THUD!
“Ooh, ladies and gentlemen, Lady X has executed a perfect piledriver on Love Child! Lady X goes for the cover. I think this match is over!”
HE thinks this match is over! Trust me.
It’s over. I should know. I’m Jennifer Marshall, better known as Love
Child. I’m the pretty blonde in the
center of the ring. There is a masked
woman, about 50 pounds heavier than me, with a handful of my hair and a knee on
my windpipe if that makes it easier.
“ONE!”
It’s about time the referee started
counting. Why the hell did he wait so
long?
Then again, why the hell did I accept
this match? Oh yeah, I remember. My genius manager told me that a match
against the champion would enhance my career, win or lose. “If you fight the best, the fans will think
you’re the best,” he said. “They’ll
cheer you on against overwhelming odds,” he said. It’s funny, though. I
can’t hear any cheers over the yells of “Stupid slut!” and “That’s what you get
for wasting the champion’s time.”
“TWO!”
Come on, ref. Count a little faster, please.
It’s hard to breathe around this knee that’s crushing my throat.
Where was I? My manager gets me a match, rookie versus champion. At the appointed hour, I dance down to the
ring in my pink, Lycra two-piece covered with little red hearts and matching
boots. I get a lot of whistles and
cheers. I am pleasing to the male eye.
Then, my opponent enters. I’ve never seen her in person, and I wonder
if I want to see her this close. She’s
receiving a lot of boos and catcalls, but there are a few disconcerting cries
of “Kill the rookie!” that worry me.
Considering that Lady X is about 4 inches taller and a lot heavier than
I am, I have plenty to worry about without the help from the fans. Not to mention, she’s standing in her corner
giving me the worst “evil-eye” that I’ve ever gotten.
“THREE!”
Move it along, ref!
At the bell, I compounded my first
mistake of taking bad advice by taking more advice from my manager. “Move fast and get in the first shot! Make her respect you early!”
I charged and Lady X respected a boot
into my stomach. Then, she grabbed a
handful of hair and respected my face into the turnbuckle about ten or twelve
times. Then, with the utmost respect,
she pulled my back against her chest, grabbed around my waist, and dumped me on
my head with a German suplex.
“FOUR!”
Let’s see. The suplex was done with enough force that my legs and butt flew
over my head, and I ended up face down on the canvas. At this point, Lady X grabs my hair with both hands and beats my
forehead into the mat. I lost count of
how many times after 22. Then, she
started the knee-drops on the back of my head.
I didn’t bother to count those, but it was probably in the same
neighborhood as the forehead smashes.
“Five!”
That’s it! We’re halfway to freedom, ref!
After all of the knee-drops, I couldn’t
see what she was doing very clearly.
From the repeated sensations of flying, spinning, and hard impact, I
would guess that Lady X was trying to crush my ribcage with a series of
power-slams. They ended with a longer
“flying” period followed by a much harder impact.
“SIX!”
I had a few moments of respite while
the champion worked the crowd from the ring.
Oh yeah, when my brain cleared a little, I noticed that I was lying on
the cold, hard, concrete floor outside the ring. I was also paralyzed, or the next best thing to it. I realized that when Lady X came out of the
ring after me, and I couldn’t find my legs to run away.
“SEVEN!”
She had to drag me to my feet. Unfortunately, she was able to find
them. She also made them move along
with her so that she could drive my head into the ring posts. Yes, I said “posts.” Lady X threw me headfirst into all four of
them. You know, it sounded almost
musical when my head made the steel poles ring, with the exception of the last
one. It didn’t ring. It made more of a “splat” sound because of
the blood pouring down my face.
“EIGHT!”
Then, it was back into the ring to be hung upside down in one of the corners. Lady X hooked my feet to hold me in place. Then, her boots hammered my torso into jelly. Do you remember the forehead smashes and knee-drops? If you add them together and multiply by 3, you’d be close to the number of kicks that destroyed my belly, ribs, breasts, kidneys, etc.
“NINE!”
Thank Heaven! It’s almost over!
After that, I come to the beginning of
this story. Lady X picked me up off the
turnbuckle that held me and paraded me once around the ring. Then, a piledriver was executed to force my
skull between my shoulder blades and bend my spine into a corkscrew. Then, with a lazy knee and handful of
blood-soaked hair, she pinned me.
“TEN!”
The bell rings.
“That’s the end of this match, folks. Love Child showed a lot of courage just to get in the ring tonight, but her skills weren’t up to the challenge. The winner of the most brutal, one-sided match that we’ve seen in some time, LADY X!”
I didn’t win? What a surprise, you turkey!
Would somebody please make the announcer shut up so I can wait for the
stretcher in peace?
Wait a minute! Why the hell is Lady X picking me up? She’s got me pressed above her head! Oh shit, she’s throwing me out of the ring
towards the timekeeper’s table. Is that
the bell?
DING!