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Pit Stop; I, Battlelines Battle Royal
Topic Started: May 9 2016, 04:55 PM (30 Views)
Grace Goeren

How many years will I get if I crush this old bitch’s face in?

Ten?

Twenty?

Maybe they’ll go easy on me if she doesn’t die. Maybe they’ll realize that I’m just doing the world a favor and shutting this decrepit bird up for the good of humanity.

Thank you, Grace.

Feel free to do that again. These yapping wastes of space are just clogging up the streets anyways.

Clean them up for us, dear.

Yes.

I’m a good girl.


Did you say something, sweetheart?

Grace snaps out of her daydreaming and opens her eyes, yawning ever-so-slightly. She gives a stretch and removes her ear buds before letting out an a quick little laugh.

No, I didn’t say anything. I was just listening.

Oh wonderful, now my grandson Michael...he’s about your age. Oh you two would look so cute together. Anyways, he’s going to college at the University of Tennessee in the Fall. We’re all so proud of him. He’s got his mother’s brains, that’s for sure! Anyways, he’s going to study Political Science, at least that’s what he tells us and…

She’s already tuned out again. Grace glances over at her companion on this hardwood bench, an elderly, blue-haired relic that reeks of mothballs and death. She’s been talking to Grace non-fucking-stop since she curled up onto this bench nearly half an hour ago, waiting for her train to finally roll into town.

The younger Goeren scans her surroundings and peers around the turn-of-the-century Amtrak station here in Nashua, New Hampshire. She hopped the train back in Concord, much to Mr. Gates chagrin. She smiles to herself, thinking of her new manager and tutor. He wanted so much to stay and celebrate their first collective jab at her father, but she had business to take care of.

He taught her that. Learn from the master.

Move the cups around.

Keep the shell game going.

Gates has probably called her cell phone a hundred times already, gloating about what they did to her father at Fight Night.

The art of manipulation. Delicate and deadly.

Twisting the mind to injure the body. So much to learn.

This trip is not about her father.

Not directly anyways.

It’s about the others.

Two stops.


Cunt #1.

Cunt #2.


They both disgust her in completely different ways. One is sanctimonious and thinks she knows what Grace has been through. The other knows exactly what she’s been through and pretends she doesn’t.

Both equally deserving of scorn. Both need to be put in their dog cages.

She smiles to herself, letting her tongue dance across her teeth as she holds back a giggle. She’s learned to enjoy these moments of anticipation. They bring her so much more joy and excitement when the moment arrives, knowing that she’s spent days looking forward to it.


Savor the flavor, little Grace. You love it. Say you love it.

Grace shakes a sickeningly black memory loose from her skull and glances down at her watch, seeing that she’s still got another ten minutes or so before the next train rolls into town. She gives another stretch and balls up in the corner of the bench again, tossing a red flannel blanket over her legs.

Fucking freezing in here...wait...is this bitch still talking? Listen. She is! Yeah, she is! Ugh, she makes me sick. I’m going to puke if she keeps FUCKING TALKING.

Can you believe that, honey?

No, I can’t! That’s crazy!

So anyways, after that he started working the day shift at The Home Depot and they recently promoted him to…

About as casually as she can, Grace pops her earbuds back in and closes her eyes, letting the last few days’ events wash over her like she was slipping into a warm bath.

So fucking relaxing.

She sees her father’s anger and hopelessness at seeing her publicly align herself with Mr. Gates. She remembers the shock in his eyes when she rolled him up for the pin during the big main event at the last Battlelines.

Her eyes twitch.

Still. It didn’t matter.


They still cheered for him. Why? Why? Why do they love him?

Then at Fight Night the Youth stole my moment from me.

He was supposed to lose to Lou at Fight Night. I was supposed to keep him from his tournament and his precious World Title.

Instead Haven and Kage ran in and got him disqualified. That’s not supposed to happen. That’s not what we planned. They are going against the order.

Why?

You failed.

NO!

Remember what he’s been teaching you. Adapt to this. We can still make this work. They took something from you, now you take something of theirs. Eye for a fucking eye. Heart for a fucking heart. You’ve come too far, little Grace, to have these idiot fratboys step into the snare you’ve set for another.

Don’t just kill two birds with one stone. Murder them. Break them. Watch them bleed and fade and die and bleed and die.


A shuddered gasp escapes Grace’s lips as she melts into the corner of the bench, no longer feeling or hearing anything of the world around her. She pictures the work that must be done and how much fun she’s going to have along the way. Starting with Battlelines. Starting with her shot to take something from The Youth after they took something from her.

She just has to go through ten of the toughest, craziest, experienced and motivated EWA competitors alive to get to Robertson.


Not even fair.

They have no idea what they’re in store for.


Everything she’s been learning from him over the last few weeks has taught her that confidence is key, overconfidence is suicide.

No gun to this head.

Only a conviction that she fucking deserves this and the rest of them need to know what true terror is.

Excuse me, sweetheart?

Oh. My. God. Just break her nose already. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.

Yes, ma’am?

I think your train just pulled in. You’re taking the 2:30 to Boston, yes?

Grace pulls her earbuds out again and glances down at her watch, noticing the time. She stands up and grabs her bag and flannel blanket, smiling cheerfully at her train station companion.

It was awfully nice talking with you today ma’am, I hope you have a wonderful trip.

You too dear! I must say, it’s so refreshing to meet such a polite young lady in this day and age!

Thank you ma’am. I was raised right. I had great parents.

I can tell.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

Go fuck yourself sideways you dumb old bitch, Grace thinks as she turns around and the smile evaporates from her face. She makes her way under the brick archway towards her train, finally deciding it's time to dig out her phone. She lets out a demented laugh, rolling her eyes a bit at how many red balloons are over her green phone icon.

13 voicemails. In the span of...what...two hours?

She presses play on the first one, fully expecting to hear Mr. Gates’ voice congratulating her on a job well done. Maybe inviting her over tonight back in Boston for some more “game planning”. She has a lot to learn.

What she hears though is a different voice.

A frantic, pleading, desperate call for help from a familiar figure.

Troy Turner, the man she was living with and a resident doctor at Massachusetts General Hospital starts speaking into her ear.


GRACE! Please...you have to help me. I was called into HR today over the bottles of Percocet you asked me to get for you. Please. They said you called them! They said you told them I had been stealing them for myself! Please! I’m going to lose my residency! I’m going to lose my whole life over this Grace! Please! What happened? Help me! Help…

*DELETE*

Poor, naive Troy.

She gives her bag a good shake, hearing the massive quantity of pills jingle around in their bottles. She’s stocked up for the near and far future.

She’s good. He’s not.

It’s good to get rid of loose ends.


C’est la vie.

Grace casually strolls to her train, making her way to an empty seat and pulling her baseball cap down. It doesn’t seem that busy on this route today so she’s hoping no pervert or fucking weirdo sits down next to her and tries to start up a conversation. She tosses her bag and blanket into the adjacent seat as a further deterrent and sees the next few voicemails all belonging to a “D. Gates”.

She can’t help but smile.

She wanted this train ride as a way to relax her mind, knowing that luxury isn’t afforded to her when she’s driving from place to place or dealing with the airlines.

Off to Boston first.

Then to Washington DC.

Then back to Boston.

Busy, busy, busy.

A lot to think about. A lot to plan.

She suddenly remembers what he told her the last morning they woke up together.


Always keep em’ guessing.

Mama, I’m coming home.


***********************

Ring around the rosie.

A pocket full of posies.

Ashes.

Ashes.

They all fall down.

Did you all know that nursery rhyme was about the Black Death? Fucking weird, right? We sing that to kids. I mean, back in by before life when I was babysitting little Alexander next door, I used to dance around the coffee table with him and sing that song and laugh and eat ice cream and watch movies.

He would laugh and laugh and laugh and I would throw him onto the couch and laugh and laugh and laugh.

He’s dead now.

Childhood leukemia took him two years ago.

This isn’t some chitchat about how precious and short life is or anything, I just find it weird that I used to sing him that song all the time without knowing what it meant. He was too young to know what it's about, but it's kind of ironic. In a fucked up way.

Where was I going with this?

Who are you people?

Who am I?

Oh yes.

I’m me.

Our match.

If you all haven’t been paying attention, and I’m not positive all of you have, you should know that Mr. Gates has very graciously decided to manage my career as of Fight Night.

Did you see what I did there?

Grace? Graciously?

I get that from my father.

Sorry.

No.

Never apologize.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Anyways, some of you might be thinking that Mr. Gates pulled whatever strings he had left to get me into this match. I mean, if you look at it from top to bottom, we’ve got former World Champions galore in this bitch-cunt of a match. Everyone looking for that extra step up to climb that crazy wonky ladder to EWA greatness.

A part of me wants to say that it's an honor to even be grouped with such people like Nakamura, Napalm, McIntyre and Summers. Fuck, Dredd is in this match! DREDD!

He once threatened to rape me, you know.

I’ve got a good memory when it comes to things like that.

I’m sure the rest of you probably thought about it too. Even you, Maggie. Even Maya would have switched sides for a swing.

Truth is, none of you should be afraid of little ol’ me.

Fight amongst yourselves. I’ll be tossed out sooner or later. Then you big, bad legends of our sport can flex and pose and get your EWA Network Title shot.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

So many bones. So many pints. So delicious.

You know, I’ve read countless articles online posted about me. Seen some pretty fucked up deviant art stuff too. What’s wrong with this world? Bunch of weirdos.

Not like me.

I’m a good girl.

They all say that they’ve never seen a person take to wrestling like I have. That I shouldn’t be this physically talented this earlier in my career. For most of you, it took years to get to where you are today. For me, it only took a few months.

Must be in my blood.

My dirty, thick blood.

The one thing I never knew about this business though, and something I was forced to get used to real fucking fast was just how diabolical all of you are. The politicking, the back-stabbing...fuck...I wasn’t ready for that shit! Not at all!

That’s why I’ve taken the offers of Mr. Gates to heart. He is a man who is capable of showing me how to play the little games you...children...all play. This sport isn’t about talent, it's about opportunity. It’s not about who wants it more, it's about ruthlessness.

Keeping the cups moving.

So please, the rest of you. Discount me as the “Goeren brat” or “Azrael’s little bitch” as I’ve heard so many times already.

No need to concern yourselves with me.

Do your thing.

Flex your muscles.

Ignore the kid.

Ashes.

Ashes.

Fall the fuck down.

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