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{__happy.wifey.day__} “I love Valentine’s Day,” stated an idly sprawling Morgana, her eyes directed toward the ceiling. “Really? Even this year?” Adora questioned skeptically from across the room, her shapely legs thrown over the arm of a plush chair. “I mean, an arena in Newfoundland isn’t exactly high on my list of Valentine’s Day hotspots.” “True,” Morgy admitted, pushing herself into a sitting position in order to survey the room. “We did a pretty good job of making the room Valentine’s Day-appropriate, though.” Scanning the room critically, much the same way Morgy was, Adora nodded in agreement, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. From where she sat, she could see little more of Morgy than what the soft glow of dozens of candles would allow, offering the room an ethereal, sensuous quality. “If I’m going to be spending today holed up in a locker room and then fraternizing with a bunch of sweaty, vapid individuals I don’t even like, much less want to associate with, I wouldn’t expect any less,” Adora replied with a toothy grin. They’d arrived in St. John’s, Newfoundland that morning, disgruntled and tired and generally dissatisfied. Aimlessly wandering the empty halls of the arena held little appeal, especially considering the fact that, on such an occasion, there was sex and chocolate to be had. So they’d decorated their nondescript locker room to match the holiday: scented candles adorned every available space, lending the room the kind of ambience that regular lighting so rarely provided. Delicate red, white and pink rose petals had been scattered across the hardwood floor and onto the room’s singular coffee table. Soft music filtered through randomly dispersed speakers, and pink, button-eyed teddy bears took up almost as much space on the furniture as Morgy and Adora themselves did. “Is Tim mad that you’re missing Valentine’s Day?” Adora questioned. Set upon the coffee table was a platter of strawberries drizzled with warm chocolate, and she pressed one against her lips, licking the chocolate off of it. “Are you kidding?” Morgy scoffed, blindly groping for a piece of assorted candy in the heart-shaped tin beside her. “He doesn’t give a shit about Valentine’s Day, much like most men, I assume. He does like the sex that he’s guaranteed to get, but then again, when isn’t he guaranteed sex? Today probably holds more novelty for guys with shrewd girlfriends who never put out. I should try that.” “Yeah, right,” Adora smirked, sensually stretching her long, toned legs. She was minimally clothed; in holiday spirit (manufactured as said holiday is), she’d dressed in a lacy, polka-dotted black bra and panty set, a pair of impossibly high heels adorning her feet that perfectly matched the red hue of her lips. In a similar state of undress, Morgy wore a deep pink corset that nearly exposed her full breasts, matching panties and thigh-high black stockings with garters. Like Adora, she wore high heels that made her appear inches taller than she actually was, a white feather boa draped around her willowy neck. “What? You don’t think I could do it?” Morgy challenged, allowing her lips to spread into a slow grin. “Abstain from sex, I mean.” “Never,” Adora answered solemnly. “Besides from sex, do you think Tim bought you anything?” “What can he possibly buy me that I don’t already own?” Morgy shrugged, tugging at a tendril of her hair, which was parted in two lengthy pigtails. “At this point, every holiday is mostly marked with sentimental value, not extravagant gifts bought with my own money.” “Fair enough,” Adora conceded. “But the important thing is, we’re not spending the day alone and miserable! We have each other, after all.” And Morgy smiled, reaching for one of the chocolate-covered strawberries, her hand brushing against Adora’s as she did so.
“Haven’t we always?”
{__it.comes.down.to.this.your.kiss__} "Why is everything such a struggle with him?" Adora sobbed for the thousandth time, burying her face in Gina's pillow, which was now damp, bordering on wet, from the flood of shed tears. "Isn't young love supposed to be more happy, prancy, bunny rabbit joy than misery and arguing?" she demanded, her words muffled as she made no effort to lift her head from the pillow. "I know, I know," Gina cooed soothingly, stroking her best friend's hair - this was not the first time she'd had to do this, nor would it be the last. Recently, however, she had been unable to comfort her friend each time she had a falling out with Charlie; her schedule with Totally Wild Wrestling was getting more and more hectic, and fitting a stop at home in on her itinerary was increasingly difficult. She would be lying if she said that Adora was the only one who suffered, as she, too, felt the impact of not having a constant confidante. "I just wish he'd be more supportive, because every good thing that happens to me happens to him as well, you know?" she sniffled, pulling herself upright. The two lounged lazily in the bedroom or Gina's newly bought but seldom used apartment. Gina's king-sized mattress, adorned in soft, black cotton sheets, sat primly atop an enormous, four poster wooden frame, which was stained a deep red. Wrought iron furniture sat against walls painted a matching red, and dark, hardwood floors peeked through thick black carpeting. The decor could be described as grim or even maddening, but the two adored it. "He's just worried you're going to break free and find that the world has more to offer than he does," Gina assured her, trying her best not to vilify Adora's new husband. A candle on the fireplace's mantle flickered ominously, warning that it was at its wick's end, and after a frenzied perfomance of dancing shadows on the walls and ceiling, it abruptly went out and dimmed the room significantly. "I miss you so much," Adora whispered, her voice breaking as more tears yet fell from her eyes. "I miss you too!" Gina wailed, overcome by the kind words. She knew deep down that she must be missed, but she needed to hear it to believe it to be true. She wrapped her arms around Adora and pulled her closer, and Adora reciprocated, tightening her arms around her friend until the swell of their breasts forbade them from getting any closer. "It's just not the same without you," she mumbed into Adora's neck, strands of her blonde hair sticking to her lips as she spoke. "No, it's not," Adora agreed quietly. She pulled away from Gina just enough to look at her face, and their eyes quickly locked, searching one another for comfort. "Poor wifey," Gina sighed as she looked into Adora's reddened, agitated eyes. "You don't deserve this from him," she told her, raising a hand to gently wipe a tear that streamed waywardly down Adora's cheek, leaving a crooked, salty trail in its wake. She gazed up at Gina admiringly; how beautiful she was. She had always envied her the exquisite, pillowy lips she had, the lips that made it hard for her to ever mar her face with an unappealing expression. "Thank you," Adora smiled weakly, raising a finger to Gina's mouth, unable to resist the temptation of tracing the creases in her full lips. Most people who paid for lips like hers lost those lines to sickly, synthetic smoothness that destroyed any semblance of sensuality. But not Gina - she had it to spare. An impulse, a surge of electricity, or maybe an simple twitch - something - sparked Gina to bestow a light, almost negligible kiss on Adora's roving fingertip. Adora's appreciation was by no means unrequited; Gina often relished in clandestine glances at her friend's form when it was bared for her to see, enthralled by her full, red ribbon lips. Adora's figure, slightly taller and longer than her own, was understandably intriguing to Gina, whose smaller stature and voluptuous breasts exemplified curvaceousness. In a swift, almost startling motion, Adora brought her face closer to Gina's, their noses lightly touching, each exhaling puffs of warm air against the other's skin. And without knowing who filled the lustful gap between them, their lips met, cautiously, but eagerly. Slowly at first, their mouths parted and met, parted and met, and furtive uncertainty became careless hunger for more. One kneaded the other's lower lip between her teeth fervently, while the second drew her tongue across the other's upper lip lightly, teasingly, sending shivers through them both. "You should come on the road with me," Gina breathed heavily, as she cleared a section of Adora's long hair from the nape of her graceful neck, and planted her teeth firmly into the soft, porecelain skin. "It'll be fun," she promised, now kissing the bright pink splotch she'd left.
"I've been meaning to, anyway," Adora moaned, letting her hand slip up Gina's back and unclasp her bra. She ran her fingers beneath the fabric of the garment, still held in place by fine, satin straps at her shoulders, and lifted it from Gina's firm breasts. "Charlie can take care of himself for a while."
{__we're.in.this.together.now__} “I love the way this corset makes my boobs look,” Morgy announced, staring into the abundant cleavage that the garment’s boning produced before playfully running her hands over her breasts. “How delightful.” “Yeah, that’s definitely hot,” Adora agreed, patting the arm of the chair she sat on. “This calls for sexy pictures.” Her purse, ridiculously oversized and brimming with seemingly useless commodities, lay next to the chair; and bending to sift through it, Adora produced a polaroid camera, arching her eyebrows suggestively as she did so. “How seedy!” Morgy squealed, clapping her manicured hands together with glee. “I love it. We need to get Myspace accounts for the express purpose of posting these online, like so many teenaged whores do.” “Or better yet,” Adora suggested with a leering grin, “why don’t we slip them under Corey Page’s door?” “No way!” Morgy gasped. “That’s awesome; he deserves something for Valentine’s Day, other than whatever diseases his slutbag girlfriend will be kind enough to pass on. Although, I have to say – we’d never hear the end of it.” “Oh, please,” Adora rolled her eyes, sitting up straight in her chair. “Everyone already accuses us of fucking the boss in every fed we’ve ever been in anyway; it’s not like they could possibly say anything new. Besides, we both already have prospective title shots tonight as it is, so it’s a little late to imply that we fucked our way to the top.” “True,” Morgy relented. She rose to her feet as gracefully as she could in her obscenely high heels – they were pretty, but she certainly wasn’t used to them – and sauntered over to Adora, seating herself on the arm of the chair. She draped her legs across Adora’s lap, and Adora held the camera out, aiming in their general direction as they pressed close enough to both be included in the shot. “Just pretend you’re a thirteen-year-old girl on Livejournal,” Adora advised before snapping the picture, which was discharged, undeveloped, almost immediately. Leaning down, Morgy tilted Adora’s head back with gentle fingers, exposing the delicate flesh of her throat, before closely pressing her lips to Adora’s in a feigned kiss. “That’ll be a good one,” Adora confirmed after taking the picture, hurriedly shaking it to speed up its development. The first picture began to melt into view, initially grainy before revealing its contents: a half-naked Morgy practically sitting in Adora’s lap, each offering the camera identical come-hither stares. “I should give one of these to Chris Extreme,” Morgy cackled, examining the second picture as it came into fruition: breasts pressed together, mouths seemingly on the verge of locking in a passionate kiss. “Don’t even joke,” Adora groaned, shooting Morgy a sharp warning glance. “It’s bad enough that you have to be anywhere in the vicinity of that whack job on a regular basis. It’s not like you’d need to do much to provoke him; sending him a picture like that would just be begging for more awkward, stalkery encounters than he already delivers.” “I was just kidding!” Morgy offered in her own defense. “Besides, you know I’d never do that; we have enough things to worry about in this battle royal without deliberately provoking the ire of random psychos.” “Like what?” Adora asked, reaching over Morgy’s sprawled legs to grab another strawberry. She bit half of it, chocolate dribbling over her lips, before offering the other half to Morgy. “Like the fact that one of us is probably going to win, leaving the other out in the cold,” Morgy reminded Adora between bites. “And I mean, if you win I’ll be totally happy for you, but at the same time… I really, really want the Sin Trophy. And the World Title.” “I know what you mean,” Adora sighed, momentarily closing her eyes. “But if anyone’s going to beat me, I sincerely hope it’s you. When – not if, when – Nikita loses her World Title, I want it to be to someone that’s a) deserving, and b) capable of thoroughly humiliating her.” “I’d say we both fit that bill! Much moreso than anyone else in the battle royal, anyway,” Morgy pointed out, randomly tugging at a lock of Adora’s platinum blonde hair. “SW needs a World Champion who’s consistent and talented enough to break the so-called ‘World Title curse’ – and who’ll be around enough to actually make their presence felt.” “I know, right?” Adora sneered, swatting Morgy’s prying hands away. “Nikita’s such a fucking phantom champion; that broad is such a joke. Have you noticed that what she tried to pass as a promo today was one of the first ones she’d made in over a month?” “You’re right!” Morgy agreed, the realization of this clearly dawning upon her. “What a fucking coincidence; we join SW and Nikita takes an abrupt leave from the huge amount of air time she used to waste. Bitch is scared of us.” “Mostly you,” Adora pointed out. “Remember what you did to her in NEW? You nearly fucking killed her.” “Ah, yeah; those were some good times,” Morgy smiled fondly at the recollection. “I’ve actually beaten her twice, and I have a theory that explains why she just can’t win against me.” “What is it?” Adora asked quizzically. “Okay, so say Nikita and I are hockey players,” Morgy began. “Right.” “So if we were hockey players, I’d be a good old Canadian boy, and she’d be one of the lazy Europeans that everyone justifies hating by saying they have no heart.” “That makes an odd amount of sense,” Adora conceded, shifting her eyes maniacally. “And when you think about it, it’s so true. She markedly lacks passion in everything she does; I have no idea why people so urgently feel the need to fuck her, because I imagine her silently laying there like some rigid virgin with a dry cunt. Her reign as World Champion is forgettable at best -- but calling it ‘regrettable’ is probably far more accurate.” “Exactly!” Morgy cried with such enthusiasm that she nearly fell from the arm of the chair. Adora grabbed desperately at her hair to keep her from falling; crisis averted. “My point is, SW needs an active World Champion who isn’t going to wither and become part of the fucking wallpaper when real competition comes along. What I’m expecting for tonight is a hell of a lot of flash-in-the-pan performances: people pulling out all of the stops so they can say they won a pretty trophy and a shiny belt, and then inexplicably disappearing afterward. None of these people are reliable enough to carry a federation on their backs.” “Sounds about right to me,” Adora confirmed, pursing her lips as she did so. “You pretty much just described the majority of Tony Millennia’s career.” “You noticed, huh?” Morgy grinned, obviously satisfied with herself. "I’m tired of all the paper champions that undeservingly hold the World Title. I’m sick of hearing about the World Title curse, and I’m so over talentless hacks like Flame, Stryker Graff, and Nikita having the distinction of holding the title that’s supposed to mark the greatest wrestler in this federation. Not a single person in that battle royal, outside of you and I, discernibly has something that I like to call ‘greatness’ – and people are quickly going to find that out.” “And if it comes down to me and you?” Adora questioned, and a fair question it was. Unfortunately, neither of them had sufficiently thought the answer through. “Then I guess we’re going to have three people in the main event, now won’t we?” Morgy concluded briskly, and Adora laughed at the implausibility of it all. “It’s a nice thought, but I doubt it. As if Corey would let that happen." “You keep doubting all you want,” Morgy replied snootily, wrinkling her nose as she did so, “but I have faith that this can work out to our advantage. We’ll do this as Team Wifey, like we always have, and whatever happens, happens.” “Happy Valentine’s Day,” Adora responded, rather than address Morgy’s claims. It was a not-so-subtle attempt to steer the topic of conversation in a lighter direction, and it worked. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” Morgy repeated sweetly, leaning to wrap her arms around Adora’s neck. "And remember; we're in this together."
{__if.she.says.give.it.all.i'll.give.everything.to.her__}
13.10.2001
"Well this is glamorous," Adora laughed, pulling Morgy close to her. "I'll say," she smiled, hastily leaning in to press her lips to Adora's, effectively sending them both crashing into the cool cement of the wall behind her. The room was dingy, there was no question about that, but at least there were no abrasive chemicals, moldy mops and buckets of fetid water waiting to be spilt. Neither was deterred, however, and they continued exchanging ardent kisses as they shuffled back to their feet, their bodies only far enough apart to accomodate roaming, curious hands. "What good are dressing rooms when you can't even use them?" muttered Morgy, her voice so hushed and breathless that it became barely discernible from her counterpart's. "Who cares; as long as there's a nice utility room in every city, we're okay," Adora whispered back soothingly. A hand slid under the strap of her plaid thong, revealing the tan skin over her hip bone, tiny goosebumps peppering the area that was moments ago impossibly smooth. She moved her slender fingers down Adora's thigh, taking the thong with her, before making her way back to her cunt, wet with anticipation. She eased a finger inside her slowly; gently, and she brought her mouth back to Adora's, silencing her ecstatic whimpering. This was the beauty of fucking a woman; each knew exactly what to touch, kiss, lick and suck to bring the other to powerful climax, over and over and over and over again. There was no confusion, as there tended to be with men; there was only pleasure. Morgy withdrew her hand, then thrust back into Adora with her middle and ring fingers, going as deep as her body allowed to find the tiny mound within her that made her muscles spasm and falter when touched. She ran her fingers over it in slow, deliberate circles as Adora moaned and ran her hands madly over Morgy's body. She sucked in her breath sharply and held it, as with one final stroke from her friend, she felt her entire body release blissfully, a euphoric sensation spreading from her centre, like a starburst, and over all of her limbs, to her very fingertips. Almost violently, Adora tore Morgy off of her and pressed her firmly against the wall, peppering her neck with butterfly kisses. She worked a trail to Morgy's full, round breasts and ran her tongue carefully around the perimiter of an already aroused nipple, savouring the sweet taste of her skin. Morgy threw her head back and moaned, her body tensing as Adora kissed down past her ribs, past her navel and past her hips. She paused, glancing coyly up at Morgana, over the landscape of her flat stomach and large breasts. Her face only belied the pleasure she felt, and with knowing precision, she slid her tongue over the soft pink of Morgy's cunt; slowly at first, until she couldn't help herself and flicked the tip of her tongue rapidly over her wet pussy. They were delicious, delicate and perfect to one another; nothing could tear them apart.
{__morgy__} And so, Over The Top Rope has finally arrived. How anti-climactic; everyone is so silent, which is unusual, considering the fact that I work with a roster full of people who generally take any opportunity they can to verbally fellate themselves. Why so quiet, guys? Have you conceded defeat before the battle royal even starts? What a shame; I was looking forward to publicly berating every single one of you more than I already have. It’s no secret that I’ve been anticipating this moment since the very first time I stepped into a Sin Wrestling ring. I arrived as a gift, and I got one of my own in the form of the Lust Title, but now I want something much more… valuable. Something worthy of giving to a woman of my caliber on Valentine’s Day. Forget diamonds; I want something gold.
Unfortunately, Sin Wrestling is a harsh mistress and a cheap date, and won’t just give me said gold; I have to
So where do we go from here?
And the answer is simple: wherever the battle royal takes us. Whatever happens tonight, Adora and I will support each other, and that’s a lot more than the rest of you can fucking say.
Oh, and for the record?
Dear Chris Extreme,
I don’t go by Morgana Ashton. In fact, nobody really calls me that but you, since you’re obviously a fucking masochist. I didn’t sacrifice any sort of legacy when I married my husband – if I had, I wouldn’t be here right now in the position I’m in. Think of something better to insult me with than my name; that’s as predictable as being called a slut. And you’re right – people do call me diseased a lot, but not for the idea you suggested; it really is due to a lack of originality and overall intelligence. It’s funny how I’m the diseased one, yet you’re fucking the corpses of your dead relatives, not to mention your sister and random minorities that you claim to hate.
What a double standard, huh? So tell me, Chris: what diseases do you have? Can’t be anything that you surely should have gotten from me, since I’m so slutty and VD-ridden, after all. If I’m so terrible, why do you want me back?
Oh, right. I'm really not so terrible after all -- it's just that you’re speaking entirely out of bitterness, and therefore, none of your points are valid.
I never called myself better than you. In fact, I went into the Art of War wanting nothing more than for you to be reunited with your “precious” – the very thing that drove us apart in the first place. But go ahead, vilify me; you’re already going to anyway, since it’s so much easier than admitting that you fucked up and lost me.
I never used you. If anything, you used me and my dominance in NEW to get closer to the only thing that ever really mattered to you: the World Title. You played second fiddle because I was better, period. My ego may have its own gravitational pull, but the people who don’t survive in this business are the ones that try to feign modesty. I have an ego, you have an ego – and now they’re fucking clashing, because you can’t accept that you gave me genuine reasons to leave your ass.
You’re not as great as you think you are. And if the only reason you want the World Title is so I have to chase you for it, good fucking luck with that – I got tired of chasing you a long time ago.
Love,
But at this point, I’m not focusing on that – because I’ve got my eyes firmly fixated on the main event and the dispassionate World Champion waiting for me there. Don’t you all just love how easily Nikita has given up? She doesn’t have to say those words exactly, because at this point, it would be redundant. You can see it in her eyes and in the bottle of pills she possessively carries like a child would tote a blanket; you can see it in the fact that every time you look at her, she seems to fade a little bit more before your eyes.
Where did all your fight go, Nikita?
I’ve always said that women like Nikita cease to exist when women like Adora and I are around, and I never realized how true that statement actually was until I looked back at my month here. Nikita barely shows up; then again, even if she did, it’s not like anyone would notice her. She makes it all too easy to forget her with her crying act, because it’s much easier and far more comfortable to swing your eyes away from emotional wrecks like that than to acknowledge them. Before we came, she was the wretched car crash that no one could keep their eyes off of out of sheer, morbid curiousity – and now, people have found something much more entertaining to watch.
Have you enjoyed your reign, Nikita? It must not feel very good to know that Flame, of all people, had a longer reign than you will. You aren’t guaranteed to face me specifically in the main event, but there is one thing that everyone’s certain of: after tonight, SW will have a new World Champion. That’s a given. The real question is, who will it be?
That must be so nerve wracking for you: having to face a nameless, faceless opponent who’s coming for your title. No wonder you’ve given up so easily; you know that whoever makes it through the battle royal is better than a good portion of the roster, and therefore better than you by default. I can’t say I’m too worried, though; because if it’s me you meet tonight – and I think it will be – I know how this is going to end. Do you?
Oh, I’m sure you do. But let me refresh your memory anyway with a tape of an event I still fondly look back on: Downfall.
Nikita has barely enough strength to rise to her feet, but somehow she does.
...Only to be met by Morgana Ashton with a dropkick to her knee! Nikita falls down to one knee, looking as if she cannot stand a second more of this. But again, somehow, she forces herself up.
...Only to be whipped into the corner all the way across the ring and hit with a thunderous splash that rocks her entire body. About to fall over, Nikita maintains her composure, much to the shock of Morgana Ashton.
...Only to kneed in the stomach, slapped in the face, and punched in the throat. Morgana then elbows her in the side of the head, before lifting her up onto the top turnbuckle. Morgana follows her up, positioning herself in front of Nikita. Once she is ready, Morgana jumps up onto Nikita's shoulders, pulling her off with a tremendous frankensteiner off the top rope! Nikita falls, crashes, and burns...the fires of defeat closing in on her.
Remember that? I certainly do. It was the second time we’d faced each other – the second time I’d beaten you. Everyone said that you showed a lot of heart, challenging me the way you did; everyone knew that you were way out of your league. You quickly realized that it takes a lot more than heart to beat me… which pretty much means that all of your chances are gone, aren’t they?
I wouldn’t say you have heart anymore, although at one time, you certainly did. If nothing else, you were spirited, persistent and eager to learn, I’ll give you that much. So what happened? Top of the mountain suddenly not good enough for you?
Maybe it’s because you’ve known from the start that your time there is short.
Right back up to the top rope, Morgana wastes not a second in coming off this time. Twirling through the air, Morgana performs a perfect looking Morgasm, right down to the point of impact, which seems to send the last shard of life out of Nikita's body. Burned, charred, and transformed into ashes, Nikita barely hears the sound of the ref's hand slapping the mat. One. Two.
Three.
So call me a cunt. Hate me for everything I’ve done better than you – everyone else already does. Just do something. Let us feel some sort of pride in fighting to face you, because none of us want to be the same dead-eyed, broken-spirited champion you’ve been. When I meet you in the main event, I want you to act like you care, no matter how badly outclassed you know you are.
This isn’t New Era Wrestling, and neither of us are the same people we were three years ago.
But you know what? Some things just don’t fucking change.
{__adora__}
I won't pretend I'm shocked, surprised or offended by how things have been going so far. It's not like I didn't expect to be overlooked and largely disregarded by my peers, who seem to continually forget that I was twice the performer they were four years ago, and that I'm probably ten times that now. Every male in this place already has a hard enough time conceding to Morgana, a proven champion deserving of no position lower than that, I suppose it will take a little longer before they break down and realize that they have yet another obstacle
The same goes for Nikita; she must have done something right to get her World Title, but she certainly hasn't been doing it recently. It would be a lie to say that seeing her asinine promos - in bulk - before I rejoined didn't inspire my return just a little. Someone had to put her in her place, and Morgy and I were only too eager to be the ones to do it.
Only, before our contracts were even signed - poof! Nikita crawls into her shell, where she belongs, and hides like a threatened turtle. I'm surprised so few people have noticed this little coincidence! You'd think as the new World Champ, she would be out and about, savouring the fruits of her accomplishments! Most World Champions barely let a minute go by without reminding everyone of why they're in the position they are - because they are the best - but to Nikita's credit, she doesn't do that, since she's knows she's not the best. She knows she's not second or third or fourth best, even, as illustrated by the top wrestlers of the week, as voted by the fans.
I mean, maybe I'm wrong, but some coincidence, huh?
And I won't pretend that I don't resent ever-so-slightly the three most popular notions about me:
1) I fucked my way to whatever success I have now. Sorry, friends, I only fucked Jeff Evans, and that didn't get either of us very far.
2) I can't wrestle or fight because I'm a woman. Uh huh, and that's why I currently possess a perfect record and a title, which only one other male on the roster can say. Actually, scratch that; no male can boast that. Seriously now, is every dude around here trying to tell me they've never seen a Bruce Lee movie? Never underestimate smaller people because of their size, because chances are that they'll have you on your back with your fist up your own ass before you can even sneer at them properly.
3) I'm only riding on Morgana's coattails and leeching off of her success. That one doesn't even make sense, because, well... how would it? What, am I cutting little pieces off of her Lust Title while she sleeps at night, then secretly fusing them back together, hoping to one day have it for myself? Please. I started at the bottom and am still working my way to the top on my own. Certainly I have her there as a moral support system, but that doesn't have much to do with how I do my job, does it?
If there was last thing I lacked in my career before now, it was consistency and reliability. Maybe I haven't been here all that long, but it doesn't seem at all far-fetched to say that I've finally proven myself in that respect. It does kind of suck though, what with no one giving a crap about that stuff anymore, because they're too busy allowing awful mediocrity and MTV-esque video journal promos to pass as greatness. Props to you, Nikita; did you ever figure out that old adage - well, not that old, but still just as wise - "Remember kids, down the road, not across the street"? Just in case you should be confused about that again, at any point. You can thank me in your note, too!
Oh, and just in case you're not sure who I am, since we haven't ever wrestled in the same federation at the same time, I'm the one who made it possible for you to even carry that pretty title of yours, mmmkay?
And then we have an angry Russian - how's that for redundancy - who has a shitty attitude towards people. Uh, that sums up what I know about Konstantin Bryzgalov, other than that his name in kind of fun to say. The real question is: is he even a threat? No, not so much. Though, if you'd ever like to clarify how one manages to sit "on a bench on the side of the St. John's, Newfoundland," I'd totally listen, because I have to say, I'm pretty curious.
Who else? Stryker Graff? No one should even let him near the title, particularly after it's been in Nikita's possession for over a month, because he'd just get all gross and turned on and start rubbing his ween against it. Then who's going to want it? I think Corey Page would be forced to have a whole new one fashioned. Can someone even tell me what that guy looks like? Because so far, all I'm getting is a frail old man with low blood pressure. And we all know what little blood pressure he does have goes straight to his crotch to fuel his Nikita-boner-vigil. As for Tony Millennia, he can help Graff keep that vigil alive, for all I care.
I can't forget Chris Extreme, here. To be as successful as he is, I should apparently go dig up my dead hamster, Chatsy, from the front lawn and have my way with him. Because corpse fucking is hot these days.
Obviously the biggest issue is Morgana, my best friend and the last person in the world I'd ever want to fight for anything. We've been through so much together, and there was one thing we both had during all of those hardships and challenges: each other. If she wins, I win, and if I win, she does too; it's really that simple. That's how we function. There is no jealousy or resentment between us, especially over trivial things like titles -- titles that fail to translate into something meaningful in our lives outside of work. She works harder than any wrestler I've ever met, and she easily deserves the accolades that await the winner of the battle royal and main event more than anyone. She deserves to win not by a little, but by a lot, and it doesn't make me sad to admit that. It makes me proud.
I don't know who will win, but I can certainly list the names of several people who won't. I think we all can.
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