Post by Fiona McFly on Mar 27, 2017 3:12:07 GMT
11 March 2017 - 12:00 PM
Out on the back lawn, during the high-noon lunch break...
...we find Fiona McFly sitting behind the Pleasantville main building, looking up at the crystal-clear skies above whilst taking in a relaxing picnic. It burned her a bit that Jack wasn't there with her, but in hindsight, she truly needed the time to herself to recompose and reassess what had become a complicated situation. Yet on this sunny transition from morning to afternoon, Fiona stayed perfectly cool and collected, even mustering a smile as she pulled out a ham-and-cheese sandwich from a sack lunch.
But just as she was about to partake in her food of choice...
MARY SUE: Miss McFly!
...we see Mary Sue, the establishment's receptionist, strolling into the lush green field as Fiona shook her head, placing her food back into the bag.
MARY SUE: Sorry if I bothered you, but could you do me a big, BIG favor?!
Fiona simply nodded her head.
MARY SUE: One of the therapists needs a new pair of rubber gloves; her old ones ripped. You can find gloves out there--
Mary Sue points to a small, outhouse-looking shed next to the Pleasantville main building.
MARY SUE: --in the ol' toolshed. I'll bring your goodies back in and watch over 'em so they won't get ants in 'em, okie-dokie?
Sighing to herself, Fiona stood up, watching as the 45-year-old gently takes the picnic lunch and heads back inside. Hating the fact that she'd been interrupted out of a nice, joyful lunch, she marched over to the wooden shed, an ugly-looking mess that looked as if it had seen better days. She opened the door and stepped inside, and the door slowly closed behind her, causing her to jump slightly. Inadvertently, her elbow bumps into a small button, and when it's pressed, she felt a sudden shudder as the floor underneath her began to slowly descend underground.
There was no light until the hidden elevator had reached the bottom, until a door opened up in front of her, revealing a well-lit bunker that was much larger than her tornado shelter--in fact, it was the size of a common neighborhood home!
"I've got a bad, bad feeling about this..." she muttered to herself as she cautiously tip-toed through the doorway and into what appeared to be a small den, lined with photographs of all ages and sizes, Oriental plants flanking a 32-inch HDTV, and leather furnishings throughout. Yet something had caught the corner of Fiona's eyes as she approached the oak-finished coffee table...
...and when she looked down, she was horrified to see a small green bag just lying there, for no rhyme or eason at all.
Trembling with fear, Fiona checked her six to make sure nobody was looking before allowing her curiosity to take over, and when she peered into the camping bag...she gazed her visage upon the photographs of her fiancee Jack Gaither, as a little boy, along with her mentor Regina Kimble, with a timestamp that read "March 22, 1988."
She had found what the current Beckham Elementary principal had been looking for ever since the burglary.
But just as Fiona was about to take an even closer inspection...
"FREEZE!"
...her body went cold as she felt the muzzle of a Colt .45 pressed against her spine. She did not DARE move from her position, instead staring at the table like a statue.
MAN: So...you're the stupid bimbo who keeps filchin' my newspapers!
Fiona's teeth clenched, her eyes closed when the angered voice of a man in his late-50s spoke to her.
MAN: Turn around--I wanna look you in the eyes, see if there's any fear in your soul.
Fiona did as she was told, doing an about-face nervously as she found herself staring down the business end of a very-real pistol. She got a good look at the figure standing right in front of her--the man sported a receding hairline, a pointed-gray goatee, and a pristinely-kept, white Navy sailor's uniform with Captain's insignia.
The captain's jaw dropped, prompting him to place his sidearm back into his holster.
MAN: Regina...?
Fiona rubbed her hands through her hair, which was pulled into a bun, incredulous on how he knew Kimble's name.
FIONA MCFLY: I beg your pardon--?!
MAN: How did ya find me!?
Fiona didn't say a word, oblivious to anything that was going on around her.
MAN: Well ya look like Regina...you MUST be Regina, right?
FIONA: Ummm...you must have the wrong person, 'cos I'm not--
MAN: "I have been and always shall be...your friend."
Fiona perked up her right brow, confused by the man's insistance on thinking SHE was Miss Kimble.
FIONA: If I was your friend, I'd be very flattered...but you must realise that I am NOT Miss Kimble. And quite frankly, I want to know WHO you are--
KIRK GAITHER: I'm...the guy that owns Pleasantville. Name's Gaither...Captain Kirk Gaither.
Fiona gasped in horror, realizing that--after watching many a home movie with her betrothed--the voice hadn't changed. Yet it never truly sank into her own mind that, after all these years of thinking otherwise, of immense emotional distress, Jack Gaither's own father was still very much in the flesh.
And she wanted answers.
FIONA: ...ya don't fucking say...!?!
Dear Pandora...
I'm not feeling too well, allergies are killing me in the midst of my fiancee's 35th birthday weekend.
So suffice to say...this discussion will be relatively brief.
First and foremost, just as my "partner" was as incompetent in the ring as Congressman Paul Ryan was with the tabled healthcare proposal--and yes, incompetence does happen in both mediums--I shall admit that you and Devlin have this great connection together, one that I didn't see to begin with. For that, I applaud you...but just 'cos I congratulate you NOW doesn't mean I'm going to be -so- huggy-huggy kissy-kissy come High Stakes...
...for a spot in the Iron Maidon is on the line.
And I plan on finishing what I began a year ago.
Here's the deal...the Iron Maidon, in case your little "one-size-fits-all" mouth hasn't been functioning properly since I rearranged it a month ago, is an event I hold in DEAREST regard--over any title match I've ever been in, over ANY match full-stop. Ever since the night of 24 April 2016, ever since the time I had the confetti fall upon me after surviving five other Diamonds who didn't like me too much, I've made it my personal and solemn commitment to FINISH what I began and stake my place at the top of the Diamonds. Yet throughout the course of the year, I've had to deal with the same old song and dance that has irked me for God knows how long...
...people who come onto my personal social media to start shite with me 'cos of what I believe in.
I don't like trolls. In fact...I FUCKING LOATHE them!
They sit there, time and time again, blast me on my Twitter feed simply 'cos I want to get around the phonies who call themselves "journalists," that I would rather communicate directly with the fanbase, a fanbase that's been in quite a turmoil, having to sit through the rich getting richer and the poor souls being poorer. They come barging into my head, talking me down about things like "respect" and "humility" when I can, indeed, see through them like the proverbial $150 rangefinder on my favourite game show...
...people just like YOU.
It bears repeating lovely, and I HATE to keep on blathering this lover and over again...but respect is EARNED, not demanded as a form of government entitlement. If you want advice on how to "earn" that respect from me, then I strongly suggest that close your eyes...look into your soul...and see the person that you're ABOUT to become. 'Cos quite frankly, deary, you've been obsessed with me since you submitted to me after that buzzer a month ago...and guess what that does, hrm? That goes against your little hashtag "forwardsalwaysforwards," your OATH that you will move on from the last challenge and into the next!
It's gonna end. Now.
For I've EARNED every fucking thing I've been given since I joined Imperial--every triumph, every setback. I've EARNED the right to be respected by the greatest fighting champion of all time, Kayla Richards! For despite everything I've dealt with, win OR lose, it's always been about growth, about trusting yourself instead of relying on others to succeed.
You can kiss your Iron Maidon dream goodbye sweetie...
...'cos when I'm done you'll be thinking TWICE before crying for something you haven't earned yet.
Cheers!
Out on the back lawn, during the high-noon lunch break...
...we find Fiona McFly sitting behind the Pleasantville main building, looking up at the crystal-clear skies above whilst taking in a relaxing picnic. It burned her a bit that Jack wasn't there with her, but in hindsight, she truly needed the time to herself to recompose and reassess what had become a complicated situation. Yet on this sunny transition from morning to afternoon, Fiona stayed perfectly cool and collected, even mustering a smile as she pulled out a ham-and-cheese sandwich from a sack lunch.
But just as she was about to partake in her food of choice...
MARY SUE: Miss McFly!
...we see Mary Sue, the establishment's receptionist, strolling into the lush green field as Fiona shook her head, placing her food back into the bag.
MARY SUE: Sorry if I bothered you, but could you do me a big, BIG favor?!
Fiona simply nodded her head.
MARY SUE: One of the therapists needs a new pair of rubber gloves; her old ones ripped. You can find gloves out there--
Mary Sue points to a small, outhouse-looking shed next to the Pleasantville main building.
MARY SUE: --in the ol' toolshed. I'll bring your goodies back in and watch over 'em so they won't get ants in 'em, okie-dokie?
Sighing to herself, Fiona stood up, watching as the 45-year-old gently takes the picnic lunch and heads back inside. Hating the fact that she'd been interrupted out of a nice, joyful lunch, she marched over to the wooden shed, an ugly-looking mess that looked as if it had seen better days. She opened the door and stepped inside, and the door slowly closed behind her, causing her to jump slightly. Inadvertently, her elbow bumps into a small button, and when it's pressed, she felt a sudden shudder as the floor underneath her began to slowly descend underground.
There was no light until the hidden elevator had reached the bottom, until a door opened up in front of her, revealing a well-lit bunker that was much larger than her tornado shelter--in fact, it was the size of a common neighborhood home!
"I've got a bad, bad feeling about this..." she muttered to herself as she cautiously tip-toed through the doorway and into what appeared to be a small den, lined with photographs of all ages and sizes, Oriental plants flanking a 32-inch HDTV, and leather furnishings throughout. Yet something had caught the corner of Fiona's eyes as she approached the oak-finished coffee table...
...and when she looked down, she was horrified to see a small green bag just lying there, for no rhyme or eason at all.
Trembling with fear, Fiona checked her six to make sure nobody was looking before allowing her curiosity to take over, and when she peered into the camping bag...she gazed her visage upon the photographs of her fiancee Jack Gaither, as a little boy, along with her mentor Regina Kimble, with a timestamp that read "March 22, 1988."
She had found what the current Beckham Elementary principal had been looking for ever since the burglary.
But just as Fiona was about to take an even closer inspection...
"FREEZE!"
...her body went cold as she felt the muzzle of a Colt .45 pressed against her spine. She did not DARE move from her position, instead staring at the table like a statue.
MAN: So...you're the stupid bimbo who keeps filchin' my newspapers!
Fiona's teeth clenched, her eyes closed when the angered voice of a man in his late-50s spoke to her.
MAN: Turn around--I wanna look you in the eyes, see if there's any fear in your soul.
Fiona did as she was told, doing an about-face nervously as she found herself staring down the business end of a very-real pistol. She got a good look at the figure standing right in front of her--the man sported a receding hairline, a pointed-gray goatee, and a pristinely-kept, white Navy sailor's uniform with Captain's insignia.
The captain's jaw dropped, prompting him to place his sidearm back into his holster.
MAN: Regina...?
Fiona rubbed her hands through her hair, which was pulled into a bun, incredulous on how he knew Kimble's name.
FIONA MCFLY: I beg your pardon--?!
MAN: How did ya find me!?
Fiona didn't say a word, oblivious to anything that was going on around her.
MAN: Well ya look like Regina...you MUST be Regina, right?
FIONA: Ummm...you must have the wrong person, 'cos I'm not--
MAN: "I have been and always shall be...your friend."
Fiona perked up her right brow, confused by the man's insistance on thinking SHE was Miss Kimble.
FIONA: If I was your friend, I'd be very flattered...but you must realise that I am NOT Miss Kimble. And quite frankly, I want to know WHO you are--
KIRK GAITHER: I'm...the guy that owns Pleasantville. Name's Gaither...Captain Kirk Gaither.
Fiona gasped in horror, realizing that--after watching many a home movie with her betrothed--the voice hadn't changed. Yet it never truly sank into her own mind that, after all these years of thinking otherwise, of immense emotional distress, Jack Gaither's own father was still very much in the flesh.
And she wanted answers.
FIONA: ...ya don't fucking say...!?!
~TO BE CONTINUED~
~~
~~
Dear Pandora...
I'm not feeling too well, allergies are killing me in the midst of my fiancee's 35th birthday weekend.
So suffice to say...this discussion will be relatively brief.
First and foremost, just as my "partner" was as incompetent in the ring as Congressman Paul Ryan was with the tabled healthcare proposal--and yes, incompetence does happen in both mediums--I shall admit that you and Devlin have this great connection together, one that I didn't see to begin with. For that, I applaud you...but just 'cos I congratulate you NOW doesn't mean I'm going to be -so- huggy-huggy kissy-kissy come High Stakes...
...for a spot in the Iron Maidon is on the line.
And I plan on finishing what I began a year ago.
Here's the deal...the Iron Maidon, in case your little "one-size-fits-all" mouth hasn't been functioning properly since I rearranged it a month ago, is an event I hold in DEAREST regard--over any title match I've ever been in, over ANY match full-stop. Ever since the night of 24 April 2016, ever since the time I had the confetti fall upon me after surviving five other Diamonds who didn't like me too much, I've made it my personal and solemn commitment to FINISH what I began and stake my place at the top of the Diamonds. Yet throughout the course of the year, I've had to deal with the same old song and dance that has irked me for God knows how long...
...people who come onto my personal social media to start shite with me 'cos of what I believe in.
I don't like trolls. In fact...I FUCKING LOATHE them!
They sit there, time and time again, blast me on my Twitter feed simply 'cos I want to get around the phonies who call themselves "journalists," that I would rather communicate directly with the fanbase, a fanbase that's been in quite a turmoil, having to sit through the rich getting richer and the poor souls being poorer. They come barging into my head, talking me down about things like "respect" and "humility" when I can, indeed, see through them like the proverbial $150 rangefinder on my favourite game show...
...people just like YOU.
It bears repeating lovely, and I HATE to keep on blathering this lover and over again...but respect is EARNED, not demanded as a form of government entitlement. If you want advice on how to "earn" that respect from me, then I strongly suggest that close your eyes...look into your soul...and see the person that you're ABOUT to become. 'Cos quite frankly, deary, you've been obsessed with me since you submitted to me after that buzzer a month ago...and guess what that does, hrm? That goes against your little hashtag "forwardsalwaysforwards," your OATH that you will move on from the last challenge and into the next!
It's gonna end. Now.
For I've EARNED every fucking thing I've been given since I joined Imperial--every triumph, every setback. I've EARNED the right to be respected by the greatest fighting champion of all time, Kayla Richards! For despite everything I've dealt with, win OR lose, it's always been about growth, about trusting yourself instead of relying on others to succeed.
You can kiss your Iron Maidon dream goodbye sweetie...
...'cos when I'm done you'll be thinking TWICE before crying for something you haven't earned yet.
Cheers!
Well howdy there pardner.