Post by Dawn Halliwell on Mar 23, 2018 16:29:03 GMT
"After some time to reflect, I'm gonna go with 'flattered'.
After all, how else should I react when one of the longest-lasting ladies of this division has clearly decided that I'm the object of her obsession? I mean, granted, it's getting just a tad close to being on the creepy side, but when it comes down to it I guess I'm just glad that I'm so important in someone's eyes that she just can't get me out of her head. Best be careful with it, though, girl, because you might start making some of my more devoted fans jealous if you keep this up.
Fiona, Fiona, Fiona... God damn, but do I hate you.
Not as much as you seem to have it out for me, though - I mean, after I damn near broke your neck before making you tap out back on OFN, I was personally content to let your ass be. I had, after all, beaten your ass pretty fucking soundly, and I didn't feel like sticking around to mutilate the bodies, as it were. I was done with you. I'd played with my toy until it broke, and decided to move on to more interesting ways to spend my free time. But you? Oh, you just couldn't let me go, could you? After everything I put you through in that ring, you still couldn't just sit back and accept that I'd beaten you. You couldn't just move on... and so you delivered your challenge.
I don't know if it's Gilmore or not, but someone sure as hell gave you a good hard fucking before you made that challenge, because you sure are Cocky. I thought I might have been drugged! You, challenging me to a rematch - but instead of cutting down on the element that made crushing you under foot so easy, you decided to pour more of it onto your suicidal little plan. I mean, come ON Fiona! This? This is how you want to go about trying to get even with me? Really? What, do you think by making the match even more slanted in my favor you’ll somehow be at so much of a disadvantage that you’ll go negative and loop around?
That would be funny if it weren’t so sad.
Hello again, Fiona.
Since you've clearly forgotten: I'm Dawn Motherfucking Halliwell.
After all, how else should I react when one of the longest-lasting ladies of this division has clearly decided that I'm the object of her obsession? I mean, granted, it's getting just a tad close to being on the creepy side, but when it comes down to it I guess I'm just glad that I'm so important in someone's eyes that she just can't get me out of her head. Best be careful with it, though, girl, because you might start making some of my more devoted fans jealous if you keep this up.
Fiona, Fiona, Fiona... God damn, but do I hate you.
Not as much as you seem to have it out for me, though - I mean, after I damn near broke your neck before making you tap out back on OFN, I was personally content to let your ass be. I had, after all, beaten your ass pretty fucking soundly, and I didn't feel like sticking around to mutilate the bodies, as it were. I was done with you. I'd played with my toy until it broke, and decided to move on to more interesting ways to spend my free time. But you? Oh, you just couldn't let me go, could you? After everything I put you through in that ring, you still couldn't just sit back and accept that I'd beaten you. You couldn't just move on... and so you delivered your challenge.
I don't know if it's Gilmore or not, but someone sure as hell gave you a good hard fucking before you made that challenge, because you sure are Cocky. I thought I might have been drugged! You, challenging me to a rematch - but instead of cutting down on the element that made crushing you under foot so easy, you decided to pour more of it onto your suicidal little plan. I mean, come ON Fiona! This? This is how you want to go about trying to get even with me? Really? What, do you think by making the match even more slanted in my favor you’ll somehow be at so much of a disadvantage that you’ll go negative and loop around?
That would be funny if it weren’t so sad.
Hello again, Fiona.
Since you've clearly forgotten: I'm Dawn Motherfucking Halliwell.
And this is just a remix of a classic by a cover band with a harder edge. This is going to end the same way as last time, only you're giving me even more tools to break you with. This isn't how you get payback, girl - this is how you get humiliated on live Pay-Per-View, all while boring the audience by making them watch a match with a foregone fucking conclusion. I guess it'll be on me to at least try to make your annihilation exciting so they get their fucking money's worth - and you're not going to like my interpretation of how to make matches more entertaining.
Second verse, same as the first - just put me in the ring so I can put you in a hearse.”
"You've really never played video games before?"
Dawn shook her head. "Never. Grew up pretty poor, mom couldn't afford much in the way of toys or anything. Most birthday presents were clothes or books that she picked up at the Goodwill or some other local thrift shop. By the time I had money of my own I never really gave it much thought, you know?"
Caitlyn frowned. "That must have been rough."
Dawn shrugged it off. "It's amazing what you can do to entertain yourself with a few sticks, some creativity, and some woods within 20 minutes walking distance."
Caitlyn laughed. "Well, still - my vocabulary is like, 40% video game references, so I should get you up to speed so that you understand what I'm saying half the time. At the very least get an appreciation for my entrance attire."
"But I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything less from you, should I? I mean, after all, you're the IWF's walking definition on insanity. Every time you try something and fail - which, let's be honest, is what happens with just about everything you do - your response is to just try the same thing again, but HARDER. Maybe if you just try telling people how to think even louder, they'll suddenly agree with you about whatever little fucking cause you've taken up this week. Maybe if you make the match stipulation even more extreme, maybe you'll manage to beat the girl who wrecked your face in our last no-DQ match.
At this point I wouldn't be surprised if you married Johnny Fuckboy, secretly killed him, and hoped that having a second dead husband would make people like you.
Then again, I suppose that kind of insanity is to be expected, given your view of the world. I mean, you're literally the only person I've ever met who's so fucking delusional that you can go straight from talking about how good and nice and humble you are to bragging about your three cars, and how you're the only one in your neighborhood with three cars, and how you have a VINTAGE ASTON-MARTIN OOH LOOK AT YOU AND ALL YOUR HUMILITY! I swear, you're the kind of attention whore who would unironically brag about being the humblest girl in the world. Every time I see you pop up on Twitter I know I'm about to experience something akin to getting blitzed on acid, because the world just stops making any fucking sense for a while.
I'm not humble. I'm not nice. I'm probably not even good. You and I share all of those qualities in common. The only difference is that I at least have enough respect for myself and for others that I don't spend every waking hour lying about who I am, trying to convince the world of a fantasy: that I'm something - someone - I'm not. I may not be a role model. I may not be someone you want your kids to see on TV. Even though I'm not everyone's villain, I certainly shouldn't be anyone's hero. If my dad's influence means anything, I'm more like a Demon or a super fucked up God. But at least I'm fucking REAL!
And while fantasy might be good for quick escapism, at the end of the day reality ALWAYS wins out.
And unfortunately for you, I have a hell of a lot of incentive to drag you kicking and screaming into the real world, and expose you for everything you are: a weak, selfish, deceptive, hypocritical coward who manipulates everyone around her for her own sense of gratification. A woman who only ever sees those around her as tools for her own hype, agents with which to build the elaborate fantasy that is the only reason she can sleep at night, because the idea of the world realizing the truth about who she is is such a terrifying concept to her that she will do anything to anyone to preserve the fragile shell of her delusions.
Normally I'd do something like that just for the fun of watching you have a mental breakdown from the psychological pressure of the world's disdain, but thanks to Cable A and Bobby V, the Iron Maiden's on the fucking line, and I'm not about to throw away my shot on the likes of you.
So when I beat you, I'm going to go to the Iron Maiden. And I'm going to WIN it.
And unlike you, Fiona? I'm going to use that shot from winning the Iron Maiden and actually DO something with it, instead of just going through all that trouble to lose once again. Because I don't fight for opportunities to be the biggest loser in the pack. That might satisfy you, who always skirts around the glaring spotlight without actually stepping inside, because you and I both know that you'd wither under such scrutiny. Unlike you, I have nothing to hide, and nothing to lose - so I am going to use you as my first step to becoming Women's Champion.
Enjoy the moment - it's the closest to important you'll ever be.
So this is one of those perfect moments where business meets pleasure. I'm going get not just paid, but REWARDED for the chance to give you a desperately needed reality check. I am going to take you to task for all of your bullshit at one of the most highly anticipated shows of the year, and punish you in front of thousands of screaming fans. I am going to show you that, despite what you've been telling your little Fuckboy, we are all eventually held accountable for the shit we pull. Just like he's going to have to be held accountable for all the shit he's pulled, the shit you've tried to blame entirely on my father to absolve a murderer of all his sins - you are going to be held accountable for your lies, your hypocrisy, and your manipulation.
And I'm going to enjoy every damn second of it.
So I hope you're ready. I hope you've been practicing. Not your wrestling technique, of course, because we both know that prepping that will be pointless and a waste of effort. No, Fiona, I want you to be keeping that singing voice of yours nice and toned. I want you to do your little voice practice before stepping out into the ring, because I want to make sure that you sound your best when you scream in agony. I want to make sure you really project when you beg for mercy. I want you to be using your diaphragm when you call for help.
And I want you to be on perfect pitch when you call for the end of the match. But I'm not going to let you go just by saying you quit. I'm not going to let you go because you cried out "auntie em". No, Fiona. Only three specific words will give you your freedom. Only three little words will end the pain. And I want you to memorize those three little words, and sing them loud and clear when it's your cue:
ALL.
BLOODY.
HAIL!"
Second verse, same as the first - just put me in the ring so I can put you in a hearse.”
"This game is fucking insane."
Dawn was sitting in her apartment with Caitlyn Wright, a friend of hers from Boston. The two of them had met while Dawn had been working an independent wrestling fed out in the city, and had bonded after they had been booked together in a tag match. They had spent some time together before the match to get in sync with one another's styles, but had continued to hang out afterwards. Dawn wasn't exactly the best at making friends, so when she found someone she got along with she tended to cling - fortunately for her, Caitlyn didn't seem to mind.
"I mean... yes? It's not the craziest game out there, but I figured it's general wackiness might appeal."
Dawn shook her head in mild frustration as she once again failed to complete a particularly complex series of jumps and bounces through the puzzle chamber. "The way the internet portrayed video games I thought I'd be mowing down Nazis or Terrorists with a machine gun, not bouncing through a series of wrecked rooms covered in.... science... goop?"
"Various fluids infused largely with carcinogenic moon dust," Caitlyn chuckled.
"Guided by an intelligent potato," Dawn continued, "to fight an insane and inept Robot Eyeball."
Dawn was sitting in her apartment with Caitlyn Wright, a friend of hers from Boston. The two of them had met while Dawn had been working an independent wrestling fed out in the city, and had bonded after they had been booked together in a tag match. They had spent some time together before the match to get in sync with one another's styles, but had continued to hang out afterwards. Dawn wasn't exactly the best at making friends, so when she found someone she got along with she tended to cling - fortunately for her, Caitlyn didn't seem to mind.
"I mean... yes? It's not the craziest game out there, but I figured it's general wackiness might appeal."
Dawn shook her head in mild frustration as she once again failed to complete a particularly complex series of jumps and bounces through the puzzle chamber. "The way the internet portrayed video games I thought I'd be mowing down Nazis or Terrorists with a machine gun, not bouncing through a series of wrecked rooms covered in.... science... goop?"
"Various fluids infused largely with carcinogenic moon dust," Caitlyn chuckled.
"Guided by an intelligent potato," Dawn continued, "to fight an insane and inept Robot Eyeball."
"You've really never played video games before?"
Dawn shook her head. "Never. Grew up pretty poor, mom couldn't afford much in the way of toys or anything. Most birthday presents were clothes or books that she picked up at the Goodwill or some other local thrift shop. By the time I had money of my own I never really gave it much thought, you know?"
Caitlyn frowned. "That must have been rough."
Dawn shrugged it off. "It's amazing what you can do to entertain yourself with a few sticks, some creativity, and some woods within 20 minutes walking distance."
Caitlyn laughed. "Well, still - my vocabulary is like, 40% video game references, so I should get you up to speed so that you understand what I'm saying half the time. At the very least get an appreciation for my entrance attire."
Ciara passed through the room briefly, grinning at the two of them. "Agreed, we have to make that appreciation happen," she commented lightly as she put on a pair of earrings. "Hey, Dawn - movie night at Viv's place tonight. You coming?"
Dawn frowned. "Um... well, I'd love to, but I don't want to abandon..."
Ciara waved it away. "Don't be daft, you can invite her along if you want."
Dawn turned to Caitlyn and raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "Do you want to...?"
Caitlyn beamed. "Of course! I mean, if you wanted to go on your own I could hang out here, I mean, I did bring consoles and stuff so I could..."
Dawn clapped a hand over Caitlyn's mouth. "Stop that. You're invited. You came all the way from Boston to hang out, so there's no way I'm abandoning you. We'll go and have fun. Deal?"
Caitlyn nodded. "Deal."
Dawn frowned. "Um... well, I'd love to, but I don't want to abandon..."
Ciara waved it away. "Don't be daft, you can invite her along if you want."
Dawn turned to Caitlyn and raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "Do you want to...?"
Caitlyn beamed. "Of course! I mean, if you wanted to go on your own I could hang out here, I mean, I did bring consoles and stuff so I could..."
Dawn clapped a hand over Caitlyn's mouth. "Stop that. You're invited. You came all the way from Boston to hang out, so there's no way I'm abandoning you. We'll go and have fun. Deal?"
Caitlyn nodded. "Deal."
"But I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything less from you, should I? I mean, after all, you're the IWF's walking definition on insanity. Every time you try something and fail - which, let's be honest, is what happens with just about everything you do - your response is to just try the same thing again, but HARDER. Maybe if you just try telling people how to think even louder, they'll suddenly agree with you about whatever little fucking cause you've taken up this week. Maybe if you make the match stipulation even more extreme, maybe you'll manage to beat the girl who wrecked your face in our last no-DQ match.
At this point I wouldn't be surprised if you married Johnny Fuckboy, secretly killed him, and hoped that having a second dead husband would make people like you.
Then again, I suppose that kind of insanity is to be expected, given your view of the world. I mean, you're literally the only person I've ever met who's so fucking delusional that you can go straight from talking about how good and nice and humble you are to bragging about your three cars, and how you're the only one in your neighborhood with three cars, and how you have a VINTAGE ASTON-MARTIN OOH LOOK AT YOU AND ALL YOUR HUMILITY! I swear, you're the kind of attention whore who would unironically brag about being the humblest girl in the world. Every time I see you pop up on Twitter I know I'm about to experience something akin to getting blitzed on acid, because the world just stops making any fucking sense for a while.
I'm not humble. I'm not nice. I'm probably not even good. You and I share all of those qualities in common. The only difference is that I at least have enough respect for myself and for others that I don't spend every waking hour lying about who I am, trying to convince the world of a fantasy: that I'm something - someone - I'm not. I may not be a role model. I may not be someone you want your kids to see on TV. Even though I'm not everyone's villain, I certainly shouldn't be anyone's hero. If my dad's influence means anything, I'm more like a Demon or a super fucked up God. But at least I'm fucking REAL!
And while fantasy might be good for quick escapism, at the end of the day reality ALWAYS wins out.
And unfortunately for you, I have a hell of a lot of incentive to drag you kicking and screaming into the real world, and expose you for everything you are: a weak, selfish, deceptive, hypocritical coward who manipulates everyone around her for her own sense of gratification. A woman who only ever sees those around her as tools for her own hype, agents with which to build the elaborate fantasy that is the only reason she can sleep at night, because the idea of the world realizing the truth about who she is is such a terrifying concept to her that she will do anything to anyone to preserve the fragile shell of her delusions.
Normally I'd do something like that just for the fun of watching you have a mental breakdown from the psychological pressure of the world's disdain, but thanks to Cable A and Bobby V, the Iron Maiden's on the fucking line, and I'm not about to throw away my shot on the likes of you.
So when I beat you, I'm going to go to the Iron Maiden. And I'm going to WIN it.
And unlike you, Fiona? I'm going to use that shot from winning the Iron Maiden and actually DO something with it, instead of just going through all that trouble to lose once again. Because I don't fight for opportunities to be the biggest loser in the pack. That might satisfy you, who always skirts around the glaring spotlight without actually stepping inside, because you and I both know that you'd wither under such scrutiny. Unlike you, I have nothing to hide, and nothing to lose - so I am going to use you as my first step to becoming Women's Champion.
Enjoy the moment - it's the closest to important you'll ever be.
So this is one of those perfect moments where business meets pleasure. I'm going get not just paid, but REWARDED for the chance to give you a desperately needed reality check. I am going to take you to task for all of your bullshit at one of the most highly anticipated shows of the year, and punish you in front of thousands of screaming fans. I am going to show you that, despite what you've been telling your little Fuckboy, we are all eventually held accountable for the shit we pull. Just like he's going to have to be held accountable for all the shit he's pulled, the shit you've tried to blame entirely on my father to absolve a murderer of all his sins - you are going to be held accountable for your lies, your hypocrisy, and your manipulation.
And I'm going to enjoy every damn second of it.
So I hope you're ready. I hope you've been practicing. Not your wrestling technique, of course, because we both know that prepping that will be pointless and a waste of effort. No, Fiona, I want you to be keeping that singing voice of yours nice and toned. I want you to do your little voice practice before stepping out into the ring, because I want to make sure that you sound your best when you scream in agony. I want to make sure you really project when you beg for mercy. I want you to be using your diaphragm when you call for help.
And I want you to be on perfect pitch when you call for the end of the match. But I'm not going to let you go just by saying you quit. I'm not going to let you go because you cried out "auntie em". No, Fiona. Only three specific words will give you your freedom. Only three little words will end the pain. And I want you to memorize those three little words, and sing them loud and clear when it's your cue:
ALL.
BLOODY.
HAIL!"
Well howdy there pardner.