropes, entering the ring and marching to the nearest corner, claiming it as her own. Climbing onto the middle turnbuckle, Shea raises an arm to a triumphant roar from her fans. Hopping back down, London starts to limber up in her corner, preparing for the arrival of tonight’s opponent...
“And in the opposite corner,” the Announcer, somewhat wisely given how hazardous the next participant tended to be for those in his profession, opted to remain outside the ring on this occasion. “hailing from Manchester, England, standing in at five foot four and weighing in one hundred and twenty five pounds, the Weaponised Wolverine!! IRMA!! IRONS!!”
www.youtube.com/watch?v=NUAdgt5Glk0&list=PLPuOyWan3CRuPoCuzoiHkAq0VNWg308E4
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 relative rookie 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. For several months Iron’s had vanished, a hellish cage match against the Chaos Consultant, Cassandra Vale, marking the beginning of her exile. Many hoped that she was gone for good. All of them were disappointed.
She dropped her arms and smirked, filled with a sickening amount of smug self satisfaction 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 smirked all the more, the video package upon the massive screen behind her rigid shoulders 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 half a dozen more.
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!!
Iron’s threw back her head and laughed in a short, vicious tone, grinning in a cruel and mirthless manner as she tore her way down the ramp and the isle with short, stomping strides, wrapped in a tank top and well worn shorts that were the same stark raven as her hair, her fists clenched and wrapped in gloves and a chain 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 aggressive humour 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. She stormed to centre stage, chesting up to Shea and determined to push her fellow, Manchester native backwards, forehead pushed forwards to grind against the pretty blondes, clearly set on making a point now that she had returned.
“This is my yard bitch!” she snarled, dark eyes boring into blue, “You’re f***ing road kill!!”
The referee starts to intercede, but before he can, the Sensational One brings her hands to Irma’s chest and sends Irons backpedalling with a harsh shove. “Far be it fer me ta toot me own ‘orn,” London snaps back, “but ya wanna go on about this bein’ yer yard? BYTCH, I BUILT THIS DAMNED ‘OUSE!!!”
Shea might not be known for self-promotion, but in this instance, the FAWNatics give her sentiment a VOCIFEROUS endorsement.
True to form, though, Shea doesn’t keep all the glory to herself as she continues. “Me... an’ Kylie... an’ Jules... an’ the Mitchells... an’ Ivy... an’ gawd ‘elp me, Portia an’ Chrissy... WE *MADE* this tha place EVERYONE in our business DREAMS of comin’ to, of bein’ good enough ta get in. So ya wanna try an’ come up in ‘ere an’ throw yer weight around? Bytch, try it on someone else. Cause ya’re TOTALLY barkin’ up tha wrong tree ‘ere.”
Irma starts to take a step forward... but the space created by the British legend’s shove has given the official ample opportunity to position himself in between them. Swallowing a golf ball sized lump in his throat, he takes a step toward Irons, preparing to examine her for any illegal objects.
She doesn’t spare him a glance, not first or second, Irma reserving her stare, her glare, she Shea alone. Eye contact remained unbroken, the curl of her lip unflinching. “You want to keep your f***ing balls,” she warned the official, her tone dragged through glass, “you back right the f*ck off, turd.”
The golf ball seemed larger now, the man in black in white unable to quite swallow it, and after an attempt at bravery he choice the better part of valour. ‘Satisfied’ with a visual check, the young man backed off, leaving Iron’s with her personal space unmolested.
Irma’s snarl became a smirk, her gaze unflinching, the turn of her lips mocking, “you see that shit right there?” she queried, the cold, cruel smugness of her expression galling, “that makes ‘your’ house... ‘my’ house.”
As the official returns to the Sensational One, London raises her right boot, complying with a physical examination without protest--but not without a small barb. “Neat trick o’ ‘ers, tha’ was,” London mutters, “gettin’ ya ta back off by threatenin’ somethin’ ya clearly don’t ‘ave.”
That stops the man in mid-pat, and he looks up with wounded eyes. “C’mon, Shea...”
Shea doesn’t offer an apology--at least, not with words. Her expression does, at least, soften slightly. Sharing the ring with a fellow Manchester girl--one who CLEARLY lacked sufficient respect for her or the company that employed them both--was apparently getting under the veteran blonde’s skin.
After determining that the Sensational One is clear, the official turns to the timekeeper’s table and calls for the bell. And its toll brings both lasses out of their corners. Unsurprisingly, neither woman shows the slightest sign of hesitation in charging toward one another, Shea eager to lock up in a collar and elbow, and to start teaching this brat some actual respect.
Iron’s charge, however, comes to an abrupt halt half a step away, but if any thought of tactical consideration comes to the minds of those watching, that notion is quickly quashed as Irma’s thoughts ran along brutally direct lines. As London advanced for a tried and tested lock up, the Raven Haired Destroyer instead roared, stomping down with one foot as she swung her right one upwards in a violent gut kick, one heavy tipped boot targeting a wonderfully trim, and tragically exposed tummy.
Shea London is among the fastest and most nimble women who have ever competed in the history of the sport. But, in this moment, the Sensational One’s anger leaves her a tick too slow to spot Irma applying the brakes, or to react when she does. Before London can react, Irons’ reinforced boot PLOWS into her yielding lower abdomen. Now, an ordinary kick to the belly is painful enough. But Irma’s footwear is designed for MAXIMUM damage, and judging by Shea’s reaction, that’s EXACTLY what she inflicts.
The blonde Brit’s eyes snap open, a loud, “GYYYUUUUNNNNNGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!” pushing past London’s lips as she doubles over. But rather than remaining stooped, Shea almost immediately drops to one knee, her head slumping forward as she wraps her left arm around her heaving tummy, the FAWN Original trying in vain to draw in a single, pain-free breath.
“I ain’t here to grapple bytch!” Iron’s scolded, not a hint of remorse present as she grabbed a fistful of a glorious gold mane, jerking the crowd favourites head back as the brunette stooped forwards. “I’m here to f***ing fight!” she snapped, clenching her free fist before swinging with a wicked uppercut, one lead by a powerful bicep, the tensed muscle slamming into the underside of the elfin Brit’s chin and vaulting the ‘penitent’ London straight back up onto her tip toes with a pained “ERK!”
With Shea reeling, Iron’s secured a wrist of her Manchester Rival and swung about, fully intent of Irish Whipping the stunning blonde towards the nearest corner and, as a freight train, following soon after by way of Avalanche Splash!
Intentions don’t get you much in this business, however.
Digging in her feet, the Sensational One reverses the whip, and it’s Irma who gets sent hurtling toward the far buckles. Ignoring the lingering burning sensation in her lungs, Shea does exactly as her opponent had intended and takes off after the sprinting Irons. Only, mindful of the chain still wrapped around her waist, London opts not for a splash but instead raises an arm, catching the Manchester brat across the sternum with a running clothesline.
With the jeers of the FAWNatics transformed back into cheers, the Sensational One presses in against Irons, snatching hold of the less experienced girl’s wrist. Opting to give Irons some instruction in how it’s done, London sets her feet and starts to launch Irma toward the opposite buckles with another whip--and once her foe is on her way, she’d give London’s Legions MORE reason to cheer by launching a tumbling run into a handspring elbow.
Irma’s second collision with a set of turnbuckles between her shoulder blades in quick succession was met with a dull THUD, a shuddering of her strong shoulders and ‘GRUNT!’ of pain that sounded just as angry as it did wounded. With thighs tensing and lips curling, Iron’s was already inhaling a deep breath and looked set to shove her way out of the corner only to be STAKED right back into it. The delightful tumbling and the ever sensational Shea resulted in a pin perfect strike of elbow between blossoms, Irma pinned back into place with a spasming of her arms, a guffing of cheeks and a stuttering of her heart.
Irma stumbled forwards out of the corner; an irate Iron’s heading towards centre ring, the knees of the Malevolent Malcontent refusing to buckle.
Shea doesn’t remain in the corner, either--and when she spots Irma staggering away, the living legend turns and sprints in the opposite direction. Hitting the ropes off of Irons’ right flank, London allows the rubber coated steel to propel her back toward the stumbling novice. And, as she approaches, the Sensational One does what she does best--vault into the skies. Sailing past her opponent, London reaches out her left arm, looking to grab the back of Irma’s noggin--and to introduce her face to the canvas with a bulldog.
As one arm wraps tight about Iron’s head, the brunette folds forwards as gravity conspires to drag one hundred and twenty pounds of blonde beauty earthwards, anchoring Irma down with it. The Weaponised Wolverine, however, was having none of it, snapping her arms up in the same motion and, as Shea remained in flight, she roughly palmed her rivals firm buttocks and SHOVED!! as hard as possible.
Irma’s head popped free and she staggered backwards, even as London sailed forwards, but if the brunette had hoped the lightweight would crash and burn, she was to be disappointed. Shea recovered midflight and landed with ease, turning deftly on the spot to... Iron’s LUNGED!! forwards, all but roaring as she launched into a flying spear!
Perhaps Shea had underestimated Irma, not expecting her less experienced foe to be ready to follow up on her counter so quickly. But Irons IS ready, and her shoulder PLOWS into the Sensational One’s abdomen. London is taken off her feet, folding in half around the brunette’s spear, which allows Irma’s strong and shapely legs to drive a couple more feet with Shea before she takes the FAWN Original down to the canvas, hard. The wind knocked out of her, London rolls onto her right hip, eyes closed and spine arched as she tries to catch her breath.
The Anarchist of Anarchy was smelling blood, arguably her own as her heart beat it around her system as a churning tide, dark eyes wide as she scrambled across the canvas beside Shea. “NOT SO FULL OF SH*T NOW ARE YER!?!” she snapped, one eye obscured by crimson as she straddled the slimmer hips of the slighter London, viciously grabbing a fistful of golden mane, forcing her opponent to look upwards as she prepared to club down a series of forearms to an exposed forehead.
Irma’s spear continues to pay dividends, Shea’s oxygen-vacated lungs leaving her with leaden arms that are slow to obey the Sensational One’s commands. That buys Irons the time to land a couple of wicked forearms free and clear, and the more she accumulates, London’s arms becoming even slower to try to rise and block. The fans beseech their beloved to act, but not only do Shea’s arms become slower--Irma’s blows seem to be GROWING in strength, the less resistance the upstart Brit receives. After a good ten shots from Irons, London’s arms essentially only spasm--and then, only in response to the force of Irma’s blows, not from conscious commands from Shea.
Iron’s halted, far be it due to the demands of the Official, nor because of the crowds discontent, but more to observe her own carnage. With teeth ground together, Irma breathed through heavy snarls, dealing her Manchester Rival’s noggin a hard shake, satisfied by the lack of tension in the other women’s sublime neck, and the parting of her soft lips.
“That’s what I thought,” Iron’s snorted before rolling her own, powerful shoulders, remaining upon her throne of London’s suddenly submissive hips before opting to vacate her seat. She moved to stand up, her tight fist full of hair bringing Shea along with her, demands from the Official for her to relinquish her grip going unheeded until she was ready. Folding the blonde forwards, Irma applied a standing headscissors, clenching her strong thighs and she circled a tummy, the Hardbody of the Lightweight Division preparing to Iron Bomb the Legend into an early retirement!
@3:12
www.youtube.com/watch?v=X8tce_WscWc&list=PLPuOyWan3CRvQUivzzw3UD1primlZ6HYj&index=4&t=192s
When the Sensational One suddenly finds herself lifted to a seated position atop Irma’s shoulders, her arms FINALLY come to life, wind milling in frenetic fashion. But, as urgently as the limbs swings, they’re also every bit as ineffectual--NOTHING can prevent the younger Manchesterite from slinging London down, without the slightest bit of concern for Shea’s well-being. The British Bombshell CRASHES to the mat on her head and shoulders, London moaning softly as her body shudders to rest in a jell-o’ed sprawl.
Delighted with her demonstration, Irons moves forward, until she’s in a standing straddle of the legend--one boot alongside each of London’s hips. “MY. M*THERF*CKIN’. HOUSE!” the Weaponised Wolverine bellows, then drops to one knee--planting the other atop Shea’s bosom in a thoroughly disrespectful cover. Irons’ contempt becomes even more obvious as she strikes a double bicep pose, the FAWNatics jeering as the ref slaps off the...
ONE...
TWO...
Suddenly, London’s luscious legs swing upward--but this is more than just a kick up. Slipping underneath the guns of the posing Irma, Shea’s gams pull her opponent down--until its IRMA whose shoulders are flat against the canvas. As a now seated Sensational One holds onto Irons’ waist for dear life, the official begins another count--one that meets with considerably more approval from the crowd.
ONE...
TWO...
THNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Irma kicks out, Shea slumping over onto her side, not able to immediately follow up.
Iron’s wasn’t slumping, she was furious, the flaring of her nostrils heralding nothing but incoming pain as she shoved up off her knees and scraped the soles of her boots across the canvas hard enough to almost rip the fabric. “You f*ckin’ slack jawed whore!” she pushed the syllables out of her throat in something approaching comprehensible language as she reached down and seized Shea by the back of her sports bra and union jack embezzled shorts, dragging the Pride of England up by the whisper thin fabric.
“Ain’t no bytch gonna roll me like that cheap ass Michalka again, you hear me?” There was to be no waiting for an answer, not as she hupped London up horizontally off the canvas as though she was lugging luggage, spinning on the spot for a full circle to build momentum before releasing, determined to throw Shea like a discarded sack, head and shoulders first, towards the nearest corner. “NO ONE!!”
The good news, for London and her fans, is that the Sensational One’s head misses the steel ringpost by mere inches as she sails through the gap in the middle and top turnbuckles. The good news, for Irma Irons, is that Shea’s right shoulder is not NEARLY as fortunate. “GGYYYUUUAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!” the FAWN icon wails, her upper belly resting on the second turnbuckle, her hindquarters wriggling slightly as she slumps to her knees.
Before she advanced, Iron’s cracked her neck, a sharp, self induced snapping of vertebra that sent a shudder through everyone close enough to hear it, something like a smirk finding its way across her features. “You wail like a hooker, London,” she mocked, grabbing the stunning blonde by the back of her top again and pulling the crowd favourite back just far enough to shove the other women’s cheek against the middle turnbuckle, “your ass wiggles like one to.”
She suddenly threw her own hips forwards, her right thigh prepared to slam into the back of her Manchester rivals noggin, determined to crush her cranium between a rock and hard place.
@0:15
www.youtube.com/watch?v=R8-InMb7k-I&index=1&list=PLPuOyWan3CRsSeqddiZ-Brp_6QzDaulrK&t=14s
London’s Legions UNLOAD on the Weaponised Wolverine, pouring heaping upon heaping of vitriol on the less experienced lass from Manchester. Unfortunately, for as much scorn as they supply, Shea London can do little but kneel and take it, her face smushed into the padding of the buckle as Irma’s hip slams into her head and shoulders, time and time again. The one thing the Sensational One has in her favour is the referee, he--after providing Irons with some FAWN-standard slack--eventually begins to count toward a disqualification.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
FOUR!
F...!
Irma pushes the official as far as humanly possible, but after delivering one last knee to the right side of Shea’s ribs, Irons backs up with her hands raised. A moaning London, no longer suffering underneath her adversary, manages to turn and slump to a seat in the corner, the Brit’s left hand moving to caress her throbbing right shoulder.
Iron’s turned her back on London, the brunette dismissing the smaller blonde with a grunt, wiping the back of her hand across her lips as she rolled her shoulders and, with a dangerous smirk, one that displayed far too many of her teeth, she whipped both her arms up to deliver a double, one fingers salute to every single one of Shea’s followers. The arena burst into a fresh chorus of boos, Irma lapping it up as the Official turned the entirety of his attention to the seated Sensational One, concerned for her well being.
Taking his eyes of Iron’s proved to be a foolish error as, the moment she felt herself outside of his immediate line of site, the Ravenous Rottweiler dropped down hard to the canvas, almost as if she had just been pole axed, and barrel rolled beneath the bottom rope. Suddenly outside the ring, the most violent of English exports moved far faster than many would give her credit for, a snapping motion ripping her chain link belt free from about her hips and weaponising it immediately.
The FAWNatics, of course, were the first to see the danger, but even as they all cried out in warning it was already far too late, a snarl erupting from Iron’s bosom as she arrived behind the post supporting Shea, one boot planted against the apron as she WHIPPED the chain about the stunning, multi time champions throat, the Hardcore Hellion determined to THROTTLE her as viciously as possible!!
Almost immediately, many of London’s Legions IMPLORE the referee to call for the bell and disqualify this cheating bytch. But, again, officials in FAWN have been given an exceptional amount of training when it comes to the rulebook, and guidance toward finding interpretations to those rules that give the athletes as much room to work as possibly. Here, for example, while Irma was undeniably using a foreign object, she was doing so from OUTSIDE the confines of the ropes--even if Shea herself was still within them. In many ways, it’s the same logic that allows chair shots and the railing and tables to be used around ringside...
All of which was well and good, but it does absolutely nothing to alleviate the suffering of Sensational Shea London. The blonde legend’s eyes bulge as the chain draws tighter and tighter around her throat, London’s shapely gams kicking wildly as the life is choked out of her. Her hands rise up to her throat, fingers desperately trying to claw their way underneath the steel--but Irons provides virtually no slack in the chain as she LEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAANNNNS back. While he might not be willing to signal for an immediate DQ, the ref still starts another five count--this one moving a little quicker than the previous version.
If anything, the persistent counting from the Official and the outpouring of disdain from the capacity crowd only proved to spur Irma’s growing mania on further. With a wicked grin she planted her left boot against the apron in mirror to her right and, with a heady GRUNT!! and breathtaking pulse from both her thighs, Iron’s GROWLED and REEFED!!! back even harder!! Seemingly intent on murder, she somehow managed to retain the merest shred of rationality and, as...
FIVE!!
...was on the verge of being uttered, she released, saving herself once again from a disqualification. Not that she was finished. Almost from the moment her boots smacked back down to the ground, her right hand was made free from chain and she snatched a handful of Shea to compensate. “Are you feeling it yet bytch?” she taunted, attempting to forcibly drag London to the outside of the squared circle with her, “this ain’t no house you built, it’s a F***ING GRAVE!!”
Rasping as she gulps down air, both of Shea’s hands appear glued to her reddened throat--which means they’re not able to grab at anything to try to keep the Sensational One inside the ring. London tumbles to her knees once her feet clear the ropes. With the British veteran kneeling, Irma turns her toward the ring... and SLAMS her forehead into the edge of the apron, three times--just on general principles. Plunging her fingers into London’s tresses, Irons tugs the legend up to rubbery legs, Shea swaying uncertainly. She was clearly feeling EVERY ounce of hurt Irma’s dished out, and quite possibly appearing ready for the grave...
BUUUUUUTTTTTT... as the Weaponised Wolverine sets her feet and starts to whip the Sensational One away; Shea digs into those legendary reserves of hers, and begins to reverse the whip. If she can manage it, it would be IRMA who would be shot into the steel ringsteps, rather than London herself.
Alarm was not an expression that Iron’s handled well, another trigger that set her blood to boiling as the blonde who should know better pivoted on the spot and yanked upon the arm of the Malevolent Malcontent hard enough to all but yank her shoulder out of joint. With her dark eyes wide, Irma was dragged into a run, a sputtering of promised ruination upon her lips as she hurtled towards the steps, turning her disastrous momentum in time only to SLAM into the steel across her rigid shoulders.
The brunette HOWLED, a guttering cry that promised murder as her entire frame recoiled from the jarring impact, the clang accompanying the smacking of raw meat. With a hiss and showing of teeth, Irma tensed from head to toe; her fingers clenched and eyes demanding carnage, somehow remaining upright despite the spasming of her back muscles.
“Little sh*t,” she threatened, “I’m gonna wear your scalp as a f***ing hat!!”
While Irma had managed to keep her feet, Shea unfortunately had not, falling to her knees after releasing the whip. But those back spasms give the Sensational One enough time to scramble back to them, and then to LEAVE them altogether. Vaulting from the floor, London pistons her boots toward Irons’ chest, catching the younger Manchester girl with a powerful dropkick. And Shea’s soles get the job done, sending the brunette toppling to the floor, landing hard on her now aching back.
Of course, outside the ring, Shea’s landing is hardly a picnic, either. But a groaning Sensational One still manages to pick herself up off the concrete first. Noting the official’s count, Shea peels Irma off the deck, pushing her up onto the apron before rolling the less experienced Brit into the ring. London climbs up onto the apron herself, now--but she doesn’t follow Irons in. Instead, she holds onto the top rope with both hands and waits for the Weaponised Wolverine to get back to her feet. As she begins to, Shea rocks back, preparing to slingshot over the ropes and catch Irma with a stunning DDT.
SLINGSHOT DDT:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=JgB4IR2_UAY
Iron’s return to vertical proved to be short lived, the stream of obscenities that were locked and loaded to be unleashed going unsaid as Shea took flight, the FAWNATICS no doubt more than able to drown her out regardless as they lifted the roof with a fresh cheer. London snagged the stronger Irma about her head in a firm noose and, as gravity took hold and yanked all one hundred and twenty pounds of blonde beauty earthwards, one hundred and twenty-five pounds of Iron’s was dragged down with her.
The Anarchist of Anarchy met the canvas forehead first, body juddering as she popped right back up to kneeling following the solid THUNK between noggin and plywood. She wobbled with a dull eyed stare, slumping backwards onto her buttocks as she shook her head, bosom heaving from a momentarily directionless temper.
Those vacant eyes told the Sensational One all she needed to know. Crawling over to the swaying brunette, Shea pushes Irma over to her back before applying the cover. London hooks a leg as the referee slides into place beside them, slapping off the...
ONE...
TWO....
NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!
Irons kicks out, perhaps not emphatically, but strongly enough to tell London she still had a fight ahead of her.
That’s why the British Bombshell doesn’t argue. Instead, after pushing to her feet, London reaches down and hair hauls Irma to hers as well. Spinning the dazed youngster away from her, the blonde FAWN Original nuzzles in, wrapping her arms tightly around Irons’ now chain-free waist. With a grunt, Shea starts to pop her hips, looking to rock back and BLAST Irons’ head and shoulders into the canvas with a bridging German suplex.
While many a FAWNatic, and indeed many a FAWN competitor would be more than happy to have London snuggle so close, Iron’s was not amongst them. An angry retort was upon her lips, but her mounting frustration stole her articulation and little more than angry spits escaped her lips as Shea tightened her wrists about Irma’s solid stomach. Something like a warning emerged from the Hardbody of the Lightweight Division, but as she was ripped off her feet, arched up and then sent thundering right back down, that warning clearly went unheeded by her Manchester Rival.
With a CRACK of her skull meeting mat, Iron’s solid stems whipped up and over, heavy duty footwear smacking down against the canvas to either side of her own head as Shea retained the delightful bridge, Irma rolled for yet another count.
ONE!
TWO!!
Iron’s EXPLODED out of the pinfall, sputtering with fury as she flipped over onto her side.
Shea seems a little perturbed this time by not getting much more than a two count, and she fixes the official with a slight glare as she pushes back to her feet. Stopping long enough to claim a handful of Irma’s locks, the Sensational One pulls her opponent up and leads her into the nearest corner. London’s left hand moves to her throat, an imprint of the chain links still present as she massages her neck... and perhaps that spurs Shea to snarl, and to begin SMASHING Irons’ face into the top turnbuckle, repeatedly.
After the fifth such blow, London spins Irma so that her back is to the buckles--and the Sensational One bodies in against her as she clutches the brunette’s wrist. “Know wha’ I think, luv?” Shea asks. “I think it’s time someone taught ya a li’l bit o’ ‘umility. An’ while I’m sure there’s a long line ready ta form fer tha’ ‘onour... well, *I’m* tha one actually ‘ere, ain’t I?”
Not waiting for an answer, London starts to send Irma for a ride via a MIGHTY Irish whip. The impact with the far buckles should prove more than enough to overwhelm the Weaponised Wolverine’s gams, and send her plopping to a seat. And then the Sensational One would be MORE than ready to go about busting this particular British bronco.
The ring itself seemed to shake and shiver as Iron’s collided with the turnbuckles at one corner, the diminutive brunette a wrecking ball of fearsome reputation, the watching spectators more than happy to see that, on this occasion, Irma was the only one to suffer from it. Once against her spine was compromised as her shoulders were split down the middle by the barely padded steel, the Ravenous Rottweiler bucking with a hiss and thudding downwards and onto her backside. Her powers of recovery were formidable in the extreme, and the dark haired destroyer was already beginning to pull herself back up as Shea set off at a sprint... but she was far too late to prevent some of the fastest feet in FAWN from finding their target.
Iron’s snapped her eyes open wide in anger as she immediately knew was the blonde intended, but there was nothing she could do to prevent it, her growl becoming a GRUNT as Shea seized the top ropes and, taking wonderful flight, swung her amazing frame downwards like pendulum, busting her firm little buttocks down HARD against Irma’s bosom, robbing the girl of air and busting her new bronco.
Much to the delight of those watching, Shea did not let up, thrusting her hips forwards and backwards, repeatedly beating her new rival with her fantastic, flag attired toosh, Iron’s juddering and groaning as she slumped further into the buckles, strong stems spasming and increasingly limp wrists jerking at the end of her arms.
Shea brings her booty-barrage to a halt following a baker’s dozen thrust, releasing the top rope to rock backward and roll away from her thoroughly busted foe. Climbing to her feet, the Sensational One grabs Irma by the ankles and drags her out of the corner. Once the British brunette is sufficiently clear of the the ropes, London surges forward, keeping Irons’ stems under her control as she flips over her opponent, securing the Weaponized Wolverine in a jack knife pin.
ONE...
TWO...
THNOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!
Irons’ arms spasm upward, two balled fists SLAMMING into the Sensational One’s flanks--perhaps not with the power of earlier in the contest, but still strong enough to break Shea’s grip and to send the FAWN Original spilling to her backside. London scrambles up quickly, however--and keeps Irma pacified by dropping a quick knee to her rival’s temple.
With the younger Brit sufficiently stilled, the Sensational One turns toward the corner they had both just vacated--and Shea quickly scales her way to the top turnbuckle. The FAWNatics rise to their feet as London prepares to launch herself back into a graceful moonsault, Irons’ wide-open tummy an all too inviting target.
Irma’s knees, however, was anything but, self preservation, or perhaps pure vindictiveness kicking in as the Hardcore Hellion tucked into a tight ball, London already well into the air as the cheers of the FAWNatics devolved into horrified gasps! Their deflation was nothing compared to their idols, the slim, taunt little tummy of their idol IMPALED! by Irma’s jutting kneecaps, almost every inch of air driven from her lithe body as she catastrophically exploded away with a stomach hugging gasp and groan.
“Do you know what I think?” Irma twisted the question that Shea herself had asked not minutes before into a snarling parody, Iron’s rolling onto her front with a juddering breadth as she planted her knuckles down hard against the canvas. “I think you’re full of SH*T yer f***ing Barbie!” She shoved off the mat, ignoring her own aches, malice fuelling her drive as she zeroed in on the gasping blonde beauty, ripping Shea off the canvas in an attempt to lock in a violent bearhug.
Still wheezing from the aftermath of her moonsault gone wrong, Shea’s lungs haven’t even been replenished close to half capacity when Irma pulls her into an anything-but-loving embrace. London’s eyes grow wide as the raven haired Brit’s pythons constrict around her midsection, the Sensational One uttering a LOUD gasp that robs her oxygen-starved lungs of what little air they’d managed to reclaim. Irons gives the blonde a slight jostle, sending Shea’s gams into the air, and those luscious legs wrap lightly around her waist.
As Irons continues to SQUEEEEEEEEZE, a small chant of “BRI-TISH BOMB-SHELL!” begins to emerge from the throng of FAWNatics. But that chant quickly begins to increase in both volume and passion when Shea’s quaking arms rise up from her sides. London’s fingers flex upward, imploring her legions of fans to get louder still--and they do, growing almost deafening as the Sensational One’s fingers begin to curl into fists. Feeding off the energy of the crowd, Shea starts to load up for a...
“GGGYYYYYUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Perhaps spurred by the crowd herself, Irma’s embrace grows incredibly tight, her sculpted arms threatening to squeeze right THROUGH Shea. London’s balled fists unclench, her arms dropping back toward her side as her cheek slumps to rest on Irons’ shoulder.
With her own grinning features buried deep into Shea’s gold tresses, Irma breathed in deep, always enjoying the scent of a broken bytch. Like a dog with a bone, Iron’s shook the limp limbed, moaning London out, robbing the heroine of her dwindling reserves of strength as she threatened to squeeze the suffering legend in two. With a further flexing of her biceps, the Malevolent Malcontent prolonged the embrace, turning on the spot at centre ring and repeatedly taking the flagging Shea out of the Officials reach, not at all prepared to let the Zebra interfere and offer the blonde within her grasp even a chance to tap out.
“Not so uppity now, are you whore?” Iron’s questioned, squeezing just a little harder, jostling London’s increasingly compliant frame into a slightly more secure hold, Irma’s thighs thrust firmly between Shea’s open hips. Lining up a corner, the brunettes roared as she charged, her latest collision with the turnbuckles promising to be far more pleasant with her fellow Brit providing a beautiful cushion.
As Irons picks up speed, Shea’s ankles come uncrossed, the blonde legend’s stems flying out behind the Weaponised Wolverine as she sprints across the ring. When the entwined duo reach the corner, the sound of Shea’s back SLAMMING into the buckles and Irma’s powerful frame DRIVING into hers proves considerably greater than the surprisingly soft gasp that pushes through London’s lips--though, really, should it be that surprising? Speech and cries both require oxygen to fuel them, and over the last few moments, the Sensational One has been rendered almost completely deprived of that precious substance.
The Malevolent Malcontent’s arms unclasp as she step back--and, deprived the support of Irma’s body, Shea’s liquefied legs are unable to keep her up. Looking anything but Sensational, the blonde Brit flops to her backside, her shapely legs parted into a wide ‘V’, Shea’s head drooping toward her heaving bosom.
With her grin crooked, Iron’s sneered downward at the wilting London, her body shivering at the sight of the broken legend, her fellow Brit, the oh so defiant Shea now submissive and at her mercy, the only factor hampering her pleasure being the heavy thumping of her own temple. The painful tic was returning, a snorting coming from her nostrils, a building need to inflict violence, the recent memory of humiliation thumping like a hammer to either side of her own skull.
She grabbed the top ropes to either side of the uppermost turnbuckle and glared out into the masses, her grin turning into a snarl. “I bet you thought this sh*t was funny didn’t you?” she demanded of them, her fingers tightening as her bile was vented outwards. “DIDN’T YOU!?! Well, THIS SH*T AINT FUNNY NOW IS IT!?!” Suddenly she jumped, swinging her stronger frame downwards, her buttocks leading the way as she set about delivering a bronco busting of her own!!
The vacant eyed Brit below her doesn’t appear capable of offering much in the way of resistance when Irma springs toward the skies... but as Irons begins her descent, it turns out there IS one thing the Sensational One can manage. It’s quite possibly the ONLY thing her battered body can manage at this point, but it’s enough--and, as the Weaponised Wolverine’s hindquarters swing down, London melts off the middle buckle, her body plummeting into a boneless puddle in the corner.
That leaves nothing to stop Irma’s crotch from SLAMMING into the middle buckle, Irons’ eyes rolling back slightly as she moans, the brunette left straddling the middle rope and hung up in the corner, her arms hanging over the top strand. With some difficulty, London rolls out from underneath Irma before climbing to her feet--and with Irma’s back to her, the Sensational One uses the opportunity to smash a couple of forearms into her lower back. Then, gripping Irma’s shoulders tightly, Shea hops into the air, tucking her knees toward Irons’ shoulder blades, intending to bring her out of the corner with a lungblower.
Noticeably bow legged, it didn’t take much to rip Irma backwards off her feet, and with Shea applying appropriate amount of leverage and all of her Lightweight mass, it was no problem as all. With an cart wheeling of her arms and a heavy throated grunt, the brunette was yanked with precision force onto the pointed knees of the blonde, any threats that came to mind drowned out by her own GROAN as both her lungs were impaled at once. With a sharp, jack knifing motion she shot back up to kneeling only to flop forwards, her eyes wild and wide as the caps of her heavy duty footwear kicked down against the canvas.
The Sensational One is a little slow getting back to her feet... but Irma Irons is slower still, giving Shea enough of a head start to regain her footing, while the Weaponised Wolverine is still only as far as her knees. Having been in the business long enough to spot a golden opportunity when it presents itself, London drops into a slight crouch, ready to explode out of it with a boot flying toward the Weaponised Wolverine’s chin in a super kick.
Iron’s struggled to inhale, her breathing laboured as her eyes drifted slowly between closed and shut, her irises surrounded by red as blood, far too much blood, was pumped directly too her skull by a heart that was beating with mounting fury. Her body responded to her demands, her limbs protesting but relenting to her impulses towards violence, her progress slow and yet inexorably leading towards vertical. She snatched the ropes with a white knuckled grip, dragging herself upwards onto her knees, snarling features pressed in tight against a turnbuckle as a hiss of spittle stained her lips. With a growl she finally found a heavy footed stance, oblivious to the hopes, the pleas, the near palpable anticipation of the FAWNatics watching as she stutteringly turned about...
And met a Superkick from a FAWN legend right beneath her chin!! As if shot her head snapped backwards, a wad of something shooting upwards into the sky from between her clenched teeth as her eyes blanked out, the Anarchist of Anarchy gradually, painfully slowly, tilting backwards onto her heels... and then clattering to the canvas like a felled oak.
The ‘CRAAAAACK!’ of boot against chin tells Shea the kick connected flush, maybe well enough to... The Sensational One drops to her knees, scampering over to the fallen Manchester girl and throwing herself across Irons’ chest. As she hooks both legs, the referee counts...
ONE...
TWO...
THRENOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!
Irma gets a shoulder up.
London’s hands fly into her hair, ripping at her locks in frustration. Shaking her head, the Sensational One rises and navigates a circuitous path toward the far corner, again sinking into a crouch as she watches and waits for Irons to rise. It takes a few moments, but the Malevolent Malcontent begins to do just that, her back to the FAWN Original. And as Irons turns, Shea breaks into a sprint, charging toward her foe. In a moment, she would leap high into the air--and Irma would fall victim to a London Blitz!
LONDON BLITZ @1:29:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRageBu7Mqs
The FAWNatics were clapping as; once again, their beloved heroine was lining herself up for a fresh charge, Irons’ dragging her way back up to boot leather like some avatar of murder. Perhaps they shouldn’t, the arena thrumming with a beating of drums, thousands of palms coming together in an increasing tempo, sending hearts to beating and pulses to racing, a warning as clear as any air siren if there ever was one. Any such fears seemed to be unfounded as Irma turned, oblivious to the danger and Shea shot off like a bomber...
London leapt, the Sensational One looking every inch of her hard earned namesake as she cleared the canvas with an incredible leap that smashed her knees against the powerful shoulders of her Manchester Rival. Irma grunted as she was struck by the airborne assault and toppled as though lightning had barrelled through her, the Hardbody of the Lightweight Division upended by one of its most infamous stars, the brunette ridden all the way down to the canvas where the back of her skull CRACKED down off the mat.
One set of stems shot upwards into the air and Shea gratefully collected them, rolling Irma into a ball for a...
ONE!
TWO!!
THR...
Iron’s SHOVED her off, rolling over onto her front and beating one palm against the plywood.
Shea doesn’t offer any outward signs of her frustration following another thwarted pinfall--well, not unless you count the anger flashing in her eyes. Pushing off her knees, the Sensational One stalks over to Irma, grabbing a handful of hair and tugging the Weaponised Wolverine back to verticality. “Get... yer... bloody hands off me, ya damn OAP...” Irons snaps.
London doesn’t respond to the barb with words, just a snarl. She also takes Irons’ wrist, launching the brunette into the far ropes with an Irish whip. As the younger woman lumbers back toward her, the Sensational One takes one step to the side, reaching her arms to ensnare Irma around the waist, hoping to lift her up and deliver a pendulum backbreaker.
PENDULUM BACKBREAKER:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKh0VIxNIg8
Rarely was Iron’s lifted off her feet, only the likes of Cassandra Vale having done so in the past, and as much as she found she didn’t care for it, there was little Irma could do to prevent it. Swept off her boots and held horizontal above the mat, there was only time for the briefest of obscenities to escape her lips as the infamous momentum that Shea was renowned for seemed to be taking over, Irma dropped down swiftly to the mat, her descent halted only by a bent knee!
Once again that joint inflicted blistering damage, the Hardcore Hellion snapping out a pained snarl as her spine was posted and contorted across a firm thigh, vertebra popping in and out of place with a crack before she was shoved free. With a flop the brunette was deposited to the mat, the young women from Manchester increasingly less eager to get back up as she lay across her side, one hand cradling the small of her aching spine.
For someone so much similar in size to her, hoisting Irma into the air had proven a chore for the Sensational One. No doubt part of that stemmed from the beating the bytch had given her to this point, but as challenging as that backbreaker had been to perform, London knows the time to go for the kill is now.
And she knows just where to target.
Knee walking over to the fallen brunette, Shea places one hand at Irma’s shoulders and the other just as the curve from her back to her glutes. Shoving the Malevolent Malcontent over to her stomach, London plants both of her knees against Irons’ spine. The Sensational One reaches her right hand toward Irma’s ankles, intending to collect both, cross them, and fold the younger Brit’s legs back at the knees. Then, her left hand would gather and cup Irma’s chin, before Shea rocked back and lifted the Weaponised Wolverine up onto London’s Bridge.
Iron’s HOWLED as she was hoisted up into the air, rocked into a bow and arrow arch that shoved her ripped midriff skywards and curved her punished spine into a torturous contortion. No end of superstars had been forced to tap out to one of London’s most lethal holds and, as Irma’s arms spasm end outwards, biceps pulsing and fists clenched, the FAWNatics could well remember why.
Iron’s clamped down on her pain, hardbody shivering, teeth clenched to the point of breaking as her scream became a snarl, a straggled screech that spoke clearly of her mounting misery and impotent fury that stretched its way throughout every inch of her powerful... impotent frame.
“fffffffffFFFFFFFFFFFFFFACK!!!” she cursed as London only reefed back further, determination written across the beloved blondes angelic features as she piled on the pressure, spurred on by the frantic cheering of the packed arena as they dared to believe that Irma might just...
She tapped out!! Iron’s slapping her hand against Shea’s across her throat, the Officially quickly, filled with obvious relief, calling for the bell!!
The Sensational One climbs to her feet, looking every bit the valiant, triumphant warrior as the official raises her hand. The sheen of perspiration coating her body, the damp, somewhat matted locks, the heaving bosom all are a testament to how much Irma had pushed her. But, in the end...
“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH....”
As pleased as Shea might be with her victory, that decidedly orgasmic cry does NOT come from her. Nor does it come from the once-jubilant, now-confused FAWNatics. No, that wail plays out over the FAWN Arena’s sound system, and is promptly followed by an equally ecstatic, “AHHHHHHHHHHHHH...”
Confusion quickly gives way, at least somewhat, as the voice unmistakably belongs to Shirley Manson, the beat of Garbage's "#1 Crush" thumping over the sound system. But that's only part of the equation. By now, Darla Diane Davis has made this music her own--but why in the world is it playing following a Shea London victory?
The curtains part, and a voluptuous young blonde strides into view, jeers and lustful catcalls greeting the arrival of Three D. While her bosom is currently sheathed in a black--and oddly inside out--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 DIANE DAVIS
And she is not alone.
Behind Davis stand two lovely young ladies—with an emphasis on “YOUNG.” Rose Evans and Gabby Mendoza are dressed the exact same way: adorned in black lace panties underneath plaid mini-skirts and matching black bustiers that, with neither of these women likely to be mistaken for Hailey Kennedy, give their bosoms an extremely flattering boost. Both sets of well-shaped legs are encased in thigh high black nylons along with white boots.
As Gabby blows a particularly large bubble of gum past her lips, Darla offers the legend in the ring a particularly slow, and even more condescending, round of applause, before moving her microphone up to her mouth. “Bra... Vo...” the Cali blonde says, flatly. “The dinosaur manages to avoid extinction for one more night.”
Tossed a stick herself from a ringside staffer, Shea regards the interlopers with narrowed eyes. “An’ just wha’ tha ‘ell da YOU want out ‘ere, Davis?”
“Well,” Darla coos, “I’ve always wanted a pony, but I don’t think that’s happening tonight. I REALLY want to see a FAWN pay per view where the FUTURE is represented at the top of the card, but that doesn’t look like it’s happening tonight, either. Not with has-beens like you and Kylie, Juliet, Ivy and Cynthia... NEVER-WERES like Kristy and Clayton... Even West, good as she is, is nearing the tail end of her prime. But at least she’s got the sense to surround herself with people like Lemarchand and Pandora.”
“Might there be a point comin’ anywhere soon in this diatribe?” London asks, clearly annoyed.
“My point,” Davis replies, “is EXACTLY what I said at Mania. WE are TIRED of waiting. We are READY to TAKE our rightful place in this company. People like you, Shea? You’ve got two options: get out of the way, or go down. Hard.”
The Sensational One takes a step back from the ropes... and, despite having just been punished for a good fifteen minutes, the blonde Brit opens her arms wide. While some fans question the wisdom of her gesture, most still roar in anticipation of an impromptu fight. “Ya wanna go,” London asks, bringing the mic back to her lips. “I’ve still got enough left in tha tank tonight ta take care o’ a walkin’, talkin’ pair o’ over-inflated beach balls.”
With the numbers in their favour three to one, it was no surprise to anyone when the assembled power of Gen Next began advancing, spreading out down the aisle as the outnumbered, and soon to be surrounded Shea London prepared to fight her corner as the heroine she was. The pace quickened, the distance shortened, and as much as the FAWNatics believed in FAWN’s first ever World Champion, the legendary British Bombshell, many eyes turned to the arenas entrance in the mounting hope that someone, that anyone, would come charging out to provide reinforcements. The Bloodwinds, Cassie, Jaime London, even the black sheep Kristy Sanders, surely someone was on hand to even the odds, surely at least one of them could prevent the likely massacre...
A blood curdling ROOOOOAR!! filled the arena as a resurgent Irma Iron’s charged across the ring, forgotten in the unfolding drama and grasping a steel chair in hand. As one the audience panicked, the weapon no doubt about to bludgeon an unprotected London... only the blood mad brunettes path tore her straight past the blonde and, as she reached the ropes, the Weaponised Wolverine HURLED her improvised weapon like a missile into the SHOCKED!! ranks of Gen Next, just barely missing the unprepared skull of Darla Diana Davis!!
As it CLANGED to the floor as a violent promise, Iron’s was snorting furious, glaring murder at the suddenly halted trio as the lung busting volume of her chest forgo any need for a microphone. “DIDN’T ANY OF YOU F***ING BYTCHES HEAR ME!?! THIS IS MY!! F***ING!! YARD!! THERE AIN’T NO THREE ON ONE BULLSHIT IN MY F***ING HOUSE!! YOU HEAR ME NOW!?! F***ING BRING IT AND F***ING BLEED!!”
She spun about in a short half circle, the FAWNatics caught so flat footed by the reversal of fortunes from the most unexpected of quarters that they weren’t sure if they should cry or cheer, the near crazed Iron’s locking eyes with an astonished London. Something passed between them in that moment of silent recognition, the two girls from Manchester sizing the other up and, without words, cemented a temporary alliance within a squared circle within which they had just bled against one another.
The moment passed and Iron’s stormed back towards a familiar corner, bending low and retrieving her chain link belt, wrapping it tightly about her knuckles as, for the first time in FAWN history, she received a hearty cheer from the packed arena as she did so. She smashed her now armoured first into the canvas and returned her blood red glare back to the trio of Gen Next, Shea doing likewise, the two Brits having each other’s back and ready to lay the smack down.
Darla seemed to take a moment to consider her options for the first time since her faction and come swanning out onto the stage, clearly taken aback by the turn of events. It passed, a nod confirming her two colleagues to continue into the ring.
The FAWNatics were barely able to control themselves as Iron’s clearly took that as her signal, the Hardcore Hellion yelling out a battle cry as she threw herself into a charge, leaping high into the air, cocking back her right arm, tensed her bicep and UNLEASHED the all new IRON FIST...
...towards the unsuspecting jaw of Shea London!!!
www.youtube.com/watch?v=SJDwsS-3z6s
The metallic ‘THWWWAAAAAACCCCCCCKKKKK!’ of chain-encased fingers striking Sensational jaw line IMMEDIATELY silence the crowd, almost as thoroughly as the Iron Fist shatters the senses of Shea London.
The FAWN Original barely even manages to utter a low moan, as caught unawares as she was. The blonde’s eyes roll back to whites, Shea spinning on one heel before her boots both settle back down... however briefly. The Sensational One then rocks back on her heels, teetering there for what seemed like half an hour... In reality, it probably wasn’t even a second. But however long transpired, Shea topples backward, crashing to the mat with a loud, damp thud. There the Sensational One lies in a splattered starfish, her blinking eyes the only indication that she remains conscious, however tenuous her grasp on the condition might be.
Meanwhile, Darla joins the girls of Barely Legal on the apron, the FAWNatics finding their voice again as Gen Next slip through the ropes. Davis glances briefly at the sprawled Shea before turning her attention back to Irma. “May we?” Three D asks. “Or do you still have a point you’d like to make?”
Irons didn’t immediately answer, nor did she entirely acknowledge the other three competitors as they circled inside the ring, her grin crooked and firmly in place as she instead stared down at the splayed London. She stood with heavy duty footwear possessively planted to either side of London’s unmoving hips, filled with dangerous mirth as the worried FAWNatics heckled in a powerless effort to prevent what was surely about to happen. Irma held out a hand, this time accepting a microphone from a bubble blowing gabby, bringing it to her lips but never looking away from the broken blonde between her feet.
“Had you f***ers going there for a minute didn’t I?” she mocked those watching without acknowledging their existence. “As if I would side with a passed it, broken old fraud like this bytch. F***ing loser!!” It was obvious that her tirade was turning towards the barely responsive blonde, her words bludgeoning like hammers, “you think that bell f***ing matters? You think it means a shit? You think that makes you the winner? The winner is the ONE WHO WALKS AWAY BYTCH!! YOU AIN’T WALKING NO-WHERE!!”
Snorting with disgust Iron’s twisted her smirk into a snarl and then... composed herself. Lifting her head back up, Irma wiped the back of her free hand across her lips and, after handing the microphone back to Gabby, she grasped the forearm of Darla Diana Davis with a firm grip and a sickening grin, confirming that the Weaponised Wolverine had found herself a pack.
“You want a pony?” Iron’s tilted her head down towards the prone London, “knock yourself out.”
“Very kind of you,” Darla says to Irma with a wicked smile, whilst Evans and Mendoza pull the Sensational One up to her knees, each Barely Legal brat holding one of London’s arms outstretched. Bt as she turns her gaze back toward Shea, her voice turns cold. “But I think this one’s ready for the glue factory.”
Sauntering over to the kneeling London, a trickle of blood beginning to run from the left corner of her mouth, Davis places a finger underneath Shea’s chin and tilts the legend’s head up, to meet her gaze eye-to-eye. “Your day is done, bytch,” she mutters. “I think I’ll leave you for Irma to finish. But, for now...”
Three D reaches forward with both hands, her fingers curling as the PLUNGE into the sensitive tissues of the Sensational One’s bosom. With a grunt, Darla Diane uses her dual claw holds to lift London off her knees, and into the air, Shea’s eyes beginning to water as she wails in anguish. The Cali blonde holds the British Bombshell aloft, by her gurls, for about three seconds--Shea’s boots frantically kicking out and trying to find some surface to take a bit of the strain all the while.
Then Davis sits out, swinging her cargo down between her parted stems, DRIVING Shea back down to the mat with her Beach Bomb sit out power bomb.
As Three D picks herself up, Rose and Gabby decide they’re not going to be left out of the moment--even if there’s precious little left of Shea to punish. So Mendoza settles for taking a seat atop London’s expressionless face, Evans doing the same on London’s gulping tummy. The Babyfaced Killer spits her gum out into her fingers, wadding it up before planting the confection dead centre of Shea’s bosom. Meanwhile, Rose leans forward, giving her partner an affectionate kiss.
As for the two women on their feet, Darla Diane makes her way over to Irma Irons. Taking the Weaponised Wolverine’s right wrist, Davis raises Irons’ arm in triumph, Gen Next apparently gaining one more member.
As the announcer’s voice trails off, 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, the ring announcer stepping forth to resume his introductions. “Hailing from Manchester, England in the United Kingdom… Standing five feet four inches tall and weighing in this evening at one-hundred and twenty pounds…SEEENNNSSSAAATTTIIIOOONNNAAAL SHHHEEEAAA LOOONNNDDDOOONNN!!!!”
SHEA LONDON
Shea London strides from backstage to a rapturous reception from the Orlando faithful. The British Bombshell darts down to the ring, slapping hands with the fans as she does, her usual million dollar smile 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.
If the FAWNatics in any way feel let down by London’s performance against the Pleasant Valley princess, there’s no sign of the fact from their ovation. The gorgeous blonde makes a complete circuit around ringside, continuing to slap hands and accept the well wishes of her fans. Climbing the steps, Shea slips between the ropes, entering the ring and marching to the nearest corner, claiming it as her own. Climbing onto the middle turnbuckle, Shea raises an arm to a triumphant roar from her fans. Hopping back down, London starts to limber up in her corner, preparing for the arrival of tonight’s opponent...
“And in the opposite corner,” the Announcer, somewhat wisely given how hazardous the next participant tended to be for those in his profession, opted to remain outside the ring on this occasion. “hailing from Manchester, England, standing in at five foot four and weighing in one hundred and twenty five pounds, the Weaponised Wolverine!! IRMA!! IRONS!!”
www.youtube.com/watch?v=NUAdgt5Glk0&list=PLPuOyWan3CRuPoCuzoiHkAq0VNWg308E4
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 relative rookie 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. For several months Iron’s had vanished, a hellish cage match against the Chaos Consultant, Cassandra Vale, marking the beginning of her exile. Many hoped that she was gone for good. All of them were disappointed.
She dropped her arms and smirked, filled with a sickening amount of smug self satisfaction 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 smirked all the more, the video package upon the massive screen behind her rigid shoulders 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 half a dozen more.
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!!
Iron’s threw back her head and laughed in a short, vicious tone, grinning in a cruel and mirthless manner as she tore her way down the ramp and the isle with short, stomping strides, wrapped in a tank top and well worn shorts that were the same stark raven as her hair, her fists clenched and wrapped in gloves and a chain 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 aggressive humour 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. She stormed to centre stage, chesting up to Shea and determined to push her fellow, Manchester native backwards, forehead pushed forwards to grind against the pretty blondes, clearly set on making a point now that she had returned.
“This is my yard bitch!” she snarled, dark eyes boring into blue, “You’re f***ing road kill!!”
The referee starts to intercede, but before he can, the Sensational One brings her hands to Irma’s chest and sends Irons backpedalling with a harsh shove. “Far be it fer me ta toot me own ‘orn,” London snaps back, “but ya wanna go on about this bein’ yer yard? BYTCH, I BUILT THIS DAMNED ‘OUSE!!!”
Shea might not be known for self-promotion, but in this instance, the FAWNatics give her sentiment a VOCIFEROUS endorsement.
True to form, though, Shea doesn’t keep all the glory to herself as she continues. “Me... an’ Kylie... an’ Jules... an’ the Mitchells... an’ Ivy... an’ gawd ‘elp me, Portia an’ Chrissy... WE *MADE* this tha place EVERYONE in our business DREAMS of comin’ to, of bein’ good enough ta get in. So ya wanna try an’ come up in ‘ere an’ throw yer weight around? Bytch, try it on someone else. Cause ya’re TOTALLY barkin’ up tha wrong tree ‘ere.”
Irma starts to take a step forward... but the space created by the British legend’s shove has given the official ample opportunity to position himself in between them. Swallowing a golf ball sized lump in his throat, he takes a step toward Irons, preparing to examine her for any illegal objects.
She doesn’t spare him a glance, not first or second, Irma reserving her stare, her glare, she Shea alone. Eye contact remained unbroken, the curl of her lip unflinching. “You want to keep your f***ing balls,” she warned the official, her tone dragged through glass, “you back right the f*ck off, turd.”
The golf ball seemed larger now, the man in black in white unable to quite swallow it, and after an attempt at bravery he choice the better part of valour. ‘Satisfied’ with a visual check, the young man backed off, leaving Iron’s with her personal space unmolested.
Irma’s snarl became a smirk, her gaze unflinching, the turn of her lips mocking, “you see that shit right there?” she queried, the cold, cruel smugness of her expression galling, “that makes ‘your’ house... ‘my’ house.”
As the official returns to the Sensational One, London raises her right boot, complying with a physical examination without protest--but not without a small barb. “Neat trick o’ ‘ers, tha’ was,” London mutters, “gettin’ ya ta back off by threatenin’ somethin’ ya clearly don’t ‘ave.”
That stops the man in mid-pat, and he looks up with wounded eyes. “C’mon, Shea...”
Shea doesn’t offer an apology--at least, not with words. Her expression does, at least, soften slightly. Sharing the ring with a fellow Manchester girl--one who CLEARLY lacked sufficient respect for her or the company that employed them both--was apparently getting under the veteran blonde’s skin.
After determining that the Sensational One is clear, the official turns to the timekeeper’s table and calls for the bell. And its toll brings both lasses out of their corners. Unsurprisingly, neither woman shows the slightest sign of hesitation in charging toward one another, Shea eager to lock up in a collar and elbow, and to start teaching this brat some actual respect.
Iron’s charge, however, comes to an abrupt halt half a step away, but if any thought of tactical consideration comes to the minds of those watching, that notion is quickly quashed as Irma’s thoughts ran along brutally direct lines. As London advanced for a tried and tested lock up, the Raven Haired Destroyer instead roared, stomping down with one foot as she swung her right one upwards in a violent gut kick, one heavy tipped boot targeting a wonderfully trim, and tragically exposed tummy.
Shea London is among the fastest and most nimble women who have ever competed in the history of the sport. But, in this moment, the Sensational One’s anger leaves her a tick too slow to spot Irma applying the brakes, or to react when she does. Before London can react, Irons’ reinforced boot PLOWS into her yielding lower abdomen. Now, an ordinary kick to the belly is painful enough. But Irma’s footwear is designed for MAXIMUM damage, and judging by Shea’s reaction, that’s EXACTLY what she inflicts.
The blonde Brit’s eyes snap open, a loud, “GYYYUUUUNNNNNGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!” pushing past London’s lips as she doubles over. But rather than remaining stooped, Shea almost immediately drops to one knee, her head slumping forward as she wraps her left arm around her heaving tummy, the FAWN Original trying in vain to draw in a single, pain-free breath.
“I ain’t here to grapple bytch!” Iron’s scolded, not a hint of remorse present as she grabbed a fistful of a glorious gold mane, jerking the crowd favourites head back as the brunette stooped forwards. “I’m here to f***ing fight!” she snapped, clenching her free fist before swinging with a wicked uppercut, one lead by a powerful bicep, the tensed muscle slamming into the underside of the elfin Brit’s chin and vaulting the ‘penitent’ London straight back up onto her tip toes with a pained “ERK!”
With Shea reeling, Iron’s secured a wrist of her Manchester Rival and swung about, fully intent of Irish Whipping the stunning blonde towards the nearest corner and, as a freight train, following soon after by way of Avalanche Splash!
Intentions don’t get you much in this business, however.
Digging in her feet, the Sensational One reverses the whip, and it’s Irma who gets sent hurtling toward the far buckles. Ignoring the lingering burning sensation in her lungs, Shea does exactly as her opponent had intended and takes off after the sprinting Irons. Only, mindful of the chain still wrapped around her waist, London opts not for a splash but instead raises an arm, catching the Manchester brat across the sternum with a running clothesline.
With the jeers of the FAWNatics transformed back into cheers, the Sensational One presses in against Irons, snatching hold of the less experienced girl’s wrist. Opting to give Irons some instruction in how it’s done, London sets her feet and starts to launch Irma toward the opposite buckles with another whip--and once her foe is on her way, she’d give London’s Legions MORE reason to cheer by launching a tumbling run into a handspring elbow.
Irma’s second collision with a set of turnbuckles between her shoulder blades in quick succession was met with a dull THUD, a shuddering of her strong shoulders and ‘GRUNT!’ of pain that sounded just as angry as it did wounded. With thighs tensing and lips curling, Iron’s was already inhaling a deep breath and looked set to shove her way out of the corner only to be STAKED right back into it. The delightful tumbling and the ever sensational Shea resulted in a pin perfect strike of elbow between blossoms, Irma pinned back into place with a spasming of her arms, a guffing of cheeks and a stuttering of her heart.
Irma stumbled forwards out of the corner; an irate Iron’s heading towards centre ring, the knees of the Malevolent Malcontent refusing to buckle.
Shea doesn’t remain in the corner, either--and when she spots Irma staggering away, the living legend turns and sprints in the opposite direction. Hitting the ropes off of Irons’ right flank, London allows the rubber coated steel to propel her back toward the stumbling novice. And, as she approaches, the Sensational One does what she does best--vault into the skies. Sailing past her opponent, London reaches out her left arm, looking to grab the back of Irma’s noggin--and to introduce her face to the canvas with a bulldog.
As one arm wraps tight about Iron’s head, the brunette folds forwards as gravity conspires to drag one hundred and twenty pounds of blonde beauty earthwards, anchoring Irma down with it. The Weaponised Wolverine, however, was having none of it, snapping her arms up in the same motion and, as Shea remained in flight, she roughly palmed her rivals firm buttocks and SHOVED!! as hard as possible.
Irma’s head popped free and she staggered backwards, even as London sailed forwards, but if the brunette had hoped the lightweight would crash and burn, she was to be disappointed. Shea recovered midflight and landed with ease, turning deftly on the spot to... Iron’s LUNGED!! forwards, all but roaring as she launched into a flying spear!
Perhaps Shea had underestimated Irma, not expecting her less experienced foe to be ready to follow up on her counter so quickly. But Irons IS ready, and her shoulder PLOWS into the Sensational One’s abdomen. London is taken off her feet, folding in half around the brunette’s spear, which allows Irma’s strong and shapely legs to drive a couple more feet with Shea before she takes the FAWN Original down to the canvas, hard. The wind knocked out of her, London rolls onto her right hip, eyes closed and spine arched as she tries to catch her breath.
The Anarchist of Anarchy was smelling blood, arguably her own as her heart beat it around her system as a churning tide, dark eyes wide as she scrambled across the canvas beside Shea. “NOT SO FULL OF SH*T NOW ARE YER!?!” she snapped, one eye obscured by crimson as she straddled the slimmer hips of the slighter London, viciously grabbing a fistful of golden mane, forcing her opponent to look upwards as she prepared to club down a series of forearms to an exposed forehead.
Irma’s spear continues to pay dividends, Shea’s oxygen-vacated lungs leaving her with leaden arms that are slow to obey the Sensational One’s commands. That buys Irons the time to land a couple of wicked forearms free and clear, and the more she accumulates, London’s arms becoming even slower to try to rise and block. The fans beseech their beloved to act, but not only do Shea’s arms become slower--Irma’s blows seem to be GROWING in strength, the less resistance the upstart Brit receives. After a good ten shots from Irons, London’s arms essentially only spasm--and then, only in response to the force of Irma’s blows, not from conscious commands from Shea.
Iron’s halted, far be it due to the demands of the Official, nor because of the crowds discontent, but more to observe her own carnage. With teeth ground together, Irma breathed through heavy snarls, dealing her Manchester Rival’s noggin a hard shake, satisfied by the lack of tension in the other women’s sublime neck, and the parting of her soft lips.
“That’s what I thought,” Iron’s snorted before rolling her own, powerful shoulders, remaining upon her throne of London’s suddenly submissive hips before opting to vacate her seat. She moved to stand up, her tight fist full of hair bringing Shea along with her, demands from the Official for her to relinquish her grip going unheeded until she was ready. Folding the blonde forwards, Irma applied a standing headscissors, clenching her strong thighs and she circled a tummy, the Hardbody of the Lightweight Division preparing to Iron Bomb the Legend into an early retirement!
@3:12
www.youtube.com/watch?v=X8tce_WscWc&list=PLPuOyWan3CRvQUivzzw3UD1primlZ6HYj&index=4&t=192s
When the Sensational One suddenly finds herself lifted to a seated position atop Irma’s shoulders, her arms FINALLY come to life, wind milling in frenetic fashion. But, as urgently as the limbs swings, they’re also every bit as ineffectual--NOTHING can prevent the younger Manchesterite from slinging London down, without the slightest bit of concern for Shea’s well-being. The British Bombshell CRASHES to the mat on her head and shoulders, London moaning softly as her body shudders to rest in a jell-o’ed sprawl.
Delighted with her demonstration, Irons moves forward, until she’s in a standing straddle of the legend--one boot alongside each of London’s hips. “MY. M*THERF*CKIN’. HOUSE!” the Weaponised Wolverine bellows, then drops to one knee--planting the other atop Shea’s bosom in a thoroughly disrespectful cover. Irons’ contempt becomes even more obvious as she strikes a double bicep pose, the FAWNatics jeering as the ref slaps off the...
ONE...
TWO...
Suddenly, London’s luscious legs swing upward--but this is more than just a kick up. Slipping underneath the guns of the posing Irma, Shea’s gams pull her opponent down--until its IRMA whose shoulders are flat against the canvas. As a now seated Sensational One holds onto Irons’ waist for dear life, the official begins another count--one that meets with considerably more approval from the crowd.
ONE...
TWO...
THNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Irma kicks out, Shea slumping over onto her side, not able to immediately follow up.
Iron’s wasn’t slumping, she was furious, the flaring of her nostrils heralding nothing but incoming pain as she shoved up off her knees and scraped the soles of her boots across the canvas hard enough to almost rip the fabric. “You f*ckin’ slack jawed whore!” she pushed the syllables out of her throat in something approaching comprehensible language as she reached down and seized Shea by the back of her sports bra and union jack embezzled shorts, dragging the Pride of England up by the whisper thin fabric.
“Ain’t no bytch gonna roll me like that cheap ass Michalka again, you hear me?” There was to be no waiting for an answer, not as she hupped London up horizontally off the canvas as though she was lugging luggage, spinning on the spot for a full circle to build momentum before releasing, determined to throw Shea like a discarded sack, head and shoulders first, towards the nearest corner. “NO ONE!!”
The good news, for London and her fans, is that the Sensational One’s head misses the steel ringpost by mere inches as she sails through the gap in the middle and top turnbuckles. The good news, for Irma Irons, is that Shea’s right shoulder is not NEARLY as fortunate. “GGYYYUUUAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!” the FAWN icon wails, her upper belly resting on the second turnbuckle, her hindquarters wriggling slightly as she slumps to her knees.
Before she advanced, Iron’s cracked her neck, a sharp, self induced snapping of vertebra that sent a shudder through everyone close enough to hear it, something like a smirk finding its way across her features. “You wail like a hooker, London,” she mocked, grabbing the stunning blonde by the back of her top again and pulling the crowd favourite back just far enough to shove the other women’s cheek against the middle turnbuckle, “your ass wiggles like one to.”
She suddenly threw her own hips forwards, her right thigh prepared to slam into the back of her Manchester rivals noggin, determined to crush her cranium between a rock and hard place.
@0:15
www.youtube.com/watch?v=R8-InMb7k-I&index=1&list=PLPuOyWan3CRsSeqddiZ-Brp_6QzDaulrK&t=14s
London’s Legions UNLOAD on the Weaponised Wolverine, pouring heaping upon heaping of vitriol on the less experienced lass from Manchester. Unfortunately, for as much scorn as they supply, Shea London can do little but kneel and take it, her face smushed into the padding of the buckle as Irma’s hip slams into her head and shoulders, time and time again. The one thing the Sensational One has in her favour is the referee, he--after providing Irons with some FAWN-standard slack--eventually begins to count toward a disqualification.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
FOUR!
F...!
Irma pushes the official as far as humanly possible, but after delivering one last knee to the right side of Shea’s ribs, Irons backs up with her hands raised. A moaning London, no longer suffering underneath her adversary, manages to turn and slump to a seat in the corner, the Brit’s left hand moving to caress her throbbing right shoulder.
Iron’s turned her back on London, the brunette dismissing the smaller blonde with a grunt, wiping the back of her hand across her lips as she rolled her shoulders and, with a dangerous smirk, one that displayed far too many of her teeth, she whipped both her arms up to deliver a double, one fingers salute to every single one of Shea’s followers. The arena burst into a fresh chorus of boos, Irma lapping it up as the Official turned the entirety of his attention to the seated Sensational One, concerned for her well being.
Taking his eyes of Iron’s proved to be a foolish error as, the moment she felt herself outside of his immediate line of site, the Ravenous Rottweiler dropped down hard to the canvas, almost as if she had just been pole axed, and barrel rolled beneath the bottom rope. Suddenly outside the ring, the most violent of English exports moved far faster than many would give her credit for, a snapping motion ripping her chain link belt free from about her hips and weaponising it immediately.
The FAWNatics, of course, were the first to see the danger, but even as they all cried out in warning it was already far too late, a snarl erupting from Iron’s bosom as she arrived behind the post supporting Shea, one boot planted against the apron as she WHIPPED the chain about the stunning, multi time champions throat, the Hardcore Hellion determined to THROTTLE her as viciously as possible!!
Almost immediately, many of London’s Legions IMPLORE the referee to call for the bell and disqualify this cheating bytch. But, again, officials in FAWN have been given an exceptional amount of training when it comes to the rulebook, and guidance toward finding interpretations to those rules that give the athletes as much room to work as possibly. Here, for example, while Irma was undeniably using a foreign object, she was doing so from OUTSIDE the confines of the ropes--even if Shea herself was still within them. In many ways, it’s the same logic that allows chair shots and the railing and tables to be used around ringside...
All of which was well and good, but it does absolutely nothing to alleviate the suffering of Sensational Shea London. The blonde legend’s eyes bulge as the chain draws tighter and tighter around her throat, London’s shapely gams kicking wildly as the life is choked out of her. Her hands rise up to her throat, fingers desperately trying to claw their way underneath the steel--but Irons provides virtually no slack in the chain as she LEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAANNNNS back. While he might not be willing to signal for an immediate DQ, the ref still starts another five count--this one moving a little quicker than the previous version.
If anything, the persistent counting from the Official and the outpouring of disdain from the capacity crowd only proved to spur Irma’s growing mania on further. With a wicked grin she planted her left boot against the apron in mirror to her right and, with a heady GRUNT!! and breathtaking pulse from both her thighs, Iron’s GROWLED and REEFED!!! back even harder!! Seemingly intent on murder, she somehow managed to retain the merest shred of rationality and, as...
FIVE!!
...was on the verge of being uttered, she released, saving herself once again from a disqualification. Not that she was finished. Almost from the moment her boots smacked back down to the ground, her right hand was made free from chain and she snatched a handful of Shea to compensate. “Are you feeling it yet bytch?” she taunted, attempting to forcibly drag London to the outside of the squared circle with her, “this ain’t no house you built, it’s a F***ING GRAVE!!”
Rasping as she gulps down air, both of Shea’s hands appear glued to her reddened throat--which means they’re not able to grab at anything to try to keep the Sensational One inside the ring. London tumbles to her knees once her feet clear the ropes. With the British veteran kneeling, Irma turns her toward the ring... and SLAMS her forehead into the edge of the apron, three times--just on general principles. Plunging her fingers into London’s tresses, Irons tugs the legend up to rubbery legs, Shea swaying uncertainly. She was clearly feeling EVERY ounce of hurt Irma’s dished out, and quite possibly appearing ready for the grave...
BUUUUUUTTTTTT... as the Weaponised Wolverine sets her feet and starts to whip the Sensational One away; Shea digs into those legendary reserves of hers, and begins to reverse the whip. If she can manage it, it would be IRMA who would be shot into the steel ringsteps, rather than London herself.
Alarm was not an expression that Iron’s handled well, another trigger that set her blood to boiling as the blonde who should know better pivoted on the spot and yanked upon the arm of the Malevolent Malcontent hard enough to all but yank her shoulder out of joint. With her dark eyes wide, Irma was dragged into a run, a sputtering of promised ruination upon her lips as she hurtled towards the steps, turning her disastrous momentum in time only to SLAM into the steel across her rigid shoulders.
The brunette HOWLED, a guttering cry that promised murder as her entire frame recoiled from the jarring impact, the clang accompanying the smacking of raw meat. With a hiss and showing of teeth, Irma tensed from head to toe; her fingers clenched and eyes demanding carnage, somehow remaining upright despite the spasming of her back muscles.
“Little sh*t,” she threatened, “I’m gonna wear your scalp as a f***ing hat!!”
While Irma had managed to keep her feet, Shea unfortunately had not, falling to her knees after releasing the whip. But those back spasms give the Sensational One enough time to scramble back to them, and then to LEAVE them altogether. Vaulting from the floor, London pistons her boots toward Irons’ chest, catching the younger Manchester girl with a powerful dropkick. And Shea’s soles get the job done, sending the brunette toppling to the floor, landing hard on her now aching back.
Of course, outside the ring, Shea’s landing is hardly a picnic, either. But a groaning Sensational One still manages to pick herself up off the concrete first. Noting the official’s count, Shea peels Irma off the deck, pushing her up onto the apron before rolling the less experienced Brit into the ring. London climbs up onto the apron herself, now--but she doesn’t follow Irons in. Instead, she holds onto the top rope with both hands and waits for the Weaponised Wolverine to get back to her feet. As she begins to, Shea rocks back, preparing to slingshot over the ropes and catch Irma with a stunning DDT.
SLINGSHOT DDT:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=JgB4IR2_UAY
Iron’s return to vertical proved to be short lived, the stream of obscenities that were locked and loaded to be unleashed going unsaid as Shea took flight, the FAWNATICS no doubt more than able to drown her out regardless as they lifted the roof with a fresh cheer. London snagged the stronger Irma about her head in a firm noose and, as gravity took hold and yanked all one hundred and twenty pounds of blonde beauty earthwards, one hundred and twenty-five pounds of Iron’s was dragged down with her.
The Anarchist of Anarchy met the canvas forehead first, body juddering as she popped right back up to kneeling following the solid THUNK between noggin and plywood. She wobbled with a dull eyed stare, slumping backwards onto her buttocks as she shook her head, bosom heaving from a momentarily directionless temper.
Those vacant eyes told the Sensational One all she needed to know. Crawling over to the swaying brunette, Shea pushes Irma over to her back before applying the cover. London hooks a leg as the referee slides into place beside them, slapping off the...
ONE...
TWO....
NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!
Irons kicks out, perhaps not emphatically, but strongly enough to tell London she still had a fight ahead of her.
That’s why the British Bombshell doesn’t argue. Instead, after pushing to her feet, London reaches down and hair hauls Irma to hers as well. Spinning the dazed youngster away from her, the blonde FAWN Original nuzzles in, wrapping her arms tightly around Irons’ now chain-free waist. With a grunt, Shea starts to pop her hips, looking to rock back and BLAST Irons’ head and shoulders into the canvas with a bridging German suplex.
While many a FAWNatic, and indeed many a FAWN competitor would be more than happy to have London snuggle so close, Iron’s was not amongst them. An angry retort was upon her lips, but her mounting frustration stole her articulation and little more than angry spits escaped her lips as Shea tightened her wrists about Irma’s solid stomach. Something like a warning emerged from the Hardbody of the Lightweight Division, but as she was ripped off her feet, arched up and then sent thundering right back down, that warning clearly went unheeded by her Manchester Rival.
With a CRACK of her skull meeting mat, Iron’s solid stems whipped up and over, heavy duty footwear smacking down against the canvas to either side of her own head as Shea retained the delightful bridge, Irma rolled for yet another count.
ONE!
TWO!!
Iron’s EXPLODED out of the pinfall, sputtering with fury as she flipped over onto her side.
Shea seems a little perturbed this time by not getting much more than a two count, and she fixes the official with a slight glare as she pushes back to her feet. Stopping long enough to claim a handful of Irma’s locks, the Sensational One pulls her opponent up and leads her into the nearest corner. London’s left hand moves to her throat, an imprint of the chain links still present as she massages her neck... and perhaps that spurs Shea to snarl, and to begin SMASHING Irons’ face into the top turnbuckle, repeatedly.
After the fifth such blow, London spins Irma so that her back is to the buckles--and the Sensational One bodies in against her as she clutches the brunette’s wrist. “Know wha’ I think, luv?” Shea asks. “I think it’s time someone taught ya a li’l bit o’ ‘umility. An’ while I’m sure there’s a long line ready ta form fer tha’ ‘onour... well, *I’m* tha one actually ‘ere, ain’t I?”
Not waiting for an answer, London starts to send Irma for a ride via a MIGHTY Irish whip. The impact with the far buckles should prove more than enough to overwhelm the Weaponised Wolverine’s gams, and send her plopping to a seat. And then the Sensational One would be MORE than ready to go about busting this particular British bronco.
The ring itself seemed to shake and shiver as Iron’s collided with the turnbuckles at one corner, the diminutive brunette a wrecking ball of fearsome reputation, the watching spectators more than happy to see that, on this occasion, Irma was the only one to suffer from it. Once against her spine was compromised as her shoulders were split down the middle by the barely padded steel, the Ravenous Rottweiler bucking with a hiss and thudding downwards and onto her backside. Her powers of recovery were formidable in the extreme, and the dark haired destroyer was already beginning to pull herself back up as Shea set off at a sprint... but she was far too late to prevent some of the fastest feet in FAWN from finding their target.
Iron’s snapped her eyes open wide in anger as she immediately knew was the blonde intended, but there was nothing she could do to prevent it, her growl becoming a GRUNT as Shea seized the top ropes and, taking wonderful flight, swung her amazing frame downwards like pendulum, busting her firm little buttocks down HARD against Irma’s bosom, robbing the girl of air and busting her new bronco.
Much to the delight of those watching, Shea did not let up, thrusting her hips forwards and backwards, repeatedly beating her new rival with her fantastic, flag attired toosh, Iron’s juddering and groaning as she slumped further into the buckles, strong stems spasming and increasingly limp wrists jerking at the end of her arms.
Shea brings her booty-barrage to a halt following a baker’s dozen thrust, releasing the top rope to rock backward and roll away from her thoroughly busted foe. Climbing to her feet, the Sensational One grabs Irma by the ankles and drags her out of the corner. Once the British brunette is sufficiently clear of the the ropes, London surges forward, keeping Irons’ stems under her control as she flips over her opponent, securing the Weaponized Wolverine in a jack knife pin.
ONE...
TWO...
THNOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!
Irons’ arms spasm upward, two balled fists SLAMMING into the Sensational One’s flanks--perhaps not with the power of earlier in the contest, but still strong enough to break Shea’s grip and to send the FAWN Original spilling to her backside. London scrambles up quickly, however--and keeps Irma pacified by dropping a quick knee to her rival’s temple.
With the younger Brit sufficiently stilled, the Sensational One turns toward the corner they had both just vacated--and Shea quickly scales her way to the top turnbuckle. The FAWNatics rise to their feet as London prepares to launch herself back into a graceful moonsault, Irons’ wide-open tummy an all too inviting target.
Irma’s knees, however, was anything but, self preservation, or perhaps pure vindictiveness kicking in as the Hardcore Hellion tucked into a tight ball, London already well into the air as the cheers of the FAWNatics devolved into horrified gasps! Their deflation was nothing compared to their idols, the slim, taunt little tummy of their idol IMPALED! by Irma’s jutting kneecaps, almost every inch of air driven from her lithe body as she catastrophically exploded away with a stomach hugging gasp and groan.
“Do you know what I think?” Irma twisted the question that Shea herself had asked not minutes before into a snarling parody, Iron’s rolling onto her front with a juddering breadth as she planted her knuckles down hard against the canvas. “I think you’re full of SH*T yer f***ing Barbie!” She shoved off the mat, ignoring her own aches, malice fuelling her drive as she zeroed in on the gasping blonde beauty, ripping Shea off the canvas in an attempt to lock in a violent bearhug.
Still wheezing from the aftermath of her moonsault gone wrong, Shea’s lungs haven’t even been replenished close to half capacity when Irma pulls her into an anything-but-loving embrace. London’s eyes grow wide as the raven haired Brit’s pythons constrict around her midsection, the Sensational One uttering a LOUD gasp that robs her oxygen-starved lungs of what little air they’d managed to reclaim. Irons gives the blonde a slight jostle, sending Shea’s gams into the air, and those luscious legs wrap lightly around her waist.
As Irons continues to SQUEEEEEEEEZE, a small chant of “BRI-TISH BOMB-SHELL!” begins to emerge from the throng of FAWNatics. But that chant quickly begins to increase in both volume and passion when Shea’s quaking arms rise up from her sides. London’s fingers flex upward, imploring her legions of fans to get louder still--and they do, growing almost deafening as the Sensational One’s fingers begin to curl into fists. Feeding off the energy of the crowd, Shea starts to load up for a...
“GGGYYYYYUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Perhaps spurred by the crowd herself, Irma’s embrace grows incredibly tight, her sculpted arms threatening to squeeze right THROUGH Shea. London’s balled fists unclench, her arms dropping back toward her side as her cheek slumps to rest on Irons’ shoulder.
With her own grinning features buried deep into Shea’s gold tresses, Irma breathed in deep, always enjoying the scent of a broken bytch. Like a dog with a bone, Iron’s shook the limp limbed, moaning London out, robbing the heroine of her dwindling reserves of strength as she threatened to squeeze the suffering legend in two. With a further flexing of her biceps, the Malevolent Malcontent prolonged the embrace, turning on the spot at centre ring and repeatedly taking the flagging Shea out of the Officials reach, not at all prepared to let the Zebra interfere and offer the blonde within her grasp even a chance to tap out.
“Not so uppity now, are you whore?” Iron’s questioned, squeezing just a little harder, jostling London’s increasingly compliant frame into a slightly more secure hold, Irma’s thighs thrust firmly between Shea’s open hips. Lining up a corner, the brunettes roared as she charged, her latest collision with the turnbuckles promising to be far more pleasant with her fellow Brit providing a beautiful cushion.
As Irons picks up speed, Shea’s ankles come uncrossed, the blonde legend’s stems flying out behind the Weaponised Wolverine as she sprints across the ring. When the entwined duo reach the corner, the sound of Shea’s back SLAMMING into the buckles and Irma’s powerful frame DRIVING into hers proves considerably greater than the surprisingly soft gasp that pushes through London’s lips--though, really, should it be that surprising? Speech and cries both require oxygen to fuel them, and over the last few moments, the Sensational One has been rendered almost completely deprived of that precious substance.
The Malevolent Malcontent’s arms unclasp as she step back--and, deprived the support of Irma’s body, Shea’s liquefied legs are unable to keep her up. Looking anything but Sensational, the blonde Brit flops to her backside, her shapely legs parted into a wide ‘V’, Shea’s head drooping toward her heaving bosom.
With her grin crooked, Iron’s sneered downward at the wilting London, her body shivering at the sight of the broken legend, her fellow Brit, the oh so defiant Shea now submissive and at her mercy, the only factor hampering her pleasure being the heavy thumping of her own temple. The painful tic was returning, a snorting coming from her nostrils, a building need to inflict violence, the recent memory of humiliation thumping like a hammer to either side of her own skull.
She grabbed the top ropes to either side of the uppermost turnbuckle and glared out into the masses, her grin turning into a snarl. “I bet you thought this sh*t was funny didn’t you?” she demanded of them, her fingers tightening as her bile was vented outwards. “DIDN’T YOU!?! Well, THIS SH*T AINT FUNNY NOW IS IT!?!” Suddenly she jumped, swinging her stronger frame downwards, her buttocks leading the way as she set about delivering a bronco busting of her own!!
The vacant eyed Brit below her doesn’t appear capable of offering much in the way of resistance when Irma springs toward the skies... but as Irons begins her descent, it turns out there IS one thing the Sensational One can manage. It’s quite possibly the ONLY thing her battered body can manage at this point, but it’s enough--and, as the Weaponised Wolverine’s hindquarters swing down, London melts off the middle buckle, her body plummeting into a boneless puddle in the corner.
That leaves nothing to stop Irma’s crotch from SLAMMING into the middle buckle, Irons’ eyes rolling back slightly as she moans, the brunette left straddling the middle rope and hung up in the corner, her arms hanging over the top strand. With some difficulty, London rolls out from underneath Irma before climbing to her feet--and with Irma’s back to her, the Sensational One uses the opportunity to smash a couple of forearms into her lower back. Then, gripping Irma’s shoulders tightly, Shea hops into the air, tucking her knees toward Irons’ shoulder blades, intending to bring her out of the corner with a lungblower.
Noticeably bow legged, it didn’t take much to rip Irma backwards off her feet, and with Shea applying appropriate amount of leverage and all of her Lightweight mass, it was no problem as all. With an cart wheeling of her arms and a heavy throated grunt, the brunette was yanked with precision force onto the pointed knees of the blonde, any threats that came to mind drowned out by her own GROAN as both her lungs were impaled at once. With a sharp, jack knifing motion she shot back up to kneeling only to flop forwards, her eyes wild and wide as the caps of her heavy duty footwear kicked down against the canvas.
The Sensational One is a little slow getting back to her feet... but Irma Irons is slower still, giving Shea enough of a head start to regain her footing, while the Weaponised Wolverine is still only as far as her knees. Having been in the business long enough to spot a golden opportunity when it presents itself, London drops into a slight crouch, ready to explode out of it with a boot flying toward the Weaponised Wolverine’s chin in a super kick.
Iron’s struggled to inhale, her breathing laboured as her eyes drifted slowly between closed and shut, her irises surrounded by red as blood, far too much blood, was pumped directly too her skull by a heart that was beating with mounting fury. Her body responded to her demands, her limbs protesting but relenting to her impulses towards violence, her progress slow and yet inexorably leading towards vertical. She snatched the ropes with a white knuckled grip, dragging herself upwards onto her knees, snarling features pressed in tight against a turnbuckle as a hiss of spittle stained her lips. With a growl she finally found a heavy footed stance, oblivious to the hopes, the pleas, the near palpable anticipation of the FAWNatics watching as she stutteringly turned about...
And met a Superkick from a FAWN legend right beneath her chin!! As if shot her head snapped backwards, a wad of something shooting upwards into the sky from between her clenched teeth as her eyes blanked out, the Anarchist of Anarchy gradually, painfully slowly, tilting backwards onto her heels... and then clattering to the canvas like a felled oak.
The ‘CRAAAAACK!’ of boot against chin tells Shea the kick connected flush, maybe well enough to... The Sensational One drops to her knees, scampering over to the fallen Manchester girl and throwing herself across Irons’ chest. As she hooks both legs, the referee counts...
ONE...
TWO...
THRENOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!
Irma gets a shoulder up.
London’s hands fly into her hair, ripping at her locks in frustration. Shaking her head, the Sensational One rises and navigates a circuitous path toward the far corner, again sinking into a crouch as she watches and waits for Irons to rise. It takes a few moments, but the Malevolent Malcontent begins to do just that, her back to the FAWN Original. And as Irons turns, Shea breaks into a sprint, charging toward her foe. In a moment, she would leap high into the air--and Irma would fall victim to a London Blitz!
LONDON BLITZ @1:29:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRageBu7Mqs
The FAWNatics were clapping as; once again, their beloved heroine was lining herself up for a fresh charge, Irons’ dragging her way back up to boot leather like some avatar of murder. Perhaps they shouldn’t, the arena thrumming with a beating of drums, thousands of palms coming together in an increasing tempo, sending hearts to beating and pulses to racing, a warning as clear as any air siren if there ever was one. Any such fears seemed to be unfounded as Irma turned, oblivious to the danger and Shea shot off like a bomber...
London leapt, the Sensational One looking every inch of her hard earned namesake as she cleared the canvas with an incredible leap that smashed her knees against the powerful shoulders of her Manchester Rival. Irma grunted as she was struck by the airborne assault and toppled as though lightning had barrelled through her, the Hardbody of the Lightweight Division upended by one of its most infamous stars, the brunette ridden all the way down to the canvas where the back of her skull CRACKED down off the mat.
One set of stems shot upwards into the air and Shea gratefully collected them, rolling Irma into a ball for a...
ONE!
TWO!!
THR...
Iron’s SHOVED her off, rolling over onto her front and beating one palm against the plywood.
Shea doesn’t offer any outward signs of her frustration following another thwarted pinfall--well, not unless you count the anger flashing in her eyes. Pushing off her knees, the Sensational One stalks over to Irma, grabbing a handful of hair and tugging the Weaponised Wolverine back to verticality. “Get... yer... bloody hands off me, ya damn OAP...” Irons snaps.
London doesn’t respond to the barb with words, just a snarl. She also takes Irons’ wrist, launching the brunette into the far ropes with an Irish whip. As the younger woman lumbers back toward her, the Sensational One takes one step to the side, reaching her arms to ensnare Irma around the waist, hoping to lift her up and deliver a pendulum backbreaker.
PENDULUM BACKBREAKER:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKh0VIxNIg8
Rarely was Iron’s lifted off her feet, only the likes of Cassandra Vale having done so in the past, and as much as she found she didn’t care for it, there was little Irma could do to prevent it. Swept off her boots and held horizontal above the mat, there was only time for the briefest of obscenities to escape her lips as the infamous momentum that Shea was renowned for seemed to be taking over, Irma dropped down swiftly to the mat, her descent halted only by a bent knee!
Once again that joint inflicted blistering damage, the Hardcore Hellion snapping out a pained snarl as her spine was posted and contorted across a firm thigh, vertebra popping in and out of place with a crack before she was shoved free. With a flop the brunette was deposited to the mat, the young women from Manchester increasingly less eager to get back up as she lay across her side, one hand cradling the small of her aching spine.
For someone so much similar in size to her, hoisting Irma into the air had proven a chore for the Sensational One. No doubt part of that stemmed from the beating the bytch had given her to this point, but as challenging as that backbreaker had been to perform, London knows the time to go for the kill is now.
And she knows just where to target.
Knee walking over to the fallen brunette, Shea places one hand at Irma’s shoulders and the other just as the curve from her back to her glutes. Shoving the Malevolent Malcontent over to her stomach, London plants both of her knees against Irons’ spine. The Sensational One reaches her right hand toward Irma’s ankles, intending to collect both, cross them, and fold the younger Brit’s legs back at the knees. Then, her left hand would gather and cup Irma’s chin, before Shea rocked back and lifted the Weaponised Wolverine up onto London’s Bridge.
Iron’s HOWLED as she was hoisted up into the air, rocked into a bow and arrow arch that shoved her ripped midriff skywards and curved her punished spine into a torturous contortion. No end of superstars had been forced to tap out to one of London’s most lethal holds and, as Irma’s arms spasm end outwards, biceps pulsing and fists clenched, the FAWNatics could well remember why.
Iron’s clamped down on her pain, hardbody shivering, teeth clenched to the point of breaking as her scream became a snarl, a straggled screech that spoke clearly of her mounting misery and impotent fury that stretched its way throughout every inch of her powerful... impotent frame.
“fffffffffFFFFFFFFFFFFFFACK!!!” she cursed as London only reefed back further, determination written across the beloved blondes angelic features as she piled on the pressure, spurred on by the frantic cheering of the packed arena as they dared to believe that Irma might just...
She tapped out!! Iron’s slapping her hand against Shea’s across her throat, the Officially quickly, filled with obvious relief, calling for the bell!!
The Sensational One climbs to her feet, looking every bit the valiant, triumphant warrior as the official raises her hand. The sheen of perspiration coating her body, the damp, somewhat matted locks, the heaving bosom all are a testament to how much Irma had pushed her. But, in the end...
“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH....”
As pleased as Shea might be with her victory, that decidedly orgasmic cry does NOT come from her. Nor does it come from the once-jubilant, now-confused FAWNatics. No, that wail plays out over the FAWN Arena’s sound system, and is promptly followed by an equally ecstatic, “AHHHHHHHHHHHHH...”
Confusion quickly gives way, at least somewhat, as the voice unmistakably belongs to Shirley Manson, the beat of Garbage's "#1 Crush" thumping over the sound system. But that's only part of the equation. By now, Darla Diane Davis has made this music her own--but why in the world is it playing following a Shea London victory?
The curtains part, and a voluptuous young blonde strides into view, jeers and lustful catcalls greeting the arrival of Three D. While her bosom is currently sheathed in a black--and oddly inside out--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 DIANE DAVIS
And she is not alone.
Behind Davis stand two lovely young ladies—with an emphasis on “YOUNG.” Rose Evans and Gabby Mendoza are dressed the exact same way: adorned in black lace panties underneath plaid mini-skirts and matching black bustiers that, with neither of these women likely to be mistaken for Hailey Kennedy, give their bosoms an extremely flattering boost. Both sets of well-shaped legs are encased in thigh high black nylons along with white boots.
As Gabby blows a particularly large bubble of gum past her lips, Darla offers the legend in the ring a particularly slow, and even more condescending, round of applause, before moving her microphone up to her mouth. “Bra... Vo...” the Cali blonde says, flatly. “The dinosaur manages to avoid extinction for one more night.”
Tossed a stick herself from a ringside staffer, Shea regards the interlopers with narrowed eyes. “An’ just wha’ tha ‘ell da YOU want out ‘ere, Davis?”
“Well,” Darla coos, “I’ve always wanted a pony, but I don’t think that’s happening tonight. I REALLY want to see a FAWN pay per view where the FUTURE is represented at the top of the card, but that doesn’t look like it’s happening tonight, either. Not with has-beens like you and Kylie, Juliet, Ivy and Cynthia... NEVER-WERES like Kristy and Clayton... Even West, good as she is, is nearing the tail end of her prime. But at least she’s got the sense to surround herself with people like Lemarchand and Pandora.”
“Might there be a point comin’ anywhere soon in this diatribe?” London asks, clearly annoyed.
“My point,” Davis replies, “is EXACTLY what I said at Mania. WE are TIRED of waiting. We are READY to TAKE our rightful place in this company. People like you, Shea? You’ve got two options: get out of the way, or go down. Hard.”
The Sensational One takes a step back from the ropes... and, despite having just been punished for a good fifteen minutes, the blonde Brit opens her arms wide. While some fans question the wisdom of her gesture, most still roar in anticipation of an impromptu fight. “Ya wanna go,” London asks, bringing the mic back to her lips. “I’ve still got enough left in tha tank tonight ta take care o’ a walkin’, talkin’ pair o’ over-inflated beach balls.”
With the numbers in their favour three to one, it was no surprise to anyone when the assembled power of Gen Next began advancing, spreading out down the aisle as the outnumbered, and soon to be surrounded Shea London prepared to fight her corner as the heroine she was. The pace quickened, the distance shortened, and as much as the FAWNatics believed in FAWN’s first ever World Champion, the legendary British Bombshell, many eyes turned to the arenas entrance in the mounting hope that someone, that anyone, would come charging out to provide reinforcements. The Bloodwinds, Cassie, Jaime London, even the black sheep Kristy Sanders, surely someone was on hand to even the odds, surely at least one of them could prevent the likely massacre...
A blood curdling ROOOOOAR!! filled the arena as a resurgent Irma Iron’s charged across the ring, forgotten in the unfolding drama and grasping a steel chair in hand. As one the audience panicked, the weapon no doubt about to bludgeon an unprotected London... only the blood mad brunettes path tore her straight past the blonde and, as she reached the ropes, the Weaponised Wolverine HURLED her improvised weapon like a missile into the SHOCKED!! ranks of Gen Next, just barely missing the unprepared skull of Darla Diana Davis!!
As it CLANGED to the floor as a violent promise, Iron’s was snorting furious, glaring murder at the suddenly halted trio as the lung busting volume of her chest forgo any need for a microphone. “DIDN’T ANY OF YOU F***ING BYTCHES HEAR ME!?! THIS IS MY!! F***ING!! YARD!! THERE AIN’T NO THREE ON ONE BULLSHIT IN MY F***ING HOUSE!! YOU HEAR ME NOW!?! F***ING BRING IT AND F***ING BLEED!!”
She spun about in a short half circle, the FAWNatics caught so flat footed by the reversal of fortunes from the most unexpected of quarters that they weren’t sure if they should cry or cheer, the near crazed Iron’s locking eyes with an astonished London. Something passed between them in that moment of silent recognition, the two girls from Manchester sizing the other up and, without words, cemented a temporary alliance within a squared circle within which they had just bled against one another.
The moment passed and Iron’s stormed back towards a familiar corner, bending low and retrieving her chain link belt, wrapping it tightly about her knuckles as, for the first time in FAWN history, she received a hearty cheer from the packed arena as she did so. She smashed her now armoured first into the canvas and returned her blood red glare back to the trio of Gen Next, Shea doing likewise, the two Brits having each other’s back and ready to lay the smack down.
Darla seemed to take a moment to consider her options for the first time since her faction and come swanning out onto the stage, clearly taken aback by the turn of events. It passed, a nod confirming her two colleagues to continue into the ring.
The FAWNatics were barely able to control themselves as Iron’s clearly took that as her signal, the Hardcore Hellion yelling out a battle cry as she threw herself into a charge, leaping high into the air, cocking back her right arm, tensed her bicep and UNLEASHED the all new IRON FIST...
...towards the unsuspecting jaw of Shea London!!!
www.youtube.com/watch?v=SJDwsS-3z6s
The metallic ‘THWWWAAAAAACCCCCCCKKKKK!’ of chain-encased fingers striking Sensational jaw line IMMEDIATELY silence the crowd, almost as thoroughly as the Iron Fist shatters the senses of Shea London.
The FAWN Original barely even manages to utter a low moan, as caught unawares as she was. The blonde’s eyes roll back to whites, Shea spinning on one heel before her boots both settle back down... however briefly. The Sensational One then rocks back on her heels, teetering there for what seemed like half an hour... In reality, it probably wasn’t even a second. But however long transpired, Shea topples backward, crashing to the mat with a loud, damp thud. There the Sensational One lies in a splattered starfish, her blinking eyes the only indication that she remains conscious, however tenuous her grasp on the condition might be.
Meanwhile, Darla joins the girls of Barely Legal on the apron, the FAWNatics finding their voice again as Gen Next slip through the ropes. Davis glances briefly at the sprawled Shea before turning her attention back to Irma. “May we?” Three D asks. “Or do you still have a point you’d like to make?”
Irons didn’t immediately answer, nor did she entirely acknowledge the other three competitors as they circled inside the ring, her grin crooked and firmly in place as she instead stared down at the splayed London. She stood with heavy duty footwear possessively planted to either side of London’s unmoving hips, filled with dangerous mirth as the worried FAWNatics heckled in a powerless effort to prevent what was surely about to happen. Irma held out a hand, this time accepting a microphone from a bubble blowing gabby, bringing it to her lips but never looking away from the broken blonde between her feet.
“Had you f***ers going there for a minute didn’t I?” she mocked those watching without acknowledging their existence. “As if I would side with a passed it, broken old fraud like this bytch. F***ing loser!!” It was obvious that her tirade was turning towards the barely responsive blonde, her words bludgeoning like hammers, “you think that bell f***ing matters? You think it means a shit? You think that makes you the winner? The winner is the ONE WHO WALKS AWAY BYTCH!! YOU AIN’T WALKING NO-WHERE!!”
Snorting with disgust Iron’s twisted her smirk into a snarl and then... composed herself. Lifting her head back up, Irma wiped the back of her free hand across her lips and, after handing the microphone back to Gabby, she grasped the forearm of Darla Diana Davis with a firm grip and a sickening grin, confirming that the Weaponised Wolverine had found herself a pack.
“You want a pony?” Iron’s tilted her head down towards the prone London, “knock yourself out.”
“Very kind of you,” Darla says to Irma with a wicked smile, whilst Evans and Mendoza pull the Sensational One up to her knees, each Barely Legal brat holding one of London’s arms outstretched. Bt as she turns her gaze back toward Shea, her voice turns cold. “But I think this one’s ready for the glue factory.”
Sauntering over to the kneeling London, a trickle of blood beginning to run from the left corner of her mouth, Davis places a finger underneath Shea’s chin and tilts the legend’s head up, to meet her gaze eye-to-eye. “Your day is done, bytch,” she mutters. “I think I’ll leave you for Irma to finish. But, for now...”
Three D reaches forward with both hands, her fingers curling as the PLUNGE into the sensitive tissues of the Sensational One’s bosom. With a grunt, Darla Diane uses her dual claw holds to lift London off her knees, and into the air, Shea’s eyes beginning to water as she wails in anguish. The Cali blonde holds the British Bombshell aloft, by her gurls, for about three seconds--Shea’s boots frantically kicking out and trying to find some surface to take a bit of the strain all the while.
Then Davis sits out, swinging her cargo down between her parted stems, DRIVING Shea back down to the mat with her Beach Bomb sit out power bomb.
As Three D picks herself up, Rose and Gabby decide they’re not going to be left out of the moment--even if there’s precious little left of Shea to punish. So Mendoza settles for taking a seat atop London’s expressionless face, Evans doing the same on London’s gulping tummy. The Babyfaced Killer spits her gum out into her fingers, wadding it up before planting the confection dead centre of Shea’s bosom. Meanwhile, Rose leans forward, giving her partner an affectionate kiss.
As for the two women on their feet, Darla Diane makes her way over to Irma Irons. Taking the Weaponised Wolverine’s right wrist, Davis raises Irons’ arm in triumph, Gen Next apparently gaining one more member.