Post by Isabella Maldini on Jun 22, 2013 18:26:32 GMT
I spy with my little eye, something beginning with V.
No, it isn’t a ventriloquist.
Nope, it isn’t a velociraptor.
No, it isn’t a virgin either, we see plenty of those in the audience every week.
Give in?
Vengeance.
Oh, when I saw Roberto go crashing through that stage I felt a rush I haven’t enjoyed in years… He turned his back on me, he betrayed my trust and chose Hannah over me. He had to pay and the fact that Bernard just happened to get his pompous little neck snapped in the process was just the cherry on the cake.
My angel of vengeance struck down those who hurt me.
Like he always has, ever since that fateful day.
See, I told you I’d get back to the mushy stuff eventually.
When my world came crashing down around me, guilt brought me a guardian I didn’t know whether to accept or spurn. The man who pulled the trigger that left me in the hospital came to see me late on a Sunday evening as I recovered from my trauma.
I assumed that my young life was about to be blotted out.
To my relief, and confusion, he hadn’t brought a silencer to keep my mouth shut, he brought me an opportunity for salvation. A sanctuary.
Now many of you may be thinking that being taken under the wing of a man connected with your parents death is a bad idea, and perhaps it was, but when the alternative was to be tossed into the Italian foster system and passed around families like a cheap slut, I’ll take the former any day of the week.
At least I knew he could handle a gun.
Right?
He brought me protection from those who would do me harm and for that I was grateful, despite being torn between my loyalties to my dead parents and anger at those who had slain them by mistake.
His guilt brought him to me and placed him in my debt and in return he swore that he would protect me from the vices of the world, shield me from the danger and always be ready to fulfil my every desire.
Not those ones.
Perverts.
His debt is my gain, his grief is my weapon, he sense of duty my secret weapon.
And nobody saw it coming.
It just so happens that having a seven foot monster was advantageous last weekend. After all, little old me just isn’t capable of yanking big tough men off the ground and slamming them flat on their backs.
Normally it takes something a little more sultry to do that.
At Bloody Assizes I sent everyone a message. If you scorn me, I will call my beast to deliver my justice. I have a guardian angel hell bent on protecting my interests and should any of you interfere with them, you will suffer the same fate as the COO of this company.
I am a resourceful woman who has consistently risen from adversity to make the best of my situation.
This week I will continue that pattern by grasping my second chance at life just like I did when my parents were taken from me.
Opportunity may have come in a set of French suspenders, but she never dresses conventionally.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh gentle hypocrisy, how I love you so.
I knew from the moment I got the phone call from Katherine Lockheart that the booking this week was going to cause quite the stir in those feminist loins, screaming out to end the oppression. There has been talk of boycotts, protests and all other manner of things all because IWF is presenting a live…
Lingerie Contest
Oh the horror! Put those breasts away girls, we’re being coerced into an evil enterprise our pretty little heads are too weak to be able to exploit it for ourselves.
We’re all being exploited, the evil corporate machine is using our bodies for ratings and broadcasting an overly-sexualised segment to the wider world which is so sexually repressed the sight of a woman’s body is an outrage to their sensibilities.
Yawn.
Really, ladies, do you not see that when it comes to our bodies, our outward image to the world, we are not alone? This is the business that has coined the phrase “vanilla midget”. You all cry out in terror at the idea of being asked to parade around in your delicates because it reinforces the idea that all that matters is how we look and that men are not expected to ensure the same slights…
Yet they too are judged on their appearance.
If you are living in a world where your “look” isn’t a fundamental part of your potential success in this business, then may I suggest you open up those pretty little dong dazzlers and soak in reality. Men are judged on the size of their muscles, their height, whether they look intimidating, how they carry their gimmick… the list goes on and on.
The scrawny are tossed aside in favour of the steroid popping muscle men, talented or not. Men are routinely forced to project an image of the perfect alpha male, any deviations are held down beneath a glass ceiling, yet nobody cries out how sexist the perpetual re-imagining of the strong alpha male is.
Everything about this business is based on how we look, just because we are judged on our bust size or the plumpness of our derrieres instead of our height and size of our muscles doesn’t mean that we are exclusive victims of a misogynistic conspiracy to keep us down, or at the very least to turn us into a masturbatory aid for the fans going through puberty.
We keep saying that what is good enough for the men, should be good enough for us. So what are you complaining about?
Where all of you see exploitation, I see opportunity.
Why shouldn’t we be able to exploit our sexuality and display a sensual side every once in a while, what is so wrong with our bodies that we feel the need to hide them away? Are we all ashamed? Are we afraid what people may think of us? That they may accuse us of betraying the great Feminista?
We’re all happy to air our dirty laundry to millions of people on a weekly basis, but God forbid we’re ever expected to parade around wearing it.
Remind me, why is acceptable for us to wear skimpy little ring outfits which show off a little cleavage but the idea of using our sexual appeal to our advantage in a contest that doesn’t involve beating one another up is a terrible abuse of our “rights”?
The fact is that we’re all being offered a second, or some cases third or fourth, chance at entering the most important tournament in women’s professional wrestling.
All we’ve gotta do is shake our little tushes and show a little skin.
Every single week you ladies all stand there telling the world that you would do anything to be the Diamond’s champion, now, to quote Meat Loaf, it’s all “but I won’t do that.” Way to backtrack girls, bravo.
If you’re going to wrap yourself in defiant shame, be my guests, I haven’t got any problems with utilising what God gave me to get ahead, two weeks ago I thought my opportunity was ripped away from me, now I can see a route back in.
If I get to raise that belt proudly into the air, I really don’t care what I had to wear to get that opportunity.
If you wanna get all hung up on the idea of “raising a few spirits”, be my guest ladies.
I’ll wave at you when I am kicking the rest of the roster in the face on my way to crowning myself the first ever Diamond’s Champion. I am sure being second best is worth it when you keep your precious dignity…
Right?
I don’t have a personal problem with any of you girls, but if you want to be repressed whilst I earn myself a spot in a competition at the expense of a girl who was unjustly assaulted by the biggest opponents to these types of contests it’ll just be all the sweeter.
Now, I could arbitrarily go through each of you like a list and point out your strengths and weaknesses like we do every week, but the fact is this isn’t a wrestling match, it doesn’t matter how good Amber Richards is at arm bars or whether or not Ashley Mastrangelo can hit the perfect frog splash.
But…
Our wrestling abilities do not matter and considering they were what placed us out in the cold on our asses previously perhaps it is only appropriate that we have to show a different skill set to earn a chance at redemption. A true Diamond has to have more shades to her personality, more facets of her character, than a mere faceless clone who can do a few flips and lock in a few submissions. I have used my innate feminine assets to get where I want before and I’ll do it again, if men are weak enough to submit to them…
More fool them.
I am not going to spend my time criticising the appearance of my fellow competitors either, that would be just conforming to a stereotype of being a catty backstabber and we don’t want that, do we?
I have absolutely no intention of turning this into a wrestling match, as Amber Richards has implored us all to do. Those are not the terms under which we can earn our opportunity, if she wants to ruin it for all of us then go ahead, join her little moral crusade…
Or you could just get into the spirit of the contest, strut your stuff and worry about locking one another in a boston crab when you’ve booked a place to compete for the prize we all desperately crave.
We’ve all got question marks over our heads. Do we really deserve a second chance? What have we done to deserve such an opportunity? Can we make the most of this chance?
Yet the most important question this week is this…
Silk or lace?
Well howdy there pardner.