Post by Emma Danielson on Jun 2, 2013 5:30:16 GMT
Oh my god, that was so precious.
No, really. I want to frame a picture of your face as you talked about taking out some drunk bitch in a bar who hit on your man. You were SO proud of yourself, weren’t you? I mean, not only are you, quote, “the hottest girl you’ll see in the IWF,” but you can also throw down with women who are desperate enough to try and get in the pants of your darling husband. Truly, you’re such an awesome force that I should just bow down before you and give up. I can’t beat that, right? Right?
Dead. Fucking. Wrong.
Allow me to introduce myself, Angel. My name is Emma Danielson. I’m a former NCW Women’s Champion. While you were busy throwing down with some woman who can’t hold her liquor and generating hits on YouTube, no doubt under the title “BIG TIT CATFIGHT!!!1!” or some shit like that, I was wrestling the likes of Zelda Knite and Trish Newborn. You know, wrestlers with some appreciable talent, unlike you, who’s just a ludicrously top-heavy waste of oxygen and roster space. Speaking of Zelda Knite, way to go. In one video you surpassed almost any display of ego she ever put out in her career. Be proud of yourself, Angel.
Here’s a hint: wrestling fans aren’t the sex-starved losers you think they are. They aren’t tuning in to see some giant chick with massive knockers strut around so they can feverishly rewind your entrance and savor the moment. Nah, they’re here for the wrestling. Eye candy helps, but if all you are is eye candy, you’re going to be crushed underfoot. Me? I don’t need to be eye candy. I satisfy the fans by being the toughest, meanest, most brutal ass-whooper you have ever seen.
IWF didn’t need to fall head over heels to sign me, because they knew that I’m not here because of my husband. I’m not here because I’m an attention whore, unlike some individuals who shall remain winless. Nah, they knew I’d come knocking because I love getting a chance to throw down, and the people love it. They didn’t have to appease me with some massive contract. I love fighting, Angel. And more than just that…I love breaking haughty bitches like you in half.
I’ve been through hardcore hell in my time. I’ve gone through tables, I’ve been whipped by barbed wire, I even got hit by a motorcycle. During a match! And I still got up, kept fighting, and WON. I have bled more blood than you ever want to see in one place, and I did it all with a smile. Why? Because I give better than I get. After all of that, I get back up, and I dish it back out twice over. You don’t scare me. There isn’t a damn person on this planet that can scare me anymore. All I can do is laugh.
And I’ll laugh at you all damn night. You’re a joke. You’re a disgrace, Angel. You think that because you have a husband on the roster and mammoth ta-tas that you’re the best this company’s got to offer. Oh, are you so wrong. There are women here whose bags you’re not worthy of carrying. And then there’s the one you have to worry about this week: me. You can wave all sorts of martial arts qualifications in my face and claim that they make you better than me, but the fact is that all the strip-mall judo classes in the world won’t prepare you for what it’s like to get powerbombed. That’s something you’d know if your wrestling trainer didn’t have the ability of a concussed chimpanzee.
But this won’t be about wristlocks and drop toe holds. This is going to be an ugly match. It’s going to be vicious, and brutal, but at the end of the day, the rude awakening you’re going to get just might save your ass. That’s right, I’m doing you a favor. I’m giving you a wake-up call. Maybe you’ll hit the gym, learn some more about wrestling instead of shit-talking, and you just might make something of yourself. Or maybe you’ll follow after your husband’s example and get your ass handed to you.
But hey, if it gets you on TMZ, what do you care?
Open on Emma in an abandoned gym, alone. A few lights barely illuminate the space, showing its disrepair and desolation.She's going to town on a heavy bag, hair bobbing behind her in a ponytail as she weaves and hammers on the bag. Her hands and wrists are taped, and as she resets, she glances at the back of her right wrist, upon which are written a name: Angel Black. Narrowing her eyes, Emma delivers a brutal right to the bag, following up with a looping overhand left and punctuated with a vicious knee to the rough area of where the gut would be. Emma takes a few steps back, shaking her head in disdain, and shoves the bag, setting it swinging. Danielson meets it with an elbow. She mutters under her breath.
"You're not why I'm here. Dumb bitch…run your mouth at me, will ya?!"
Emma unloads on the bag again. Her form is almost nonexistent to the untrained eye, but while she lacks in formal boxing technique, she compensates with ferocity and raw power. The bag is knocked back, almost suspended at an angle from the barrage of power shots Danielson unloads into it. After about twenty seconds of rapid-fire pounding, Emma relents, letting the bag sink back to neutral. She breathes heavily, grabbing a towel from the ground, and wipes her face off. As she’s doing so, a voice calls from the back of the room.
”Fancy seeing you here this time of night.”
She turns back, glancing over her shoulder at the source of the noise. Andrew Jacobsen saunters towards her, looking around at the space. He grins as his gaze settles back on Danielson. Emma rolls her eyes, slinging the towel over her shoulder.
”You know I’m the only one who comes here anymore. You’re looking for me, Andrew. What is it? Come to rub my bad decisions in my face?”
Andrew shakes his head, taken aback slightly by the hostility. He stops a few feet away from her, hands in his pockets.
”No, not at all. I just know you sometimes come here before a big match, and…well…I wanted to wish you luck.”
Emma snorts, shaking her head.
”Against Angel Black? Please. She’s got more ego than cleavage. I’m going to ruin her.”
She turns to head back to her “workout”, but Andrew crosses the distance between them in the space of a few steps and grabs her shoulder. Emma spins, roughly shoving him off, and he puts his hands up defensively. He speaks slowly, cautiously.
”I’m just reminding you that nothing’s a sure thing. She’s still six feet tall and 210 pounds. I don’t care how tough you are, you let your guard down and she can wreck your day just as sure as you can wreck hers.”
Emma glares at him, stabbing an accusatory finger at Andrew as she slowly advances towards him.
”Why are you lecturing me? Do you think I’m some kind of moron? I know that. Of course I know that! You wished me good luck. Why are you still here? What in the hell possessed you to come down here in the first place? I thought we were through. I thought I burnt my bridges. I’m not the girl you knew in high school anymore, Andy. Quit trying to talk to me like I am!”
By this point, she’s right in front of Andrew, shouting up at him in rage.
”I turned my back on you! I punched out your precious Danielle! I cost you your title! I sided with a man that tried to SPLIT YOUR FAMILY APART! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! WHY DON’T YOU HATE ME, DAMMIT?!”
Andrew doesn’t flinch as she screams at him. As she falls silent, he reaches down and takes her hand in his, squeezing it softly.
”Because nobody deserves to be judged by their mistakes. No, you’re not the girl I knew. But you’re still my friend. And I still want you to go out there on Monday night and do what you do best: wreck whoever’s standing in your way.”
Emma stares up at Andrew, almost unable to comprehend what he said. He grins, pulling her in and hugging her momentarily before letting go. She staggers back, in shock, and stares at him in surprise. Andrew sees this, frowning slightly, and fishes in the pocket of his jacket, pulling out something. Her eyes flick to it, and Andrew holds it up so she can see it: a 200 ml bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey. He tosses it to Emma, smirking as she catches it.
”Don’t drink it all at once. I’ll be pulling for you.”
He turns and walks away into the dimness, heading for the door. Emma looks down at the bottle in her hand, fingers working as if by reflex to open the top. Emma removes the top, knocking it back immediately to take a drink from the bottle. She lowers it, looking at the drink, and looks up to watch Andrew exit the building. The confused expression melts away, replaced by a determined glare. She looks down at her wrist again, where Angel’s name is written, and a predatory grin spreads across her face.
”Say your prayers…”
Emma recaps the bottle, setting it aside, and turns to face the bag, dropping into a stance. She grins for a moment before suddenly lunging forward. Her fist flies at the camera, and we cut to black as the sound of the impact with the punching bag cracks through the empty space once more.
No, really. I want to frame a picture of your face as you talked about taking out some drunk bitch in a bar who hit on your man. You were SO proud of yourself, weren’t you? I mean, not only are you, quote, “the hottest girl you’ll see in the IWF,” but you can also throw down with women who are desperate enough to try and get in the pants of your darling husband. Truly, you’re such an awesome force that I should just bow down before you and give up. I can’t beat that, right? Right?
Dead. Fucking. Wrong.
Allow me to introduce myself, Angel. My name is Emma Danielson. I’m a former NCW Women’s Champion. While you were busy throwing down with some woman who can’t hold her liquor and generating hits on YouTube, no doubt under the title “BIG TIT CATFIGHT!!!1!” or some shit like that, I was wrestling the likes of Zelda Knite and Trish Newborn. You know, wrestlers with some appreciable talent, unlike you, who’s just a ludicrously top-heavy waste of oxygen and roster space. Speaking of Zelda Knite, way to go. In one video you surpassed almost any display of ego she ever put out in her career. Be proud of yourself, Angel.
Here’s a hint: wrestling fans aren’t the sex-starved losers you think they are. They aren’t tuning in to see some giant chick with massive knockers strut around so they can feverishly rewind your entrance and savor the moment. Nah, they’re here for the wrestling. Eye candy helps, but if all you are is eye candy, you’re going to be crushed underfoot. Me? I don’t need to be eye candy. I satisfy the fans by being the toughest, meanest, most brutal ass-whooper you have ever seen.
IWF didn’t need to fall head over heels to sign me, because they knew that I’m not here because of my husband. I’m not here because I’m an attention whore, unlike some individuals who shall remain winless. Nah, they knew I’d come knocking because I love getting a chance to throw down, and the people love it. They didn’t have to appease me with some massive contract. I love fighting, Angel. And more than just that…I love breaking haughty bitches like you in half.
I’ve been through hardcore hell in my time. I’ve gone through tables, I’ve been whipped by barbed wire, I even got hit by a motorcycle. During a match! And I still got up, kept fighting, and WON. I have bled more blood than you ever want to see in one place, and I did it all with a smile. Why? Because I give better than I get. After all of that, I get back up, and I dish it back out twice over. You don’t scare me. There isn’t a damn person on this planet that can scare me anymore. All I can do is laugh.
And I’ll laugh at you all damn night. You’re a joke. You’re a disgrace, Angel. You think that because you have a husband on the roster and mammoth ta-tas that you’re the best this company’s got to offer. Oh, are you so wrong. There are women here whose bags you’re not worthy of carrying. And then there’s the one you have to worry about this week: me. You can wave all sorts of martial arts qualifications in my face and claim that they make you better than me, but the fact is that all the strip-mall judo classes in the world won’t prepare you for what it’s like to get powerbombed. That’s something you’d know if your wrestling trainer didn’t have the ability of a concussed chimpanzee.
But this won’t be about wristlocks and drop toe holds. This is going to be an ugly match. It’s going to be vicious, and brutal, but at the end of the day, the rude awakening you’re going to get just might save your ass. That’s right, I’m doing you a favor. I’m giving you a wake-up call. Maybe you’ll hit the gym, learn some more about wrestling instead of shit-talking, and you just might make something of yourself. Or maybe you’ll follow after your husband’s example and get your ass handed to you.
But hey, if it gets you on TMZ, what do you care?
Open on Emma in an abandoned gym, alone. A few lights barely illuminate the space, showing its disrepair and desolation.She's going to town on a heavy bag, hair bobbing behind her in a ponytail as she weaves and hammers on the bag. Her hands and wrists are taped, and as she resets, she glances at the back of her right wrist, upon which are written a name: Angel Black. Narrowing her eyes, Emma delivers a brutal right to the bag, following up with a looping overhand left and punctuated with a vicious knee to the rough area of where the gut would be. Emma takes a few steps back, shaking her head in disdain, and shoves the bag, setting it swinging. Danielson meets it with an elbow. She mutters under her breath.
"You're not why I'm here. Dumb bitch…run your mouth at me, will ya?!"
Emma unloads on the bag again. Her form is almost nonexistent to the untrained eye, but while she lacks in formal boxing technique, she compensates with ferocity and raw power. The bag is knocked back, almost suspended at an angle from the barrage of power shots Danielson unloads into it. After about twenty seconds of rapid-fire pounding, Emma relents, letting the bag sink back to neutral. She breathes heavily, grabbing a towel from the ground, and wipes her face off. As she’s doing so, a voice calls from the back of the room.
”Fancy seeing you here this time of night.”
She turns back, glancing over her shoulder at the source of the noise. Andrew Jacobsen saunters towards her, looking around at the space. He grins as his gaze settles back on Danielson. Emma rolls her eyes, slinging the towel over her shoulder.
”You know I’m the only one who comes here anymore. You’re looking for me, Andrew. What is it? Come to rub my bad decisions in my face?”
Andrew shakes his head, taken aback slightly by the hostility. He stops a few feet away from her, hands in his pockets.
”No, not at all. I just know you sometimes come here before a big match, and…well…I wanted to wish you luck.”
Emma snorts, shaking her head.
”Against Angel Black? Please. She’s got more ego than cleavage. I’m going to ruin her.”
She turns to head back to her “workout”, but Andrew crosses the distance between them in the space of a few steps and grabs her shoulder. Emma spins, roughly shoving him off, and he puts his hands up defensively. He speaks slowly, cautiously.
”I’m just reminding you that nothing’s a sure thing. She’s still six feet tall and 210 pounds. I don’t care how tough you are, you let your guard down and she can wreck your day just as sure as you can wreck hers.”
Emma glares at him, stabbing an accusatory finger at Andrew as she slowly advances towards him.
”Why are you lecturing me? Do you think I’m some kind of moron? I know that. Of course I know that! You wished me good luck. Why are you still here? What in the hell possessed you to come down here in the first place? I thought we were through. I thought I burnt my bridges. I’m not the girl you knew in high school anymore, Andy. Quit trying to talk to me like I am!”
By this point, she’s right in front of Andrew, shouting up at him in rage.
”I turned my back on you! I punched out your precious Danielle! I cost you your title! I sided with a man that tried to SPLIT YOUR FAMILY APART! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! WHY DON’T YOU HATE ME, DAMMIT?!”
Andrew doesn’t flinch as she screams at him. As she falls silent, he reaches down and takes her hand in his, squeezing it softly.
”Because nobody deserves to be judged by their mistakes. No, you’re not the girl I knew. But you’re still my friend. And I still want you to go out there on Monday night and do what you do best: wreck whoever’s standing in your way.”
Emma stares up at Andrew, almost unable to comprehend what he said. He grins, pulling her in and hugging her momentarily before letting go. She staggers back, in shock, and stares at him in surprise. Andrew sees this, frowning slightly, and fishes in the pocket of his jacket, pulling out something. Her eyes flick to it, and Andrew holds it up so she can see it: a 200 ml bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey. He tosses it to Emma, smirking as she catches it.
”Don’t drink it all at once. I’ll be pulling for you.”
He turns and walks away into the dimness, heading for the door. Emma looks down at the bottle in her hand, fingers working as if by reflex to open the top. Emma removes the top, knocking it back immediately to take a drink from the bottle. She lowers it, looking at the drink, and looks up to watch Andrew exit the building. The confused expression melts away, replaced by a determined glare. She looks down at her wrist again, where Angel’s name is written, and a predatory grin spreads across her face.
”Say your prayers…”
Emma recaps the bottle, setting it aside, and turns to face the bag, dropping into a stance. She grins for a moment before suddenly lunging forward. Her fist flies at the camera, and we cut to black as the sound of the impact with the punching bag cracks through the empty space once more.
Well howdy there pardner.