| Picasso; Battlelines XIII vs Napalm | |
|---|---|
| Tweet Topic Started: May 19 2016, 09:55 AM (39 Views) | |
| Sahara | May 19 2016, 09:55 AM Post #1 |
|
EWA Combat Champion
|
The God of Violence. Six foot, nine inches. Three hundred and one pounds. Former Heavyweight Champion. Former Television Champion. Former Tag Team Champion. The list of accolades went on... Johnny Napalm. The Queen of Kill. Five foot, ten inches. One hundred and seventy five pounds. Former nothing. Sahara. “You stay in wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes…” -Morpheus, The Matrix, 1999 ![]() This was a slaughter waiting to happen. Outsized in every regard, Sahara was in for the fight of her life. Again. What was new? She had survived the likes of Shaun Sinclair, Osbourne Kilminster, and last but not least, Indrid Calder himself. But Napalm? A different beast altogether. A monster of a man. A monster that’s been kept down within the confines of the EWA. At least in her opinion. A monster who was waiting for the right moment to make a statement...to break free. A statement he MUST make. Johnny Napalm could NOT lose to Sahara. Or could he? Once again, she found herself in a situation where she had nothing to lose...against an opponent with everything to lose. What would they say if Sahara, the rookie of rookies, actually won? She’d been beaten pillar to post the last few weeks...does anyone believe this wasn’t a concern? Think again, Johnny. In her debut match, the referee was forced to stop the match against Shaun Sinclair -- by his own request -- because she wouldn’t stop coming despite mustering zero offense... In her followup match, Osbourne Kilminster couldn’t get her to tap out, so he finally finished her with his Exclamation Point. A finisher he probably didn’t expect to need against the completely outgunned Sahara, all things being equal... But things were not equal. There was something...not quite right about Sahara. Indrid Calder, the coldest man in the EWA even sensed it...he practically beckoned her to join him on his descent into darkness. She was made of that sick something it takes to rise in this world. Calder nearly got taken by surprise when she hit him with a surprise succession of devastating moves that reminded him he was right about her. Taking no more chances, Calder got serious and hit her with The Yellow Sign, a vicious burning hammer. Followed that up with his crushing stomp called For The Horsemen...and yet, he still wasn’t done. He followed THAT up with a torture rack, finally getting her to quit and then dropped her with a second burning hammer for good measure. Needless to say, Calder taught her something out there...that she could take even more punishment than even she thought possible. He dared her to test her outer limits...to push that immense pain threshold even further. To harness her masochism and use it... And here she is again...coming back for more. Battered. Beaten. Alive. And all losing streaks must end. David had beaten Goliath before...only this time David was a pretty-pretty princess on the outside...and a bloodthirsty masochist on the inside. And Goliath was still just a giant. ![]() With a towel wrapped around her upper torso, her platinum blond hair dangled over her shoulders, still dripping wet from the shower. Blood soaked gauze was strewn about the sink area, an old wound wrapping she had removed from her hand. Examining the cut that still remained unhealed on her palm, she slowly traced the contour of the wound. Days later, the thin razorcut still hadn’t closed, and the red tinged plasma that oozed from it still brought a smile to her face. Pressing gauze against her palm, she wrapped white sports tape around her hand a few times, finally biting it off at the end and securing it. Looking up at the steamed mirror, she lifted two fingers to it and wrote one word. Napalm. And with a slash, she crossed it out. Grabbing another towel, she brought it to her face and waited as the buzzing fan cleared the room of it’s steamy fog. While the bruise had almost healed on he face, a new one had formed from her jawline that washed itself down her neck, covering most of her left shoulder. Damage she happily sustained at the unrelenting hand of Indrid Calder. Damage she was proud to put on display. Within the confines of the rest of the world, her no longer a not-so-secret sickness would classify her as a societal outcast. But in the world of wrestling? It was the one tool she had that could make her a star. The ability to take damage is the one attribute you cannot be taught. You can either do it or you cannot. Any boxer can learn to punch. But none can learn to take one on the chin and keep coming for more. Sahara could take the punches, the kicks, and the bodyslams. All she needed was the experience necessary to build on that resume of losses. She was 0-3 in the EWA. A record unbecoming of most. But one thing was for sure, nobody had EVER been prouder to be 0-3 than she was. It was a badge of honor. And the pain...the pain. A badge of pleasure. Placing her hand on her bruised shoulder, the dull pounding pain shot through her arm at the slightest touch. And it felt...amazing. ”I hope my appearance doesn’t put you off, Johnny.” “Don’t worry, I detest shit talk promos...so that’s not what this is. You’re smart enough to know what’s up...with what I’ve been doing. Since entering the EWA under illusions of grandeur, and learning rather quickly the way the real world works. I’ve been learning via trial by fire. Under unrelenting pressure to succeed.” “You’re just the latest bed of coals I have to walk across.” “Well, not ‘just’, in that sense of the word. I’d never undersell you like that, John. You not only deserve the recognition you’ve earned over the years, but how ungrateful would I be to pretend otherwise?” “Shit talk is for a different sort of loser. The way I see it, every time I lose out there...I win. Experience, John. And I do believe you’ve got something to teach me. No better way to learn to slay giants than to fight them." “If you’ve paid attention, I haven’t been being taught by the likes of Lemonhead and Snakeboy. I’ve run a gauntlet of actual contenders. The greatest professors of wrestling the world has to offer. Most of which hold doctorates in pain distribution. Most rookies with zero experience are lucky to get a dark match against another trial guy attempting to get an EWA contract. Not me. I was lucky enough to have had fifteen minutes of ‘jumbotrontastic’ fame quite a while ago that landed me in the right place at the right time...well, that and a husband that somehow carries weight with the right folks.” “I make no qualms about how I got to where I am. Now my goal is to stay...and the only way I’m gonna do that is to learn the trade.” “If I had one request for you, Dear John, it’d be to focus on me with your angry reply...not my husband. This isn’t about him. It’s about me. You see, most in my situation might cower away after seeing a monster of a man such as yourself on that booking sheet going up against them. But I think it’s become very clear what I’ve been doing around here...I like being thrown around, and I beleive you can do that for me. And then watch as I get back up again. And again.” “And again.” “Time to turn things around, John. Make a name for yourself...or finish the job the EWA’s been doing on you and suffer the upset of the century by my hand.” “Because if you think I’m gonna go out there looking to lose...well, you know better. I may not be there yet...and at the moment, I may just be that crazy student...but a day will come that I graduate.” “Doesn’t the prospect of what’s to come make you shiver with excitement, John?” She flashed a dementedly sick smile. “Wow, look at that...goosebumps!" Shivering, she traced the contour of her bruised collarbone as tiny goosebumps formed on her silky alabaster skin. Following her neckline all the way to the top of the towel tied around her, she unhooked the towel and dropped it to the floor, placing her arm across her bare breasts. “Feast your eyes. Ever the provocateur, as you can see, John...there’s plenty of room on this canvas for more...pain. So do me a favor...paint your Picasso with my body and my blood.” She paused a moment, letting her words settle. ”But if you think for one second you’re gonna phone this one in…don't worry, violent giant, I'll be as gentle and humane as I can be...” Running her free hand down the length of her well toned leg all the way down to her toes and back up again, her voice was suddenly tinged with a hint of sweet venom. “Sweetie, I’ll wrap these long slender legs around your neck in the sexiest way you could imagine and euthanize your fuckin' ass." |
| |
![]() |
|
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| « Previous Topic · The Warrior's Den · Next Topic » |










10:52 AM Jul 11