Post by Charity Crowne on Dec 18, 2017 5:59:26 GMT
What did I tell you? There is a conspiracy afoot here, my beautiful watchers. There is a foul and vicious conspiracy to keep the Crowne Jewel from her deserving place atop her throne. First, they place me in a match with five other women, where I'm subject to the vicious degradation of having the incompetence of others cost me a victory. THEN, they give the match bloody consequences AFTER THE FACT! Maybe if I'd known it'd be a number-one contender's match, I would've worked a little bit harder, hmm?
And then—AND! THEN!—not content to rob me not once, but twice, they go for the bloody treble and stack an opportunity at either title behind twelve other women! Bloody hell, could you BUY a little subtlety?! Sincerely. Please. I beg of you. Try a little harder than this. It's, frankly, a little offensive. It's like y'think I'm not clever enough to catch on unless you put a bloody neon sign over your chicanery. Give me a chance here. I went to a top-flight school, not some fly-by-night shithole.
I could spend all the time to tear down each and every one of you one by one, but...you're not important enough. You're not important enough to spend my time on. That's the brutal truth, innit? Like, there's Pandora Freeman. She's a tough rainbow, but...I dunno, none of you really scare me all that much. Astrid Hall, Bliss Riley—who the hell is Bliss Riley? Exactly—all of you people are just...there to get in my way. You're there to keep me from the gilded chair with my name on it. Seriously, take a look. It's inscribed right there, next to "for a good time, call your mum."
Why am I so cross? Maybe it's because it's become increasingly transparent that, despite me winning the Diamonds in the Rough tournament...I wasn't supposed to. Those in charge had other ideas, and since they can't get rid of me, they're going to try to do the next best thing and chase me out. Make me leave of my own accord. Well, you can think of me like that lodger that said they needed to crash on your sofa for a week and have been there for three years: I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, and you aren't getting a red cent out of me, so y'might as well learn to live with me. I'll be here until I get bored.
I've won battle royals in this company before. I know what it takes to survive and thrive. If someone wants to chase the elimination number, they can try. They can be as confident and aggressive as they want. The harder you swing,
the longer it takes to recover...and while you're trying to figure out where your feet is, you'll end up ass over teakettle, on the floor, looking up and wondering how it all went wrong. First clue? You tried to measure up to the Crowne Jewel...and you're not worthy to be displayed alongside me. Not. One. Bit.
Oh, I suppose I SHOULD address a few of you. Pandora, Astrid. CongratuLATIONS! If the rumours are true, Astrid's finally moved out of the friendzone! It only took her getting engaged to Spike bloody Kane for you to work up the guts to do something, Astrid! Jesus Christ. Get a backbone and make a move if you're so bloody besotted, wouldn't you? All that talk about your bravery and you're so timid. I know if I had someone I was interested in, I wouldn't wait for them. I'd take charge, make it known. But that's who I am. A leader. A winner. And you? You're an overgrown also-ran with a thing for cosplay and Renaissance Fairs. This isn't your night, Viking. Not in the ring, anyway. What you do in the privacy of Spike's bedroom is your business.
Oh, Vivienne! Congratulations! You're finally standing up to Lizzy Dalmon! It's good practice, y'know. Knocking off the third-rate American clone of the superior English original. Then again, America has a habit of knocking off English innovation and claiming it's their own. Unoriginal tossers, the lot of you. I don't care how innocent you are, you can't afford to be. Your manager's supposed to help you in this business, right? Teach you the pitfalls to avoid? Then how are you so stupid that you fall into things?! I know Ciara's a cutthroat bitch, the least she could do is share the bloody love! But hey, your loss is my gain, and I won't be focusing on her this time. No, if you're in front of me, you're in my sights...and being the target of the Crowne Jewel is a bad place to be. Just ask Keira Hunter.
Brooklyn...I called you a bedazzled chihuahua, didn't I? I'm sorry. What I meant to say is that you're ABSOLUTELY FUCKING MAD. Underneath that exterior is a goddamned up-and-down cult leader that'd make Charles Manson sit up in his grave! You're barking mad. You're even more hopeless than Harper, y'know that? At least he was a no-prospect loser who didn't have anything in his life before Rowan brainwashed him. You coulda been someone. Maybe not here, but...somewhere? I dunno where. Go to university. Take some electives. Fall in love with a foreign exchange student.
Have a whirlwind romance. Have a tragic breakup when your terrible friends convince you that they're more important. Regret it immensely. Internalize all of your angst. Be bitter for the rest of your life. Take it out on those around you...on second thought, forget everything I said. And stay the hell away from me, you freak, or get cut down.
Look, point is, I know what I am. I'm a winner. I'm a born success. Obstacles have never kept me forever. They can slow me down, they can trip me up, but the Crowne must always rest on the brow of the queen, and I'm the queen bitch around this place...and you know what they say where I come from.
God. Save. The Queen.
Charity flops back on her hotel bed, hair fanning around her in an absolute mess. Marilyn is nowhere to be seen, and the room is completely devoid of company, its only contents being an exhausted Englishwoman and an array of luggage. She looks up at the ceiling, inhaling through her nose, and forces herself to roll on her side, grabbing her phone. She dials a number without looking, as practiced as if she's done it a thousand times. She puts the phone to her ear, biting her lower lip as it rings. The moment she hears it pick up, she speaks, voice oddly worried. "Tabs?"
"Mmf? Chare?" The voice on the other end of the line is bleary, as if just waking up from a deep sleep. "It's eight here...what's it for you, two in the bloody morning? What're you callin' so late for?"
Charity curls up into a bit of a ball, sighing. "I dunno. I just...d'y'ever get the feelin' that you've done something really stupid with your life, but there's no way to fix it? Like, the sort of mistake that you can't fix and makes you want to, I dunno, move to Cornwall and take up carpentry?"
Tabitha is oddly silent for a moment. "...that's really specific, Chare. Did something happen?"
Charity forces a laugh, sounding exactly as awkward as you would expect. "Whaaaat? No! Nothing's happened, Tabs. Just the same as we last spoke. Like...I mean, I'll admit this whole return thing hasn't gone as smoothly as I wanted it to, but that's...that's nothing, right?" Charity laughs nervously again. "Right?"
Tabitha pauses again. "Chare. You know you can talk to me, right? About anything? Nothing leaves this phone call?" She hesitates again, a genuine and simple friendliness to her voice. "'m here for you, Chare. Now and always."
Charity's breath catches in her throat, and she rolls onto her back again, looking at the ceiling. After a long few seconds, she speaks again, voice heavy. "Tabs? W...would it be okay if I just...cried and babbled at you for a while? Like, a long time? Nothing we ever need to talk about again, right? Just early-morning blather?"
"You held me for three hours when I broke up with Tracey and never once acted like you were bored. You listened the entire bloody time. Least I can do, right?" Charity cracks a small smile, and Tabitha chuckles, just a moment of laughter. "Course you can, love. 's what friends are for. Good friends, anyhow. Take your time."
Charity nods, taking a few deep breaths. As she breathes, the pace quickens, growing shallower and shallower, until she has fully graduated into hyperventilation. Charity curls up into a ball fully, allowing the floodgates to open, and begins to weep openly into the phone, body racking with spasms of raw, heaving emotion. The door to the room cracks open slightly, and Marilyn sticks her head in, about to speak. When she sees Charity, though, she slowly backs her head out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her. The lock clicks softly, and we fade out on Charity in the middle of the bed, bawling her eyes out as Tabitha sits on the other end of the line, patiently letting her vent as we fade to black.
And then—AND! THEN!—not content to rob me not once, but twice, they go for the bloody treble and stack an opportunity at either title behind twelve other women! Bloody hell, could you BUY a little subtlety?! Sincerely. Please. I beg of you. Try a little harder than this. It's, frankly, a little offensive. It's like y'think I'm not clever enough to catch on unless you put a bloody neon sign over your chicanery. Give me a chance here. I went to a top-flight school, not some fly-by-night shithole.
I could spend all the time to tear down each and every one of you one by one, but...you're not important enough. You're not important enough to spend my time on. That's the brutal truth, innit? Like, there's Pandora Freeman. She's a tough rainbow, but...I dunno, none of you really scare me all that much. Astrid Hall, Bliss Riley—who the hell is Bliss Riley? Exactly—all of you people are just...there to get in my way. You're there to keep me from the gilded chair with my name on it. Seriously, take a look. It's inscribed right there, next to "for a good time, call your mum."
Why am I so cross? Maybe it's because it's become increasingly transparent that, despite me winning the Diamonds in the Rough tournament...I wasn't supposed to. Those in charge had other ideas, and since they can't get rid of me, they're going to try to do the next best thing and chase me out. Make me leave of my own accord. Well, you can think of me like that lodger that said they needed to crash on your sofa for a week and have been there for three years: I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, and you aren't getting a red cent out of me, so y'might as well learn to live with me. I'll be here until I get bored.
I've won battle royals in this company before. I know what it takes to survive and thrive. If someone wants to chase the elimination number, they can try. They can be as confident and aggressive as they want. The harder you swing,
the longer it takes to recover...and while you're trying to figure out where your feet is, you'll end up ass over teakettle, on the floor, looking up and wondering how it all went wrong. First clue? You tried to measure up to the Crowne Jewel...and you're not worthy to be displayed alongside me. Not. One. Bit.
Oh, I suppose I SHOULD address a few of you. Pandora, Astrid. CongratuLATIONS! If the rumours are true, Astrid's finally moved out of the friendzone! It only took her getting engaged to Spike bloody Kane for you to work up the guts to do something, Astrid! Jesus Christ. Get a backbone and make a move if you're so bloody besotted, wouldn't you? All that talk about your bravery and you're so timid. I know if I had someone I was interested in, I wouldn't wait for them. I'd take charge, make it known. But that's who I am. A leader. A winner. And you? You're an overgrown also-ran with a thing for cosplay and Renaissance Fairs. This isn't your night, Viking. Not in the ring, anyway. What you do in the privacy of Spike's bedroom is your business.
Oh, Vivienne! Congratulations! You're finally standing up to Lizzy Dalmon! It's good practice, y'know. Knocking off the third-rate American clone of the superior English original. Then again, America has a habit of knocking off English innovation and claiming it's their own. Unoriginal tossers, the lot of you. I don't care how innocent you are, you can't afford to be. Your manager's supposed to help you in this business, right? Teach you the pitfalls to avoid? Then how are you so stupid that you fall into things?! I know Ciara's a cutthroat bitch, the least she could do is share the bloody love! But hey, your loss is my gain, and I won't be focusing on her this time. No, if you're in front of me, you're in my sights...and being the target of the Crowne Jewel is a bad place to be. Just ask Keira Hunter.
Brooklyn...I called you a bedazzled chihuahua, didn't I? I'm sorry. What I meant to say is that you're ABSOLUTELY FUCKING MAD. Underneath that exterior is a goddamned up-and-down cult leader that'd make Charles Manson sit up in his grave! You're barking mad. You're even more hopeless than Harper, y'know that? At least he was a no-prospect loser who didn't have anything in his life before Rowan brainwashed him. You coulda been someone. Maybe not here, but...somewhere? I dunno where. Go to university. Take some electives. Fall in love with a foreign exchange student.
Have a whirlwind romance. Have a tragic breakup when your terrible friends convince you that they're more important. Regret it immensely. Internalize all of your angst. Be bitter for the rest of your life. Take it out on those around you...on second thought, forget everything I said. And stay the hell away from me, you freak, or get cut down.
Look, point is, I know what I am. I'm a winner. I'm a born success. Obstacles have never kept me forever. They can slow me down, they can trip me up, but the Crowne must always rest on the brow of the queen, and I'm the queen bitch around this place...and you know what they say where I come from.
God. Save. The Queen.
Charity flops back on her hotel bed, hair fanning around her in an absolute mess. Marilyn is nowhere to be seen, and the room is completely devoid of company, its only contents being an exhausted Englishwoman and an array of luggage. She looks up at the ceiling, inhaling through her nose, and forces herself to roll on her side, grabbing her phone. She dials a number without looking, as practiced as if she's done it a thousand times. She puts the phone to her ear, biting her lower lip as it rings. The moment she hears it pick up, she speaks, voice oddly worried. "Tabs?"
"Mmf? Chare?" The voice on the other end of the line is bleary, as if just waking up from a deep sleep. "It's eight here...what's it for you, two in the bloody morning? What're you callin' so late for?"
Charity curls up into a bit of a ball, sighing. "I dunno. I just...d'y'ever get the feelin' that you've done something really stupid with your life, but there's no way to fix it? Like, the sort of mistake that you can't fix and makes you want to, I dunno, move to Cornwall and take up carpentry?"
Tabitha is oddly silent for a moment. "...that's really specific, Chare. Did something happen?"
Charity forces a laugh, sounding exactly as awkward as you would expect. "Whaaaat? No! Nothing's happened, Tabs. Just the same as we last spoke. Like...I mean, I'll admit this whole return thing hasn't gone as smoothly as I wanted it to, but that's...that's nothing, right?" Charity laughs nervously again. "Right?"
Tabitha pauses again. "Chare. You know you can talk to me, right? About anything? Nothing leaves this phone call?" She hesitates again, a genuine and simple friendliness to her voice. "'m here for you, Chare. Now and always."
Charity's breath catches in her throat, and she rolls onto her back again, looking at the ceiling. After a long few seconds, she speaks again, voice heavy. "Tabs? W...would it be okay if I just...cried and babbled at you for a while? Like, a long time? Nothing we ever need to talk about again, right? Just early-morning blather?"
"You held me for three hours when I broke up with Tracey and never once acted like you were bored. You listened the entire bloody time. Least I can do, right?" Charity cracks a small smile, and Tabitha chuckles, just a moment of laughter. "Course you can, love. 's what friends are for. Good friends, anyhow. Take your time."
Charity nods, taking a few deep breaths. As she breathes, the pace quickens, growing shallower and shallower, until she has fully graduated into hyperventilation. Charity curls up into a ball fully, allowing the floodgates to open, and begins to weep openly into the phone, body racking with spasms of raw, heaving emotion. The door to the room cracks open slightly, and Marilyn sticks her head in, about to speak. When she sees Charity, though, she slowly backs her head out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her. The lock clicks softly, and we fade out on Charity in the middle of the bed, bawling her eyes out as Tabitha sits on the other end of the line, patiently letting her vent as we fade to black.
Well howdy there pardner.