Post by alyadmirer on Oct 20, 2015 7:29:05 GMT
BRING IT ON:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=HLjitP78tag&list=PLPuOyWan3CRuPoCuzoiHkAq0VNWg308E4
The opening guitar riff, no different than it had been years earlier, heralded the arrival of Wrestling’s wayward black sheep, the girl who’d had it all and, in a flash of petulance, flushed it all down the toilet, opting to make an early exit from the industry that she had been born into whilst burning as many bridges as she could along the way. Unrepentant summed up her demeanour following her return, and ‘Marvellous’ Marvela Marcille remaining every inch the ‘Original’ People’s Princess as she arrived on stage.
MARVELA MARCILLE:
She smiled as she appeared, lights catching all the right curves as she stood without fear, regal in her bearing and utterly without hesitation, raising one hand high, palm faced outward in welcome as the pyrotechnics erupted bombastically to either side of her. She seemed oblivious to the boos that were there to welcome her, the fans she had so effortlessly scorned following her messy exodus not making a dent in the apparent fiction she had created all about herself.
It was this, however, that was the facade, and eventually she broke the illusion and she greeted the crowd’s heckling with an indulgent roll of her eyes, a slightly exasperated ‘tut’ upon her lips and a world weary smile tugging at the corners of her lips. With her less than sincere efforts of extending an olive branch rebuffed, Marvela launched into a light stepped stride down the ramp, the saunter of hips and the swish of her shoulders full of self assured swagger, her mane of chocolate brown immaculate and shimmering, matching her gaze and showing not even a hint of fallibility.
The crimson of the Lightweight’s attire was bright and fierce, the fabric whisper thin and slipping about her every, perfectly carved and refined contours, the two piece outfit as much a part of her as her own personality. The single strap top cut to just below her bosom, leaving her firm tummy temptingly naked, a explosion of yellow and orange sat dead centre between her breasts, a promise of the fury she would surely unleash against anyone unfortunate enough to face her. Her shorts were modest by FAWN standards, even as they left exceedingly little to the imagination, slipping downwards to mid thigh whilst boots, pads and gloves finished off the ensemble that had once been adored by so many, and had so badly hurt the very same.
She spun in a one eighty spiral, sweeping out her arms to either side as she continued to saunter backwards, smiling in a way that suggested that she knew that she was hot shit, and everyone else was just burned by it, her stride as infuriatingly confident in reverse as it was in going the right way. It was at this point she spotted one sign in particular, a message that was repeated several times over throughout the arena in preparation of her appearance, and she barely even had to read the words to know what it said.
What it always said.
NOT “OUR” PRINCESS
She merely rolled her eyes once more and dismissed the heartbroken sentiment with a dismissive flick of her wrist, turning back to sauntering the right way as she reached the ring. She strode up the steel steps and slipped into the squared circle like a welcomed heroine, taking a diagonal path across the canvas until she reached the opposite corner. Marvela climbed the turnbuckles and swept up her arms as if in welcome, ready to salute the crowds that lov... Marcille couldn’t do it, a wickedly indulgent grin marring her features as she opted to flip off the FAWNatics instead, and even that gesture seemed half hearted in its effort as she barely considered them worthy of it. The ‘Perfect’ Princess hopped back down, swishing her curls dramatically across one shoulder before a clearly perplexed Announcer tentatively began to approach her.
“Ms. Marcille,” he began, ensuring his microphone was out of range and his words were hushed.
“Yes, dear?” Marvela queried in return, perking her brow as she purred with honey.
“You’re not supposed to be out here...”
“Shut it, Choir Monkey!” Marvela cut him off, swishing one palm up sharply in front of his astonished features whilst the other deftly swiped his stick from out of his mitts. “You’re not needed, so go on, shoo!” She motioned with a dismissive sweeping her fingers, insisting that he vacate her squared circle, “I said scat!”
Reluctantly he complied, confusion written across his features as he exited the ring and headed on over to the time keeper to compare notes, something had clearly gone awry with the schedule. Marvela, however, clearly disagreed.
“That’s better, right?” an intensely smug Marcille questioned the entire arena as she sauntered in a small circle across the canvas, stolen microphone in hand as her other arm was held outstretched, welcoming adulation. The FAWNatics did not provide the desired response, many of them as confused as the ring announcer had been, and more than ready to remind the brunette that she had so eagerly betrayed them.
“And you wonder why I stopped pandering to you?” Marvela sneered, her outstretched paw now set firmly upon her hip as she scowled out across the ‘ungrateful’ masses. “Oh quit you’re fretting, all your whining isn’t about to change anything. You see, I don’t care if I’m not supposed to be out here, this is FAWNMANIA and I... I am the Marvellous! Marvela! MARCILLE! So really it’s quite simple,” she paused, allowing the unwashed masses a moment to catch up as she raised her free hand up and pointed towards her own noggin in a methodical, condescending manner. “IT’S! MY! TIME!!”
The masses packed into the arena let her know what they thought of her trademarked boast, but for all their efforts, it didn’t seem to faze her.
“I am the TALENT here people, I am a genuine World Champion, you just go ask the Rival Roses where their precious belt went,” she baited, revelling in the wave of displeasure that washed across the audience as she reminded them of what she had stolen from the prestigious Federation. “I never lost it, it’s still mine, hanging on my wall beside all my other accolades. Not only does that make me the youngest ever World Champion on this continent, but also the longest reigning...”
The latest boast was too much for some, who proceeded to lose their cool entirely, Marcille’s claim was true enough and yet, by any standards, underserved. The title had been stolen, and while it remained undefended, that is how the FAWNatics would choice to see it.
“And yet, here I am, a Legend of this very industry,” her tone turned soar, her lips curling in distaste as she began to huff, “and Bethany Christian, in all her ‘vaulted’ wisdom, has persisted in pushing me, ME!!, to the sidelines!?! NO!! Enough is enough, I am the Princess here, not some flat chested nitwit wearing her daddies T-Shirt, ME!! I will have my night; I will have what I deserve!”
She paused, swishing her hair back and setting her lips petulantly, “And I am not leaving this ring until I get it!”
There was no immediate answer, the Commissioner FAWN not generally known for her patience with unruly talent, and as the seconds dragged on into minutes, it would seem she had no time for them either. Just as the spectators fully expected a swarm of security to arrive as opposed to one, Bethany Christian, there was instead a different call arms...
www.youtube.com/watch?v=pXLfsJDEWGY
SUSAN STYLE
Where once there had been no-one, now stood Susan Style, standing at centre stage where she was so effortlessly born to be with her back to the squared circle and her arms outstretched. A pop of her hips sent her into a spiral and the World Media Icon slipped hypnotically into a groove that was silkily smooth and encapsulated by a dazzling halo of light from up above, a smile as disarming as it was charming melting hearts left and right. There was a microphone in her hand, the starlet and celebrity sensation raising it to her lips as she launched into the lyrics of her own intro, each and every note pitch perfect and not a moment mimed thank you kindly. She shook her head from left to right, twirling and rhythmically moving with a sense of timing, of instinctive grace that could only be matched by fellow dance diva, the Upstart Katya Michalka, golden curls flashing about her smooth, ivory skinned shoulders like whispers in the wind.
The FAWNatics erupted, as pleased as punch by the unplanned and utterly unexpected arrival, the Girl Next Door and All American Angel a stark contrast to the usual dispenser of reprimands and ultimatums. Susan’s much lamented, ‘semi retirement’ from the squared circle, brought on by a persistent injury, had forced the dazzling blonde to ounce again shift her career path, Style now the increasingly popular Commissioner for House Show Circuit Tour known as Monday Night Mayhem! Several steps down from Bethany Christian she may be, but few could boast the same backstage influence as the starlet of a thousand stages.
The only note of disappointment for those watching is that Style was indeed not wearing her now rarely witnessed ring attire. Instead the House Show Commissioner was decked out in the tightest pair of jeans to have ever hugged a wrestler, the denim stretched across long legs broken only by the brace securely fitted about her right knee, whilst the cross media icon also sported a pearl white T-Shit and leather jacket. Across her shirt, however, remained two words in girlish, bright red script across her bosom that reminded everyone and all of her in ring trademark, and fuelled hope that she should one day return to it.
‘YOU WISH!’
Style began her decent down the aisle, continuing to smile as she belted out the chorus, her strides long and beguilingly light as her feet crossed over in front of one another to encourage a skip. While she remained forever, so very temptingly out of reach, her eyes of bright, vibrant blue made contact with everyone she could, freely offering up a wink to everyone who waved signs of support and brightening up their day further.
As the intro ran towards its natural conclusion she ascended the steel steps and began to duck between the top and middle ropes, leaning her upper body forwards ninety degrees and slipping one long, luscious leg inside. She paused there for a tantalising moment, perfectly defined toosh pointing ever so slightly upwards, shaking her rump from side to side in an encouraging fasion.
Deciding that was enough harmless teasing for one day, Susan slipped fully inside the ring and spiralled, catching the eyes of the fuming Marvela with her own crustal blue, the intensely charismatic young woman almost about to speak... before pulling away at the last moment as though she were Charlie Brown’s football, choosing to address her favourite people instead.
“ORLANDO!!” she shouted in welcome, the crowd responding with gusto, especially as she leant over the ropes and held out the microphone towards them. “What a night right?” she questioned, filled to the brim with charismatic vigour and oozing natural charm, they agreed whole heartedly. “I’m not supposed to be out here either,” she confessed, but the crowd didn’t seem too much mind on this account, “but it turns out that my ‘favourite’ boss already has her last nerve being plucked by another mitey whiner...”
Style choice that moment to pause, suddenly turning on the spot to address the silently fuming Marvela head on, “...so you, Marcille, are all mine to deal with.”
The Magnificent Marvel snorted in derision, rolling her eyes and already prepared to dismiss Susan at a moment’s notice, figure of authority or otherwise.
“Now of course, I could just have your royal poutiness escorted out of here by FAWNS Finest,” Style suggested, the American Angel casually throwing the implied threat out there just to remind the brunette who was in charge here. The FAWNatics, for their part, didn’t seem to be against the idea. “On the other hand... I think everyone would rather see your overripe backside receive the tanning that it’s needing!”
Marvela exhaled sharply, eyes wide with a sudden temper as she surged forwards, fully prepared to chest up the impudent blonde opposite and allow her actions to speak for her. Before a single angry word was uttered, however, the ‘Perfect Princess’ found her sly composure, pushing down her temper as she smiled ever so coyly, slowly bringing her own microphone to her lips and found every condescending feeling with her Lightweight Frame.
“Seriously Style,” she purred, venom dripping like syrup, her alluring, big brown eyes flicking downwards just enough to remind everyone of Susan’s much lamented knee brace. “This is your plan? You would have me fight a cripple?”
The FAWNatics didn’t like that, not one bit, and their reaction was immediate.
Susan was more composed, the Golden Curled Darling holding the brunettes stare and, for several moments, didn’t bring herself to answer. When she did, it was with a disarming smile.
“Nothing would please me more than to bounce your overrated ass all across this ring,” she confessed, much to the delight of those watching, “but no, not tonight. You see Marvela, I found someone else these people really want see make a surprise arrival, the same someone who will always be able to call herself a REAL World Champion...”
A confused but intrigued murmur starts to run through the crowd, and Marcille is every bit as stumped as the paying audience--though she is considerably more annoyed than the FAWNatics. But just as her lips part to demand answers from Susan, the arena's speakers roar into life, posing their own question for one and all:
"Do you wanna get rocked?"
The audience responds with a roar worthy of Mania as Def Leppard's "Let's Get Rocked" pumps over the PA. This particular anthem had not been heard since the woman it heralded had found herself stuffed into a casket by Irma Irons. And while the Upstarts had been able to prevent the vixens of Gen Next from taking that coffin back to who knows where, there had been NO sightings...
... until the Biritsh Bombshell herself, Sensational Shea London, strides from backstage to a rapturous reception from the Orlando faithful. The blonde Briton darts down to the ring, slapping hands with the fans as she does, her usual million dollar smile on full display for the crowd. 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.
SHEA LONDON
The gorgeous blonde makes a complete circuit around ringside, continuing to slap hands and accept the well wishes of her fans, her eyes almost watering in response to the THUNDEROUS chant of “WEL-COME BACK!” Catching sight of one particular sign in the audience, Shea's grin grows even wider. Leaning over the railing, Shea swings her left arm around the shoulders of one fortunate fan, turning to the camera and pointing at the posterboard with her right. The placard reads, rather simply, “MANIA ISN’T MANIA WITHOUT SHEA LONDON!!!”
“Well then,” London says to her Legionnaire, “I guess it’s well an’ truly Mania now, innit?" Further making the fan's day, London gives him a quick peck on the cheek before bounding over to the ring.
Climbing the steps, Shea slips between the ropes, entering the ring and marching between Marvela and Susan to the nearest corner. Safe in the knowledge that Style would keep Marcille in check, the Sensational One climbs onto the middle turnbuckle, raising an arm to a triumphant roar from her fans. Hopping back down, London saunters over to the wide-eyed, incredulous Marcille. “Call yerself the real People’s Princess, do ya?” Shea asks, eyebrow arched. “Well, why don’tcha listen ta tha people ‘ere tonight, an’ try ta tell me that I’m not their bloody QUEEN, mate.”
Even if Marvela hadn’t been too flabbergasted by the return of a true FAWN legend and icon, she would have struggled to be heard over the vociferous agreement of the crowd, their raucous cheer before long morphing into a chant of “PEO-PLE’S QUEEN!”
“But I get wantin’ ta ‘ave a match on tha biggest show o’ tha year,” London continues. “Certainly can’t fault ya fer that. But there DOES seem an obvious answer: I’m ‘ere. Ya’re ‘ere. I’m sure Mr. Timekeeper over there wouldn’t mind ringin’ tha’ bell...”
Marvela opened her mouth, but no words would come out, instead she opted to clench her jaw with impotent anger, the opportunist beginning to look as though she had been caught in her own web as she marched left and then right, stewing in her own impotent anger. Finally she stopped, surging forwards for a second time, this time to chest up to the iconic Shea London, shoving the blonde backwards to prove that she was not intimidated...
“No,” Marcille instead retracted, opting to indulge in the better part of valour at the last moment and, as she took an aloof step backwards, she proceeded to dismiss both London and Style with a dramatic swish of her hand. “No, I didn’t agree to this,” she took her head, sparing the ‘former’ World Champion a contemptuous sneer, “I will not reduce myself to this, this... Late Life Crisis of yours.”
Marvela continued to saunter away, turning her back on Shea and preparing to exit the ring, the universal derision of the crowd prompting one final explanation. “There is no Official,” she explained, as if both of the blondes opposite were especially slow children, “I am a professional, there can be no match when there is no Official.”
It was Susan who choice to answer, expertly cutting in before Shea’s temper could get the better of her.
“Well,” Style tilted her head with an ever so reluctant sigh, “when she’s right, she’s right.” The FAWNatics didn’t quite like the sound of that, but Susan only allowed them a moment to linger on it, “People are going to start thinking that I haven’t thought this through.”
With a deft throw, and barely a moments warning, the Dynamic Diva tossed her microphone out of the squared circle where it was only just barely caught by the Announcer, Susan already turning even as it remained in flight. She whipped off her leather jacket in similar fasion, and that too was thrown from the ring, this time to be caught by the surprised Time Keeper. Finally came one last garment, the FAWNatics already cheering as the All American Angel whipped off her T-Shirt in a single, dramatic flourish, revealing a wonderfully trim tummy, and snugly fitting sports bra in the colours of the iconic black and white stripes. As her shirt was HURLED into an increasingly thankful audience for one lucky fan to take home, Style revealed that they had an Official after all.
The crowd might be ready and Shea might be eager, but Marcille remains adamant. “NonononononoNO!” the young brunette fumes, bordering on apoplectic. “We need a LICENSED official! A QUALIFIED official! This... this... this... NOOOO!!!!”
“You think if Bethany had a problem with me reffing, I’d be out here?” Susan asked, sly smirk firmly planted on her lips... and then she wheeled toward the timekeeper’s table, signalling for the bell with a wave of her hand. And Marvela promptly marches... straight up to Style, getting right in the official’s face. “Don’t think you’re gonna get away with this,” the French-American beauty snarls.
And a finger taps Marcille on the shoulder.
“And don’t think you’re gonna get away with not calling this match fairly,” Marvela continues, apparently oblivious to it. “Ref’s stripes or not, you do the first fast count, and I’ll...”
Another tap.
“IN A MINUTE!” the Original People’s Princess snaps, STILL without turning around. “Make no mistake about it, Susan. You screw me, and I will END you.” Her threat made, Marvela turns around...
... and turns right into a forearm shot to the jaw from the Sensational One!
Marcille is rocked back on her heels, and when a second forearm slams into her bosom, she’s sent into a full retreat. A third forearm drives the youngster all the way into the ropes, Shea bodying in and snatching a wrist. Setting her feet, London prepares to launch Marvela on her way with an Irish whip, intending to meet her on the rebound with a dropkick.
The return of Marcille at centre ring was made at a blistering pace, the rebound off the ropes lending her speed that few others could match... and was brought to an equally dramatic halt as a pair of boots went expertly airborne and SLAMMED directly into her chest. Marvela went down hard with a great gust of air, the pained yelp met by her awkward collision with the waiting plywood, and as the FAWNatics ‘WHOOPED’ for the thunderous opening salvo, and the brunette on the wrong end of it opted to keep going. Rolling with her painful momentum, the exceptionally talented young women... beat a hasty retreat, all but diving beneath the bottom rope to the outside of the ring.
She found her feet quickly enough, immediately turning her back on both of the blondes who had foolishly chosen to irk her and, as the nearest in the crowd let her know of their disapproval, she swept up both of her palms in an equally dismissive manner. Soon enough she began to pace back and forth, her hands on her hips and choosing to utter a considerable number of profanities in her mother’s language, shaking her head in annoyance until she began to calm down.
“Well!?!” she suddenly demanded, spinning on the spot sharply with her arms held out in expectation, burning daggers into Susan as she waited for something. “Are you going to begin counting Rules Monkey? Let us all get this farce over with,” she huffed, entirely aware that she would lose the match if Style did so but, well, it wasn’t a ‘real’ match anyway, and who would care about footnotes in the future?
“Count out?” Style responded with a tilt of her head, a fine display of being perplexed there for all to see, “I didn’t say anything about count outs. Did you say something about count outs?” she queried the time keeper.
Dutifully enough, he shook his own head.
“Then I guess there are no count outs,” Style opted to shrug as she made the revelation, “Pinfall or Submission only, so fight for your victory.”
“You can’t do tha...” a fuming, foot stomping Marvela began, only to be cut off by Air London again, the stunning blonde taking to the skies and leaping clear over the top rope, targeting the startled brunette with a jaw dropping splash.
Both beauties hit the floor with a thud, though Marcille’s yielding frame does much to soften the impact for the Sensational One. Popping back to her feet, Shea pumps a fist to the appreciative crowd, London’s Legion roaring in satisfaction. She might have had all the time in the world to play with out on the floor, but the blonde Brit had been away from a FAWN ring for so long, she seems in an understandable rush to get back to it.`
Peeling her obnoxious brat of an opponent off the floor, London grabs a handful of hair and a handful of briefs, rushing Marvela back toward the ring. And as she pushes the brunette up onto the apron, there is just enough give in the fabric of Marcille’s shorts to creep a little further between her cheeks as Shea rolls the Original People’s Princess into the ring.
The Sensational One climbs onto the apron, clutching the top rope with both hands as she waits for Marvela to rise. Once she does, London rocks back, ready to launch herself over the top rope, capture Marcille’s noggin with an arm and spike her skull with her slingshot DDT.
SLINGSHOT DDT:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=iNm1hFG1wCk
Marcille’s hypnotic eyes opened wide the moment before her noggin was captured, and it was only with the shortest of yelps that she was able to protest before she was ripped forwards. It seemed to be that the youthful brunette had spent extremely little time on her feet since the bell had first chimed, and this was to be no different, the Elegant Elitist whipped into a bow which lead straight into a dive, one leveraged by the full weight of her unplanned Rival and lead by her skull. Marcille hit the canvas with the crown of her head first, the THUD of the impact rattling the plywood and vaulting her athletic frame into a shell-shocked puddle.
Shea threw herself across the brunette a mere heartbeat after, and Susan hit the canvas a second later, beginning the first count of the match...
ONE!
Marvela threw up a shoulder, protesting with indignation as she moved to roll away.
Pushing up from her knees, Shea snatches another handful of Marvela’s locks and starts to pull the French-American beauty up to her feet--but as she does, London’s eyes are locked on Susan’s. “Bit slow with tha’ count, weren’tcha?” the Sensational One asks, the twinkle in her eye suggesting that her tongue was also FIRMLY planted in her cheek as she posed the question.
Reaching her right hand around Marcille’s back and her left moving to scoop up the brunette’s thigh, London attempts to gather up her foe--and then drop to one knee for a pendulum backbreaker.
PENDULUM BACKBREAKER:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTxDrR_lGQY
“Really?” Susan replied with an arching of her brow, clearly amused by the insinuation, “you are going to debate rhythm with me?”
London remained unrepentantly cheeky as she moved to scoop Marvela up...
...only to be interrupted as the brunette lashed out, waiting for the moment that an unfocused Shea ducked low, and rained down a deviously precious elbow to the back of the beloved blondes neck! The impact struck true and London was forced to painfully ‘erk!’, preventing herself from falling to one knee but unable to retain her assault. Stubborn though the gesture was, it only provided Marcille with an idle target to double tap the severe impact, the brunette enjoying the wince of the Icon so much that she did it a third!
With the Sensational One stunned and folded forwards, an increasingly smug looking Princess of the ‘Perfect’ variety was determined to show that anything the ‘soon to be forcibly retired’ London could do, she could simply do better. Hooking the back of the folded Shea’s leg, Marcille also reached around the proud women’s back, preparing to rapidly lift her skywards for what was only the beginning of her Trifecta of Triumph!
TRIFECTA OF TRIUMPH
www.youtube.com/watch?v=KoFlbELmulQ`
Unfortunately for London’s Legion, their champion can’t muster a counter on the order of Marvela’s before the young brunette genuflects, SLAMMING Shea’s back down across her posted knee. And unfortunately for the Sensational One, Marcille is only just getting warmed up.
Keeping her arms snug around London’s waist, the French-American youngster straightens up, displaying deceptive power as she muscles Shea up... and flips her over, Marvela dropping to one knee and this time depositing the FAWN Original belly first across her outstretched thigh!
“GYYUUUUNNNNHHHHHH!!!!!!” the veteran blonde gasps loudly, bouncing up from the impact to her feet and remarkably staying there. But while the breathless Sensational One might be able to retain her verticality, the gutbuster has left her helpless, doubled slightly, one arm hugging her impaled tummy.
And that suits Marcille just fine, the Original People’s Princess leaping into a clubbing forearm that proves too much for Shea’s quaking gams, knocking the legend flat on her back and stunning the Mania crowd, many of whom had doubted Marvela could hang with Shea for more than three minutes, into stunned silence.
The ‘clearly more talented’ Marvellous One wasted no time in indulging on the crowds ‘adulation’, leaving the wreckage of London behind her as she strutted with a generous shake of her hips. With her arms outstretched and her chin imperiously tipped upwards, the formally beloved fan favourite goaded the FAWNatics on, swirling her hands in encouragement before bringing the tips of her thumbs pointing back towards her own crown, reinforcing her proclamation.
“`IT’S! MY! TIME!”
She turned on her heel, smug smile becoming contempt, Marcille zeroing in on Shea like a shark smelling blood in the water. London was already beginning to find her knees, but unfortunately for her, the brunette was already on her, and very much behind. Reaching around the kneeling blonde, the Sensational Storm captured both of the Sensational One’s wrists and, with a sharp tug, pulled the veterans arms into a tight X around her own throat.
“I didn’t say you could get up,” she chided before preparing to hop into a short leap, planning to rip her rival backwards into a nasty Lungblower!
STRAIGHTJACKET LUNGBLOWER
www.youtube.com/watch?v=HHXpBwM-0jM
With her lungs only replenished to maybe half capacity and her arms trussed up in Marvela’s grasp, there’s little Shea can do to keep her opponent from skipping into the air and drawing her knees up to London’s shoulder blades. The rest is a matter of simple physics, Marcille dropping backward and pulling the first ballot Hall of Famer with her. For the second time tonight, the Sensational One lands atop Marvela, only the brunette’s knees make for a FAR rockier crash pad than her torso had.
London rockets back to her feet, chest thrust forward thanks to her arched spine, her head swung backwards and arms wind milling at her side. And the crowd grimaces when Shea performs an ever so slight pirouette before toppling to the canvas and rolling toward the ropes. The British blonde comes to a halt just shy of the strands; face down, her right boot drumming against the canvas as her left hand reaches to massage some of the ache out of the small of her back.
With a wicked smile, Marvela simply can’t help herself, pivoting sharply on the spot before she dashed on over to the ropes. Hurling herself into them, the ‘Magnificent’ Marvel rebounded back off at breakneck speed, making herself into a weapon that was beguiling in its grace. At the last moment she dropped into a slide that sent her skidding across the canvas, the brunette now embracing the American side of her heritage as she lead with her feet, her boots aiming to kick the beloved blonde clean out of her ring.
And Marcille’s soles meet a fine target in Shea’s left flank, the baseball slide dropkick knocking another “GUUPH!” of air past London’s lips and sending the blonde spilling under the bottom rope and off the apron. The Sensational One falls to the floor, landing on her back, the back of Shea’s skull striking the floor with a distressing ‘THWACK!’ for London’s Legion. Her momentum sends the groaning icon rolling over three more times, eventually coming to rest on her stomach just in front of the announce position, both hands cradling the back of her head.
Marvela, for her part, slid to the outside of the squared circle with nary a worry, landing on her feet and, as London executed a perfect pratfall, spun in a flawless spiral with her arms outstretched. Coming back around to face the grounded blonde, Marcille stood with hands on hips, tilting her head with genuine contempt as she curled her lip in spite.
“British,” she dismissed with obvious scorn before she skipped forwards into a hop, timing her advance with the stubborn icon’s efforts to push up onto her hands and knees. The sole of Marvela’s right boot was brought up high in a near casual effort, the ‘Original’ People’s Princess desiring to DRIVE Shea’s angelic features straight into the barely padded concrete by way of curb stomp!
“You infest this place like VERMIN!!”
The FAWNatics cry out in alarm as Marcille takes to the sky, a fearful sound that only grows louder as the French-American’s sole descends toward the back of London’s noggin. It’s silenced only when Marvela’s foot SLAMS the Sensational One’s head downward. If there is any sort of positive for Shea, it’s that her head tilts forward as it’s driven down, sparing her nose what would almost have been a shattering impact with the harsh, merciless floor.
Unfortunately, the trade-off is that her forehead CRACKS off of what passes for padding, a collision that leaves London spasming violently for about two seconds. But then her body eases into stillness. Any other match, Marcille could have been content to turn around, roll under the bottom rope, and almost assuredly collect a countout victory. That, of course, would not be on the cards tonight.
As the saying goes, and no doubt many in London’s Legion are remembering, be careful what you wish for...
“What was that?” Marvela leans forward after her triumphant stomp, cupping her ear as if attempting to hear some manner of confession from London. No-one else could hear it, but clearly Marcille was above and beyond the unwashed masses as she nodded in understanding. “Beginning to regret our life choices are we? That’s understandable, but we must pay for our mistakes now mustn’t we?”
Swishing her mane dramatically from one side to the other, the Elegant Elitist completes her lean forwards and scrapes the barely coherent Brit off the concrete, more than happy to take the majority of the fan favourite’s dead weight. Spinning about, with the blondes wrists secured tightly, the brunette ripped the Sensational One into a one sided Irish Whip, directing Shea directly towards the steel steps.
“No-one Punks me London, not on My Time!”
It’s a wonder that Shea is even remotely conscious after such a savage curb stomp. Expecting the living legend to be able to summon a counter to the Irish whip would have been a tall order. Those watching the action on the arena screens, however, understand just how impossible a dream that is when they get one look at the British blonde’s vacant eyed. London goes exactly where she is directed, the Sensational One only just managing to swivel her back into the brutal collision.
Wrestler and ringsteps move off in opposing directions, the metal structure sliding a couple of feet away from the ring as Shea topples forward to her hands and knees. Remarkably, the Sensational One not only manages to remain on all fours, but she slowly starts to crawl forward, her head bowed...
... and Shea probably oblivious to the fact that she was crawling back toward Marcille.
“Come on, Marvela,” Susan snaps. “Get it back in the ring.”
“Oh?” Marcille pauses in her own advance to turn her head about and perk her brow, answering the All-American Angel’s demand with an air of contempt. “Whatever for? Are we close to a count out?” With Style’s only reply being a withering stare, Marvela scoffed with a short snort before returning to her not inconsiderable duties, “No? Then be seen and not heard, Rules Monkey, some of us are still relevant.”
Feeling that Susan had been suitably dismissed, the Marvellous One zeroed in on the crawling London and, after ensnaring the crowd favourite’s proud mane, YANKED!! the beloved star up to standing. It was to be a temporary measure, the brunette jabbing an arm between the blondes open thighs and wrapping the other across her shoulders, Marvela neatly hupping Shea right of her boot leather and, with a pivot and drop, Scoop Slammed the petite battler right atop the Steel Steps!
With a deep GROOOOOOOAN and a shuddering her pained limbs, the stunned London lay idle atop of the unyielding steps like a sacrifice upon an alter, her arms and legs dangling limply over the four corners as her fingers twitched.
Marcille was content to leave her there, at least for the moment, the brunette smiling smugly as she found the closest corner and hopped up. With a swish in her booty, Marvela addressed the FAWNatics as she quickly climbed the turnbuckles and, swiftly enough, finding the top. With balance that could only be sublime, the ‘Perfect’ Princess stood as tall as she could do, facing outwards with her arms outstretched and accepting her ‘adulation’. Satisfied that she had surely received it, Marcille suddenly leapt, taking flight on a course back outside the ring and, as she reached her apex, with London laid out flat beneath her, Marvela prepared to behead her with a Sensational Leg Drop!!
And once again, London’s Legion hold their collective breath. No, Marcille might not be as adept a practitioner of the top rope leg drop as their heroine, she didn’t really need to be with Shea laid out on the top of the steps. If she hit this, losing the match might be the very least of the Sensational One’s concerns, trailing little inconveniences like paralysis. And for most of Marvela’s flight, the connection appears all but academic...
... only for London to roll to the side at the very last instant, her head JUUUST clearing the flight path of the Original People’s Princess shapely gam in time. Shea melts off the steps and into a heap on her bum, leaning against one side of the steps. On the other side, Marvela’s landing is considerably worse, her tush SLAMMING into scarcely padded concrete from a considerable height, a mewling Marcille soon slumping into the steel on the other side.
After a few seconds, Shea starts to crawl her way over to the security barrier, using the railing to pull her up--and receiving plenty of supportive pats to the arm and back from the fans in front of her. As she reaches her feet, London looks over her shoulder and spots Marvela starting to rise herself, slightly slumped forward, her back to the Sensational One.
And a surge of adrenaline takes over. Pushing away from the railing, Shea sprints toward the staircase, leaping from the floor and touching down on the top step--temporarily. From there, London launches a second time, reaching out a hand to palm the back of Marcille’s noggin, aiming to SLAM the brat’s face into the floor with an emphatic bulldog.
With a yelp of startled indignation compromising the entirety of Marvela’s temporary vocabulary, it was the turn of her own features to lead the way towards the barely padded concrete. The Sensational Storm managed to whip her hands up, largely in alarm, at the last moment, and yet the effort of cushioning her impending fall did little to blunt the impact, her noggin whiplashing backwards after it COLLIDED!! with the floor.
With big, brown eyes fluttering, Marcille popped up and rolled away from the brutal collision, flopping to the ground a moment after and groaning into a dull eyed stupor.
“Alright Shea,” Style prompted from inside the ring, leaning over the top ropes as one blonde addressed the other. “Turn about is fair play, now get it back inside.”
The Sensational One flashes her most disarming smile to the All-American Angel. “I don’t think Marvela ‘ere an’ I are even remotely CLOSE ta bein’ even out ‘ere. Do YOU? Really?”
London doesn’t wait for an answer. She DOES climb back onto the apron--but instead of slipping through the ropes as she had been invited, Shea retreats to the far ringpost, sinking into a taut crouch as she watches the stunned French-American brat, waiting for the first signs of life from her less experienced foe. When Marcille finally starts to pull herself up to her feet, fortune smiles on the British Bombshell as Marvela turns about to face her, albeit with a bowed head. And, as Shea starts to sprint down the apron toward her, ready to leap from the ring and catch the Marvellous One with her London Blitz!
LONDON BLITZ: @1:29
www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRageBu7Mqs
“Hey, now, WAIT!!” Marvela protested as she finally made her way back up to vertical, swaying this way and that before her peepers popped open wide. It was already too late to evade, even as the brunette brought her palms up to ward off the impending assault, and there was little more she could do before the blonde Brit leapt off the apron to the delight of the FAWNatics. London’s knees SLAMMED into the astonished shoulders of Marcille, and it was with an ‘ERK!’ that the Magnificent Marvel was forced to buckle beneath her opponent’s flung bodyweight and sensational momentum.
As Marvela rapidly tumbled backwards, Shea rode her all the way down to the concrete, the joy of those watching only increasing as Marcille was smacked back down hard onto the concrete across the young women’s slender shoulders, a fresh ‘GUFF!” voicing the emptying of air from her petite body.
“Feel better?” Susan asks from the ring, attempting with all her might to keep the corners of her lips from curling up in a smirk... and only partially succeeding.
Down on the floor, a risen Shea snatches a handful of Marvela’s tresses, yanking the brunette to her feet as well. “Almost,” the Sensational One replies. Dragging the Elegant Elitist over to the announce table, London uses her hair hold to SMASH Marcille’s face into the tabletop once... twice... thrice, before shovelling the Marvellous One up onto its surface and laying her out. Looking up from her opponent, London asks the crowd, “WHATTAYA SAY? SHOULD WE SHOW ‘ER ‘OW IT’S DONE???”
The crowd might not be absolutely certain of Shea’s meaning, but they still respond in the affirmative. And with that, the British blonde turns back to the ring. Hopping onto the apron, London climbs the near ringpost, and with that the FAWN icons intentions become clear--to launch her own Sensational Leg Drop to the outside, with Marcille prone atop the announcer’s table.
If Marvela had anything to say about it, she was keeping it to herself, her deep brown peepers fluttering as her petulant pride struggled to wake up. She made no headway in that regard, supine and vulnerable as Shea took flight, laid out and a near perfect crash pad as London took to the air, the FAWNatics WHOOPING a great cheer as she cleared the distance between ring and the announce table, mere moments from creating a fresh memory...
...and she connected!! With a collective gasp from the audience, the Sensational Leg Drop proved that the second time was to be the charm tonight, and as valiantly as the announce table attempted to remain standing; it instead collapsed beneath the hellacious drop! Wood splintered with an almighty CRACK!! and swallowed both young women up in a heap of devastation, announcers running for cover as quickly as possible amidst the unfolding mayhem.
It was a good thing this match was being fought without count outs, because neither woman would have beaten a count back to the ring following such a Sensational Leg Drop. And fortunately for Marvela, while there might no be count outs, falls did NOT count anywhere. If they had, with Shea’s shapely gam draped over her sternum for close to 10 seconds, this match would have been over. Instead, as the crowd roars its approval for the carnage, both women struggle to collect themselves...
To the surprise of practically no one, it’s London who starts to rise first. Her chest heaving with each deep breath she takes, the British Bombshell drags her foe out of the wreckage of the announce table and leads her over to the ring, stuffing Marvela under the bottom rope and sending her in with a shove. As Marcille tumbles to a stop, flat on her back, Shea climbs onto the apron and marches to the near ringpost. Ascending the ropes, the Sensational One sets herself up upon the top turnbuckle, her back to the ring--a slightly awkward climb that requires Shea to pause and settle herself for a fraction of a second. But she then launches into a beautiful moonsault, Marvela’s open tummy proving a MOST inviting landing strip.
And ‘inviting’ is precisely what the ‘Original’ People’s Princess remained, her bluster left behind amongst the remains of the obliterated table as the Sensational Shea London flipped gracefully through the air. Once upon a time, not so long ago, the FAWNatics would have verbally urged Marvela to roll her way to safety or turtle herself up, instead they hoped for the opposite, and as they watched on for what appeared to be a lifetime, they were rewarded for their collective faith in their favourite.
Marcille did not evade the incoming impact, ‘GUFFING!’ out what little remained of the air left in her petite frame as two trim tummies collided, the brunette folding about the blonde with a pained spasm before she began to collapse, Shea spotting her opportunity and collecting a pair of sublime stems. Susan was there without delay, and no-one could deny the legality of her count...
ONE!
TWO!!
THRENOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Against ALL odds, Marvela throws a fist into the air, elevating her shoulder with absolutely NO time to spare. The crowd groans, but Shea doesn’t protest in the slightest, instead rising to her knees and pushing Marcille over onto her stomach. The Sensational One then scoots forward, planting her knees against the French-American brunette’s back. And all it takes to transform the FAWNatics groans back to cheers is for London to reach for Marvela’s ankles, crossing them over. And as London’s other mit slips under Marcille’s chin, London’s Legion are ready for their heroine to rock back and hoist the Original People’s Princess up onto London Bridge.
The Elegant Elitist, for her bluster, was not about to summon any further resistance as every inch of her sublimely miniature frame felt fit to break after being the centrepiece of an obliterated table. As she was tied up into a knot and thrust up into the air in an agonising arc, her cry of pain was immediate and unrestrained. Her already shattered back crumbled all the more in a short series of violent spasms, straining and collapsing as the veteran played her like instrument.
While initially she shouted out the single word of no and shook her head in the negative, her free hand had already betrayed her as it began tapping franticly for release. Ultimately she could deny it no longer, and she rapidly changed her plea to “I GIVE!!”, seething to her pained core that this evening had turned so completely sour.
Admirably, Susan calls for the bell the moment Marvela cries out her surrender, and Shea likewise breaks the hold virtually right away, nudging the Marvelous One off her knees with a flex of her legs. Marcille spills over to her belly, one hand reaching to massage the small of her back, her boots RAPIDLY pounding the canvas as the All-American Angel offers London a helping hand up. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer declares while Susan tugs Shea to her feet, raising her hand in triumph, “your winner, by submission... SHHHEEEAAA LOOONNNDDDOOONNN!!!!!”
The supportive cheers of the FAWNatics wash over her, Shea’s eyes growing a little damp. It DID feel DAMN good to be standing triumphant in this ring again. As her gaze drifts down to the writhing, mewling Marvela, Susan asks her, “Think she learned anything tonight?”
“Never know with this lot,” the Sensational One sighs. “But if she ‘asn’t, I can give ‘er a refresher course.”
www.youtube.com/watch?v=HLjitP78tag&list=PLPuOyWan3CRuPoCuzoiHkAq0VNWg308E4
The opening guitar riff, no different than it had been years earlier, heralded the arrival of Wrestling’s wayward black sheep, the girl who’d had it all and, in a flash of petulance, flushed it all down the toilet, opting to make an early exit from the industry that she had been born into whilst burning as many bridges as she could along the way. Unrepentant summed up her demeanour following her return, and ‘Marvellous’ Marvela Marcille remaining every inch the ‘Original’ People’s Princess as she arrived on stage.
MARVELA MARCILLE:
She smiled as she appeared, lights catching all the right curves as she stood without fear, regal in her bearing and utterly without hesitation, raising one hand high, palm faced outward in welcome as the pyrotechnics erupted bombastically to either side of her. She seemed oblivious to the boos that were there to welcome her, the fans she had so effortlessly scorned following her messy exodus not making a dent in the apparent fiction she had created all about herself.
It was this, however, that was the facade, and eventually she broke the illusion and she greeted the crowd’s heckling with an indulgent roll of her eyes, a slightly exasperated ‘tut’ upon her lips and a world weary smile tugging at the corners of her lips. With her less than sincere efforts of extending an olive branch rebuffed, Marvela launched into a light stepped stride down the ramp, the saunter of hips and the swish of her shoulders full of self assured swagger, her mane of chocolate brown immaculate and shimmering, matching her gaze and showing not even a hint of fallibility.
The crimson of the Lightweight’s attire was bright and fierce, the fabric whisper thin and slipping about her every, perfectly carved and refined contours, the two piece outfit as much a part of her as her own personality. The single strap top cut to just below her bosom, leaving her firm tummy temptingly naked, a explosion of yellow and orange sat dead centre between her breasts, a promise of the fury she would surely unleash against anyone unfortunate enough to face her. Her shorts were modest by FAWN standards, even as they left exceedingly little to the imagination, slipping downwards to mid thigh whilst boots, pads and gloves finished off the ensemble that had once been adored by so many, and had so badly hurt the very same.
She spun in a one eighty spiral, sweeping out her arms to either side as she continued to saunter backwards, smiling in a way that suggested that she knew that she was hot shit, and everyone else was just burned by it, her stride as infuriatingly confident in reverse as it was in going the right way. It was at this point she spotted one sign in particular, a message that was repeated several times over throughout the arena in preparation of her appearance, and she barely even had to read the words to know what it said.
What it always said.
NOT “OUR” PRINCESS
She merely rolled her eyes once more and dismissed the heartbroken sentiment with a dismissive flick of her wrist, turning back to sauntering the right way as she reached the ring. She strode up the steel steps and slipped into the squared circle like a welcomed heroine, taking a diagonal path across the canvas until she reached the opposite corner. Marvela climbed the turnbuckles and swept up her arms as if in welcome, ready to salute the crowds that lov... Marcille couldn’t do it, a wickedly indulgent grin marring her features as she opted to flip off the FAWNatics instead, and even that gesture seemed half hearted in its effort as she barely considered them worthy of it. The ‘Perfect’ Princess hopped back down, swishing her curls dramatically across one shoulder before a clearly perplexed Announcer tentatively began to approach her.
“Ms. Marcille,” he began, ensuring his microphone was out of range and his words were hushed.
“Yes, dear?” Marvela queried in return, perking her brow as she purred with honey.
“You’re not supposed to be out here...”
“Shut it, Choir Monkey!” Marvela cut him off, swishing one palm up sharply in front of his astonished features whilst the other deftly swiped his stick from out of his mitts. “You’re not needed, so go on, shoo!” She motioned with a dismissive sweeping her fingers, insisting that he vacate her squared circle, “I said scat!”
Reluctantly he complied, confusion written across his features as he exited the ring and headed on over to the time keeper to compare notes, something had clearly gone awry with the schedule. Marvela, however, clearly disagreed.
“That’s better, right?” an intensely smug Marcille questioned the entire arena as she sauntered in a small circle across the canvas, stolen microphone in hand as her other arm was held outstretched, welcoming adulation. The FAWNatics did not provide the desired response, many of them as confused as the ring announcer had been, and more than ready to remind the brunette that she had so eagerly betrayed them.
“And you wonder why I stopped pandering to you?” Marvela sneered, her outstretched paw now set firmly upon her hip as she scowled out across the ‘ungrateful’ masses. “Oh quit you’re fretting, all your whining isn’t about to change anything. You see, I don’t care if I’m not supposed to be out here, this is FAWNMANIA and I... I am the Marvellous! Marvela! MARCILLE! So really it’s quite simple,” she paused, allowing the unwashed masses a moment to catch up as she raised her free hand up and pointed towards her own noggin in a methodical, condescending manner. “IT’S! MY! TIME!!”
The masses packed into the arena let her know what they thought of her trademarked boast, but for all their efforts, it didn’t seem to faze her.
“I am the TALENT here people, I am a genuine World Champion, you just go ask the Rival Roses where their precious belt went,” she baited, revelling in the wave of displeasure that washed across the audience as she reminded them of what she had stolen from the prestigious Federation. “I never lost it, it’s still mine, hanging on my wall beside all my other accolades. Not only does that make me the youngest ever World Champion on this continent, but also the longest reigning...”
The latest boast was too much for some, who proceeded to lose their cool entirely, Marcille’s claim was true enough and yet, by any standards, underserved. The title had been stolen, and while it remained undefended, that is how the FAWNatics would choice to see it.
“And yet, here I am, a Legend of this very industry,” her tone turned soar, her lips curling in distaste as she began to huff, “and Bethany Christian, in all her ‘vaulted’ wisdom, has persisted in pushing me, ME!!, to the sidelines!?! NO!! Enough is enough, I am the Princess here, not some flat chested nitwit wearing her daddies T-Shirt, ME!! I will have my night; I will have what I deserve!”
She paused, swishing her hair back and setting her lips petulantly, “And I am not leaving this ring until I get it!”
There was no immediate answer, the Commissioner FAWN not generally known for her patience with unruly talent, and as the seconds dragged on into minutes, it would seem she had no time for them either. Just as the spectators fully expected a swarm of security to arrive as opposed to one, Bethany Christian, there was instead a different call arms...
www.youtube.com/watch?v=pXLfsJDEWGY
SUSAN STYLE
Where once there had been no-one, now stood Susan Style, standing at centre stage where she was so effortlessly born to be with her back to the squared circle and her arms outstretched. A pop of her hips sent her into a spiral and the World Media Icon slipped hypnotically into a groove that was silkily smooth and encapsulated by a dazzling halo of light from up above, a smile as disarming as it was charming melting hearts left and right. There was a microphone in her hand, the starlet and celebrity sensation raising it to her lips as she launched into the lyrics of her own intro, each and every note pitch perfect and not a moment mimed thank you kindly. She shook her head from left to right, twirling and rhythmically moving with a sense of timing, of instinctive grace that could only be matched by fellow dance diva, the Upstart Katya Michalka, golden curls flashing about her smooth, ivory skinned shoulders like whispers in the wind.
The FAWNatics erupted, as pleased as punch by the unplanned and utterly unexpected arrival, the Girl Next Door and All American Angel a stark contrast to the usual dispenser of reprimands and ultimatums. Susan’s much lamented, ‘semi retirement’ from the squared circle, brought on by a persistent injury, had forced the dazzling blonde to ounce again shift her career path, Style now the increasingly popular Commissioner for House Show Circuit Tour known as Monday Night Mayhem! Several steps down from Bethany Christian she may be, but few could boast the same backstage influence as the starlet of a thousand stages.
The only note of disappointment for those watching is that Style was indeed not wearing her now rarely witnessed ring attire. Instead the House Show Commissioner was decked out in the tightest pair of jeans to have ever hugged a wrestler, the denim stretched across long legs broken only by the brace securely fitted about her right knee, whilst the cross media icon also sported a pearl white T-Shit and leather jacket. Across her shirt, however, remained two words in girlish, bright red script across her bosom that reminded everyone and all of her in ring trademark, and fuelled hope that she should one day return to it.
‘YOU WISH!’
Style began her decent down the aisle, continuing to smile as she belted out the chorus, her strides long and beguilingly light as her feet crossed over in front of one another to encourage a skip. While she remained forever, so very temptingly out of reach, her eyes of bright, vibrant blue made contact with everyone she could, freely offering up a wink to everyone who waved signs of support and brightening up their day further.
As the intro ran towards its natural conclusion she ascended the steel steps and began to duck between the top and middle ropes, leaning her upper body forwards ninety degrees and slipping one long, luscious leg inside. She paused there for a tantalising moment, perfectly defined toosh pointing ever so slightly upwards, shaking her rump from side to side in an encouraging fasion.
Deciding that was enough harmless teasing for one day, Susan slipped fully inside the ring and spiralled, catching the eyes of the fuming Marvela with her own crustal blue, the intensely charismatic young woman almost about to speak... before pulling away at the last moment as though she were Charlie Brown’s football, choosing to address her favourite people instead.
“ORLANDO!!” she shouted in welcome, the crowd responding with gusto, especially as she leant over the ropes and held out the microphone towards them. “What a night right?” she questioned, filled to the brim with charismatic vigour and oozing natural charm, they agreed whole heartedly. “I’m not supposed to be out here either,” she confessed, but the crowd didn’t seem too much mind on this account, “but it turns out that my ‘favourite’ boss already has her last nerve being plucked by another mitey whiner...”
Style choice that moment to pause, suddenly turning on the spot to address the silently fuming Marvela head on, “...so you, Marcille, are all mine to deal with.”
The Magnificent Marvel snorted in derision, rolling her eyes and already prepared to dismiss Susan at a moment’s notice, figure of authority or otherwise.
“Now of course, I could just have your royal poutiness escorted out of here by FAWNS Finest,” Style suggested, the American Angel casually throwing the implied threat out there just to remind the brunette who was in charge here. The FAWNatics, for their part, didn’t seem to be against the idea. “On the other hand... I think everyone would rather see your overripe backside receive the tanning that it’s needing!”
Marvela exhaled sharply, eyes wide with a sudden temper as she surged forwards, fully prepared to chest up the impudent blonde opposite and allow her actions to speak for her. Before a single angry word was uttered, however, the ‘Perfect Princess’ found her sly composure, pushing down her temper as she smiled ever so coyly, slowly bringing her own microphone to her lips and found every condescending feeling with her Lightweight Frame.
“Seriously Style,” she purred, venom dripping like syrup, her alluring, big brown eyes flicking downwards just enough to remind everyone of Susan’s much lamented knee brace. “This is your plan? You would have me fight a cripple?”
The FAWNatics didn’t like that, not one bit, and their reaction was immediate.
Susan was more composed, the Golden Curled Darling holding the brunettes stare and, for several moments, didn’t bring herself to answer. When she did, it was with a disarming smile.
“Nothing would please me more than to bounce your overrated ass all across this ring,” she confessed, much to the delight of those watching, “but no, not tonight. You see Marvela, I found someone else these people really want see make a surprise arrival, the same someone who will always be able to call herself a REAL World Champion...”
A confused but intrigued murmur starts to run through the crowd, and Marcille is every bit as stumped as the paying audience--though she is considerably more annoyed than the FAWNatics. But just as her lips part to demand answers from Susan, the arena's speakers roar into life, posing their own question for one and all:
"Do you wanna get rocked?"
The audience responds with a roar worthy of Mania as Def Leppard's "Let's Get Rocked" pumps over the PA. This particular anthem had not been heard since the woman it heralded had found herself stuffed into a casket by Irma Irons. And while the Upstarts had been able to prevent the vixens of Gen Next from taking that coffin back to who knows where, there had been NO sightings...
... until the Biritsh Bombshell herself, Sensational Shea London, strides from backstage to a rapturous reception from the Orlando faithful. The blonde Briton darts down to the ring, slapping hands with the fans as she does, her usual million dollar smile on full display for the crowd. 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.
SHEA LONDON
The gorgeous blonde makes a complete circuit around ringside, continuing to slap hands and accept the well wishes of her fans, her eyes almost watering in response to the THUNDEROUS chant of “WEL-COME BACK!” Catching sight of one particular sign in the audience, Shea's grin grows even wider. Leaning over the railing, Shea swings her left arm around the shoulders of one fortunate fan, turning to the camera and pointing at the posterboard with her right. The placard reads, rather simply, “MANIA ISN’T MANIA WITHOUT SHEA LONDON!!!”
“Well then,” London says to her Legionnaire, “I guess it’s well an’ truly Mania now, innit?" Further making the fan's day, London gives him a quick peck on the cheek before bounding over to the ring.
Climbing the steps, Shea slips between the ropes, entering the ring and marching between Marvela and Susan to the nearest corner. Safe in the knowledge that Style would keep Marcille in check, the Sensational One climbs onto the middle turnbuckle, raising an arm to a triumphant roar from her fans. Hopping back down, London saunters over to the wide-eyed, incredulous Marcille. “Call yerself the real People’s Princess, do ya?” Shea asks, eyebrow arched. “Well, why don’tcha listen ta tha people ‘ere tonight, an’ try ta tell me that I’m not their bloody QUEEN, mate.”
Even if Marvela hadn’t been too flabbergasted by the return of a true FAWN legend and icon, she would have struggled to be heard over the vociferous agreement of the crowd, their raucous cheer before long morphing into a chant of “PEO-PLE’S QUEEN!”
“But I get wantin’ ta ‘ave a match on tha biggest show o’ tha year,” London continues. “Certainly can’t fault ya fer that. But there DOES seem an obvious answer: I’m ‘ere. Ya’re ‘ere. I’m sure Mr. Timekeeper over there wouldn’t mind ringin’ tha’ bell...”
Marvela opened her mouth, but no words would come out, instead she opted to clench her jaw with impotent anger, the opportunist beginning to look as though she had been caught in her own web as she marched left and then right, stewing in her own impotent anger. Finally she stopped, surging forwards for a second time, this time to chest up to the iconic Shea London, shoving the blonde backwards to prove that she was not intimidated...
“No,” Marcille instead retracted, opting to indulge in the better part of valour at the last moment and, as she took an aloof step backwards, she proceeded to dismiss both London and Style with a dramatic swish of her hand. “No, I didn’t agree to this,” she took her head, sparing the ‘former’ World Champion a contemptuous sneer, “I will not reduce myself to this, this... Late Life Crisis of yours.”
Marvela continued to saunter away, turning her back on Shea and preparing to exit the ring, the universal derision of the crowd prompting one final explanation. “There is no Official,” she explained, as if both of the blondes opposite were especially slow children, “I am a professional, there can be no match when there is no Official.”
It was Susan who choice to answer, expertly cutting in before Shea’s temper could get the better of her.
“Well,” Style tilted her head with an ever so reluctant sigh, “when she’s right, she’s right.” The FAWNatics didn’t quite like the sound of that, but Susan only allowed them a moment to linger on it, “People are going to start thinking that I haven’t thought this through.”
With a deft throw, and barely a moments warning, the Dynamic Diva tossed her microphone out of the squared circle where it was only just barely caught by the Announcer, Susan already turning even as it remained in flight. She whipped off her leather jacket in similar fasion, and that too was thrown from the ring, this time to be caught by the surprised Time Keeper. Finally came one last garment, the FAWNatics already cheering as the All American Angel whipped off her T-Shirt in a single, dramatic flourish, revealing a wonderfully trim tummy, and snugly fitting sports bra in the colours of the iconic black and white stripes. As her shirt was HURLED into an increasingly thankful audience for one lucky fan to take home, Style revealed that they had an Official after all.
The crowd might be ready and Shea might be eager, but Marcille remains adamant. “NonononononoNO!” the young brunette fumes, bordering on apoplectic. “We need a LICENSED official! A QUALIFIED official! This... this... this... NOOOO!!!!”
“You think if Bethany had a problem with me reffing, I’d be out here?” Susan asked, sly smirk firmly planted on her lips... and then she wheeled toward the timekeeper’s table, signalling for the bell with a wave of her hand. And Marvela promptly marches... straight up to Style, getting right in the official’s face. “Don’t think you’re gonna get away with this,” the French-American beauty snarls.
And a finger taps Marcille on the shoulder.
“And don’t think you’re gonna get away with not calling this match fairly,” Marvela continues, apparently oblivious to it. “Ref’s stripes or not, you do the first fast count, and I’ll...”
Another tap.
“IN A MINUTE!” the Original People’s Princess snaps, STILL without turning around. “Make no mistake about it, Susan. You screw me, and I will END you.” Her threat made, Marvela turns around...
... and turns right into a forearm shot to the jaw from the Sensational One!
Marcille is rocked back on her heels, and when a second forearm slams into her bosom, she’s sent into a full retreat. A third forearm drives the youngster all the way into the ropes, Shea bodying in and snatching a wrist. Setting her feet, London prepares to launch Marvela on her way with an Irish whip, intending to meet her on the rebound with a dropkick.
The return of Marcille at centre ring was made at a blistering pace, the rebound off the ropes lending her speed that few others could match... and was brought to an equally dramatic halt as a pair of boots went expertly airborne and SLAMMED directly into her chest. Marvela went down hard with a great gust of air, the pained yelp met by her awkward collision with the waiting plywood, and as the FAWNatics ‘WHOOPED’ for the thunderous opening salvo, and the brunette on the wrong end of it opted to keep going. Rolling with her painful momentum, the exceptionally talented young women... beat a hasty retreat, all but diving beneath the bottom rope to the outside of the ring.
She found her feet quickly enough, immediately turning her back on both of the blondes who had foolishly chosen to irk her and, as the nearest in the crowd let her know of their disapproval, she swept up both of her palms in an equally dismissive manner. Soon enough she began to pace back and forth, her hands on her hips and choosing to utter a considerable number of profanities in her mother’s language, shaking her head in annoyance until she began to calm down.
“Well!?!” she suddenly demanded, spinning on the spot sharply with her arms held out in expectation, burning daggers into Susan as she waited for something. “Are you going to begin counting Rules Monkey? Let us all get this farce over with,” she huffed, entirely aware that she would lose the match if Style did so but, well, it wasn’t a ‘real’ match anyway, and who would care about footnotes in the future?
“Count out?” Style responded with a tilt of her head, a fine display of being perplexed there for all to see, “I didn’t say anything about count outs. Did you say something about count outs?” she queried the time keeper.
Dutifully enough, he shook his own head.
“Then I guess there are no count outs,” Style opted to shrug as she made the revelation, “Pinfall or Submission only, so fight for your victory.”
“You can’t do tha...” a fuming, foot stomping Marvela began, only to be cut off by Air London again, the stunning blonde taking to the skies and leaping clear over the top rope, targeting the startled brunette with a jaw dropping splash.
Both beauties hit the floor with a thud, though Marcille’s yielding frame does much to soften the impact for the Sensational One. Popping back to her feet, Shea pumps a fist to the appreciative crowd, London’s Legion roaring in satisfaction. She might have had all the time in the world to play with out on the floor, but the blonde Brit had been away from a FAWN ring for so long, she seems in an understandable rush to get back to it.`
Peeling her obnoxious brat of an opponent off the floor, London grabs a handful of hair and a handful of briefs, rushing Marvela back toward the ring. And as she pushes the brunette up onto the apron, there is just enough give in the fabric of Marcille’s shorts to creep a little further between her cheeks as Shea rolls the Original People’s Princess into the ring.
The Sensational One climbs onto the apron, clutching the top rope with both hands as she waits for Marvela to rise. Once she does, London rocks back, ready to launch herself over the top rope, capture Marcille’s noggin with an arm and spike her skull with her slingshot DDT.
SLINGSHOT DDT:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=iNm1hFG1wCk
Marcille’s hypnotic eyes opened wide the moment before her noggin was captured, and it was only with the shortest of yelps that she was able to protest before she was ripped forwards. It seemed to be that the youthful brunette had spent extremely little time on her feet since the bell had first chimed, and this was to be no different, the Elegant Elitist whipped into a bow which lead straight into a dive, one leveraged by the full weight of her unplanned Rival and lead by her skull. Marcille hit the canvas with the crown of her head first, the THUD of the impact rattling the plywood and vaulting her athletic frame into a shell-shocked puddle.
Shea threw herself across the brunette a mere heartbeat after, and Susan hit the canvas a second later, beginning the first count of the match...
ONE!
Marvela threw up a shoulder, protesting with indignation as she moved to roll away.
Pushing up from her knees, Shea snatches another handful of Marvela’s locks and starts to pull the French-American beauty up to her feet--but as she does, London’s eyes are locked on Susan’s. “Bit slow with tha’ count, weren’tcha?” the Sensational One asks, the twinkle in her eye suggesting that her tongue was also FIRMLY planted in her cheek as she posed the question.
Reaching her right hand around Marcille’s back and her left moving to scoop up the brunette’s thigh, London attempts to gather up her foe--and then drop to one knee for a pendulum backbreaker.
PENDULUM BACKBREAKER:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTxDrR_lGQY
“Really?” Susan replied with an arching of her brow, clearly amused by the insinuation, “you are going to debate rhythm with me?”
London remained unrepentantly cheeky as she moved to scoop Marvela up...
...only to be interrupted as the brunette lashed out, waiting for the moment that an unfocused Shea ducked low, and rained down a deviously precious elbow to the back of the beloved blondes neck! The impact struck true and London was forced to painfully ‘erk!’, preventing herself from falling to one knee but unable to retain her assault. Stubborn though the gesture was, it only provided Marcille with an idle target to double tap the severe impact, the brunette enjoying the wince of the Icon so much that she did it a third!
With the Sensational One stunned and folded forwards, an increasingly smug looking Princess of the ‘Perfect’ variety was determined to show that anything the ‘soon to be forcibly retired’ London could do, she could simply do better. Hooking the back of the folded Shea’s leg, Marcille also reached around the proud women’s back, preparing to rapidly lift her skywards for what was only the beginning of her Trifecta of Triumph!
TRIFECTA OF TRIUMPH
www.youtube.com/watch?v=KoFlbELmulQ`
Unfortunately for London’s Legion, their champion can’t muster a counter on the order of Marvela’s before the young brunette genuflects, SLAMMING Shea’s back down across her posted knee. And unfortunately for the Sensational One, Marcille is only just getting warmed up.
Keeping her arms snug around London’s waist, the French-American youngster straightens up, displaying deceptive power as she muscles Shea up... and flips her over, Marvela dropping to one knee and this time depositing the FAWN Original belly first across her outstretched thigh!
“GYYUUUUNNNNHHHHHH!!!!!!” the veteran blonde gasps loudly, bouncing up from the impact to her feet and remarkably staying there. But while the breathless Sensational One might be able to retain her verticality, the gutbuster has left her helpless, doubled slightly, one arm hugging her impaled tummy.
And that suits Marcille just fine, the Original People’s Princess leaping into a clubbing forearm that proves too much for Shea’s quaking gams, knocking the legend flat on her back and stunning the Mania crowd, many of whom had doubted Marvela could hang with Shea for more than three minutes, into stunned silence.
The ‘clearly more talented’ Marvellous One wasted no time in indulging on the crowds ‘adulation’, leaving the wreckage of London behind her as she strutted with a generous shake of her hips. With her arms outstretched and her chin imperiously tipped upwards, the formally beloved fan favourite goaded the FAWNatics on, swirling her hands in encouragement before bringing the tips of her thumbs pointing back towards her own crown, reinforcing her proclamation.
“`IT’S! MY! TIME!”
She turned on her heel, smug smile becoming contempt, Marcille zeroing in on Shea like a shark smelling blood in the water. London was already beginning to find her knees, but unfortunately for her, the brunette was already on her, and very much behind. Reaching around the kneeling blonde, the Sensational Storm captured both of the Sensational One’s wrists and, with a sharp tug, pulled the veterans arms into a tight X around her own throat.
“I didn’t say you could get up,” she chided before preparing to hop into a short leap, planning to rip her rival backwards into a nasty Lungblower!
STRAIGHTJACKET LUNGBLOWER
www.youtube.com/watch?v=HHXpBwM-0jM
With her lungs only replenished to maybe half capacity and her arms trussed up in Marvela’s grasp, there’s little Shea can do to keep her opponent from skipping into the air and drawing her knees up to London’s shoulder blades. The rest is a matter of simple physics, Marcille dropping backward and pulling the first ballot Hall of Famer with her. For the second time tonight, the Sensational One lands atop Marvela, only the brunette’s knees make for a FAR rockier crash pad than her torso had.
London rockets back to her feet, chest thrust forward thanks to her arched spine, her head swung backwards and arms wind milling at her side. And the crowd grimaces when Shea performs an ever so slight pirouette before toppling to the canvas and rolling toward the ropes. The British blonde comes to a halt just shy of the strands; face down, her right boot drumming against the canvas as her left hand reaches to massage some of the ache out of the small of her back.
With a wicked smile, Marvela simply can’t help herself, pivoting sharply on the spot before she dashed on over to the ropes. Hurling herself into them, the ‘Magnificent’ Marvel rebounded back off at breakneck speed, making herself into a weapon that was beguiling in its grace. At the last moment she dropped into a slide that sent her skidding across the canvas, the brunette now embracing the American side of her heritage as she lead with her feet, her boots aiming to kick the beloved blonde clean out of her ring.
And Marcille’s soles meet a fine target in Shea’s left flank, the baseball slide dropkick knocking another “GUUPH!” of air past London’s lips and sending the blonde spilling under the bottom rope and off the apron. The Sensational One falls to the floor, landing on her back, the back of Shea’s skull striking the floor with a distressing ‘THWACK!’ for London’s Legion. Her momentum sends the groaning icon rolling over three more times, eventually coming to rest on her stomach just in front of the announce position, both hands cradling the back of her head.
Marvela, for her part, slid to the outside of the squared circle with nary a worry, landing on her feet and, as London executed a perfect pratfall, spun in a flawless spiral with her arms outstretched. Coming back around to face the grounded blonde, Marcille stood with hands on hips, tilting her head with genuine contempt as she curled her lip in spite.
“British,” she dismissed with obvious scorn before she skipped forwards into a hop, timing her advance with the stubborn icon’s efforts to push up onto her hands and knees. The sole of Marvela’s right boot was brought up high in a near casual effort, the ‘Original’ People’s Princess desiring to DRIVE Shea’s angelic features straight into the barely padded concrete by way of curb stomp!
“You infest this place like VERMIN!!”
The FAWNatics cry out in alarm as Marcille takes to the sky, a fearful sound that only grows louder as the French-American’s sole descends toward the back of London’s noggin. It’s silenced only when Marvela’s foot SLAMS the Sensational One’s head downward. If there is any sort of positive for Shea, it’s that her head tilts forward as it’s driven down, sparing her nose what would almost have been a shattering impact with the harsh, merciless floor.
Unfortunately, the trade-off is that her forehead CRACKS off of what passes for padding, a collision that leaves London spasming violently for about two seconds. But then her body eases into stillness. Any other match, Marcille could have been content to turn around, roll under the bottom rope, and almost assuredly collect a countout victory. That, of course, would not be on the cards tonight.
As the saying goes, and no doubt many in London’s Legion are remembering, be careful what you wish for...
“What was that?” Marvela leans forward after her triumphant stomp, cupping her ear as if attempting to hear some manner of confession from London. No-one else could hear it, but clearly Marcille was above and beyond the unwashed masses as she nodded in understanding. “Beginning to regret our life choices are we? That’s understandable, but we must pay for our mistakes now mustn’t we?”
Swishing her mane dramatically from one side to the other, the Elegant Elitist completes her lean forwards and scrapes the barely coherent Brit off the concrete, more than happy to take the majority of the fan favourite’s dead weight. Spinning about, with the blondes wrists secured tightly, the brunette ripped the Sensational One into a one sided Irish Whip, directing Shea directly towards the steel steps.
“No-one Punks me London, not on My Time!”
It’s a wonder that Shea is even remotely conscious after such a savage curb stomp. Expecting the living legend to be able to summon a counter to the Irish whip would have been a tall order. Those watching the action on the arena screens, however, understand just how impossible a dream that is when they get one look at the British blonde’s vacant eyed. London goes exactly where she is directed, the Sensational One only just managing to swivel her back into the brutal collision.
Wrestler and ringsteps move off in opposing directions, the metal structure sliding a couple of feet away from the ring as Shea topples forward to her hands and knees. Remarkably, the Sensational One not only manages to remain on all fours, but she slowly starts to crawl forward, her head bowed...
... and Shea probably oblivious to the fact that she was crawling back toward Marcille.
“Come on, Marvela,” Susan snaps. “Get it back in the ring.”
“Oh?” Marcille pauses in her own advance to turn her head about and perk her brow, answering the All-American Angel’s demand with an air of contempt. “Whatever for? Are we close to a count out?” With Style’s only reply being a withering stare, Marvela scoffed with a short snort before returning to her not inconsiderable duties, “No? Then be seen and not heard, Rules Monkey, some of us are still relevant.”
Feeling that Susan had been suitably dismissed, the Marvellous One zeroed in on the crawling London and, after ensnaring the crowd favourite’s proud mane, YANKED!! the beloved star up to standing. It was to be a temporary measure, the brunette jabbing an arm between the blondes open thighs and wrapping the other across her shoulders, Marvela neatly hupping Shea right of her boot leather and, with a pivot and drop, Scoop Slammed the petite battler right atop the Steel Steps!
With a deep GROOOOOOOAN and a shuddering her pained limbs, the stunned London lay idle atop of the unyielding steps like a sacrifice upon an alter, her arms and legs dangling limply over the four corners as her fingers twitched.
Marcille was content to leave her there, at least for the moment, the brunette smiling smugly as she found the closest corner and hopped up. With a swish in her booty, Marvela addressed the FAWNatics as she quickly climbed the turnbuckles and, swiftly enough, finding the top. With balance that could only be sublime, the ‘Perfect’ Princess stood as tall as she could do, facing outwards with her arms outstretched and accepting her ‘adulation’. Satisfied that she had surely received it, Marcille suddenly leapt, taking flight on a course back outside the ring and, as she reached her apex, with London laid out flat beneath her, Marvela prepared to behead her with a Sensational Leg Drop!!
And once again, London’s Legion hold their collective breath. No, Marcille might not be as adept a practitioner of the top rope leg drop as their heroine, she didn’t really need to be with Shea laid out on the top of the steps. If she hit this, losing the match might be the very least of the Sensational One’s concerns, trailing little inconveniences like paralysis. And for most of Marvela’s flight, the connection appears all but academic...
... only for London to roll to the side at the very last instant, her head JUUUST clearing the flight path of the Original People’s Princess shapely gam in time. Shea melts off the steps and into a heap on her bum, leaning against one side of the steps. On the other side, Marvela’s landing is considerably worse, her tush SLAMMING into scarcely padded concrete from a considerable height, a mewling Marcille soon slumping into the steel on the other side.
After a few seconds, Shea starts to crawl her way over to the security barrier, using the railing to pull her up--and receiving plenty of supportive pats to the arm and back from the fans in front of her. As she reaches her feet, London looks over her shoulder and spots Marvela starting to rise herself, slightly slumped forward, her back to the Sensational One.
And a surge of adrenaline takes over. Pushing away from the railing, Shea sprints toward the staircase, leaping from the floor and touching down on the top step--temporarily. From there, London launches a second time, reaching out a hand to palm the back of Marcille’s noggin, aiming to SLAM the brat’s face into the floor with an emphatic bulldog.
With a yelp of startled indignation compromising the entirety of Marvela’s temporary vocabulary, it was the turn of her own features to lead the way towards the barely padded concrete. The Sensational Storm managed to whip her hands up, largely in alarm, at the last moment, and yet the effort of cushioning her impending fall did little to blunt the impact, her noggin whiplashing backwards after it COLLIDED!! with the floor.
With big, brown eyes fluttering, Marcille popped up and rolled away from the brutal collision, flopping to the ground a moment after and groaning into a dull eyed stupor.
“Alright Shea,” Style prompted from inside the ring, leaning over the top ropes as one blonde addressed the other. “Turn about is fair play, now get it back inside.”
The Sensational One flashes her most disarming smile to the All-American Angel. “I don’t think Marvela ‘ere an’ I are even remotely CLOSE ta bein’ even out ‘ere. Do YOU? Really?”
London doesn’t wait for an answer. She DOES climb back onto the apron--but instead of slipping through the ropes as she had been invited, Shea retreats to the far ringpost, sinking into a taut crouch as she watches the stunned French-American brat, waiting for the first signs of life from her less experienced foe. When Marcille finally starts to pull herself up to her feet, fortune smiles on the British Bombshell as Marvela turns about to face her, albeit with a bowed head. And, as Shea starts to sprint down the apron toward her, ready to leap from the ring and catch the Marvellous One with her London Blitz!
LONDON BLITZ: @1:29
www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRageBu7Mqs
“Hey, now, WAIT!!” Marvela protested as she finally made her way back up to vertical, swaying this way and that before her peepers popped open wide. It was already too late to evade, even as the brunette brought her palms up to ward off the impending assault, and there was little more she could do before the blonde Brit leapt off the apron to the delight of the FAWNatics. London’s knees SLAMMED into the astonished shoulders of Marcille, and it was with an ‘ERK!’ that the Magnificent Marvel was forced to buckle beneath her opponent’s flung bodyweight and sensational momentum.
As Marvela rapidly tumbled backwards, Shea rode her all the way down to the concrete, the joy of those watching only increasing as Marcille was smacked back down hard onto the concrete across the young women’s slender shoulders, a fresh ‘GUFF!” voicing the emptying of air from her petite body.
“Feel better?” Susan asks from the ring, attempting with all her might to keep the corners of her lips from curling up in a smirk... and only partially succeeding.
Down on the floor, a risen Shea snatches a handful of Marvela’s tresses, yanking the brunette to her feet as well. “Almost,” the Sensational One replies. Dragging the Elegant Elitist over to the announce table, London uses her hair hold to SMASH Marcille’s face into the tabletop once... twice... thrice, before shovelling the Marvellous One up onto its surface and laying her out. Looking up from her opponent, London asks the crowd, “WHATTAYA SAY? SHOULD WE SHOW ‘ER ‘OW IT’S DONE???”
The crowd might not be absolutely certain of Shea’s meaning, but they still respond in the affirmative. And with that, the British blonde turns back to the ring. Hopping onto the apron, London climbs the near ringpost, and with that the FAWN icons intentions become clear--to launch her own Sensational Leg Drop to the outside, with Marcille prone atop the announcer’s table.
If Marvela had anything to say about it, she was keeping it to herself, her deep brown peepers fluttering as her petulant pride struggled to wake up. She made no headway in that regard, supine and vulnerable as Shea took flight, laid out and a near perfect crash pad as London took to the air, the FAWNatics WHOOPING a great cheer as she cleared the distance between ring and the announce table, mere moments from creating a fresh memory...
...and she connected!! With a collective gasp from the audience, the Sensational Leg Drop proved that the second time was to be the charm tonight, and as valiantly as the announce table attempted to remain standing; it instead collapsed beneath the hellacious drop! Wood splintered with an almighty CRACK!! and swallowed both young women up in a heap of devastation, announcers running for cover as quickly as possible amidst the unfolding mayhem.
It was a good thing this match was being fought without count outs, because neither woman would have beaten a count back to the ring following such a Sensational Leg Drop. And fortunately for Marvela, while there might no be count outs, falls did NOT count anywhere. If they had, with Shea’s shapely gam draped over her sternum for close to 10 seconds, this match would have been over. Instead, as the crowd roars its approval for the carnage, both women struggle to collect themselves...
To the surprise of practically no one, it’s London who starts to rise first. Her chest heaving with each deep breath she takes, the British Bombshell drags her foe out of the wreckage of the announce table and leads her over to the ring, stuffing Marvela under the bottom rope and sending her in with a shove. As Marcille tumbles to a stop, flat on her back, Shea climbs onto the apron and marches to the near ringpost. Ascending the ropes, the Sensational One sets herself up upon the top turnbuckle, her back to the ring--a slightly awkward climb that requires Shea to pause and settle herself for a fraction of a second. But she then launches into a beautiful moonsault, Marvela’s open tummy proving a MOST inviting landing strip.
And ‘inviting’ is precisely what the ‘Original’ People’s Princess remained, her bluster left behind amongst the remains of the obliterated table as the Sensational Shea London flipped gracefully through the air. Once upon a time, not so long ago, the FAWNatics would have verbally urged Marvela to roll her way to safety or turtle herself up, instead they hoped for the opposite, and as they watched on for what appeared to be a lifetime, they were rewarded for their collective faith in their favourite.
Marcille did not evade the incoming impact, ‘GUFFING!’ out what little remained of the air left in her petite frame as two trim tummies collided, the brunette folding about the blonde with a pained spasm before she began to collapse, Shea spotting her opportunity and collecting a pair of sublime stems. Susan was there without delay, and no-one could deny the legality of her count...
ONE!
TWO!!
THRENOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Against ALL odds, Marvela throws a fist into the air, elevating her shoulder with absolutely NO time to spare. The crowd groans, but Shea doesn’t protest in the slightest, instead rising to her knees and pushing Marcille over onto her stomach. The Sensational One then scoots forward, planting her knees against the French-American brunette’s back. And all it takes to transform the FAWNatics groans back to cheers is for London to reach for Marvela’s ankles, crossing them over. And as London’s other mit slips under Marcille’s chin, London’s Legion are ready for their heroine to rock back and hoist the Original People’s Princess up onto London Bridge.
The Elegant Elitist, for her bluster, was not about to summon any further resistance as every inch of her sublimely miniature frame felt fit to break after being the centrepiece of an obliterated table. As she was tied up into a knot and thrust up into the air in an agonising arc, her cry of pain was immediate and unrestrained. Her already shattered back crumbled all the more in a short series of violent spasms, straining and collapsing as the veteran played her like instrument.
While initially she shouted out the single word of no and shook her head in the negative, her free hand had already betrayed her as it began tapping franticly for release. Ultimately she could deny it no longer, and she rapidly changed her plea to “I GIVE!!”, seething to her pained core that this evening had turned so completely sour.
Admirably, Susan calls for the bell the moment Marvela cries out her surrender, and Shea likewise breaks the hold virtually right away, nudging the Marvelous One off her knees with a flex of her legs. Marcille spills over to her belly, one hand reaching to massage the small of her back, her boots RAPIDLY pounding the canvas as the All-American Angel offers London a helping hand up. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer declares while Susan tugs Shea to her feet, raising her hand in triumph, “your winner, by submission... SHHHEEEAAA LOOONNNDDDOOONNN!!!!!”
The supportive cheers of the FAWNatics wash over her, Shea’s eyes growing a little damp. It DID feel DAMN good to be standing triumphant in this ring again. As her gaze drifts down to the writhing, mewling Marvela, Susan asks her, “Think she learned anything tonight?”
“Never know with this lot,” the Sensational One sighs. “But if she ‘asn’t, I can give ‘er a refresher course.”