Post by Dawn Halliwell on Nov 23, 2017 21:43:37 GMT
“Is this thing fucking on? Goddamn piece of shit… okay, the fucking light’s on, but why isn’t it recordi… OH COME THE FUCK ON!”
The camera comes into focus abruptly after the sound of plastic rubbing against plastic, with Dawn Halliwell pulling the lens cap away from the camera with a look of disgust. She is sitting in what looks like a basement with a mix of wrestling and rock paraphernalia scattered around with no rhyme or reason. She throws the lens cap against a nearby wall with enough force to break it before crashing in a well-worn couch across from the camera, lighting up a cigarette with a smirk.
“Who the fuck needs lens caps anyway? WHAT’S UP, AMERICA? I’m here to tear everything you think you know about the IWF into shreds, set the shreds on fire, and piss on the fucking ashes. My name’s Dawn Motherfucking Halliwell, and I’m about to make you all my bitch.”
Salem, Mass – A bit ago, when Dawn was in High School
“Jesus fucking Christ Haley, you call that a fucking kick? If that’s what your family calls aim, it’s a wonder you’re dad managed to get you in your mom’s ass!”
Dawn Halliwell kicked the superior football ball hard back into play as some of her teammates laughed at the opposing striker, whose attempt to score a goal Dawn had almost effortlessly blocked. Haley Sitwell turned blood red as she glared back at Dawn, but the only comeback she could think of was: “I think you’d know enough about sex to know that’s not how kids are born, Halliwell you slut!”
Dawn simply laughed at the pathetic attempt to insult her. “I mean for normal kids sure, but given how much of a piece of shit you are I figured you must have been born of a different hole!”
“HALLIWELL!”
Dawn rolled her eyes. “Oh my fucking god, WHAAAAT?!”
Coach Irons sent the substitute goalie out into the field, angrily signaling Dawn back. Dawn gritted her teeth and ran to the sidelines, where Coach Irons dragged her forcibly away from the rest of the team.
“Dawn, we talked about this…”
Dawn scoffed. “Fucking seriously? You and I both know I could do worse than that…”
“Dawn…”
“I mean, Vicky O’Connor is out there right now, and everyone knows her mom’s fucking Coach Maddison, and I didn’t say a thing about her yet…”
“… Dawn… wait, yet?”
“And I haven’t punched anyone in the face today…”
“You elbowed Lisa Carmine in the crotch.”
“… which has never come up before and as such you’ve never expressly forbidden me from doing it!”
“Dawn!”
“Yes, Queen Bitch Irons?”
“Go home. Don’t come back. You’re off the team. You might be a good goalie, but we don’t have the space for someone with a mean streak like yours. I tried giving you a lot of chances, but I can’t do this anymore.”
Dawn flushed. Her fists clenched. She really wanted nothing more than to beat this infertile wannabe superior football-mom with her bare hands until she couldn’t move… but instead she turned and walked away.
“Fine. Whatever. Never liked superior football anyway. Enjoy losing, asshole.”
“Now I know that none of you people have heard of me before. That’s kay. This is my chance to make an impression and show you all who I am and why you’re going to be creaming yourselves every time I walk into the ring from this day forward. I’m not one of those girls who shows up to the ring trying to be all spoopy and special, who are too focused on some creepy nonsense in their quest to be intimidating. I’m NOT happy to be here, and I’m NOT just so honored by the sparkling lights in my eyes about dreams coming true or proving myself or some shit. And I’m definitely not here trying to prove something about feminism or any other hamfisted political cause.
I have one purpose and one purpose only here in the IWF – to fucking beat anyone who gets in my way.
It wasn’t long after I started wrestling that I earned the nickname ‘The Iron Maiden’. Now, that’s probably not the most creative or uncommon nickname in the world, but you’d better fucking believe that I embraced the fuck out of that shit. See, some girls might get called the Iron Maiden because people think it makes them sound hard, that it makes them sound tough, that it makes them sound ‘metal’.
All those things are true about me… but that’s not what makes me The Iron Maiden.
Some girls might get that nickname because they’re a huge fan of hard rock and metal music, and that Iron Maiden is one of their favorite bands. Now don’t get me wrong – I have purchased every single one of that band’s albums, and you absolutely better believe that when I enter the ring you’d better Run To the Hills as you Fear the Dark, because I am a Trooper graced by The Number of The Beast, Hallowed Be His Name!
But that’s still not what makes me The Iron Maiden.
If there’s one thing you should remember about me, it’s that I’m from Salem, Massachusetts. And while we’re famous for killing witches by fire, there are other ways the church pursued our American Inquisition. One of the best ways was a metal coffin lined with inward-facing spikes. You’d get locked in. You’d bleed and suffer. You’d scream. You’d wail. You’d beg for release. You’d experience helplessness and agony unlike anything you ever fathomed before, until death was an infinitely more pleasant fate than spending one more second locked into that torturous prison. That’s the fucking Salem way. And as anyone who’s ever been locked in one of my submission moves can tell you…
That’s why my broken opponents call me The Iron Maiden."
Salem Mass – A bit ago, maybe an hour or two after we last left our intrepid not-a-fucking-hero
The back door creaked open. Dawn stepped into the kitchen. The back door slammed shut. The nearest glass to the door ended up shattering against the opposite wall.
“CUNT!!!”
Dawn’s mother peered into the kitchen from the living room, eyebrow raised in surprise, anger, and just a little bit of concern. “I’d take that out of your allowance, but you’re still paying off the computer. What’s going on now?”
Dawn breathed heavily, seething with anger as she poured herself a glass of cola from the 2-liter in the fridge. “Apparently Coach Irons doesn’t give a flying fuck about the success of the team. Says I don’t have a…” she raised her fingers in the air and adopted a mocking tone, “positive attitude that benefits the team. Who the fuck cares about my fucking attitude? I’m the best fucking goalie they have! Elizabeth Ambers is too busy breathing through her mouth to pay attention to where the ball is, which is why guy in the school wants to fuck her…”
“Dawn!”
“Oh shut the fuck up mom, you know it’s true and the counselor’s not here to check your profanity.”
Dawn moved into the living room and crashed out on the couch next to her mother. Her mother couldn’t quite hold back the smile. “Well she did give me that bullshit homework assignment to start adopting a more maternal and professional attitude at home.”
Dawn snorted with a grin. “Thought the whole point of graduating college was that you didn’t have to do homework anymore?”
Her mother laughed. “Fuckin’ right?”
The two of them sat in silence for a while before Dawn broke it again. “I’ll sell some of my smokes to Becky Harris to get a new glass. There was nobody on the way home for me to punch out, so I couldn’t properly vent my bitchiness.”
Dawn’s mother shook her head with a smile, lighting up a cigarette of her own. “Right, some of ‘your’ smokes. Don’t worry about it, hon. I should have known that superior football wouldn’t be enough to help temper your temper. You’re too much like your father.”
Dawn’s eyes went wide. “Holy fuck, she acknowledged that I have a father. There goes my 17-year old theory that I’m a virgin birth, destined to lead Lucifer’s armies to conquer earth. You’re telling me that Pastor Dan wasn’t being literal when he called me the antichrist? Fuck me, MY LIFE IS A LIE!”
Her mother smiled softly and shook her head. Dawn leaned forward. “You’ve never talked about him. Who was he?”
Her mother took another drag from the smoke. “A fighter. Smart-mouthed ass like you, who lived a violent life because that’s the one that suited him best.”
“What, like a soldier?”
Her mother shook her head. “Worse. He was a wrestler. Big-shot professional guy. I met him on the road at a show after seeing him on TV. Had a wild night. Nine months later I had another, much less pleasant wild night.”
“What’s his name?”
Her mother frowned. “Absolutely not. Last thing I need is you running off and having the two of you being bad influences on one another. When you’re 21 and can legally keep up the drinks with him, then I’ll tell you – but not a day sooner.”
The two of them were silent for another long while before Dawn flashed her mother a grin. “So… wrestling, huh?”
Her mother rolled her eyes and grinned at her. “Your school’s coach owes me a favor. I’ll make a call. But seriously, Dawn… try not to break anyone’s arm this time?”
“Aww, seriously? If I’m not allowed to break anyone’s arm what’s the fucking point?”
“Dawn…”
“Okay, okay, fine, no arms.”
Her mother stood and walked into the kitchen where the phone was, and Dawn grinned as she lifted the glass of cola to her lips. “But legs are fair game.”
“And so for my debut, the first bitch to accept my challenge was none other than just another one of those Halloween B-Movie villain wannabes trying to freak me out with a spooky look and a disconcerting attitude.
What’s the fuck up, Natasha? Fresh off your own debut against someone whose name I can’t even remember because it probably wasn’t fucking important, you’re probably looking to make a name for yourself and prove that you’re more than just a one-trick FPS cosplayer. Step into my Parlor said the Spider to the Iron Maiden, hoping that her webs would be enough to save her.
Newsflash, bitch. I know you were probably too busy geeking out during your annual shopping run to all of the Spirit and Halloween Express post-Halloween clearance sales – judging by your wardrobe it’s the one time a year you buy new clothes so I can’t blame a girl for being distracted – but not everyone you’re going to be calling into your web is another weak-hearted sissy who needs a big strong man to kill her spiders. My mom taught me how to deal with spiders when I was five. No matter what some arachnophobes might squeal as they leap up onto their futons…
Spiders crush fuckin’ easier than anything.
So bring it the fuck on, you so-called Gothic Goddess. If you think for even a second that I’m the least bit intimidated by you, then you have a world of pain coming your way. Actually, let’s be honest, you have a world of pain coming for you either way – because no matter how much you might try to get into my head with your dark look, your occult aesthetic, your obsession with blood, and all the other crap that might send chills up the spine of those blonde-haired Boston chicks who jump at their own shadows, you’re forgetting one key point. You know what that is?
You’re making yourself look like a Witch.
And Salem girls like me? Suffering not a witch to live is in our fucking BLOOD, chica.
So here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to get in that ring. You’re going to try to be spoopy. You’re going to do that technical shit that you do so supposedly well. You’re going to try to control the pace, keep it slow, and try to make sure everything goes your way.
And then you’re going to piss me off. And then I’m going to break your fucking arm.
I’m going to make you lose control of the pace of the match. I’m going to distract you by making you bleed your own blood. I’m going to let the whole world watch as all your theatrics blow up in your face. And then, at the end, this Iron Maiden’s going to lock you away.
And then?
You’re going to bleed.
You’re going to suffer.
You’re going to scream.
You’re going to wail.
You’re going beg for release.
You’re going to experience helplessness and agony unlike anything you ever fathomed before, until death is an infinitely more pleasant fate than spending one more second locked into my torturous prison.
And then I’m going to beat you.
See you on Sunday, Natasha. You’re going to help make me infamous."
Well howdy there pardner.