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Post by Admin on Jul 22, 2019 8:52:09 GMT -6
 Mile High Wrestling ThrowDown Championship
Steel Cage Match
Azurine Vebbins© vs Jansen MyrrhRoleplay Limit: TWORoleplay Deadline: Sunday, August 4, 2019 @ 1AM Central *First roleplay MUST be posted by Wednesday, July 31,2019 @ 1AM Central to be eligible to post a second roleplay |
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Post by Deleted on Jul 22, 2019 17:53:54 GMT -6
It’s the Monday after Rise Again and Jansen Myrrh was flying high. She got to piledrive Azurine Vebbins three times at the event which was the absolute best feeling ever. Then she was just informed that she would get a crack at the Throwdown Championship -- her Throwdown Championship at the next TV show inside a steel cage. That was really her only hesitation, she had never been inside a steel cage before but Paul reassured her that this was going to be a walk in the park and reminded her about her match with McTaggart -- or whatever the hell her name was. She did just fine.
Hopefully she had Vebbins’ attention now.
“You sure you want to do this?”
The voice of Paul Banter snaps her out of her reverie. They were at the airport and getting ready for a flight out of Denver. She didn’t have any other commitments, but she had someone she wanted to visit.
“It’s about time I do this. It’s been lingering on for far too long and if I don’t take the time to do it now that I’m back in the States, no idea when it will get done.”
The airline calls for the boarding of their flight and as they get settled in their seats and the flight begins to ascend into the skyline, Jansen Myrrh would never admit it, but the butterflies in her stomach were a little more than she’d like considering the task at hand.
During the hiatus from Mile High Wrestling, Jansen has spent her time honing her craft. Traveling the world and picking up new techniques that she can implement into her skill set. Taking on the best wrestlers in the world. She knows she’s still young and has much to learn, but her visits to China, Russia, the UK taught her quite a bit, but not nearly as much as her visit to Japan. It was in Japan when she learned that Mile High Wrestling had resumed. She was also unhappy that she wasn’t even given an invitation to return. To compete for the Throwdown Championship that she earned. Vebbins didn’t even defend the title on the Spectacular. She didn’t defend the title until this past Sunday’s Rise Again. She’s not taking that championship seriously at all and that pisses off Jansen more than anything.
If she were champion, she’d demand to defend it at every opportunity. She’d be far better at being a champion than the Shieldmaidens or Skrabz. And don’t even get her started on that waste of space Tyke Index. He’s the reason and the only reason she ever had herself pinned in Mile High Wrestling. It was a tag match, so to be fair, Jansen never even considered that an actual loss and she’s still undefeated in singles action in Mile High -- but she knows that Azurine’s threat is real.
She was actually surprised when Vebbins beat Zombie. It wouldn’t have mattered, Jansen was going to lay out whoever ended up being the champion at the end of the night, even if she started a war with the Shieldmaidens. It was just all that much sweeter that it was Azurine Vebbins.
And it made things that much easier.
Those little videos she sent in, just a teaser. To be honest, she knew that it wasn’t going to remain a secret that she was coming back. As she said on Sunday, it was wrestling’s worst kept secret. But she didn’t care. All she needed to do was wait for the finish of the match and make her return.
The rush she felt afterwards was amazing. She would have dropped Vebbins on her head one more time if it weren’t for that stupid Sports Entertainment team. Idiots. They’ll be dealt with soon enough because Jansen certainly didn’t come back to Mile High Wrestling alone.
- “Azurine Vebbins. I appreciate you welcoming me back to Denver. I also appreciate you retaining my Throwdown Championship -- you know, the one that I never got to beat you for? I’m sure it was just an oversight that my invitation to the grand reopening event never arrived, or perhaps Robert Mack will claim it was lost in the mail. But it doesn’t matter because once I heard that Mile High Wrestling was back, I immediately gave notice to the Japanese and knew that you and I had some unfinished business.”
The view of Jansen Myrrh is that she’s driving and the camera is pointing up at her from below as she keeps her eyes on the road.
“Why did I feel the need to come at you after you're match? Because you’re a goddamned disgrace. Zombie had it right from the beginning. You’ve treated that Throwdown Championship as a joke since the day you won it. And I’m not going to lie. Not one bit. I was certain that she was going to beat your ass but once again, just like with Hamilton -- you got lucky.”
“But in a perfect world, this is how it should be. You and I for the Throwdown Championship inside a steel cage. You see, your luck will only take you so far and I doubt it’ll follow you inside of a steel cage.”
“So as much as would love to annihilate you, you’re more than welcome to just surrender the title to me and we will go on our merry way. Because one way or another, I am not leaving Episode 20 without my Throwdown Championship.”
There’s a pause as she reaches down and the feed gets cut.
“How much farther is this hillbilly place?”
The disgruntled voice of Paul Banter who had made himself comfortable in the back seat. Luckily, they were able to rent an SUV for this trip. After they landed in Spokane and realized they had a three hour drive ahead of them, Paul immediately blew a gasket. The only way to calm him down was for Jansen to promise to drive. Unfortunately, the drive didn’t get any shorter as the mileage signs popped up every few miles.
“Ten minutes, maybe?” She finally responded and glanced down at her phone with the GPS map up.
Cell coverage was spotty at best as they rounded the corners of the highway, heading to God knows where.
It was literally nothing. Trees. Dirt and this long ass road to nowhere.
The road finally turned downward and as they rounded the corner, she couldn’t believe her eyes. “What the fuck?”
Jansen rarely said the f-word, so Paul immediately took notice and he laughed. “You’ve never seen a place this small? I used to wrestle in small towns like this all the time starting out for little or no pay.”
“I’d hang myself.” No offense to Solomon Cain. “So where is this place?”
“Seriously, there’s like five buildings in this town and three of them are bars. We can probably get out here and walk and find what we’re looking for.”
Jansen pulls into what could only be assumed to be a parking spot as she turns off the vehicle and steps out. The town looks deadly quiet as she finally hears Paul getting out of the back. They eye a few of the buildings when Paul finally speaks up.
“There.”
Sure enough. There it was.
There was no time to turn back now and Jansen wasn’t even sure how this was supposed to go but she’s here and may as well get this done. They walk across the street, which was easy enough with no traffic and walk up the door of this establishment. The neon sign glowed proclaiming the place is “OPEN” and Paul reaches for the door opening it as Jansen steps through.
There is one patron sitting at the bar, drinking a beer. He glances at the two coming into the room and he yells, “Got customers. They don’t look to be from around here.”
From the back, a female voice yells, “Tell them to fucking wait a minute. I’ll be right there.”
Just as the guy is about to repeat the words, Jansen shakes her head. “We heard her.”
The bar itself is mostly just that. A bar. There’s an old jukebox sitting in one corner and a few dusty tables scattered around the place. Jansen walks over and looks at some of the photos on the wall. Some wrestling photos, some really old wrestling photos to be exact. Some signed, some not. Some back and white along with a few colored, but obviously dated pictures.
A clopping down is heard as the door swings open, “What can I do for you?”
As Jansen turns around and for the first time in a very long time, she comes face to face with--
“Well, shit,” comes the voice of Candi Bratton. “What the fuck do you want?”
TO BE CONTINUED
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Post by azurinevebbins on Jul 30, 2019 20:57:49 GMT -6
Bagpipe Appreciation Day
Similar to an adored angle of affection, it’s currently 69 degrees in lovely Los Angeles this morning. Mile High Wrestling’s current, reigning, and defending ThrowDown Champion Azurine Vebbins starts her Saturday pouring three shots of Jane Walker Limited Edition Scotch Whisky. Today just felt like the obvious occasion for responsible imbibing. National Scotch Day, y’know? “The Hardheaded Housewife” also begins making breakfast sandwiches while sporting a Double-X Large t-shirt. Based on camera angle and viewers’ natural inclination to glean context from not-so-subtle sternum sayings, this wardrobe choice denotes double entendre. For one thing, it's a big-mouthed bass smack in the face to a recent Paul Banter tweet. Secondly, Azurine is "Heels Over Head" for her wonderful wife. Instead of the time-honored traditional “I’d Rather Be Fishing,” the word “fishing” is crossed out and replaced with “doing whatever my lovely wife tells me to do.” Vebbins proceeds to plate four scrumptious sandwiches when a few family members file over to the dining room table.
Seated clockwise are Azurine’s wife Nidia, step-brother Slamsley Addergoole McBody, Junior, and her older cousin Cadee Vebbins. After setting down the dishes, “The Adorkable Angel” glides back into the kitchen to fetch a tranquil-tasting spot of green tea. Upon making it to her supportive spouse’s specifications, Azurine sits down to chatter already in progress. “Scotland Da Brave” by The Phloriphornia Philharmonic Players lightly lingers as subdued soundtrack.
Slamsley McBody: It’s a beautiful Saturday for bagpipes, scotch, and merriments.
Cadee Vebbins: A phrase no one else has uttered ever, Slamsley. Seems too early for Scotch and what’s deyr really to be merry ’bout? I’ve also heard less hauntin’ hymns pushin’ my Hoover ’cross da carpet.
Azurine Vebbins: Deyr’s plenty to be merry ’bout, Cadee. Along wid Bagpipe Appreciation...deyr’s Scotch, Drownin’ Prevention, Take Your Pants for a Walk, Crème Brûlée, and my personal favorite National Dance Day.
Cadee Vebbins: But how can you be cheerful after Jansen Myrrh’s ambush at Rise Again? You were absolutely annihilated. She broke Bratton. What’s preventin’ her from vivisectin’ Vebbins?
Slamsley McBody: Experience. Azzy’s been locked in steel cages wid bigger, more motivated masses of humanity before. Jansen Myrrh hasn’t.
Azurine Vebbins: Bet Banter’s been havin’ her pummel palookas and sparrin’ sorry saps since Sunday. For different dames, dat would be food for fraught. However, as “Da Adorkable Angel,” “Mrs. Most Marketable,” and “Da Hardheaded Housewife,” I view dis as an open office opportunity to obliterate my opposition via optimum onslaught. It’s also why I personally appreciate bagpipes. No matter how much hot air one blows into da bag, it eventually has to squeak and bellow out. I might be meek as a church mouse outside Magness Arena, but once my chanters congregate yours truly rallies her rhapsody. Won’t be raspberry-wrapped like it was last week on National Lollipop Day. Den again, I am more partial to cherry or cranberry…
Cadee Vebbins: Anoder antagonist and I would agree, Az. However, you’re facin’ someone who has spent nearly a year yearnin’ to become Mile High Wrestlin’ DrowDown Champion. A woman who, unlike da Shieldmaidens, is hell bent, hell bound, and determined to deliberately decimate you from fur-der championship consideration.
Slamsley McBody: Means all da bad blood boilin’ and brewin’ will burn down Jansen’s gaunt grimace. Plus, if anyone needs to learn 'bout decimation, it's Paul Banter. Dude's eatin' for ten.
Azurine Vebbins: Slamsley’s right, Cadee. Da bad blood will burn down Myrrh’s face like dis Jane Walker Scotch scorches our grateful gullets. Dat scandalous structure of twisted steel and aggressive appeal caters to compoundin’ collision. Again, a ninnyhammer more naïve dan I would be taught trite trepidation.
Cadee Vebbins: Discretion is da better part of valor, Azurine. Seriously, what’s da harm in surrenderin’ da title to Myrrh? I mean, you keep fumblin’ ’bout in dese futile fights and it’s goin’ to blow up in your face like da Holy Hand Grenade of Saint Antioch.
Azurine Vebbins: Jansen’s not some myd-i-cal killer rabbit, Cadee. She’s a capable competitor who I can combat wid conventional means. Well, y’know, as conventional as one can when inside an enclosed environment. Myrrh’s goin’ to be chewin’ cubits of chain link when all’s said and done. As for da harm surrenderin’ da DrowDown Championship would cause? Irreparable. Would make me a paper champion wid-out a receipt. Speakin’ of receipts, dough, Miss Myrrh-der shall receive hers for deliverin’ dree Myrrh-drivers.
Cadee Vebbins: Myrrh might have your number. Maybe she and Aunt Audrey are right…”your luck will only take you so far?” Was a minor miracle you had a successful defense against Zombie.
Slamsley McBody: You’re treadin’ on cookie sheet tin ice. More often dan not, Azzy performs pretty decently durin’ high pressure performances. She just banana peel slipped up one time against Carbajal…
Azurine Vebbins: Fell flat on my back since I believed deyr was no-din’ at stake. Was not motivated ‘til after hearin’ dat initial bell. Den it was too late. I choked in dat sanctioned contest. Despite winnin’ a Hybrid Championship in Toronto and droppin’ rivals night after night in Los Angeles as well as Miami dru-out twenty-nineteen, one rhumba compelled me to seek career resuscitation.
I did not want to drown in Denver, not in Mile High Wrestlin’. Remember, da most important din’ to prevent drownin’: don’t panic. Remained calm, cucumber cool, and collected last Sunday even when da odds were increasin’ly insurmountable. Same should hold true on August 4 at Episode Double X. Difference now is dat Jansen bein’ four inches taller counts as an advantage. Just means I have to discover inventive ways for droppin’ her on da dance floor.
Three pairs of feet subconsciously stomp upon hearing “droppin’ her on da dance floor.” Considering the copious calories and carbs contained in an Azurine Vebbins-crafted sandwich, Cadee, Nidia, and Slamsley each exit the table while performing graceful grapevine exercises. This specific exercise helps develop agility and well, this promotional material is being produced at Azurine’s home. Hence, there would be some synchronized sitcom-style choreography. “The Hardheaded Housewife” then clears the table like a greedy gambler scooping their casino chips. After placing four sets of cups and plates inside the sink to soak, Azurine joins her family for a much-needed beach walk.
Cadee Vebbins: You’re competin’ against someone who’s fought in China, Russia, da United Kin’-dom, Russia, Japan, and probably da weirdest and most exotic of all locales...Portland, Oregon. Would not be surprised if she rang Slamuel Addergoole McBody, Senior for a two-week stint wid Groves Valley Grapplin’.
Azurine Vebbins: My step fod-er is a shady shyster who peddled Spank Squad and Clo-des Fall Anywhere Dances. Neider “stripulation” jibes wid professional women’s wrestlin’ in da modern era. It’s not Amateur Night at Da Drunken Turnbuckle, y’know? Based on clips I triangulated from da Stanton Enterprises Network, Alliance Network, and various streamin’ services Jansen’s rasslin’ appears rad-er rudimentary. Apart from her patented Myrrh-driver, her next most technical maneuver is a troublin’ trio of High Back Suplexes. I imagine Myrrh goin’ to China for mystical martial arts, Russia for Sombo, da United Kin’-dom for Catch Wrestlin’, Japan to be a Strong Style Joshi, and as for Portland...well, she wasn’t quite da pernicious pile of poisoned petals back when we grappled for Rose City Wrestlin’.
Slamsley McBody: Paul Banter really ignited an inferiority complex inferno wid her, eh?
Cadee Vebbins: Believe it’s more dat he tapped into her truly promisin’ potential. She was Macaria Champion for Rose City Wrestlin’ which is comparable to da DrowDown Championship. Held it for quite a while. Sounds like she was meshin’ disparate disciplines into some-din’ suitable for close-quarters confrontation. Also sounds like she’s got a sturdier wall of defense.
Azurine Vebbins: Dat latter point’s debatable, Cadee. What’s not debatable is Take Your Pants for a Walk Day. Figured da celebration’s applicable given it’s prudent protocol to perform a perimeter check prior to enterin’ any steel cage. Can’t trust Banter won’t have some festooned foreign objects stashed somewhere, right? Right. Plus, it stands to reason dat if you’re takin’ a walk, den so are your pants.
Slamsley McBody: Linear logic, Az. You’re probably also playin’ up how Myrrh claims she’s not leavin’ Episode Twenty or “Double X” wid-out her DrowDown Championship. Still, I imagine Jansen might get plenty peeved when proven unable to humble you wid her own two hands. Reminds me of my first wife, actually…
Cadee Vebbins: Myrrh plans to brin’ your whole hullabaloo as Mile High Wrestlin’ DrowDown Champion to a screechin’ halt, Azurine. For her, da punchline is a perpendicular plane startin’ wid her fist and endin’ wid your face. Same could be said of her elbow. You’re light-hearted today, but what happens on August 4? What happens when she escapes da cage and you can’t saddle up, cowgirl up, or in your case...ponygirl up?
Azurine Vebbins: Are you sayin’ I lack da bubble gumption to put Jansen Myrrh away? Earnin’ my second consecutive defense of any sin’les championship successfully is too big of a carrot to dangle? No. I’m draggin’ dat dead horse of a diatribe out to pasture right now. Myrrh may escape dat erratic edifice, but she shan’t be da one to awkwardly amble onto glorious ground first. Believed wholeheartedly Wendy Stevens was my Kurgan since she practically wanted to hack and slash my head from mine shoulders. However, as Double X draws near...Jansen is becomin’ dat immortal immovable object which must be struck down by an intensified irresistible force. Can already experience excessive electricity flowin’ freely all over.
Cadee Vebbins: But, Azzy, aren’t you presentin’ a paucity of preparation?
Azurine Vebbins: No, Cadee. I’m verbally showin’ my work like an oral a-rid-met-ic equation. Part one is eliminatin’ da variable from its coefficient. Dat’s simple enough since da variable which needs to be solved is Jansen herself. Banter, meanwhile, acts as coefficient since he’s too large to be viewed as a leech or parasite. Part two involves my technical trainin’ in genuine grapplin’. A Double Leg Takedown into a Spinebuster or Nor-dern Lights Suplex does more damage dan a rope burn or a pollex to da pharnyx.
“The Adorkable Angel” sticks out her left thumb and feigns a practice poke to Cadee’s throat.
Azurine Vebbins: She might even try pullin’ my hair like a bleep. Reeks of bitterest brimstone when you’re dat drastically desperate. Means you’re waitin’ to receive your deserved desserts.
Azurine, Cadee, Nidia, and Slamsley begin turning back to Villa de Vebbins as the temperature steadily climbs.
Slamsley McBody: Do you already have crème brûlée in da fridge or are you goin’ to be bakin’ once we get back?
Azurine Vebbins: Oh, it’s already in da fridge. Decided to mention it since it’s a dessert wid a heated center dat eventually cools, topped wid a hardened caramel layer, and traditionally flavored wid vanilla like most Phloriphornians are. Plus, today just seemed downright delightful to enjoy some-din’ so delicate and decadent.
Cadee Vebbins: Shouldn’t you just give in to your hunger, dough?
Azurine Vebbins: Oh, Cadee, you cheeky shrew. Should at least have lunch beforehand. By my currently calibrated calculations dat’s still a few hours yet. I also should get some Freestyle Floor Routine time in. Elegantly enterin’ da doorway now...Nidia, could you turn on Pandora, please?
Nidia whimsically walks over to their SHARP Roku TV, selects Pandora, and instantaneously “Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats plays. Azurine, channeling Bud Macintosh from 1996’s “Bio-Dome,” makes the signature “S” arm movements from Ivan Doroschuk’s music video. Cadee and Slamsley as if on cue follow suit. All three serenly skip and serpentine across the living room floor.
Azurine Vebbins: Sublime segue. Almost notioned I wouldn’t shoehorn National Dance Day, huh? It’s dirty-dree and a dird percent of my grandiose gimmick, but you were beginnin’ to wonder, weren’t you, folk? Dis song “Safety Dance” works as a super segue since it’s a call to action tellin’ da world how it’s safe to dance. Likewise, next Sunday on August 4, I will be safe to defend my DrowDown Championship inside da chillin’ confines of dat sardonic Steel Cage. Viewin’ it from da entrance ramp, I assure you it appears to be grimly mockin’ or cynical.
Den again, dat describes da one I’ll be dancin’ wid as well. Jansen, I hope you harness every hook, crook, and loophole took durin’ dis past year. Dis could be our fiercest flamenco devoid of disqualification. Deyrfore, don’t disappoint. Last din’ I need to read Monday mornin’...while wearin’ unbelievable unmentionables on National Underwear Day...is dat our performance paled in comparison to da Phoenix Championship contest or any additional scheduled attractions at Double X. Granted, we may not have da built-in brutality dat a repeat recital brews like Tyke Index and Bullet do. Instead, all we have are defined desires and agonizin’ anticipation. As I often quip...we may not view eyes to glasses on many din’s, but one we should is dat we’re da highlight on dis dance card...limbo bar none.
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Post by Deleted on Jul 31, 2019 11:59:40 GMT -6
It’s another long drive from nowhere in Idaho to the airport. Luckily for me, Paul Banter volunteered to drive as I am stiff, sore and banged the hell up from the most brutal week of training I have ever put myself through in my life. I have the shiner to prove it.
Where were we when we left off? Right about here.
ONE WEEK AGO
“I asked you what the fuck you were doing here,” Candi Bratton walked up to the bar and reached underneath and pulled out a shotgun and set it on the counter.
“Seriously, Bratton,” muttered Banter under his breath.
“Fuck, yeah, seriously,” she replied as she looked again at Jansen. “Last time I saw you, you were breaking my fucking leg and sending me to an early retirement.”
For whatever reason, Jansen wasn’t scared of Candi Bratton or her threat of a weapon. She walked over and took a seat at the bar and pushed the shotgun away from her, “I came here for answers. If I have any regrets about what I did to you, it would be not finding out what the hell happened and how you are involved. And there’s no one here in this hillbilly town so why do you need a damned rifle?”
“It’s a shotgun, dipshit. And I have a gun because I’m a cripple who owns a bar in the middle of fucking nowhere. That’s why I need a shotgun.” Candi reaches for the shotgun and puts it back under the bar where she got it as she’s determined that Myrrh is not here to finish the job on her that she started in Denver.
“Ain’t got no where to eat around here, Bratton?” It’s Banter again, obviously hungry. He walks up and takes a seat at the bar.
“Don’t be breaking my barstools, you fat slob. And does this place look like it’s ripe with restaurants? I can see what we have in the back, or you can put your fat ass in your car and drive for a half an hour if you want something mediocre. You want something decent, you gotta drive another twenty minutes further than that.” Candi walks to the door leading to the back, “Got any fucking food back there, dipshit?” she hollers.
“Some steak here. Probably elk.” comes the reply. Candi looks at Paul who shrugs and nods. “Fix it up and bring it out when it’s done.” Candi walks over and grabs a bottle of something clear from behind the bar and a few shot glasses and sets them out, pouring each one full of the liquid and then looks at Jansen, “You 21?” she asks as she slides a shot glass in front of her and the one to Banter, who holds up his hand, passing on the shot. “Beer?”
Jansen starts to answer when Candi laughs, “I don’t fucking care. Drink. Now, what the fuck do you want to know?” She asks, downing Banter’s shot and walking to the fridge to pull out a beer, twisting off the cap and putting it in front of the big guy.
A multitude of shots later and darkness had fallen on this small town and the light was still on at the bar, however the “OPEN” sign was no longer lit. Paul had finished the steaks and had moved to a booth where he snored softly. Jansen had her fill of alcohol and was sufficiently drunk but all of her questions had been answered. There had been some very emotional moments between the two women who had at one time loved the same man, but in very different ways. Candi had just as much to drink, but was far more seasoned. She had taken up a stool next to Jansen as they chatted.
“I saw you gotta cage match coming up. Have you ever been in a cage match before?” Candi asked as she poured herself another shot. She attempted to pour another for Jansen who placed her hand over the shot glass knowing she had long since reached her limit.
“No.”
“Been in any sort of special stipulation match?”
“Yes. Some sort of Prison Rules match with Tacy FatTaggart. Wait.. that’s not right.” That was the night of Jansen’s heel turn and the first night with Paul Banter at ringside as her manager.
“You win?”
“Ha. I won. Ha ha. Beat that bitch,” Jansen slurred. “Ima beat Vebbins. Her and her stupid calendar. Ima be the Throwd-down Champs.”
Candi shoots the shot and the glass clanks down on the bar, “You ain’t beating that bitch, kid. She’s been doing this a hell of a lot longer than you have and probably been in a cage match or two.” Jansen pushes her shot glass towards Candi, but instead Candi gets up and walks behind the bar and puts all the dishes in the sink and then puts on a pot of coffee.
Jansen’s glassy eyes turn towards Candi Bratton, “You can help me win. You can train me.”
Candi is quiet for a few moments. If she were telling the truth, she’s been keeping an eye on Jansen. Her uncle Dandy would have been proud, for sure. She’s got the spirit, she’s got the bloodline and she’s got the killer instinct finally. Now she just needs the experience.
“Tell you what, kid. Have Paul drive you to the hotel and come back here in two days,” Candi already knew that Jansen was not going to be up for shit tomorrow. Besides, it’s not as if Candi can actually spar with the kid.
But she knew who could.
“Come back in two days and we will get you fucking ready for the cage match.” Candi walks over and slaps her hand down hard on the table in front of Paul and he snaps awake. “What?” Then as if remembering where he was, he groans. “Shit. What time is it?” He glances out front and notices the dark.
“Late. Take your protege and get some sleep. I hope you found a hotel before you fucking drove out here.”
“Why?”
Candi just laughs. “Look around, dipshit. You think there’s a hotel here? Gonna have to drive about an hour. Moscow is the nearest place with a hotel. Bring her back here in two days.”
“What for?”
“She won’t remember, but she wants me to help her get ready for that fucking cage match with Vebbins. You’re probably gonna have to carry her out to the car. I was gonna make her some coffee but...”
Candi motions towards the bar where Jansen Myrrh is passed out with her face on the bar. “And two days, because she’s not going to be in any shape to do jack shit tomorrow.”
Paul groans as he slides is ample frame out of the booth and gets to his feet walking towards Jansen, “How are you supposed to train her? You’re a goddamned cripple.” He spins the barstool around and hoists Jansen up over his shoulders as she just remains limp in his arm.
Candi limps over, unlocks the door and pushes it open for him, “I know who to call. I can get her here in a couple of days. Trust me, she’s been wanting to get her hands on the kid for a while now.”
Paul walks out of the building and to the SUV where is opens the passenger door and puts Jansen in her seat and buckles her in. He turns to not to Candi who has already locked up the bar and turned off the lights. He starts up the vehicle and then programs the GPS before the words of Candi Bratton ring in his head again about someone wanting to get their hands on Jansen. “The fuck?”
TWO DAYS LATER
This trip had taken a turn that was at least very unexpected. Jansen had come for answers, instead she ended up with a hangover and a training play date. She hadn’t brought her gear so she had to improvise and she hit up the local Walmart and bought a couple of t-shirts and a few pairs of shorts and a pair of sneakers. Of course, all this was done the day before when she had a pounding migraine thanks to the countless number of shots she had the previous night. However, the words that Candi Bratton spoke to her that night continued to echo through her brain.
“You can’t beat Vebbins.”
Deep down, as much as she wanted to admit it, Jansen knew that Candi Bratton was right.
She can’t beat Azurine Vebbins.
Paul was driving back to Candi’s as all of these words battered Jansen’s brain while she stared out the window watching a lot of nothing as they spent the next hour on the road.
The beef between Bratton and Myrrh wasn’t entirely squashed, but some of the answers given to Jansen that night did cause her to reevaluate her actions, but that being said Candi was not Azurine Vebbins. And as much bravado as Jansen speaks, she never beat Candi -- she just put her out of wrestling. Jansen realizes that she’s in for the fight of her life. It’s time to put up, or shut up. Either she gets in there and prove to the world that she’s worthy of the Myrrh name or she goes in and gets beat and then what?
The town comes into view again as a ding goes off on Banter’s phone and he hands it to Jansen, “What is it?”
“Candi wants us to meet her somewhere specific. Let me guide you.”
Honestly, there isn’t a lot of places to go in a small rural Idaho town but they drive through town and a few miles outside of the town common, Jansen has him take a couple of turns and then a very long driveway that leads to a fairly new house. This must be what Bratton did with the money from her bar she sold in Denver.
As Paul parks and shuts off the vehicle, they get out and a loud voice is heard, “Come around back.” Holy shit, Candi Bratton is loud. Would have hated to be one of her kids growing up.
The duo walked around the house and towards the back where a makeshift cage had been set up. “There’s no ring,” she mutters to Paul. “Hey, it’s not like she was expecting you. Don’t be ungrateful. She doesn’t have to do this.”
Candi walks over and checks out Jansen, “Feeling better? Those hangovers can be a bitch.”
“I’m fine. Really.” Jansen replies as she sets down her gym bag and takes another look at the cage that had been put together. Candi notices the look, “It’s the best I could do on short notice. It ain’t perfect, but its the best we fucking got now. You asked for my help, and I don’t do this shit except for family.”
Jansen was almost too quick to respond that she wasn’t family, but it caught in her throat as she realized that this woman considered her family. Perhaps in a way, she was. Instead, she responds with “Thanks.”
“If you need to change, head inside,” Candi points towards the door. “Anywhere is fine.” Jansen picks up her bag and disappears inside as Paul walks over to stand by Candi, “Nice place you got here.”
“Well, no reason to stay in Denver if I can’t wrestle, so decided to come home. You’ve been doing a good job with her. She can be really good one day. Whether she wins the match next week or not, keep at her. There are definitely moments I see Dandy in that kid.”
“It’s actually uncanny, to be honest. She has a really good instinct for the game. It was her idea to go after Vebbins. We were actually making good money overseas, but as soon as she heard Mile High was back, she wouldn’t be talked out of going back.”
Jansen comes out having changed into a t-shirt and shorts and wearing her new sneakers, “Paul said you were bringing someone in to work with me.”
Candi chuckles, “You could say that. You know I can’t do it now, so I had to call the next best choice.” She raises her voice loud, “YOU FUCKING COMING OUT HERE SOMETIME TODAY OR WHAT?! WE ONLY GOT A WEEK!”
The back door slides open as Lara Bratton steps through also dressed to spar. She nods her head to Banter, “Paul,” before turning her attention to Jansen walking right up to her and sizing her up, “Been waiting a long time for this for what you did to my mom,” Lara mutters as Jansen shakes her head. “Well, I’m here,” she responds, not backing down.
“Okay, you two dipshits. Cut out the drama. I already told you, Lara. I ain’t got no beef with Jansen for what happened. So, cut the shit. She’s family, we’re going to do what family does and help each other. We gotta get her ready for her cage match.”
“I just met the bitch,” Lara turns to her mom. “She ain’t family--”
Lara is cut off by Candi limping towards the two, “I said, she’s family. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Fine.”
The next five days would go by quick, unless you were in the ring with the two. Lara wouldn’t hesitate to take a shot if she could get away with it and Jansen had no reservation about giving a receipt. The cage itself was sitting right on the grassy ground, but had no give whatsoever so each slam was felt. The end of each workout day would see Jansen soaking her sore muscles in the hotel tub. One evening was spent at the clinic getting stitches and before it was time to head back to Denver, Jansen was sporting a bright blue shiner. Lara didn’t get out unscathed either as she ended up with a big bruise on her cheek and on the final day of training suffered a stinger from the only time Jansen was ever able to execute the Myrrh-driver on the Bratton sibling.
Monday morning, Jansen and Paul were checking out of their hotel when Candi Bratton approached. “You fuck nuts leaving without saying goodbye?”
The duo walked over, wheeling their luggage behind them. “Well, I don’t think Paul wanted to drive an hour to you and back, so probably wasn’t going to. But, I’m glad you’re here,” says Jansen.
Paul takes Jansen’s luggage, “I’ll load this up into the car, meet you outside.” He turns to Candi, “Thanks for your help. Let us know if you come out to Denver.”
Candi smirks, “I ain’t got no reason to come to Denver. I ain’t in the game no more. But, I’m keeping up with the shit at home.” Paul chuckles and disappears, leaving the two gals alone, Jansen is the first to speak.
“Look, I just wanted to say…”
Candi Bratton holds up her hand, “If you’re about to apologize for breaking my fucking leg, then you can fuck off with your apology. You did what you had to do, and I respect that. It also took a lot of balls to come all this way to face me without knowing whether or not I’d kick your ass or not. Look, I mean it when I say you’re family. You need anything, you just let me know.”
Jansen nods, “I will. And I’m gonna stop with all the “I crippled Candi Bratton shit,”
Candi shakes her head, laughing. “You did cripple Candi Bratton and I swear you better use that shit because if I went through all of this for nothing, I’ll fly out to Denver and beat the shit out of you myself. It’s all part of the game. You have something to claim, you claim it. You hear me?”
Jansen nods, “I hear you.”
Candi nods, “Now, do me one more thing. Kick Azurine Vebbins’ ass. Maybe you’ll hit her brain hard enough she can start to speak fucking English again.”
A smirk crosses the face of Jansen Myrrh, “Oh, that’s definitely in the plan.” Jansen hears the honking of a horn and she starts to leave, turning to face Candi as she walks backwards towards the exit, “Tell Lara that I hope her neck starts to feel better soon.”
“You better not worry about Lara, she may just show up in Denver just to kick your ass.”
JANSEN MYRRH VS. AZURINE VEBBINS
(THROWDOWN CHAMPIONSHIP/CAGE MATCH)
“Azurine Vebbins” Jansen Myrrh is standing outside of the Magness Arena as she cuts her second promo for the upcoming Mile High Wrestling program, Episode 20. She has a bandage over some stitches to her forehead and a nice shiner that is starting to heal, giving the skin around it a green tint.
“The Calendar Queen.”
“It finally dawned on me that I made a critical error when approaching this match with you. It’s the same mistake that Samantha Hamilton made. The same mistake that Zombie made. The same mistake that most who have gotten into the ring with you have all made.”
“They underestimated you. You come across as this homely housewife, with your tear away daily calendar and your Betty Crocker smile and your stupid accent and people think you don’t take this sport seriously.”
“But you do.”
“You take it very seriously and I realize that now. Maybe all of that shit about the Throwdown Championship being a stepping stone was just that. Bull shit. Maybe this is all just some fabricated ruse on your part to get your opponents to put their guard down. But saying that, if I were to be completely honest, you’re going to be the toughest competitor I will have ever faced. But let me make one thing very clear to you.”
“This is my life. This is my obsession. Girls grow up dreaming about Prince Charming, the perfect wedding and the glorious honeymoon. I grew up dreaming about being the World Champion, just like my uncle. Fighting all challengers and turning them away, victory after victory.”
“What pisses me off the most is that no one in that locker room sees me at that level. They don’t see me as a threat to Skrabz, or Bullet, or Tyke, or Solomon Cain. I don’t think they even see me on the same level as you, Azurine Vebbins.”
“I don’t think anyone in that locker room thinks I can beat you.”
“If Sam Hamilton can’t beat Azurine, then Jansen can’t beat Azurine.”
“If Zombie can’t beat Azurine, then Jansen can’t beat Azurine.”
“One thing you will come to realize when that cage door closes is that I don’t give a fuck what anyone in that locker room thinks. I’ll either lose and prove everyone right, or I’ll beat you and prove to them all that they were wrong. And better yet, I will prove to myself that I am ready to be what is my destiny to be and that, Azurine Vebbins, is champion.”
“So I hope you are taking my challenge seriously, because I am taking you deadly serious. I have trained like I have never trained before. I went to the last person on Earth that I ever wanted to see and begged them to train me for this match. So let me make this very clear to you. I must beat you. I must put you down. I must be Throwdown Champion.”
“So tweet about this, Azurine, because August 4th is actually “Beat a Bitch in a Cage” day.”
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Post by azurinevebbins on Aug 3, 2019 10:19:56 GMT -6
(Dis)Respect Your Parents Day
Thursday, August 1st should’ve been downright delightful for “The Hardheaded Housewife” if celebrations were left up to her. She was genuinely giddy honoring her girlfriend, Spider-Man, and baking a raspberry cream pie. The outlier, though, was also finding a way to “Respect Your Parents.” Neither biological parent lived in close perceived proximity. Her father, Archie Vebbins, lived 5 hours and 40 minutes away in an “active adult community” somewhere in Phoenix, Arizona. Meanwhile, her mother Audrey remained positively perturbed in Phloriphornia. Azurine Vebbins felt exempt. However, she would soon be greeted by a depreciative dastard.
“Father Figure” by George Michael blares from a garish golf cart outside Azurine’s Exotic Extracurriculars Enclosure. Enter “Da Almighty Slam Miser” Slamuel Addergoole McBody. He shabbily saunters over with significant assistance of his favorite foreign object: a six-foot-long, sawn-off steel shillelagh. The Irish walking stick doesn’t fire any projectiles, but aims to amplify “Poppa Slams’” amoral aesthetic. Dude’s dressed to depress, or if we’re picking numbers, the ones?
Viewing head first, Slamuel’s black “PAPA” bandana barely shields his skullet. Second, this man made the mental mistake of wearing scraped sunglasses indoors. Third, his pre-torn tank top attracts attention to atrophied muscles. Next, those kitschy knock-off ZooBahs may have been in fashion ten minutes after trying them on, but he’s kept the same pair for two tumultuous decades. Second to last, his New Balance sneakers appear burglar-level broken in. However, his most baffling fashion faux pas? McBody’s weight belt did little to punch up the spiked fruit punch paunch he clumsily carries.
Vebbins and her older step-brother Slamsley, Slamuel’s first biological son, approach him with astute apprehension.
Azurine Vebbins: Why da foxtrot are you here, Slamuel?
Slamuel Addergoole McBody, Senior: August 1st, 1999. Twenty years ago I was criminally crippled by that gallivantin’ gimmick. Was flagrant with his foreign flavor. Terrible timed temper on that one. Still can’t fathom why fans favored him. Prick had the personality of a pin cushion.
Slamsley McBody: Poppa Slams, you signed da contract to face “El Sombrero Grande” Sanchino Fernasandro in dat Chairs Only Match. You also are projectin’ quite a lot right now. And seriously you went wid da “PAPA” bandana?
Slamuel Addergoole McBody, Senior: Proudly Accept Phloriphornia Again. It sure as Hell, Michigan isn’t an endorsement of you entitled jerks. At least your brother Sheng didn’t eschew the natural notion of nepotism. I made him Somewhat Heavyweight Champion back home. Neither one of you have earned that distinction.
Azurine Vebbins: You’re da reason people like Slamsley and I sought refuge here in America, Slamuel. You made it to where we couldn’t proudly accept our sovereign state anymore. We became naturalized citizens and added da salvaged spirit of our creative culture.
Slamuel Addergoole McBody, Senior: You spray paint on the backs of foldin’ chairs, talk with an aggravatin’ accent, and ridiculously rely on empathy and other extreme emotions. You’re practically primitive in your pedestrian panderin’, princess. Or are you pretendin’ to be a ponygirl of a different prance?
Azurine Vebbins: I’m bein’ da essential elements of me, Slamuel. If you don’t have any applicable advice, den like a foreclosed house of cards...it’d be best if you shuffled on. I know it’s Respect Your Parents Day, but real respect is mutual and not transactional. Still, for benevolent benefit of doubt, why did you schlep yourself all da way to Los Angeles?
Slamuel Addergoole McBody, Senior: Hatred is what happily holds my husk of a heart together. Bum ticker should have tapped out long ago. That maraudin’ menace gave up the ghost before we could rematch. I’m constantly reminded of the wicked wallopin’ and terrible thrashin’ he set upon me. My mind may be a steel trap, but to truly taste and become one with the steel, I had to sell...I had to shill, lady...shillelagh. Had a rotten replica of that fink Fernasandro’s femur cast. Was a crude approximation since I couldn’t grave rob, dudette. Then, I smelted down all the clavicle-crackin’ chairs he underhandedly used. In a roundabout way, I’m jealous someone gets to slam the door on your face this Sunday.
Azurine Vebbins: You’re frustrated knowin’ someone has da flourish to finish deyr own fight. You’re upset Paul Banter’s pretentious prefect might be punished by da pressure of perfect cage wall face placement. Most of all, you’re disappointed it’s da “step-aside” daughter defiantly defendin’ herself in dat horrendous hexahedron.
Slamsley McBody, Junior: Hold da Phoneme Whippersnapper...you made a replica of your rival’s femur? Talk ’bout not havin’ a leg to stand on…
Slamuel Addergoole McBody, Senior: I refer to it as my fourth leg. The third leg’s for schtuppin’ that saintly senora known as Azurine’s mother. Which reminds me, Azurine, how’s your old man holdin’ up?
Azurine Vebbins: My fod-er’s fantastic. He doesn’t have to energize his erratic ego twice a day. He’s also not haunted by horrible hoodoo like you are. He’s also proud of his daughter in victory and defeat.
Slamuel Addergoole McBody, Senior: Defeat is for da weak, infirm, and those who can’t hack it anymore. There’s still, what, two or three days to surrender that troublesome title to someone who can run with it?
Slamsley McBody, Junior: Dat’s a Scrabble Triple Word Check for you, Poppa Slams. But dat’s da only kind of points you’ll be scorin’ today. Azurine climbed up and down a dirty-foot chain link fence today. Dat’s twice da height of a traditional Steel Cage.
Slamuel Addergoole McBody, Senior: Was there resistance, though? Somethin’ around her ankles, waist, or a one-hundred and seventy-one pound obliteratrix chasin’ after her? Bet no on all counts.
Azurine Vebbins: No, I just caber tossed a fifty-pound sack of potatoes two-hundred times dis week in addition to da fence climbin’. Know I highlight pole fitness, spin class, and Bikram Yoga, but sometimes you have to box yourself in wid brutal bodybuildin’.
“Da Almighty Slam Miser” lowers his sullen shades and notices a solitary potato popped out. He dawdles over, breathes on it, wipes a small smudge, and then crudely chomps on it.
Slamuel Addergoole McBody, Senior: Imagine it’s more like 49 pounds now. “Miss Myrrh-der” Jansen Myrrh outweighs you by more than a full sack. Your internal instincts are inferior to hers. She’s not a tickin’ time bomb of biological urges. Which reminds me, when should Audrey and I expect grandbabies? Eider one of you infertile ingrates want to field that loaded landmine? With Slamsley I always knew it’d be a “long shot” since the gal he married was way out of his league and has seemingly fallen off the face of the Earth. Meanwhile, Azurine, you should be commended for continuin’ the whole “Honest Housewife” shtick with a wilted woman who’s old enough to be your mother.
“The Hardheaded Housewife” almost paint brushes Slamuel’s right cheek like it was Vincent Van Gogh’s missing ear. However, with her ThrowDown Championship defense being thrown in jeopardy should Mister McBody press charges she relents from physicality. However, Azurine determines verbal evisceration is warranted.
Azurine Vebbins: Unlike you, I exemplify endurin’ faid-ful-ness. Nidia’s my lawfully-wedded wife and I’ve not been “Heels Over Head” for anyone except her since we met. You mentioned Slamsley’s half bro-der earlier. How did Sheng come ’bout? Did you not know da difference between a harlot’s headlock and wedlock? Seems someone else was a tickin’ time bomb of biological urges...someone wid a finite fuse and several short-comin’s. My internal instincts indicate you bein’ despicably derelict, Slamuel. Based on her second promotional material, dat describes my rampagin’ rival’s mental state as well.
“Da Almighty Slam Miser” Slamuel Addergoole McBody, Senior stands in Star Trek phaser stunned silence. Vebbins, sensing he won’t interject, decides to heap hype for her big dance like a mountain of mashed potatoes.
Azurine Vebbins: Jansen Myrrh swung from announcin’ automatic annhilation to uncertainty of levels based on locker room ruminations. She went from proclaimin’ me, and I’m paraphrasin’ here, “a lucky, blasphemous disgrace” to “da toughest competitor she will ever face.” She sounds timid, scared, and for da first time I’m not da only one wid jitterbugs jivin’ in da ol’ breadbasket prior to a dauntin’ dance. And believe you me, it’s definitely dauntin’.
We’re sandwiched between dose who hunger to become Hardcore Champion and dose who are parched to be Phoenix Champion. Mile High Wrestlin’, in addition to da Stanton Enterprises Network, are presentin’ chanters wid a full-course meal Sunday. Yes, da Steel Cage Dance is da main course. Hamilton, Mosh, Ohio, Jackson, and Maguire will serve a satisfyin’ side dish...an amazin’ appetizer to whet da taste buds of dose in attendance as well as at home. Tyke Index and Alex “Bullet” Carbajal, likewise, will participate as a refreshin’ palate cleanser for our carnage. It will be necessary for patrons to wash down deyr windpipes after digestin’ da decadence displayed by myself and Myrrh. No ifs, ands, or my supportive spouse’s beautiful butt ’bout it, dat’s how our presented performances shall be plated, folk.
Wid dat in mind, I should generously garnish and politely pepper dis showdown’s steak. Jansen, you’re married to da irrational ideal of becomin’ Mile High Wrestlin’ DrowDown Champion. You’re engrossed in engagement but deyr’s still plenty of time for a more compatible ceremony. Plus, when “Da Hardheaded Housewife” waltzes down da entrance aisle, she doesn’t intend on givin’ it away. I’m still very much in da honeymoon phase when it comes to championship defenses. And while I hy-pod-e-size you contemplatin’ dat cage as cherished cad-e-dral, da steel as sacred sanctuary, what have you...when walkin’ in and out da front door...I don’t share such sentiments. Remember when I related our feud to Highlander in my previous promotional material? Yours truly does not fight on holy ground.
Finally, here’s a head’s up. Slamuel, you don’t need to hold onto da handle. Slamsley, may you pry him off, please? I respect you reconcilin’ wid Candi Bratton. Shows you will do just near any-din’ to prove your preparation for dis promenade. Unfortunately, da one din’ you sound unprepared for is meetin’ your maker. My step fod-er is half-right, he’s jealous someone’s gettin’ da door slammed in deyr face in two days. He just predicted da wrong someone.
Our chilling climax occurs when “The Original Vanilla Shilla” Slamsley Addergoole McBody, Junior pries his father away from a nearby front door. Given location, it looks to be the front door to Azurine’s Exotic Extracurriculars Enclosure. He accomplishes this feat by snagging away Slamuel’s sturdy shillelagh. “The Hardheaded Housewife” then proceeds to connect with a Double-Handed Jawbreaker. Given his advanced age Vebbins felt giving “Da Almighty Slam Miser” a full Pearly Gatekeeper might be overkill.
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