[ and when you wanted me
i came to you
and when you wanted someone else
i withdrew ]

Her stomach lurched as if it were poised to escape from her body, and she wished she were anywhere but pinned beneath him and his unforgiving eyes; eyes that searched to lock with hers, as though they sought to absorb her youthful innocence for themselves. Her obliging naivety had gotten him this far, but he would need more and more to keep her complacently his in the months that came.

"I was born in this life to protect you," he told her sternly. "It's my sole purpose and I'm going to fulfill it."

"What?" Adora demanded, unimpressed by the sentiment. Since he had hit puberty a good eight years prior, Charlie delved further and further into his spirituality, and he was constantly changing his thoughts, beliefs, opinions and ideas, shape-shifting them with every book he read, song he heard or art he saw that made him question what he thought to be true. Adora, though interested by all the possibilities that abounded, found his pseudo-intellectual, weed-induced ramblings rather annoying, but nevertheless indulged his various stories.

Not that she wasn't truly fascinated by some things, but even then, he took things too far, like making plans to meet up in the astral plane that night after going to sleep. "I'm sleeping right next to you, jackass, we don't need another dimension," she'd think. Claims of immortality and lineage dating back to medieval tyrants, although novel, irritated her, and she had to bite her tongue and swallow back bitter words each time he made mention of his ancestors. Regardless of what he thought, she was not keen on naming her first born Vlad Tepes any more than she was on straight out calling him Dracula.

"Why don't you see it like I do?" he asked, arching an eyebrow, the skin above which glistened with a light layer sweat. "You don't understand how many past lives we have behind us, together in all of them."

"Babe, come on," Adora sighed. "We're married, okay? You don't have to impress me with this crap. I don't need my life to be an episode of Passions to be happy."

"That's not the point," he countered, tracing a finger along her jaw with a pressure she couldn't deem pleasurable no matter how hard she tried. "Every one of my lives for the last, like, six hundred years has been devoted to penance for what I did to you all those years ago."

"Well, whatever it was, you're absolved." She jerked her head to the side, away from his touch. Why couldn't he just shut up and enjoy the moment they were in, rather than harp on some crazy fantasy?

"I don't think you'd say that if you knew what it was," he said, with such confidence that she wondered if he was more pleased with whatever injustice he had committed against her than he was repentant.

"Well, then, out with it."

"We were brother and sister," he began immediately, as if he could barely contain himself any longer, "and I raped and killed you." He said the last sentence simply and solemnly, his eyes cast down and boring into her naked form.

"Jesus, what are you talking about?" she demanded, her voice strained with unease.

"But there's more to it than that." He ignored her alarm.

"Oh, well then. Pray tell, what did I do to earn your ire? I'm dying to know."

"That's what got you into that mess in the first place."

[ and when you asked for light
i set myself on fire
and if i go far away i know
you'll find another slave ]

You were about ten years younger than me, and you idolized me. My words might as well have been gospel to you, the way you hung on each one, and I probably embellished more things than I should have. My mother had died during childbirth, when I was five years old, and the resulting baby girl died shortly thereafter. Our father quickly found another bride and after over four years of trying for a child, they had you -- and not a moment too soon, because he was on the verge of replacing his wife with a more fertile woman.

By the time you were two or three, I was off in the village -- this was the 1400s, after all -- doing odd jobs that our father outlined for me, and I wasn't around very much. But each time I offered you any attention, you tried hard to keep me enthralled enough in your antics that I wouldn't resort to older village girls to amuse me.

Obviously, you were a beautiful child, with the same golden hair as your young mother, but you were sheltered by papa... and frankly, your mother was too naive herself to bestow upon you any valuable wisdom. She was only learning herself, and I think you realized that to some extent, so you favoured trying to squeeze whatever morsels of truth you could from father... your mother remained withdrawn, you see, and more like a beguiling sculpture of ideal femininity, than like a real, tangible woman. She probably had what we today would call post-partum depression; she was, after all, only fourteen when she had you.

By the time you reached double digits, we were pretty good friends, you and I. I could confide in you almost anything, and I knew you wouldn't tell a soul -- you'd probably take whatever secret it was to bed with you that night and think about it until your head spun, but it would not leave your dreams.

When I was twenty-two, I was going through a difficult time. Papa wanted me to marry the daughter of a neighbouring farmer, so that our combined land might be united and we could have the largest plot in our village. I was angry and confused and wanted nothing to do with that girl. She was as plain and bland as they came and I didn't want any children of mine bearing half of her personality... or lacking half a personality; however you want to look at it.

I took my frustrations out on your mother. When Papa was far out in the fields or away on business, I would corner her wherever she was or lure her somewhere secluded, and with her skirts lifted above her hips, she would be my therapy. She didn't mind, like the lilting flower that she was, and I think the force of my anger at least reminded her that, despite her clouded head, she could still feel. I was surprised Papa never came to me, demanding to know why she was blue and raw, but for all I knew, he assumed it was his own fault.

You have to understand how troubled I was; how helpless.

Curiosity killed the cat, they say, and one day you just had to follow us to the outhouse. The sun had set over the fields and it was late evening, and I just remember you opening the door, your eyes wide, just as I was about to come. You shrieked and ran away as fast as you could, and I couldn't tell if I was angry over your discovering our secret or over the fact that you had destroyed my momentary gratification. Either way, I was livid.

I didn't find you right away and instead let you hide out. I think you mistook that for forgetfulness or forgiveness on my part, and you assumed that maybe I wouldn't seek you out after all.

But I found you in a corner of the attic, later that evening after dinner. I was surprised that Papa didn't ask after you, but I didn't bring you up, because it ultimately worked to my advantage. You were still so trusting when I found you, I almost felt guilty leading you out of there like that, and I almost regretted in advance what I was about to do.

Almost.

I don't remember what I said or why you believed me, but I convinced you that whatever you saw didn't really mean anything, and that if you had any questions, I would answer them for you in detail when no one was around. Well, you couldn't wait and demanded that I tell you everything at that very moment... so I suppose I wasn't even luring you anywhere when I took you to that field.

The sun still lingered in the horizon, casting a golden glow over select parts of Papa's land. I led you deep into the woods adjacent to the house, just far away enough from anyone's property -- no one could have heard you scream even if you wailed your vocal cords raw.

He paused for a moment, his expression thoughful.

I think I was pretty frank with you, and I told you everything any pre-teen could have hoped to know about sex. I even showed you what was what, because I felt it was my duty to at least prepare you for what you were about to experience. You didn't seem to even realize what I was doing to you when I forced myself into you -- the skirts back then really rocked for easy access -- until the pain hit you. I guess even I barely realized what i was doing, until you screamed shrilly in pain and I felt you innards spasm violently around me. I would've stopped if it hadn't felt so good. And I wouldn't have done it again if I didn't know that you were already spoiled. If a treasure such as you were to be spoiled anyway, why not do it properly?

So I continued, because eventually, I had pounded the air from your diaphragm, and even if you wanted to scream, you couldn't have. Hell, maybe you did scream and no one noticed... I just wish I'd had some perspective then. I would have loosened my fingers from around your neck, and I would have realized that the blood-turned-pink from the force of my thrusts wasn't just broken a hymen.

In the back of my mind, though, I knew that you weren't merely bruised or stunned by my actions. But I left you there anyway, and no one found you for days; days after you had bled out your last ounce of life.

[ and when you wanted blood
i cut my veins
and when you wanted love
i bled myself again ]

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Adora asked coldly. "You're telling me you fucked me to death when I was twelve years old in a previous life? Not that you didn't try to fuck me when I was twelve years old in this life."

"Can't you see why I'm so driven to rectify this?" he asked, with such earnesty that she felt nauseous listening to him.

"Yeah... I didn't think our sex life was so stale that you had to come up with this shit," Adora said, her face twisted with disapproval as she wrenched herself from beneath him. "But how about you give me some air as part of your penance? Because I'm pretty sure my cunt just dried up and crawled back into my body listening to you." With that, she rose from their bed and quickly left the room, wrapping the light, summer blanket they were using protectively around her shoulders.

Charlie sighed, exasperated by his wife's unfortunate lack of a sense of adventure. Didn't she see how much he'd loved her all along? Although, he had to admit gratitude that she had stormed out before he could finish.

But maybe it was for the best that she didn't find out how he had sought her lifeless body out afterward, and now he had explored each crevice of it as carefully as he could whilst avoiding the onslaught of decomposition. He could have filled her grave with tears as he dug it, and it was the least he could do to caress her with love before he buried her -- it soothed his conscience that she had at least died with a man's love.

[ now that i've had my fill of you
i'll give you up forever
and here i go far away
i know you'll find another slave ]

If you ever question whether the mentally retarded can walk amongst us relatively undetected, observation of Destiny Daniels would offer a clear answer. She's beautiful -- though lots of men who pose as women are -- and she appears relatively sane and intelligent... when her mouth is shut.

Then she comes up with things like "Aporka," "Hogana," and "Stevie Swine." Clearly, she is a master of both repartee and word play. That, or she once again has little of true worth to say about us, so she resorts to hokey "insults" based on our names. Yeah, it's about as smart as me calling her "Boarstiny Sowniels," or, like, "Destincow Danmoos."

....yeah, I don't see the humour, either. Honestly people, lay off the cheesy play on names.

I'm not sure what your definition of 'wit' is, but since when is the nickname 'wifey' supposed to be witty? It's just what we call each other, and if you find that endearing, I can't stop you... but if you think it's witty, I'm going to have to offer you a dictionary so that you may perhaps reassess what you were trying to say. Either way, I don't punctuate every sentence and (attempted) sassy comment with 'wifey,' so this comparison just doesn't count. Okay, motherfucker?

And my God, Destiny, why the hell wouldn't I say exactly what I want to say, when I want to say it? How is that even a point against me? I only attack those who deserve it, and I feel no remorse for that. If what I say doesn't make sense to you, perhaps you could turn your spellcheck on and find simpler synonyms for the words that perplex (as in, they make your brain feel kind of funny and light and you're not sure what's happening) you.

While we're on the topic of your simple mind, though, I have to ask: is Judge Judy really the ultimate power and authority in your mind? She's that omnipotent, super being you answer to and convince of your worth before you go to bed each night? Interesting indeed!

Really, you're on a roll of stupidity this week, little friend. What does misinformation or stupidity have to do with ADHD? Do you even know what you're saying? Or are you just throwing pseudo-insulting words and terms out there, hoping they'll magically form a sentence so cutting that you beat me for a change?

You're right, though... it really sucks how Corey Page keeps putting me at the top of the card; it's so like, totally random and all over the place! Just don't forget that facing me or the wife is the only way you ever get up there.

That's okay, though, you keep pretending that you're as good as me, and that I only achieve what I do through Morgana, even though she wasn't even active in wrestling during certain parts of my career. It's all too convenient to ignore the fact that I managed to be a star both with and without her presence on any roster I've been on; hell, I even won my first World Title in NEW when she was still on that roster.

There isn't any competition between us, so I wish people would stop trying to portray us as a team that will crash and burn eventually. Yeah, you wish; then maybe someone else would have a chance to shine. Unfortunately, we truly do want each other to succeed in everything we do, and no amount of pettiness and cheap insults from our opponents and detractors will change that. But whatever, if it makes you feel better in your mediocrity to consider me the second fiddle to Morgana, you go ahead and think that. It doesn't change the fact that I'm at the top, living it up, while you shove consolation bacon down that manly trap of yours.

My other opponents are, predictably, either missing in action until the very last second, or are too self-absorbed to see what anyone else has to say.

Shane Donovan is too busy making shitty playing card analogies and plotting his next moronic display of destruction to say anything relevant, of course. I get the feeling he refuses to fully partake in matches against us, because he's the type that probably reasons that, "Duhhh, wimmins needsta be in a wimmins divishun." You know, the kind of guy that thinks his inflated sense of masculinity should trump everything, and that we chicks should be barefoot and pregnant, punching babies out of each other in pursuit of a Women's Title.

He did, however, take the time to talk to what was apparently a group comprised of every single Team Wifey fan, though! It's funny, 'cause I was walking down a seedy alley the other day, and a group of steroid dealers were like, "Hey baby, know if Shane Donovan's going to need some more drugs? Because it looked like he used his last ounces of shitheaded 'roid rage on blowing up your boat!"

Hahahaha, yeah, I know, I'm really quite hilarious. :rollseyes.gif.

While Shane's passing the time by dwelling on his few moments of glory in our last match, before I beat him for a second time, I wonder what Casanova is doing...

Actually, no, I don't, because it probably involves lurking behind dumpsters, looking for more wifey look-alikes to sacrifice -- you know, because he can't actually conquer the real thing, so he has to settle for flimsy symbolism.

Wait... could it be?! Has Casanova showed up a full hour before show time? Praise tha lawd, he graces us with a reply, even though he initially planned to say nothing -- because that's what the fans love to see; us saying nothing about each other while we instead sway our shaggy hair and take drags of our cigarettes. That's totally what makes wrestling the lucrative industry that it is!

In between telling me to go fuck myself several times, with varying degrees of force, he managed to say a whole lot of nothing. What do you want me to say, Casanova? Do you want me to list the moves with which I'll beat you in my promo? Is that what you mean by telling me to talk about wrestling? Yeah, I think I'll pass.

I'm not sure that you, a self-proclaimed vampire, have any place judging whether or not I'm a plausible person. Obviously, I'm not going to go about my daily life trash talking my hapless opponents. If I did do that, then I would be a caricature of myself, and as Morgy pointed out, that's more Destiny Daniels's style.

And what do you want me to say about my opponents, when 90% of the time, they don't give me anything to work with anyway? At least, not until it's usually too late to reply. Since I'm not the kind to simply not show up, thereby rendering an opponent's work in vain, I'll disrespect them in a manner that's no worse than the one in which they disrespected me, or any other person they deemed unworthy of their effort.

But you're right (see, I'm not that much of a grammar Nazi; I start my sentences with 'but' and 'and'!!), it is a cheap thing to do, and after the momentary satisfaction I get from it, I do feel bad. If I lay off those cheap shots (even though I'm really not the only one who does it), will people start to muster some consistency?

DD doesn't count there, because she is incredibly consistent, and frankly, she's carrying your whole team. Sorry, though -- that still doesn't make her plausible as a female to me, because her actions in her promos are decidedly masculine ("Die, bitches, die," screamed psychotically is NOT indicative of a vagina). Your referring to her as "Daniels" doesn't help either, because since when do people refer to girls by their last names? That's mostly extended to male co-workers and drill sargeants.

I'll continue letting my frustrations out during my promos, thanks, because then I don't have to be dour and unpleasant off camera, and I can be a normal person who isn't standoffish or egomaniacal to the point of unapproachability and humorlessness. If that's how you prefer to be, then by all means go ahead. Don't think I didn't see your animal blood trick for what it was -- obviously more of a stab at out of ring Adora that in-ring Adora. So, yeah, we're all a bunch of assholes, and you probably shouldn't delude yourself into thinking you're any better in that department than I am.

I was going to write a preventative reply to JNX regarding the whole my correcting his Portuguese thing, because I realized soon after I said it that he'd get his panties in a twist and claim it was an error beyond his control or something. True as it may be, if one plans on using a foreign language to supplement their cool, mysterious arrogance, it's only logical that they check and double check what they want to say, lest they make gigantic asses of themselves.

Unfortunately, I was lazy and didn't clarify this on time, and now I must suffer the worst fate of all: the wrath of an effeminate dude scorned. He probably did his eye makeup extra intricately and put on a fresh coat of black nail polish, just to emphasize the power of his dark rage (now available at Hot Topic in 600mg capsules!).

I was hoping you'd realize that, had you not demonstrated your own groundless arrogance after winning one match, I wouldn't have mentioned you at all. Let's break down your hypocrisy, shall we?

1. You win one shitty match.
2. You deem this achievement greater than that of any person in this promotion.
3. You crown yourself the unofficial best there is and feel that you've earned a number one contendership.
4. I call you out on your douchbaggery.
5. You tell me my various accomplishments are meaningless, which indirectly says you honestly think your one win equates to a winning streak and a title record.

Yeah, how's that for the arrogance of all of Manhattan balled up into one person?

As for your emphatic statement that you don't care... well, you might want to get rid of the air quotes; they make it significantly more difficult to take you seriously than it already is.

"Bitch please"? Seriously? You're officially more of a catty girl than Destiny Daniels could ever hope to be. Perhaps she can give you some pointers on manliness, or maybe even her penis in exchange for your vagina.

And don't talk to me about achieving lots in a short career. If you add up each of my stints in professional wrestling, it accounts for about a year of my life -- a year in which I've managed to achieve more than most people have in five years. I know that you just "don't" "care," but just thought I'd put it out there while you're babbling about how totally rad you and your thus far brief career are.

You can refrain from telling me what I see and what I don't, by the way, because all I see in you is another expendable roster addition that will soon be so discouraged by the total lack of worship of him, that he disappears back into the obscurity from which he came. Perhaps you should try your hand at a fledgling music career when that happens!

But deep down inside, as a self-admitted walking bad omen, you already know this will happen, don't you? Like your tag partner so aptly pointed out, the fall to the bottom is much more pleasant when foreseen and cushioned, right?

I know how it works: people watch Sin shows and decide, "Hey, I can waltz into this place and own everyone sooo easily! Why don't I join for the sole purpose of easily outshining all the top talent!" I've seen more of those people than I can count come and go in the five months I've been here, believe me. And they aaall mention Team Wifey as a shortcut to the upper card -- you know, instead of actually working their way up match by match like we did -- and in the end they get killed by boats for being fucking stupid. So, go ahead and make your scary lists, but maybe -- just maybe!! -- you could earn your recognition in the meantime by showing instead of telling.

Finally, it's really nice to have a male on Team Wifey, because a) he's delightful, and b) I know that most men in this organization could care less what we, as women, say, and that it holds more relevance to them coming from another man.

It's just a nice bonus that the first man to team with us is a star and at the top of the roster in his own right. I'm not going to say that I think Team Wifey is unstoppable, but Team Wifey-Swingy very well just might be.