[Once again we find ourselves in the apartment or condo or whatever of ULW's resident dragoness Kalinda Kriegsdottir. Most tHings are to the scale that the seven foot behemoth would find comfortable, things that don't require larger size to be more useful to her look positively tiny amidst the overgrown furnishings.]
[The place is decorated without rHyme or reason, seeming more organically grown from collected bits and bobs that made their owner go "Oh, I like that thing!" rather than with a cold, impersonal design aesthetic, theme, and product line. Well, at least some sort of theme an interior decorated would charge you more than the furniture for crafting. Kal DOES seem to have a running theme in her collection of stuff, and that tHeme seems to be pizza parlors.]
[Her hanging ceiling lamps are stained glass chandeliers, brightly colored and emblazoned with the names of Happy Joe's, Shakey's Pizza, and Pizza Hut. Looking back into her kitchen through the open design of the place we can see cooking pans on the wall emblazoned with their measurements, their diameters corresponding to various sizes of pizza. Where someone would typically have a rack of knives on a magnetic strip, Kal has several different sorts of pizza cutters, all with varying construction and grip. There's even a pile of pizza boxes with various local and national chains adorning them by her trasH can, the greasy cardboard packages too large to fit.]
[Whatever isn't pizza related seems to be brightly colored, her furniture blazing in radiant Hues of blue or orange reminiscent of oversaturated desert levels in bro shooters when the theme of the day is lens flare and the wonderful world of brown. There's even several pallets of various orange-flavored sodas stacked up in a corner of the apartment, with a little vase with brigHt orange fake flowers set in it sitting atop it with a ludicrously small doily seated atop the stack of pop, trying and failing to make it appear like a piece of furniture and less like fizzy drinks HapHazardly being stored in a corner.]
[The lady Herself is seated in a bright blue plush leather recliner, her feet propped up on a makeshift ottoman comprised of a couch cushion and what appears to the skull of a horned, carnivorous beastie that looked to be capable of swallowing middle school students whole.]
[Kal is looking at something on her laptop and noisily muncHing on a crouton-crunchy breadstick with a number of its siblings piled on a nearby tray like cord wood. She lets out an annoyed snort and scowls, finishing her mouthful before bellowing for her muse.]
Kalinda: Spark, you diminutive little shit! You lied to me!
[With accusations thrown into the air, the kitten-sized dragon creature swoops down from the balcony, aligHting expertly atop Kalinda's laptop screen.]
Spark: What'd I do this time?
Kalinda: You said that not only was I not allowed to bite other wrestlers, that removing and consuming pieces of my vanquished foes was most definitely out.
Spark: Well it is!
Kalinda: That new girl is apparently a confirmed cannibal! She gets to bite people in the ring, why can't I?
Spark: Obviously she gets to bite people because aside from an infection because human mouths are FILTHY, unless she chomps down on somebody's throat and tears it open, she's not going to be able to do much damage.
It's like how people will let their obnoxious, tiny inbred dogs behave as badly as they want. Because if they get uppity a kindergartener with a bit of gumption can kick the little squirt TO THE MOON, ALICE. Whereas if you let a German Shepherd Dog behave in the same way, that bastard is going to get animal control called down on him and put to sleep.
They let her bite because she's not even one third your size if she were holding a bowling ball in each hand. If they let YOU bite people, we'd end up with all the people you don't like all missing fingers. And chunks of their arms. And necks. And faces.
Kalinda: If I chewed off their thumbs, the IQ of the average ULW Twitter post would shoot up by at least 20 points, I guarantee it.
Spark: I don't think there's an intelligence test for 140 character posts.
Kalinda: What if I confined my chomps to the buttock region like that little dwarf guy gets to do?
Spark: Desmond Drake?
Kalinda: Not the stupid one. The amusing one. The entertaining one. He used to bite people on their asses and it was hilarious.
Spark: Again, Chihuahua versus GSD issue. It's one thing when there are little bitty teeth marks that barely break the skin, but completely another when you can fit a golf ball into the wound, which is also shooting gore into the third row.
Kalinda: Phooey.
Spark: If this was proper gladiatorial combat I'd say go nuts and gnaw on your foes to your heart's content. But they've got the whole let your opponent live to fight another day thing going on.
And with the lack of proper medical care around here, not even the weakest of healing potions to be found, I can't really say I blame them. After all, back home folks have a habit of not staying predictably dead depending on the magical horsepower they've got going on.
EMT's would kill for the first aid magicks we've got back home. Relatively child's play to re-attach someone's head even if they've been clinically dead for an hour.
Kalinda: They'd kill for them and then they'd bring back the person they killed and go "We have defeated death by traffic accident forever! Mwahahahaha!" and that Mayhem guy from the auto insurance commercials would be terribly, terribly sad.
Though I do like that if I want to really end somebody, I'm not going to have to jump through obscene hoops to make sure their not going to be brought back.
Spark: Like making furniture out of them so that the most important piece is always missing, thus requiring the usage of more advanced tier magics.
[Spark does a 180 from His perch atop the laptop screen and points a claw at Kalinda's ottoman.]
Kalinda: Grandma won't let me keep battle trophies at the Inn. I've had the damned thing in my coat pocket for the better part of 20 years. Without any customers to terrify around here, I figured I could actually get some use out of the thing besides having it taking up space.
Spark: Yeah, right. You needed to free up some space in the unending stream of pocket dimensions you call a coat.
Kalinda: There may be a stupidly huge number of them, but if I start really packing away the stuff I'm going to need a guy doing full time stock and inventory to keep track of it all.
I already put aside a whole afternoon once a year to link up with each pocket filled with stuff, sort it, and go over what I have as is. There's so much stuff in there that I went and had Kitty make a spreadsheet, because even I'm starting to forget what exactly I've got in there, where I got it, and what I intended to use it for.
Spark: I'm regretting creating a dump of some of my oft used programs in his head. You never ask me to make spreadsheets for you.
Kalinda: Because you have the attention span of a goldfish. If I have you typing out anything longer than a tweet you zone out and start pouring over that mental collection of goofy cat pictures you have. Or if you're using the computer around here, actively looking for more.
Spark: I no can haz lolcats?
Kalinda: Not when I'm taking inventory you can't.
Spark: I'm surprised you don't have Kitty around 24/7. At home usually we have to pry the two of you apart with a crowbar.
Kalinda: I'm stuck here, Spark, there's no reason why everybody else I'm bound to has to be stuck here with me. I can summon Kitty and Pansy when I need them and send them back home after. Because that way at least some of us are enjoying the comforts of home.
Spark: Plus the floors around here aren't made to tolerate his stupid mole claws.
Kalinda: RIP my former hallway carpet.
[There's a brief moment of silence for Kalinda's dragon-wolf confusingly named for a cat mauled floor furnishings.]
Spark: So how was the whole being possessed by Miss Hissy thing?
Kalinda: I'm not quite sure how to put it into words yet, Spark. I need to think on it some more and get my thoughts and feelings in order. Plus I need to talk to her about some issues I had with the whole shebang.
Spark: So you're not going to abandon your normal ways and walk around exhaling mist and giving Arn Anderson spinebusters to everyone that crosses your path?
Kalinda: Can't promise that, Spark. I did enjoy dishing out the Spinebusters, though. Nice, flowing, fluid spinebusters. That's one thing I can say, that it felt like I was flying out there.
But don't worry, you're still the favorite voice in my head. When you're actually in my head, mind you.
[Kalinda scoops up Her muse from the top of the screen and gives him a hug as the scene fades to black.]
So another day, another dollar, another win on my record. This time it wasn't just one win, but a whole pile of bodies at me feet, and do you know what? I liked it. I really enjoyed mowing through Priest and the Rising Tide.
So when the definitely-not-random random tournament brackets went out I was thrilled, because I get to do it two shows in a row! Yup, you heard me! I kicked the crap out of three grown-ass men last week, and in less than two weeks I'm going to do the same thing.
I'm not talking about the whole of the tournament, with its four rounds of matches. I'm talking about the one match that I'm guaranteed to get, the one match where I'll know decisively who exactly I'm going to be in the ring with.
I'm going to beat the absolute fuck out of my own damned tag team partner. Because the cowardly shit slithered his way out of the ring the first chance he got and abandoned Bash and Hugo to their fate of getting the snot beaten out of them by me.
How very, very naughty of Priest to not take his lumps like an adult.
And since he's shown a predisposition to leaving his teammates high and dry to his own advantage, having done so twice over on our last show, I'm not even going to bother treating him as an ally.
Fuck no.
Priesty-poos is the big, clumsy club that Flatus Goatcheese uses to punish people that disagree with him. I don't particularly care for that sort discipline. So I'm going to be taking Droop Softpeck's big bad beatstick and snapping it in half over my knee.
Figuratively of course, or else Priest will start going on another whiny spiel about people trying to kill him and to molest his spirit and poop on his soul or whatever.
But yeah, I'm not going to be handling my match like it's a tag team match. Because this time Priest has nowhere to run. Unless he wants to totally blow his one and likely only opportunity at ULW title gold, he's going to have to stay out there in the ring with me, lest he get counted out.
And here's the really fun part; the match doesn't get to end until I say it does! Because I can't pin my own tag team partner / punching bag, and I sure as heck aren't going to let a douchebag in a bunny suit and ULW's resident meth head look-alike get a cover on my chew toy before I've torn his squeaker out.
Figuratively. Because he doesn't have a squeaker that I'm aware of. Maybe he got one implanted or something, so that when Eric Herrera poked him in the belly button it would make a happy sound.
And once I'm done with Priest I suppose I'll have to down the dragonborn and sneeze hard on Piddle to finish off the match and bring the whole thing to a close, then get on with the rest of my night because I've got three more matches to compete in.
Since unlike the IWC, apparently ULW knows how these matches work. So this tournament isn't going to turn into a gauntlet match or a royal rumble or a Judy Bagwell on a Pole match when I'm waiting for my theme music. So I'm going to be preparing to wrestle four matches in one night, and by golly, I'll be wrestling four fucking matches in one night.
And as horrible as it is with these definitely-not-random random pairings, I'm actually looking forward to this since the whole shebang is right up my alley.
Wrestle a match, go soak in ice for a few minutes, skip happily down the ring ramp as fresh as a daisy. It's no problem for me to wrestle three people, then wrestle one person, then wrestle two more people, then beat the peas out of my former tag team partner to clinch a World Title shot against Jackson Adams, or win the damned thing outright. A couple minutes and a bath that'll make a polar bear start shivering I'm energized and rejuvenated.
It doesn't matter than there are people that have a bajillion times more experience than me. Or that Hairplugs Goldman isn't going to have his magical random title awards land with any sort of recognition at my feet.
Well, unless he wants to punish me by awarding the tag belts to the winner of Priest and I and Piddled in your Kjorn Flakes. Because that just going to mean that Priest is going to get the bejesus knocked out of him until somebody can keep me distracted long enough to pin his sorry carcass.
And honestly, I think Dongs Pearlman is a bit smarter than giving me a big ol thumbs up to smack around his enforcer until I get bored of having Priest as my designated chew toy. Because handing a shiny piece of gold to his chosen enforcer is going to reek an awful lot like favoritism. And in a federation run on truth and love and compassion with a desire to remain scandal free, we can't have something silly like awarding belts to people you favor coming to light.
So that means that they're not going to waste the tag titles on a match where literally no tag action is going to be taking place from one of the teams taking part. Especially since one half our opposition is Piddle, for fuck's sake. I don't think he's actually racked up anything in the W column since he managed to beat one Caleb Hart way back when.
Thus if Ass Flanksteak knows what's good for him, he'll give somebody ELSE the tag titles and not make Priesty-poos and I an odd couple style tag team that's never going to work as a cohesive unit because I think that having carte blanche to pound on Priesty-poos every show is absolutely hilarious.
So that's going to mean that, alas, Mr. Poos is not going to be acquiring ULW gold. Because there's not going to be much left in his tank after I get through with him to give him what he sorely missed out on and that we all no doubt agree that he deserves.
So in round 2 he's going to get the old squisheroonie and will travel no further in the ULW Tournament of Lies, because these matches are sure as hell not being assigned randomly.
But I'm fine with that. I get to fight a lot of soft, fragile little people. There's nobody in professional wrestling today that can take a sustained amount of punishment like I can.
I get to take part in brawl after brawl after brawl, and if I'm lucky I get a nice shiny prize out of the whole thing. Maybe I'll open the ottoman's mouth and have it standing up in there. One of my trophies from battle showing off yet another of my trophies from battle. Because let's face it, as much as he hates me, Ace Airbiscuit knows that I'm a shoe-in for round 3 at the very least.
I fought three men last week and I won. If I left Priest alone fighting Kjorn and Piddle wouldn't even have me breaking out in a sweat. Ass Grabman is just banking on the very, very remote chance that this whole Dragonborn thing isn't just a crock of shit stewed way past its expiration date, and that the whole defeating a dragon thing will work without swords and axes and longbows and destruction spells, and sweaty Viking dudes screaming "DOUCHE BRO LA!" or something like that.
The Dragonborn can't even win a match against normal human being, let alone a gorgeous specimen of draconic superiority.
That's right, Kjorn, the Dragonborn is Dragon-boned!
Maybe if you were tag teaming with the Ebony Warrior and not motherfucking Piddle you might have a chance.
Maybe if we were allowed to actually use swords and shields and wear armor and fight like civilized beings you might have a chance.
Maybe if I tied both my arms around my back and duct taped my legs inside a sleeping bag you just might have the teensiest, tinsiest, itty-bittiest of chances.
But that's not the case here, boys.
Priest. Kjorn. Piddle.
Your fates have been sealed…
With a Frostbite Kiss.
[Kalinda performs her trademark outro once again, planting a kiss upon her hands and blowing a billowing torrent of frozen fog directly at the camera.]
[Fade to white.]
No comments:
Post a Comment