Lookin' To Wreck Amber Vogel

[Dixie Wrecks]

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XXXXXXX DIXIE XXXXXXX



XXXXXXX WRECKS XXXXXXX

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ThwupThwupThwupThwupThwup..

The sound of the helicopter slowing down to land captures the attention of the small contingent of excited fans at the cordoned-off section of the lot outside of Frost Bank Center - home to IWF’s upcoming Sacrifice show. The IWF loyal whip out their phones to take pictures of the majestic gold and black luxury helicopter fitted with an audacious array of bells and whistles unnecessary for flight. When the wind rush gets too much, they brace and absorb it until the blades stop whirring and the pilot hops out.

He’s dressed dapper as a don and opens the extravagant door to the other side of the chopper, where we at last see Dixie Wrecks waking up from sleep. How she slept through the flight is unknown until she rolls out of the fancy bed with a near-empty bottle of wine that costs more than the onlooker's combined yearly salaries. The pilot hurriedly sets up the rest of the items for her to lounge in, and it becomes truly an over-the-top scene.

“Here ye! Here ye! Here Ye!” The Rhinestone Cowgirl boasts as she ambles around in place before polishing off the last bit of drink and adjusting her fancy dollar sign adorned housecoat.

“I cometh like a storm upon the lands and something something you know the rest.”

No. They don’t. They cheer anyway while she strolls to the seats and plops into one.

“So, this is it? I put out the word about a meet and greet with me right here and this is all that showed up?”

She takes a headcount. 18. That’s all—just 18.

“Figured there be more after I whipped the piss plum out of Billie Parris on Odessy. Welp, no sweat off mah tits then. This just means I gotta make more fans. No better way to do that than beatin’ the brakes off Amber Vogel right back yonder in that big ass building.” She thumbs over her shoulder.

“Y’all don’t have to tell me about her. I already know she’s gonna be a different breed than Billie because she comes from the Tara Fenix training school and we know how badass Tara is. Hell, y’all, I like the gal. She grew up rough with the boys like I did. She ain’t no little lass either; girl is strong like me, almost. Key word, almost. Ya see, ole Amber hit the weight room to get built for the ring. That’s how she got strong. But this bitch ri’cheer? *Dixie thumbs to herself* I built this body just by growing up in the South. Tending farms. Tippin’ cows. Baling hay. Changing the cinderblocks on my family’s trailers. Eatin meat and taters, and drinkin’ milk. Amber adopted the strong girl lifestyle…. I was BORN into it.”

The newly minted High Class Country Girl throws her feet up on the table before her. Some in the crowd gasp at the snakeskin house slippers she’s rocking on her two ass kickers.

“Ah shit, lemme guess. We got some animal rights activists out here. Don’t worry y’all, I killed them snakes myself and made these slippers. Those snakes were poisonous and dangerous so we’re good right?”

There’s silence.

“Right. So, about Amber. Yeah, I might like the bitch but hot dayum did the brass make a mistake naming this little shindig a No Disqualification match. I’ll fuck a bitch up with these dick beaters right here *doubles up fists* but lettin’ me play by no rules means I can do so much more. I can use weapons. I can illegally choke the shit out of her until she passes out. I can rip out an elderly fan's piss tube and waterboard the fuck out of her with it.”

The Country Cutie pauses a beat. Anyone with a lick of sense can see the look on her face is that of someone fantasizing about a lot of sadistic stuff they can do to someone. A few nudging coughs by fans snap her out of it.

“But what the hell, she’s a powerhouse brawler like me too so I’m sure she’s got some hoss in her. Hell, Emanuelle and Sabin helped Tara train her so they ain’t letting her be led to a slaughter. It’s gonna be one hell of a fight and there ain’t no shame in losing to a baddie like her if I get my tits knocked in the dirt. For Pete's sake, didn’t she already pin our current women’s world champeen 1-2-3 only six months ago and came damn close to beatin’ that one girl whose name I ain’t even gonna try to pronounce? Amber tore that bitch up until the last second and got tripped into a roll-up. Sad.”

Dixie tsks and empties a bottle of pricey champagne on the pavement, a symbolic “this is for my homie” gesture to Amber.

“Poor Amber. The pressure is so high on her now, ain’t it? She’s got the best trainers in the world. She’s got a spot in the Iron Maiden qualifier battle royal locked in, and hell she could win it and the the whole damn thing. There shouldn’t be any excuses for her to lose to me. So the pressure’s all on her not me. If she wants to get sidetracked looking ahead to Iron Maiden I ain’t gonna complain. I’ll just capitalize.”

She motions to the pilot and stands up.

“Now, let’s get this next leg of the meet and greet out of the way. Your girl Dixie has got a manny-cure appointment soon. I earned it by putting in the work at the gym.” She slides her dollar-sign-themed sunshades from her eyes up to the top of her head, revealing a few welts and bruises around the eyes and upper cheeks - testaments to some stiff training days ahead of her brawl with Amber in a few days.

The incredibly small platoon of fans she’s garnered since getting to IWF applaud her and line up in a single file way as some boxes are sat beside Dixie. The Rhinestone Cowgirl rummages through the boxes and pulls out some shirts.

“These here are my first merch ever, so hold on to them 'cause they might be worth millions someday. As you can see here, these shirts have my sexy ass face on them with the caption ‘When Dixie Wrecks’ on the front and ‘Dicks go erect’ on the back.”

She hands them out personally to each fan, hugs them, and allows them to take a picture with her.

“All this stuff is free for you personal fans of mine who showed up and showed ole Dixie some love. Please kindly wear this stuff to the Sacrifice show and tell all the other fans they can buy this merch at the concession stands and on the official IWF shop zone website.”

Dixie gestures with a hand, alerting them that there’s more.

“Now, for a very special fan, I have this here gen-u-wine rope and cowbell. It belonged to mah peepaw way back in the yesteryears before the whole world went to shit. He used it a lot on the ranch and also when he was doing rodeos. There’s a lot of history here and I want to give it to a worthy soul. So, if y’all want it, y’all gotta fight for it, so best get to it.”

She throws the rope and cowbell into the midst of her 18 fans. They all look at one another for a moment, and then half of them go all in, tugging and pushing and clobbering each other until one man, a neckbeard of all neckbeards emerges victorious. The fan roars like a lion and fashions the rope and cowbell around his neck like a stylish scarf.

”I’ll never take it off.” He says and runs away before anyone can try to take it from him.

Dixie gives him a parting wave, then gives the fans who fought some instructions on how to mend their wounds, before finally loading back into the luxury chopper and being whisked away to her next endeavor.

End.