Post by Dawn Halliwell on Apr 19, 2018 18:16:14 GMT
"You'll take my life, but I'll take yours too! You'll fire your musket but I'll run you through!"
Dawn pushed against the weights, heavier than she'd ever dared, straining as pushed herself harder and harder with every passing day. She knew that every time she added more weight it was another gamble. Was this the one that would be too much? would this be the straw of proverb that broke the camel's back? Would this be the moment where she finally pushed too far and she suffered the price?
"So when you're waitin' for the next attack... you'd better stand; there's no turning back!"
She strained hard against the pressure, and the pain of it surged through her limbs and her core like an electric shock. Her muscles begged her for relief, but she dared not grant it. Now was not the time for mercy. Now was not the time to simply let herself have a break. She couldn't afford to let up, to give any part of herself the slightest bit of slack. She was playing a dangerous game with them, just as she was with the upcoming match. She didn't have a spotter here, and she wouldn't have any backup there. She was, and would be, alone - with nothing but her own strength and tenacity to rely on. Her safety and her future was in her hands and her hands alone. She'd be surrounded. Even though one of her best friends would share the ring with her, she knew that she wouldn't be able to count on Ciara for help.
It was Dawn against the world. But that was okay. It was the world she was used to... and she'd be lying if she said she didn't like it.
"The bugle sounds, the charge begins - but on this battlefield no one wins."
The weights came down, then up again. She glanced over to the gilded belt that hung from the wall across from her weight machine - one of a few small pieces of exercise equipment that she'd purchased as she worked her way to having a real private gym in her home. Despite the roaring ache in her arms, she grinned as her eyes fell on the championship title. Even though the company it came from closed, she had been the only woman to ever hold it… and she had managed to escape with it before the company’s new owners had been able to pry it from her fingers. To her, it was proof. Proof that she could stand at the top of a company and be recognized as one of the best. Proof that when she walked away from Salem years ago, she didn’t do so in vain.
"The smell of acrid smoke and horse's breath... As I plunge into certain death!"
With a snarl of exertion, she pushed the weights back up onto their hooks… and her muscles screamed at her at the exertion... but she'd done it. Not for the first time that day, she'd pushed herself farther than she'd ever gone. She sat up on the bench, breathing heavily as she shook the strain from her arms. She let out a soft chuckle as she looked back at the now-defunct championship belt hanging on the wall.
"You wan't a sister, don't you babe? Don't worry. You won't be alone for long."
Dawn stood up, taking a brief moment to towel off her shoulders and neck... before adding more weight and getting back to work.
Dawn stepped out of the showers at the IWF Performance Center, hair dripping with water as she walked to the door. She'd spent the day sparring with trainers in preparation for the coming match, and was exhausted to the point where she almost worried she'd fall asleep before reaching the front door. She reached down to her gym back, resting near the ring she'd booked for the day, but winced slightly as she picked it up. The bag fell to the floor with a clatter, and Dawn instinctively gripped her wrist.
The bruising was fading, but still there - and still sore. She was assured that she'd be fully recovered by the match, but the lashes around her wrists during the crucifixion had been tight, and the bruising had been brutal. She'd been wearing hand wraps in the ring to cover them, but on occasion they still flared up.
"You alright?"
Dawn spun around with a start, seeing Spike Kane standing behind her.
"Thought you had your own gym," she replied without answering, moving her hands behind her back.
"I am a trainer here, you know," Spike replied. "I have been known to work for a living. Prepping for the big match?"
Dawn nodded. She didn't want to be pulled into a conversation right this moment, but she didn't want to be rude, either. Not to him.
"I've never fought more than two people at once before," she explained. "Not even on the indie circuits, and I've never had a multi-woman match in a cage. This is going to hammer me more than anything before, so I'm diving hard into prep."
"Just be sure to cool down," Spike advised. "You don't want to be sore and exhausted the day of."
"Yeah," Dawn demured. "I remember that much. Training without Ciara's a little harder than I thought it would be, but I know I'll need to spend Saturday cooling off."
Spike nodded. "Good. I heard you weren't working together at all this week given you're both in it." He glanced around, seeming to be checking to make sure nobody was close before quietly continuing. "I saw the bruises. Are you okay?"
Dawn's eyes hardened. "Just left over from what happened at OFN. I'm fine."
Spike nodded, regret filling his eyes. "I'm so sorry about what happened. I can't believe someone targeted you because of your connection to me..."
"It was bound to happen," Dawn snapped firmly. "Don't blame yourself. Someone wants a fight, they know where to fucking find me. I'm not going to let someone who's too much a coward to come at me directly get under my skin."
Spike seemed taken aback for a moment before resting a hand on her shoulder. "Damn right, girl. Damn bloody right." He took a deep breath, smiling slightly before continuing. "I'm... proud of you. What you've done, both her and elsewhere. I know you'll do great things. I don't doubt you'll be there winning the gold at Night of the Immortals. I'm just glad that I got to meet you, and share some of it with you, before..." he trailed off, and Dawn felt herself frowning. "Well," he said, seeming to brush the thought away, "You'll be alright, Dawn. No matter what happens on Sunday, I know you'll make me proud."
He patted her shoulder again and walked away, leaving Dawn stunned and a little confused. She watched him leave, silent and still for a few long minutes before hoisting up her bag without flinching.
"Yeah..." she said to the emptiness around her. "I'm sure going to try... dad."
Dawn pushed against the weights, heavier than she'd ever dared, straining as pushed herself harder and harder with every passing day. She knew that every time she added more weight it was another gamble. Was this the one that would be too much? would this be the straw of proverb that broke the camel's back? Would this be the moment where she finally pushed too far and she suffered the price?
"So when you're waitin' for the next attack... you'd better stand; there's no turning back!"
She strained hard against the pressure, and the pain of it surged through her limbs and her core like an electric shock. Her muscles begged her for relief, but she dared not grant it. Now was not the time for mercy. Now was not the time to simply let herself have a break. She couldn't afford to let up, to give any part of herself the slightest bit of slack. She was playing a dangerous game with them, just as she was with the upcoming match. She didn't have a spotter here, and she wouldn't have any backup there. She was, and would be, alone - with nothing but her own strength and tenacity to rely on. Her safety and her future was in her hands and her hands alone. She'd be surrounded. Even though one of her best friends would share the ring with her, she knew that she wouldn't be able to count on Ciara for help.
It was Dawn against the world. But that was okay. It was the world she was used to... and she'd be lying if she said she didn't like it.
"The bugle sounds, the charge begins - but on this battlefield no one wins."
The weights came down, then up again. She glanced over to the gilded belt that hung from the wall across from her weight machine - one of a few small pieces of exercise equipment that she'd purchased as she worked her way to having a real private gym in her home. Despite the roaring ache in her arms, she grinned as her eyes fell on the championship title. Even though the company it came from closed, she had been the only woman to ever hold it… and she had managed to escape with it before the company’s new owners had been able to pry it from her fingers. To her, it was proof. Proof that she could stand at the top of a company and be recognized as one of the best. Proof that when she walked away from Salem years ago, she didn’t do so in vain.
"The smell of acrid smoke and horse's breath... As I plunge into certain death!"
With a snarl of exertion, she pushed the weights back up onto their hooks… and her muscles screamed at her at the exertion... but she'd done it. Not for the first time that day, she'd pushed herself farther than she'd ever gone. She sat up on the bench, breathing heavily as she shook the strain from her arms. She let out a soft chuckle as she looked back at the now-defunct championship belt hanging on the wall.
"You wan't a sister, don't you babe? Don't worry. You won't be alone for long."
Dawn stood up, taking a brief moment to towel off her shoulders and neck... before adding more weight and getting back to work.
"I've said it before, and I'll say it again - There's something about a fight that really makes you think about your place in the world. I'm not sure what it is for certain, but I know that ever since I was a kid there was a thrill that I got every time fists started flying - and I'm sure it's no surprise to any of you out there that that was a pretty damn common occurrence. There's a few things I'm good at in this world, but nobody's ever accused me of being easy to get along with. Some of my friends think I learned to be as abrasive as I am because I enjoyed the fights more than I enjoyed the friendship. Not gonna lie, that shit makes a lot more sense than any other reason I've had thrown out there.
Lotta girls would bitch and moan about having to go into a match like this with one of their best friends fighting not alongside them, but against them. That's just not who I am. I'm not going to pull the line of the noble warrior and start talking about how fighting my best against someone I care about is one of the ways that I can show my friends respect - fact is that I really just enjoy fighting more than I enjoy anything else in my life. The fact is that this match means even more to me than a standard fight, and winning it means more to me than any of the friendships that might be on the line. Does that make me callous? Does that make me a bitch? Fuck it, probably - but I don't care.
This is the motherfucking Iron Maiden.
Ever since I signed on, I've been hearing the whispers. Some, like Fiona McFuckhead straight up say it to my face - or at least as close as that coward is willing to say something incendiary to someone's face. The point is, the message has always been there - "Dawn, you've got some nerve calling yourself the Iron Maiden without ever having stepped foot in that match, much less won it!" I've been brushing that bullshit off my shoulder ever since I debuted against Natasha, Queen of Edge. I was never going to apologize or try to justify my fucking nickname, something that I've been walking around with since before I stepped foot in the IWF. I'm not going to change who I am just because my nickname happens to share the names of one of the marquis matches of the women's division. I've never been the sort of girl to give a fuck about what other people think, or go on some bullshit quest of personal growth just to prove myself to the masses.
But as long as I'm fucking here anyway, I'm gonna take pleasure in shutting you up by earning the TITLE as well as the nickname.
Some people have been making noise about how I'm getting this shot just because I'm Spike Kane's daughter. You've been going on and on in your little sheltered corners about how I'm just a rookie, how I haven't done enough in this company to prove that I deserve to be here. I'm sure more than a few of you are going to try to say - 'Oh Dawn, what have you done other than get eaten by Rowan, lost to Natasha, and beat up some girls with no fucking credibility?'. I'm sure you're going to use those little justifications to tell yourself that I'm not a real threat. That I just got my way to where I am today because of fucking nepotism, because I'm Spike Kane's daughter and the big-shots upstairs think I can make them money.
Really creative, guys. I'm sure I've never heard anything like that before in my - OH WAIT.
No matter what you might say, none of you have the ability to reshape reality and change the damn truth - everything I've ever had, I fought and bled to attain. I didn't get signed on to this company because I was Spike Kane's daughter - at the time, I was the only person alive who knew it. I didn't get this shot because I'm Spike Kane's daughter - I got it because with ONE exception, I've beaten every single bitch who stepped up to come and fucking get some. In fact, the only thing I've gotten in this company explicitly because I was Spike Kane's daughter was a fucking crucifixion - and I don't see any of you pissy thundercunts waiting in the wings to get in on that action.
And when I WIN the Iron Maiden, and go on to fight whoeverthefuck for the Women's Championship at Night of the Immortals? It damn sure won't be because I'm Spike Kane's fucking crotchfruit.
It'll be because I'm Dawn Motherfucking Halliwell.
And I already am the Iron Fucking Maiden.
Ever since I signed on, I've been hearing the whispers. Some, like Fiona McFuckhead straight up say it to my face - or at least as close as that coward is willing to say something incendiary to someone's face. The point is, the message has always been there - "Dawn, you've got some nerve calling yourself the Iron Maiden without ever having stepped foot in that match, much less won it!" I've been brushing that bullshit off my shoulder ever since I debuted against Natasha, Queen of Edge. I was never going to apologize or try to justify my fucking nickname, something that I've been walking around with since before I stepped foot in the IWF. I'm not going to change who I am just because my nickname happens to share the names of one of the marquis matches of the women's division. I've never been the sort of girl to give a fuck about what other people think, or go on some bullshit quest of personal growth just to prove myself to the masses.
But as long as I'm fucking here anyway, I'm gonna take pleasure in shutting you up by earning the TITLE as well as the nickname.
Some people have been making noise about how I'm getting this shot just because I'm Spike Kane's daughter. You've been going on and on in your little sheltered corners about how I'm just a rookie, how I haven't done enough in this company to prove that I deserve to be here. I'm sure more than a few of you are going to try to say - 'Oh Dawn, what have you done other than get eaten by Rowan, lost to Natasha, and beat up some girls with no fucking credibility?'. I'm sure you're going to use those little justifications to tell yourself that I'm not a real threat. That I just got my way to where I am today because of fucking nepotism, because I'm Spike Kane's daughter and the big-shots upstairs think I can make them money.
Really creative, guys. I'm sure I've never heard anything like that before in my - OH WAIT.
No matter what you might say, none of you have the ability to reshape reality and change the damn truth - everything I've ever had, I fought and bled to attain. I didn't get signed on to this company because I was Spike Kane's daughter - at the time, I was the only person alive who knew it. I didn't get this shot because I'm Spike Kane's daughter - I got it because with ONE exception, I've beaten every single bitch who stepped up to come and fucking get some. In fact, the only thing I've gotten in this company explicitly because I was Spike Kane's daughter was a fucking crucifixion - and I don't see any of you pissy thundercunts waiting in the wings to get in on that action.
And when I WIN the Iron Maiden, and go on to fight whoeverthefuck for the Women's Championship at Night of the Immortals? It damn sure won't be because I'm Spike Kane's fucking crotchfruit.
It'll be because I'm Dawn Motherfucking Halliwell.
And I already am the Iron Fucking Maiden.
Dawn stepped out of the showers at the IWF Performance Center, hair dripping with water as she walked to the door. She'd spent the day sparring with trainers in preparation for the coming match, and was exhausted to the point where she almost worried she'd fall asleep before reaching the front door. She reached down to her gym back, resting near the ring she'd booked for the day, but winced slightly as she picked it up. The bag fell to the floor with a clatter, and Dawn instinctively gripped her wrist.
The bruising was fading, but still there - and still sore. She was assured that she'd be fully recovered by the match, but the lashes around her wrists during the crucifixion had been tight, and the bruising had been brutal. She'd been wearing hand wraps in the ring to cover them, but on occasion they still flared up.
"You alright?"
Dawn spun around with a start, seeing Spike Kane standing behind her.
"Thought you had your own gym," she replied without answering, moving her hands behind her back.
"I am a trainer here, you know," Spike replied. "I have been known to work for a living. Prepping for the big match?"
Dawn nodded. She didn't want to be pulled into a conversation right this moment, but she didn't want to be rude, either. Not to him.
"I've never fought more than two people at once before," she explained. "Not even on the indie circuits, and I've never had a multi-woman match in a cage. This is going to hammer me more than anything before, so I'm diving hard into prep."
"Just be sure to cool down," Spike advised. "You don't want to be sore and exhausted the day of."
"Yeah," Dawn demured. "I remember that much. Training without Ciara's a little harder than I thought it would be, but I know I'll need to spend Saturday cooling off."
Spike nodded. "Good. I heard you weren't working together at all this week given you're both in it." He glanced around, seeming to be checking to make sure nobody was close before quietly continuing. "I saw the bruises. Are you okay?"
Dawn's eyes hardened. "Just left over from what happened at OFN. I'm fine."
Spike nodded, regret filling his eyes. "I'm so sorry about what happened. I can't believe someone targeted you because of your connection to me..."
"It was bound to happen," Dawn snapped firmly. "Don't blame yourself. Someone wants a fight, they know where to fucking find me. I'm not going to let someone who's too much a coward to come at me directly get under my skin."
Spike seemed taken aback for a moment before resting a hand on her shoulder. "Damn right, girl. Damn bloody right." He took a deep breath, smiling slightly before continuing. "I'm... proud of you. What you've done, both her and elsewhere. I know you'll do great things. I don't doubt you'll be there winning the gold at Night of the Immortals. I'm just glad that I got to meet you, and share some of it with you, before..." he trailed off, and Dawn felt herself frowning. "Well," he said, seeming to brush the thought away, "You'll be alright, Dawn. No matter what happens on Sunday, I know you'll make me proud."
He patted her shoulder again and walked away, leaving Dawn stunned and a little confused. She watched him leave, silent and still for a few long minutes before hoisting up her bag without flinching.
"Yeah..." she said to the emptiness around her. "I'm sure going to try... dad."
"I'll start by addressing the elephant in the room - Ciara. I hope you understand that this isn't anything personal - and I definitely hope that this doesn't come between us in the long run, either on a personal or a professional level. I meant what I said before, though - and call me a bitch or call me a traitor, but I'm putting this match first. I'm not going to go easy on you, I'm not going to hold back, and if we're being honest? You're pretty high on the list of easy targets to try to pin.
You've gone soft, Ciara O'Connor.
Probably has something to do with all the time you've been spending around Vivienne. Don't get me wrong - she's a good gal, and has been a good friend to both of us, but managing her has been bad for the edge that you used to have. She has a way of bringing out the light in people, but for you that's taken away a lot of what made you dangerous. I mean, let's be real here - thanks to your time with her, you got kidnapped by The Pack and you didn't even break any of their bones on the way in or out of it. While objectively she's probably turned you into a better and more well-adjusted person, and I have tremendous respect for you as a woman and as a manager... in the ring, I'm not afraid of you. You're not scary. You're not a threat. You're just a gal who wants to be able to vent all that pent up aggression of a misspent youth, but you lack the stones or the skills to actually do it. Just like how it's adorable when a de-clawed cat tries to maul your hand, as much a it pains me to say it I'm just not intimidated by what you're going to bring to that ring. I'm hungrier than you are. More ruthless. More willing to put emotions to the side and turn you and everyone else between me and Night of the Immortals into a slab of tenderized meat.
I love you, girl, but this isn't a friendly fight anymore. This is serious, and I'm going to put you out of your misery.
And speaking of misery, looks like her daughter's going to be joining us in the Iron Maiden. Helena Sawyer - I'll be honest, I never thought I'd be seeing you again. I suppose they said the same thing about me, though - we both got kinda fucked up by the same girl and got put on the shelf for a little bit, didn't we? I mean, believe me, I personally know full well what it's like to go through that... Wait, what? Oh. Oh, you didn't take some time off so that you could recover from injuries sustained in the ring? You just beat Rayne and then... fucked off for six months to spend time with your girlfriend.
Who the FUCK do you think you are?
No, seriously. You treat this company like a fucking side-piece for months, and then come out of the woodwork out of fucking nowhere - literally one fucking week before Dark Reign, and immediately walk away with a goddamn Iron Maiden position? If you'd had to take the time off because you were injured I wouldn't say a goddamn word, but no - you chose to just sit on your ass and watch rom-coms with your lady-love for six fucking months, and then decided that you'd had enough vacation time? And then you take out Crystal Miller, literally ONE MATCH after coming out of your six months of me-time, and now you're going to act like you deserve to stand in that cage with the rest of us? Sure, you won that invitational in your debut for the chance to be in the first ever women's Dragon's Den, where you lost to Eternity in a very pretty way. Sure, you won the Heiress to the Throne tournament for the right to lose at October Revolution... but what have you done other than get opportunities only to throw them away?
I'm not denying that you're a fucking threat, Sawyer - I'm not going to discount you and assume you've forgotten how to fight after hanging out in a day-spa with cucumbers on your eyes all winter. But I'll be fucking DAMNED if I'm going to sit back and let your part-timing ass win the Iron Maiden just so you can win the chance to lose another fucking title shot at my expense. You want another shot at glory? Then see if you can stay around for a few months at a stretch and actually work for your damn paycheck.
Until then, get the fuck back in line.
And let's keep the "what the hell are you doing in this match" train going - Abigail Spencer. Didn't you... didn't you lose your shot to be in this match? I'm pretty sure I remember very clearly watching Maxine Valentine beat your ass into the mat like a goddamn rag doll in what was supposed to be your opportunity to be here. So... what's up? What are you doing in this match? "By order of management?" Let's just be blunt for two seconds -
Who'd you fuck to get back in this match?
It's the only explanation that makes a whole lot of sense to me. I mean, it's not like you've been around a whole lot either. You've had less than ten matches since your debut. You've had three this year... and I don't think you've actually won any of them. I know I haven't been around much this year, but I've had as many matches this year as you have and I haven't lost any of them. So the only explanation for you having the fucking audacity to be here in this match is that you're screwing someone in management - either that or you have some seriously emberassing pictures of them with Black Philip.
You'll probably go on about how your faith will keep you going through this match, how you're a woman of God and that will make you a winner - but how's that been working for you, Abigail? It wasn't enough for you to cut it in the tournament you debuted for, it wasn't enough for you to actually earn your place in the Iron Maiden, and it won't be enough to give you fucking deliverance if you're unfortunate enough to get too close to me this Sunday.
Because no amount of prayer will save you when I lock you down and start crushing your fucking throat.
But you're not the only overly-showy spooky broad in this match, are you? Hello Maxine. How's the cult? Can't help but notice your dark little lady isn't back yet. Seems like one hell of a waste of time to mope around worshipping someone who gets laid up by a perfectly mortal boo-boo.
But then again you're fucking Dean Harper, so I suppose there's no accounting for taste.
You're certainly the largest and most obvious threat in this match, Maxy-Val. You're one of the two ladies - and I use that term loosely - in this match who have actually had a title reign in the IWF, and of those two yours is definitely the longest. Of course, you're also in going to be sharing the ring the the old woman who managed to end that reign, so you'll forgive me if I don't take you... like... super seriously. I mean, you had to pretty much have your boss cheat for you in order for you to win your Shieldmaiden reign in the first place, and one of your defenses was against Fiona McFly, which barely even counts. I mean, you did beat Vivienne Rodgers, who's going to go down in history as the last woman to be known as the IWF Shieldmaiden, so I guess that's one feather in the cap of your otherwise disappointing career. What are your other highlights? Getting your spine broken? I mean, kudos for coming back from that one - though it again raises the question of why you're loyal to a supposed dark queen who's taken longer to recover from a comparatively much less serious injury.
You're all talk and flash, Valentine. You're big and scary to people who scare easy, but when it comes down to it you're just another big gal who thinks they can win because of their size and brute strength. But you're too busy focusing on your little cult to really CARE about this match - after all, if you win you'd have to go on and fight your own stable-mate, and that's like... blasphemy or whatever. All the Hulked-up roid-rage in the world won't save you if you're fighting someone who's got nothing to lose, and is willing to break her own fucking body to put you down.
And guess what? That's pretty much my resume condensed to a single sentence.
And finally, Rayne. The legend. The future Hall of Famer. The geriatric.
Do you think that winning the Iron Maiden will make her love you again?
You... DO realize that it was, in part, your dedication to your wrestling career that Alya left your ass, right? Or is this because you've started to recognize that your rapidly guttering career as a professional wrestler is the only thing left in your life that you think you can actually control? Are you going to sit here and try to bulldoze over other people's chances to ascend, just so you can have one more little self-pity party where you get drunk on mom-wine and cry into your belt over all the happiness you've thrown away to attain it? Tell me, Rayne - was having the shortest ever Shieldmaiden reign worth your marriage? What are you planning to sacrifice for the chance to have one more title run before your career sputters out and dies? Your son?
Not on my watch.
You might be one of the all-time greats, Rayne, but your time is over. You might be desperately trying to squeeze as much blood as you can out of your dwindling clock, but you should have gone out on your Shield after Vivienne took that belt away from you. And I know you've done a lot to make this business something women like me can thrive in, but I'm not going to let that turn me into some sniveling fangirl who's just so fucking honored to be in the ring with you. As far as I'm concerned you're just another entitled old broad trying to cash in on your past glories, and if you keep going on you're just going to keep emberassing yourself until medical won't let you in the ring for fear you'll fall and break a fucking hip. You shouldn't be here anymore, Rayne. Your time in the sun is over. Retire. Go home. Try to salvage what's left of your life, winning this won't do anything to curb your misery as you lurch into your golden years surrounded by rooms left abandoned by the family you gave up for the sake just another underwhelming and ultimately forgettable title run.
On Sunday, six women are going to get into a cage and be forced to put on the fight of their career. We're going to go out there and beat the fucking piss out of one another in what is historically one of the most cutthroat matches of the year. We're going to push ourselves to the limit. We're going to break one another physically, and probably mentally. There will be blood. There will be sweat. There will be tears.
But at the end of the day, there can be only one Iron Maiden.
And when the match ends? When the lights go up and the fans raise their voices to the fucking heavens to cheer on their winner? When Alison Valance calls out who the woman will be who will go on to challenge for the Women's Championship at Night of the Immortals - you will hear three words chanted again and again, ringing in your bleeding ears like a funeral dirge:
You've gone soft, Ciara O'Connor.
Probably has something to do with all the time you've been spending around Vivienne. Don't get me wrong - she's a good gal, and has been a good friend to both of us, but managing her has been bad for the edge that you used to have. She has a way of bringing out the light in people, but for you that's taken away a lot of what made you dangerous. I mean, let's be real here - thanks to your time with her, you got kidnapped by The Pack and you didn't even break any of their bones on the way in or out of it. While objectively she's probably turned you into a better and more well-adjusted person, and I have tremendous respect for you as a woman and as a manager... in the ring, I'm not afraid of you. You're not scary. You're not a threat. You're just a gal who wants to be able to vent all that pent up aggression of a misspent youth, but you lack the stones or the skills to actually do it. Just like how it's adorable when a de-clawed cat tries to maul your hand, as much a it pains me to say it I'm just not intimidated by what you're going to bring to that ring. I'm hungrier than you are. More ruthless. More willing to put emotions to the side and turn you and everyone else between me and Night of the Immortals into a slab of tenderized meat.
I love you, girl, but this isn't a friendly fight anymore. This is serious, and I'm going to put you out of your misery.
And speaking of misery, looks like her daughter's going to be joining us in the Iron Maiden. Helena Sawyer - I'll be honest, I never thought I'd be seeing you again. I suppose they said the same thing about me, though - we both got kinda fucked up by the same girl and got put on the shelf for a little bit, didn't we? I mean, believe me, I personally know full well what it's like to go through that... Wait, what? Oh. Oh, you didn't take some time off so that you could recover from injuries sustained in the ring? You just beat Rayne and then... fucked off for six months to spend time with your girlfriend.
Who the FUCK do you think you are?
No, seriously. You treat this company like a fucking side-piece for months, and then come out of the woodwork out of fucking nowhere - literally one fucking week before Dark Reign, and immediately walk away with a goddamn Iron Maiden position? If you'd had to take the time off because you were injured I wouldn't say a goddamn word, but no - you chose to just sit on your ass and watch rom-coms with your lady-love for six fucking months, and then decided that you'd had enough vacation time? And then you take out Crystal Miller, literally ONE MATCH after coming out of your six months of me-time, and now you're going to act like you deserve to stand in that cage with the rest of us? Sure, you won that invitational in your debut for the chance to be in the first ever women's Dragon's Den, where you lost to Eternity in a very pretty way. Sure, you won the Heiress to the Throne tournament for the right to lose at October Revolution... but what have you done other than get opportunities only to throw them away?
I'm not denying that you're a fucking threat, Sawyer - I'm not going to discount you and assume you've forgotten how to fight after hanging out in a day-spa with cucumbers on your eyes all winter. But I'll be fucking DAMNED if I'm going to sit back and let your part-timing ass win the Iron Maiden just so you can win the chance to lose another fucking title shot at my expense. You want another shot at glory? Then see if you can stay around for a few months at a stretch and actually work for your damn paycheck.
Until then, get the fuck back in line.
And let's keep the "what the hell are you doing in this match" train going - Abigail Spencer. Didn't you... didn't you lose your shot to be in this match? I'm pretty sure I remember very clearly watching Maxine Valentine beat your ass into the mat like a goddamn rag doll in what was supposed to be your opportunity to be here. So... what's up? What are you doing in this match? "By order of management?" Let's just be blunt for two seconds -
Who'd you fuck to get back in this match?
It's the only explanation that makes a whole lot of sense to me. I mean, it's not like you've been around a whole lot either. You've had less than ten matches since your debut. You've had three this year... and I don't think you've actually won any of them. I know I haven't been around much this year, but I've had as many matches this year as you have and I haven't lost any of them. So the only explanation for you having the fucking audacity to be here in this match is that you're screwing someone in management - either that or you have some seriously emberassing pictures of them with Black Philip.
You'll probably go on about how your faith will keep you going through this match, how you're a woman of God and that will make you a winner - but how's that been working for you, Abigail? It wasn't enough for you to cut it in the tournament you debuted for, it wasn't enough for you to actually earn your place in the Iron Maiden, and it won't be enough to give you fucking deliverance if you're unfortunate enough to get too close to me this Sunday.
Because no amount of prayer will save you when I lock you down and start crushing your fucking throat.
But you're not the only overly-showy spooky broad in this match, are you? Hello Maxine. How's the cult? Can't help but notice your dark little lady isn't back yet. Seems like one hell of a waste of time to mope around worshipping someone who gets laid up by a perfectly mortal boo-boo.
But then again you're fucking Dean Harper, so I suppose there's no accounting for taste.
You're certainly the largest and most obvious threat in this match, Maxy-Val. You're one of the two ladies - and I use that term loosely - in this match who have actually had a title reign in the IWF, and of those two yours is definitely the longest. Of course, you're also in going to be sharing the ring the the old woman who managed to end that reign, so you'll forgive me if I don't take you... like... super seriously. I mean, you had to pretty much have your boss cheat for you in order for you to win your Shieldmaiden reign in the first place, and one of your defenses was against Fiona McFly, which barely even counts. I mean, you did beat Vivienne Rodgers, who's going to go down in history as the last woman to be known as the IWF Shieldmaiden, so I guess that's one feather in the cap of your otherwise disappointing career. What are your other highlights? Getting your spine broken? I mean, kudos for coming back from that one - though it again raises the question of why you're loyal to a supposed dark queen who's taken longer to recover from a comparatively much less serious injury.
You're all talk and flash, Valentine. You're big and scary to people who scare easy, but when it comes down to it you're just another big gal who thinks they can win because of their size and brute strength. But you're too busy focusing on your little cult to really CARE about this match - after all, if you win you'd have to go on and fight your own stable-mate, and that's like... blasphemy or whatever. All the Hulked-up roid-rage in the world won't save you if you're fighting someone who's got nothing to lose, and is willing to break her own fucking body to put you down.
And guess what? That's pretty much my resume condensed to a single sentence.
And finally, Rayne. The legend. The future Hall of Famer. The geriatric.
Do you think that winning the Iron Maiden will make her love you again?
You... DO realize that it was, in part, your dedication to your wrestling career that Alya left your ass, right? Or is this because you've started to recognize that your rapidly guttering career as a professional wrestler is the only thing left in your life that you think you can actually control? Are you going to sit here and try to bulldoze over other people's chances to ascend, just so you can have one more little self-pity party where you get drunk on mom-wine and cry into your belt over all the happiness you've thrown away to attain it? Tell me, Rayne - was having the shortest ever Shieldmaiden reign worth your marriage? What are you planning to sacrifice for the chance to have one more title run before your career sputters out and dies? Your son?
Not on my watch.
You might be one of the all-time greats, Rayne, but your time is over. You might be desperately trying to squeeze as much blood as you can out of your dwindling clock, but you should have gone out on your Shield after Vivienne took that belt away from you. And I know you've done a lot to make this business something women like me can thrive in, but I'm not going to let that turn me into some sniveling fangirl who's just so fucking honored to be in the ring with you. As far as I'm concerned you're just another entitled old broad trying to cash in on your past glories, and if you keep going on you're just going to keep emberassing yourself until medical won't let you in the ring for fear you'll fall and break a fucking hip. You shouldn't be here anymore, Rayne. Your time in the sun is over. Retire. Go home. Try to salvage what's left of your life, winning this won't do anything to curb your misery as you lurch into your golden years surrounded by rooms left abandoned by the family you gave up for the sake just another underwhelming and ultimately forgettable title run.
On Sunday, six women are going to get into a cage and be forced to put on the fight of their career. We're going to go out there and beat the fucking piss out of one another in what is historically one of the most cutthroat matches of the year. We're going to push ourselves to the limit. We're going to break one another physically, and probably mentally. There will be blood. There will be sweat. There will be tears.
But at the end of the day, there can be only one Iron Maiden.
And when the match ends? When the lights go up and the fans raise their voices to the fucking heavens to cheer on their winner? When Alison Valance calls out who the woman will be who will go on to challenge for the Women's Championship at Night of the Immortals - you will hear three words chanted again and again, ringing in your bleeding ears like a funeral dirge:
ALL!
BLOODY!
HAIL!"
Well howdy there pardner.