Kalinda:So Priesty-poos went and opened his big stupid mouth, exhaled some vile smelling air over his nicotine stained teeth, threw up the horns, shouted HAIL SATAN, and then while trying to be intimidating managed to accomplished the rare verbal equivalent of straining to give yourself a big mean snarling look, and managing to shit your pants in the process.
This is why I have him pegged squarely in the category of "dumb muscle." He went into the whole talk at the camera thing with a set of bullet points in his head, some ideas, some goals, maybe a few choice phrases that he wanted to say because they sounded totally and utterly badass in that swollen, yet empty melon of his.
Somehow I don't think "Make my opponent giggle like a giddy schoolgirl," "Give Kalinda eye strain with the sheer amount of rolling that her eyeballs have to do," and "Displayed beyond a shadow of a doubt proof of both minotaur heritage, being sired by Ben Stein, and irritable bowel syndrome by letting loose with the most utterly boring, clichéd, stream of bullshit my designated foe has seen thus far in her professional wrestling career," were the points that Priesty-poos wanted to get across.
The problem is that as the supposed avatar of a maleficent being of unimaginable evil he's stuck with an evil as comically inadept as whatever backwoods, retarded, hillbilly god put this place together in the first place.
And I bet he's just as obsessed with beetles and balls as his supposed opposition is. I bet you've got a whole ring of Hell set aside with one continuous homosexual beetle-man orgy, so as to simultaneously satisfy the raging hard ons for both hard-shelled insects and big rolly-polly orbs.
Every fucking thing in this universe is a gods-damned ball. The planets are balls, the stars are balls, galaxies are balls. The universe? More than likely a ball. Atoms? Balls. The promos that a supposed incarnation of the anathema of the creator being cuts in my general direction? Also balls. Hideously, horribly, criminally balls.
And the beetles? Pick a random critter on this planet. It's a beetle. Try again? Another beetle. Try for three? Still a beetle. This stupid rock is just lousy with beetles. And also lousy with lice. But not to the extent of beetles.
Of all the known species of living things on this world, two thirds of them are insects. About a quarter of them are plants or fungi. Just one percent of them are vertebrates and have backbones, and if my experience with people is any indication, there's a goodly chunk of humanity completely and utterly lacking any sort of spine whatsoever.
Beetles account for one fifth of the living things parked on this silly sphere in space. There are more kind of beetles than there are plants. You've got one species capable of cognizant speech. You've got 350,000 little bitty hard shelled fuckers. They do all sorts of horrible things like buzz menacingly, devour cotton, and crawl into your living space in vast swarms every winter.
If your prime deity and his or her immediate opposition were members of your typical Kindergarten class they would be developmentally disabled, sent to school wearing helmets, and would spend the majority of their class periods making unpleasant smells and eating paste.
And I, for one, am not remotely frightened of a chain-smoking disciple of a paste-eating devil who can't even bother to have that decaying husk of nicotine-craving brain cells fart out anything remotely new or original.
You listen to Priest, and I sure as hell wouldn't. Not up close, his breath smells like Joe Camel's anus packed full of Elmer's finest. But if you listen to him, you would have found out completely fuck-all about me.
Seven feet tall? Nope.
Blue? No.
Breathes fire? Nuh uh.
Grafted to a dark artifact of horrific and sinister power, something a disciple of a fell being from the nether-realm might take an interest in, right? Apparently not.
How about the obvious? How about the fact that I am a gods damned dragon from another world? You'd think that was something important that would be brought up, but you'd be wrong.
No, what Priesty-poos thinks is important and relevant is that in the pro wrestling biz people are trying to kill him. Bzzt! Wrong! Negative ten points for Slytherin! MINUS FIVE STARS!
People are trying to pin out, make you tap out, knock you unconscious, or just schlup you out of the ring like a big gothic beached whale that thinks he's the Marlboro Man and let the ref count to ten.
Because if they REALLY wanted to kill you, smarty-pants, they wouldn't be trying to wrestle with you. They'd try things like stabbing, or poison, or my personal favorite way of having people I don't like eradicated from the face of existence: putting a bullet the size of a cucumber through their face.
Killing people is the easy part. Especially when you can simultaneously inflict third degree burns and frostbite with one exhalation of blue, minty-fresh flames. Especially when you can just pick up a random person on the street and strangle them to death with each hand. Kind of hard to get out of a stranglehold when lashing out at the throat and the eyes, your usual get out of being choked to death free spots, aren't going to work. Especially when you have two moderately more threatening beings of complete and utter evil tripping over themselves to hand you power enough to choke Emperor Palpatine on a silver platter.
The hard part, Priesty-poos, of being the chosen avatar of gods of death, destruction, carnage, cannibalism, scaly thing, and stringed instruments, is NOT sowing a bumper crop of carnage wherever you go. Of getting cut off on the highway by some dingus with a small penis in a huge SUV with enormous tires and jacked up suspension and NOT immediately murdering him by simultaneously giving him the finger with your supreme artifact of necromantic malevolence AND immediately purging all the blood from his body immediate via the anus.
That's an actual incantation, by the way, that the Hand of Arimus here would be oh so delighted to instruct me on the usage of should I so desire to end someone though the messy deluge of all their precious bodily fluids out the butt. Just one of ten thousand unpleasant, agonizing ways to die that if I were so inclined, I could have at the snap of my fingers.
But I don't, because that is really, really fucking gross. And even the Republican Party would have to agree with me that inflicting the death penalty for traffic violations might just be a tiny bit over the top. Yeah, that's something so wicked that Dick Cheney, the closest thing your world has to a lich king, and his crew shake their heads and go "Nuh uh, not gonna do it."
Besides, I think evil here likes to crush people's spirits via the application of soul-sucking commutes as opposed to scouring the countryside with their armies of darkness. And I have to admit that LA gridlock is without a doubt the most hellish thing I've seen inflicted upon a subordinate population. The damned Hand is shaking its proverbial head and going "It would be a mercy just to kill them and end their suffering, you vile bastards."
What I am going to do to you, like I'm going to do to your partners in this match, is beat the bloody living hell out of you and leave you laying in a pile of your own misery. You, Priesty-poos, get to be the parchment I just so happen to use to write my love letter to agony, anguish, and supreme physical pain.
You happen to have been named the leader of End Effect. You happen to be the man that Rip Van Der Faart turns to when he wants to punish somebody. You happen to have REALLY disrespected me by blowing me off and treating me like I'm just another wrestler. All these little bits of happenstance add up to mean that you need a proper thrashing.
I'm not going to kill you, Priesty-poos. I'm not going to rip out your soul. I'm not going to afflict your immortal soul with explosive diarrhea.
What I'm going to do is lay a beating on you in that ring so severe that it will force you to change your world view. I'm going to force you to change, Priest. I'm going to literally beat some sense into you, to drive home the point that I am not merely some slip of a girl to be brushed off. I'm not some anorexic bimbo out to make a few bucks on her good looks and hair pulling skills.
I'm a warrior.
I am a seeker of combat.
I'm a big blue brawl just waiting to happen.
I'm going to leave you a living wreck, Priest, in order for you to take back those scant few words you directed towards me. I'm going to make you recant them. I'm going to make you choke on them.
Because beating the silicone implants out of a pair of young blonde things a third my size isn't luck. It's a simple application of physics. I'm bigger, I'm stronger, I'm better, therefore I win.
Just like beating three inept goons with the combined mental prowess of a bowl of tapioca pudding isn't going to be luck. I'm bigger, I'm stronger, I'm smarter, and that's what puts me head and shoulders above people like you, Priest, people like the empty suits that you serve, people like the inbred captain of comb-overs that's stretched your neck across my chopping block.
I was given this match as a punishment. This is supposed to be meant as a warning, to not merely toe the line, but remain cowering behind it at the behest of our ULW managerial overlords. I'm supposed to take my licks, admit the error of my ways, and come out of the experience meek and humbled.
Only that's not going to happen.
Oh yes, someone is going to experience a terrible beating. Someone is going to be made to rethink their actions over the course of the last few weeks. And someone is going to be dealt an incredible measure of violence for their arrogance.
And it's going to be you, Priest.
It's going to be you, Hugo.
It's going to be you, Bash.
I'm going to act with all the forces at my beck and call for the very first time. I'm going to show the world Kalinda Kriegsdottir at her absolute very worst.
And do you know why, Priesty-poos?
Do you know why I'm going to be doing this to you?
Because when it comes right down to it, I am what you imagine yourself being. The intimidating force, the paragon of violence, the living horror that the prospect of facing fills folks with dread.
I am the empowered servant of not merely one, but two malevolent powers beyond your capacity for imagining. I have looked my world's devil in the eye, and this plate mailed arm that I have bound to me serves as a badge of office to serve as his left hand.
Within my mind and my spirit are sunk the claws of a draconic goddess so terrible that she consumed her entire race. A whispering temptress far more subtle, far more persuasive, and far more solid than the lesser spectres that this backwater butthole of a world can summon up.
And it is with her help that I get to show you my worst, to show the world a mere sampling of what I am capable of when I throw off all the shackles and chains that I carefully bind myself with so as not to cause undue harm.
I may not be the so-called "devil incarnate," Priest.
What I am is the sole avatar of the Manyfold Matriarch. I am the Handmaiden of the Smoking Scythe. I am the Sapphire Sovereign, the Ebon Empress, and the Diamond Despot.
I am ULW's big blue bitch-queen, and by the power of the writhing mass of my dark goddess, I am going to make you kneel before me.
Failing that? I'll settle for just letting you lie there in a heap, body wracked with the horrible agonies that I have inflicted upon it. Nothing more than a whimpering, bleeding, broken husk of a human being, trying frantically to expel the utter cold from their chest that I have placed there.
That is your fate, Preisty-poos.
That is your destiny.
Agony.
Sealed with a Frostbite Kiss.
[Kalinda chuckles and brings her hand to her lips, blowing a kiss to the camera, unleashing the frozen hell of her icy breath as she does so, swamping the image in utter fog.]
[Fade to white.]
[And then we're looking at Kalinda seated in a hotel room somewhere, likely across the street from the obnoxiously long named arena from which ULW's flagship Friday television presentation airs from this particular fortnight.]
[Judging from the ominous music, sounds of children in pain, and ridiculous farting noises, Kalinda is, as she mentioned on Twitter, awash in the bastion of tears, poop, and birth defects that is the recently released Binding of Isaac: Rebirth.]
[As she continues to play, muttering something about "motherfucking Brimstone spiders," followed by something that sounds rather suspiciously like cursing in a foreign language comprised of hisses and clicks, her breath begins to fog.]
[From the slight fish eye distortion and almost imperceptible runes in a circle around the outer reaches of the lens, we can be sure we're viewing the scene through Mr. Hush's Cameraviathan, a hardened implement of technology created to detect, record, and survive encounters with the supernatural. And something supernatural is definitely going on as the walls seem to writhe, taking on a scaled texture, looking like a mass of wriggling serpents as big around as a man.]
[One of these serpents slithers forth from the wall, pure white and sporting horns that look like exquisitely carved pieces of ice, or almost perfectly translucent crystal of some sort. The blue-eyed dragon-snake peers over Kalinda's shoulder and shakes her head disapprovingly.]
Manyfold Matriarch: Spiders don't tend to belong to particularly loving and nurturing families, so I highly doubt that threatening to sodomize its mother's mandibles is going to be much in the way of insult.
Kalinda: And I doubt you used up a goodly chunk of power to manifest without being summoned just so your could critique my cussing out of pixilated enemies. Which are complete bullshit, by the way.
[The great she-serpent looks a bit disappointed and sighs dramatically.]
Manyfold Matriarch: Aww. I was hoping you'd jump six feet into the air upon hearing me speak.
[Kalinda is paying her goddess no attention whatsoever.]
Kalinda: You're not exactly subtle. The temperature dropped thirty degrees the moment you began to exert focus to take shape on the ethereal plane. The shitty hotel HVAC system isn't up to that. Just my luck I had to get a room totally inside instead of one I could just throw open a window in to get the place comfortably chilly.
Manyfold Matriarch: You suck.
Kalinda: If you want to go out and acquire yourself some decidedly non-draconian devotees with which to practice your Batman thing on, be my guest. There's around 7.2 billion humans to choose from.
Manyfold Matriarch: Ick. Ick. Ick. No thank you. I don't want cast offs from the, as you put it, "Beetles and Balls" guy.
Kalinda: Heard that, did you?
Manyfold Matriarch: I experience all your senses, my disciple, I could hardly miss it.
And speaking of which, when precisely were you planning to talk to me about the whole drawing upon my power to smite your enemies thing?
Kalinda: You experience all my senses. Considering your mental focus has the knob permanently stuck to Channel Me until you get yourself some other followers I thought that'd be enough notice.
And I'm not exactly going to smite them. They rather frown on smiting, what with it being the use of magic power and all. There's this Harris guy that gets all pissy whenever it gets brought up because he doesn't want to pay for the special effects.
Manyfold Matriarch: It's magic. There are no special effects.
Kalinda: That's humanity for you, show them something wonderful and mysterious and they immediately will find something to bitch about regarding it. Especially if they don't understand what it is they're looking at.
Manyfold Matriarch: This looks shooped. I can tell from some of the pixels and from seeing quite a few shoops in my time.
Kalinda: You sound just like Spark.
Manyfold Matriarch: I think the little bastard was thrilled the moment he discovered that his audience for his insipid mental commentary had doubled.
Kalinda: If only I could put him on the internet with a live feed. We'd be making enough that I could hire the ten topmost researchers into interplanar travel on the proceeds.
Manyfold Matriarch: You know I'm perfectly capable of getting you home any time you like, dear.
Kalinda: And I'm not interested at all about taking you up on that at the price you want.
Manyfold Matriarch: It's not much of an investment on your part. A few minutes effort and nine months' wait.
Kalinda: No. No firstborns. No secondborns. No thirdborns. No borns of any number. Definitely not offered up as host bodies for your consciousness.
Manyfold Matriarch: Oh the first few dozen offspring all seem unique and interesting and special. But once you've dropped several hundred eggs, they'll lose all meaning.
Kalinda: I'm not going to be dropping full-sized dragon eggs as a part of my menstrual cycle for a few thousand years yet, Matriarch.
Manyfold Matriarch: You might still be stuck here a few thousand years hence if you're going to be relying on these silly apes to get you home.
Kalinda: I hope not. And if I am, hopefully they'll have managed space travel by then so I can find some place that isn't a stupid ball to live on.
They say there's probably liquid water on one of Jupiter's moons. So if all else fails I can move there once there's been enough exploration for me to get a solid link to it.
Manyfold Matriarch: Stupid monkeys and their stupid lack of leapable ley lines. They putter about from place to place in those silly carriages that look very much like shiny, brightly colored, scuttling, hard-shelled insects. Another point in favor of the balls and beetles theory.
Kalinda: Do you have a point, Matriarch? If you just want to banter, I'd rather power down my computer and go outside before you start to make the electronics ice up.
Manyfold Matriarch: Merely that I am absolutely delighted that you've decided to draw upon a portion of my power to suit your needs in battle. Even if it is in that ridiculous ring that is obnoxiously not a circle.
Kalinda: I don't particularly like doing it, Matriarch, but I'm sure you would agree that being beaten by some silly monkeys is something to be avoided, even if doing so will cost me nothing but pride.
Manyfold Matriarch: And as their superiors we have much to be proud of. I quite heartily approve. If they can snatch victory from you in a simple sporting event, what is to stop them from thinking they can try to take something so precious as your life?
Kalinda: Already happened. Two outright death threats, one threat of paralysis, and Priesty-poos stating that he will be my demise. "Blah blah blah, fear fear, luck, goobledegook, I'm a pillow-fucking goober who takes grooming tips from the Amish."
Manyfold Matriarch: And as you pointed out, he is in fact a cleric of a rival faith, and as such is going to make a splendid spectacle pitting my power against that of his own likely absent, possibly nonexistent patron.
Kalinda: Good. So we're agreed on the terms and details? You'll actually give me back the control over my body I cede to you?
Manyfold Matriarch: Urgh. Yes. You are of dragon's blood, but you do not have enough of it for my taste for me to bother inhabiting it for any long than I would have to. I cannot comprehend how you can tolerate walking upright, lacking wings, and having your head on that diminutive stump pretending to be a neck.
Kalinda: You think this is bad, you ought to see the puffed up weightlifters in this industry that are damned near fucking cobras with the way their heads just emerge from these huge slabs of triangular muscle on the sides.
Manyfold Matriarch: Disgusting. Just another innate hideousness of the mammalian form.
Kalinda: So on the topic of body morphology, since we last talked have you managed to find your forepaws in that big old slithery mass of you yet?
Manyfold Matriarch: Oh look at the time. I have an appointment with myself for tea. I must be going.
[For the first time Kalinda turns away from the screen to address the Matriarch, a grin on her face as the walls revert to their normal selves and the massive draconic head and neck of the great goddess begins to turn translucent.]
Kalinda: I take it that's a no, then?
[Rather than give a concrete reply, the fleeing deity simply snorts in disgust. Definitely a no as we fade to black.]
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