Post by Charity Crowne on Apr 4, 2017 4:16:57 GMT
Here we are again. It's always such a displeasure. You've tried to kill me twice now, but...what can I say? I'm a survivor, I'm not going to give up. Not even in the face of two more monsters. I suppose with Rowan MacDonnough and Abigail Spencer, we needed something to offset them, and what better way to counteract their flawed nature than with one who is Simply Flawless?
Rowan MacDonnough...psychotic, Irish, and...in the end, rather a coward, aren't you? What are you hiding behind that mask, I wonder? Not too much, though. If even you're hiding it, then it's clearly something I want no part of. I saw enough of what you're capable of in that battle royal, and I've no desire to throw myself under the wheels of your sadism, now nor ever. You can hurt Abigail all you want, darling, but if you think you'll be tampering with perfection, you are SORELY mistaken.
You're a different beast than Maxine, but at the end of the day, you're still a monster, and a monster can be slain by a true champion. That's what I am: a champion. You see, a champion doesn't need a title. It's an inborn quality, just like your all-pervading sadism or the sixth toe on Abigail Spencer's right foot. Oh, you didn't know? Well, sorry to spoil the surprise. I would have thought you would learn a little something about this country we've both come to. I certainly did my homework.
But that's the difference between us, Rowan. You think you can just turn up and harm whatever's in your path. I know why we're really supposed to be here. I'm not here to hurt, I'm here to win. It's what my motivation is, was, and always will be. I want the most of my time here, and you can't do that if you're yanking women up just because you haven't had your fun. Take up a hobby. I suggest yoga, it's rather relaxing. Maybe if you did that, you wouldn't be so angry all the time.
Just a thought, really...but then, I know you're not fond of thinking.
28th March 2017
Grand Rapids, Michigan
Charity crosses her legs in the back of what appears to be a limousine, tapping her finger against the side of her cellphone as she inspects her nails on her free hand. The voice on the other line picks up, and the familiar beleaguered voice of Riley Gordon's personal assistant filters down the line. "Ms. Crowne, how can I assist you today?"
Charity purses her lips, tapping her foot against the floor of the limo, and tilts her head to the side slightly, speaking with a forced calm that acts as a slight veneer to her emotions. "I want to know one thing from you. Do I...stutter?"
"Stutter, Ms. Crowne?" the voice on the other end seems to be momentarily confused by the question. "Why do you ask?"
"I ask," Charity replies icily, "because my parents were quite deliberate on the fact that their daughter would have precise pronunciation. They expended quite a large amount of effort and a not-inconsiderate sum of money on this endeavor, and I would be terribly upset if we had to go back to those individuals and extract recompense for the failure of their efforts. I do hope you understand my concern."
"I...do." the assistant replies, confused. "I still don't understand the nature of the question. You don't stutter. How does that have any imp—"
"I ask," Charity cuts him off, seething with anger, "because after the protracted concerns I voiced with my contest against Maxine Valentine, I would have assumed that my concerns would have been noted and taken into account when arranging the semi-finals of this tournament. And yet, AND YET! Here I am, having to come to terms with the simple reality that you, and I can only assume your superiors, are attempting to have me killed."
"This is about Rowan MacDonnough and Abigail Spencer, isn't it." the assistant flatly replies. "Well, Ms. Crowne, I feel compelled to remind you that the draws for this tournament have been 100% random. You had as much of a chance to be paired with Sarah Richardson or Keira Hunter. This is just the nature of your luck."
Charity clicks her tongue, shaking her head. "My luck has, apparently, been execrable. My luck has been worse than yours, and let me tell you, MY luck is not that poor. Nothing about me is poor. Now, I have learned from experience that nothing will be done about this."
"You would be correct." the assistant replies, unable to disguise some of the relish in his voice.
"Tragic, much like your hairline." Charity snaps back. "I just want you to know that this will not go unremembered. You do not get to play games like this with your most valuable talent and expect things to just be...swept under the rug."
The assistant replies with an instinctive smoothness. "Of course not, just like your attempts to strongarm the company which procured your work visa won't be unremembered. Did you have a purpose to this call, or did you just call to vent?"
Charity pauses for a moment. "D'you know, I think I called just to vent. It's rather soothing to be able to unload all of my frustrations on you, and know that you can do precisely nothing to stop me. It gives me a thorough sense of control."
"Control, you say." the assistant seems to ponder things for a moment. "Spectacular. Well then...goodbye." He abruptly hangs up, and Charity looks at her phone, a scandalized look on her face. She stares at the phone for a solid forty-five seconds before furiously redialing the number, tapping her foot again.
The phone rings repeatedly, and finally a voicemail message begins to play. "Hello, you've reached the office of Riley Gordon. Unfortunately, we're not able to take your call at this moment. Please leave your name and number after the tone, and we will reply in a timely manner."
Charity opens her mouth, drawing in a breath to begin complaining, and is cut off by the recording. "And if this is Charity Crowne calling back to complain about her treatment, you'll take what you get or you'll be replaced. Final warning." The tone sounds for the message, and Charity stares ahead into space for a few seconds, speechless, before letting out an incoherent shriek of anger and tossing her phone into the corner of the limousine. The lock button clicks on the phone, and the call hangs up, leaving Charity fuming into the empty space.
She exhales slowly through clenched teeth, nodding slowly. "I...shouldn't have expected anything less. Well. Only one thing to do for it, then. Time to make them pay for their mistakes." She leans forward, scooping her phone off the floor, and slips it back into her purse. She holds a stern gaze for a few long moments before the façade cracks and her face drops. Charity buries her head in her hands, a long, lamenting "I'm going to diiiiieeee..." snaking out from between her fingers as we fade to black on Charity curling up on the limo seat.
And then there's Abigail Spencer. Fanaticism will only get you so far, darling. There's a reason we call what happened over here when religion was strongest the Dark Ages. You've got your nose so far in that book that if I hit it into your face, you'd have text on the back of your skull, and make no mistake, that snarling visage of yours is begging for a Backhand Serve into the ninth row. I've got one loaded up for you, dear. Just give me the chance. Just try me.
You may have your brothers whipped and cowed, but we both know that we're deadlier than the male, don't we? You can scream and flail and thump your Bible all you like, but at the end of the day, it'll get you nothing but blue in the face and flat on the mat. Don't believe me? The last doomsayer who stepped into the ring with me, I left her blinded and broken, cut in two by the Diamond Cutter. It'll be a snap to plant you down. Just. Like. That.
Your boys won't be here to pick up the slack, and I'm no Violet Madeira. I'm a cut above, darling, and your flaws mean you just don't make the grade. Don't take it personally, though. You can join Maxine Valentine and Keira Hunter in line to pick yourselves back up after being brought back down to where you belong: beneath me.
Faith's what you're all about, faith to some weird and twisted cult. Trust me, girl, you don't hear the word of the Lord. You're not getting any Our Fathers whispered in your ears. Maybe you hear the word of your daddy as he tightens the belt again? That seems a little more like it, yeah. Your issues are not my concern, though. I'm not here to make friends, I'm here to break enemies, and by being put in front of me, Abigail, you've made yourself my enemy. Say your prayers, Abby, because the Act of Charity that's coming for you? It's not what you'd call Christlike.
You two raving lunatics will tear each other apart, and as you lay there, bleeding and panting for breath, I will remind you why the Crowne Jewel of this tournament is who she is, and why I continue to impress. I'm simply more than you are. Faster, smarter, more beautiful, and undoubtedly more put-together in the head. Rowan, Abigail...you're about to find out what I mean when I say that I am...Simply...Flawless.
Cheers!
Rowan MacDonnough...psychotic, Irish, and...in the end, rather a coward, aren't you? What are you hiding behind that mask, I wonder? Not too much, though. If even you're hiding it, then it's clearly something I want no part of. I saw enough of what you're capable of in that battle royal, and I've no desire to throw myself under the wheels of your sadism, now nor ever. You can hurt Abigail all you want, darling, but if you think you'll be tampering with perfection, you are SORELY mistaken.
You're a different beast than Maxine, but at the end of the day, you're still a monster, and a monster can be slain by a true champion. That's what I am: a champion. You see, a champion doesn't need a title. It's an inborn quality, just like your all-pervading sadism or the sixth toe on Abigail Spencer's right foot. Oh, you didn't know? Well, sorry to spoil the surprise. I would have thought you would learn a little something about this country we've both come to. I certainly did my homework.
But that's the difference between us, Rowan. You think you can just turn up and harm whatever's in your path. I know why we're really supposed to be here. I'm not here to hurt, I'm here to win. It's what my motivation is, was, and always will be. I want the most of my time here, and you can't do that if you're yanking women up just because you haven't had your fun. Take up a hobby. I suggest yoga, it's rather relaxing. Maybe if you did that, you wouldn't be so angry all the time.
Just a thought, really...but then, I know you're not fond of thinking.
28th March 2017
Grand Rapids, Michigan
Charity crosses her legs in the back of what appears to be a limousine, tapping her finger against the side of her cellphone as she inspects her nails on her free hand. The voice on the other line picks up, and the familiar beleaguered voice of Riley Gordon's personal assistant filters down the line. "Ms. Crowne, how can I assist you today?"
Charity purses her lips, tapping her foot against the floor of the limo, and tilts her head to the side slightly, speaking with a forced calm that acts as a slight veneer to her emotions. "I want to know one thing from you. Do I...stutter?"
"Stutter, Ms. Crowne?" the voice on the other end seems to be momentarily confused by the question. "Why do you ask?"
"I ask," Charity replies icily, "because my parents were quite deliberate on the fact that their daughter would have precise pronunciation. They expended quite a large amount of effort and a not-inconsiderate sum of money on this endeavor, and I would be terribly upset if we had to go back to those individuals and extract recompense for the failure of their efforts. I do hope you understand my concern."
"I...do." the assistant replies, confused. "I still don't understand the nature of the question. You don't stutter. How does that have any imp—"
"I ask," Charity cuts him off, seething with anger, "because after the protracted concerns I voiced with my contest against Maxine Valentine, I would have assumed that my concerns would have been noted and taken into account when arranging the semi-finals of this tournament. And yet, AND YET! Here I am, having to come to terms with the simple reality that you, and I can only assume your superiors, are attempting to have me killed."
"This is about Rowan MacDonnough and Abigail Spencer, isn't it." the assistant flatly replies. "Well, Ms. Crowne, I feel compelled to remind you that the draws for this tournament have been 100% random. You had as much of a chance to be paired with Sarah Richardson or Keira Hunter. This is just the nature of your luck."
Charity clicks her tongue, shaking her head. "My luck has, apparently, been execrable. My luck has been worse than yours, and let me tell you, MY luck is not that poor. Nothing about me is poor. Now, I have learned from experience that nothing will be done about this."
"You would be correct." the assistant replies, unable to disguise some of the relish in his voice.
"Tragic, much like your hairline." Charity snaps back. "I just want you to know that this will not go unremembered. You do not get to play games like this with your most valuable talent and expect things to just be...swept under the rug."
The assistant replies with an instinctive smoothness. "Of course not, just like your attempts to strongarm the company which procured your work visa won't be unremembered. Did you have a purpose to this call, or did you just call to vent?"
Charity pauses for a moment. "D'you know, I think I called just to vent. It's rather soothing to be able to unload all of my frustrations on you, and know that you can do precisely nothing to stop me. It gives me a thorough sense of control."
"Control, you say." the assistant seems to ponder things for a moment. "Spectacular. Well then...goodbye." He abruptly hangs up, and Charity looks at her phone, a scandalized look on her face. She stares at the phone for a solid forty-five seconds before furiously redialing the number, tapping her foot again.
The phone rings repeatedly, and finally a voicemail message begins to play. "Hello, you've reached the office of Riley Gordon. Unfortunately, we're not able to take your call at this moment. Please leave your name and number after the tone, and we will reply in a timely manner."
Charity opens her mouth, drawing in a breath to begin complaining, and is cut off by the recording. "And if this is Charity Crowne calling back to complain about her treatment, you'll take what you get or you'll be replaced. Final warning." The tone sounds for the message, and Charity stares ahead into space for a few seconds, speechless, before letting out an incoherent shriek of anger and tossing her phone into the corner of the limousine. The lock button clicks on the phone, and the call hangs up, leaving Charity fuming into the empty space.
She exhales slowly through clenched teeth, nodding slowly. "I...shouldn't have expected anything less. Well. Only one thing to do for it, then. Time to make them pay for their mistakes." She leans forward, scooping her phone off the floor, and slips it back into her purse. She holds a stern gaze for a few long moments before the façade cracks and her face drops. Charity buries her head in her hands, a long, lamenting "I'm going to diiiiieeee..." snaking out from between her fingers as we fade to black on Charity curling up on the limo seat.
And then there's Abigail Spencer. Fanaticism will only get you so far, darling. There's a reason we call what happened over here when religion was strongest the Dark Ages. You've got your nose so far in that book that if I hit it into your face, you'd have text on the back of your skull, and make no mistake, that snarling visage of yours is begging for a Backhand Serve into the ninth row. I've got one loaded up for you, dear. Just give me the chance. Just try me.
You may have your brothers whipped and cowed, but we both know that we're deadlier than the male, don't we? You can scream and flail and thump your Bible all you like, but at the end of the day, it'll get you nothing but blue in the face and flat on the mat. Don't believe me? The last doomsayer who stepped into the ring with me, I left her blinded and broken, cut in two by the Diamond Cutter. It'll be a snap to plant you down. Just. Like. That.
Your boys won't be here to pick up the slack, and I'm no Violet Madeira. I'm a cut above, darling, and your flaws mean you just don't make the grade. Don't take it personally, though. You can join Maxine Valentine and Keira Hunter in line to pick yourselves back up after being brought back down to where you belong: beneath me.
Faith's what you're all about, faith to some weird and twisted cult. Trust me, girl, you don't hear the word of the Lord. You're not getting any Our Fathers whispered in your ears. Maybe you hear the word of your daddy as he tightens the belt again? That seems a little more like it, yeah. Your issues are not my concern, though. I'm not here to make friends, I'm here to break enemies, and by being put in front of me, Abigail, you've made yourself my enemy. Say your prayers, Abby, because the Act of Charity that's coming for you? It's not what you'd call Christlike.
You two raving lunatics will tear each other apart, and as you lay there, bleeding and panting for breath, I will remind you why the Crowne Jewel of this tournament is who she is, and why I continue to impress. I'm simply more than you are. Faster, smarter, more beautiful, and undoubtedly more put-together in the head. Rowan, Abigail...you're about to find out what I mean when I say that I am...Simply...Flawless.
Cheers!
Well howdy there pardner.