DTW 2nd Year Anniversary: Of Sinking and Skeletons

Two years. Two whole years of DeathTrip Wrestling, and in just a few weeks I'd be defending the DTW World Championship once again.

With the big anniversary show looming on the horizon I was putting all my focus towards that instead of my various extracurricular activities.

The Skeleton Isles were growing nicely, soaking up calcium carbonate from ancient deposits on the seafloor and transmuting that into… well… bonestone. It sounds less lewd in Dwarven, let me assure you. It's a necromantic version of marble that operates as if it were still the raw bony bits that one uses for various forms of necromancy, except sturdier.

Using the usual necromantic forging techniques the stuff ended up somewhere between steel, mythril, and adamantite instead of approximating steel like the usual sort of bones. Necromatic Dragonbone was even better, but I certainly wasn't going to find any dragons here, and none of my bones were large enough to make swords out of anyway. Armor? Forget about it. I'm still using this ribcage, thank you very much.

Tokyo Gore Noir #10/11, Of Repugnance and Revolution

Fuck you, Josh Kennedy.

Fuck you, Eddy Poe.

And fuck you, Masatake Kawamata.

Fuck all of you.

Fuck you with a cactus.

Fuck you like it's a chore.

But fuck Kennedy in particular.

Because you haven't been paying attention at all.

You'd have to be living in a cave in the middle of the remote American wilderness with a bag on your head, plugs in your ears, and your head up your ass to not have heard literally ANYTHING about me.

"Blah blah blah, Kalinda, you sit on the throne of DTW surrounded by everything you've ever wanted!"

And you're sitting on a motherfucking throne of lies, Kennedy.

(Ignorant Reeking Foe Part II: Meatbag Boogaloo)

(Introductory narration) Yes! That's right ladies and gentlemen, boiling ghouls, inbreds of all stages! MECHA-Kalinda is freshly victorious over hacker and astrologer Kara Star, a pathetic creature of meat and bone, running through corridors, blah blah blah.

Anyway, with all her stargazing and attempts at divination, she somehow managed to avoid seeing herself totally getting her ridiculously pale butt kicked from pillar to post.

And look, I'm one to talk head considering I'm the color of newly fallen snow. But I've got a bit of undead and faerie in me. I'm supposed to be pale, deathly, and otherworldly. Kara, though, is like mayonnaise. Eggy, glistening, full of sulfur, and prone to becoming gross and unpleasant if you leave her out in the sun for more than like fifteen minutes.

But this week! This week we...

"(Grumps)"

(Continued narration) This week we...

"(Further grumping)"

(Narration following a particularly loud raspberry) Pbbbbt. Fine. Okay, sourpuss, what's up?

(Mathematical Proof: Stars = Stench)

(Introductory narration with Auntie Claudia, the dragon-demon-faerie-undead-clown-thing. That is her scientific classification) It is! It is totally my scientific classification! Or at least it will be once there are enough weird beasties that have shown up in Kaiju Family Values show to warrant Stanton Enterprises putting out an official guide to Kaiju.

ANYWAY! I am indeed you cutie clown narrator, and we open aboard A Zeppelin Named Trouble, the floating, bulbous, villainous lair of the dread Menagerie!

"(Ominous crackle of thunder)"

(Amused narration) Thank you, MECHA-Kalinda! Thunder cracks in a most sinister fashion outside the windows of the bloated gas bag. The zeppelin, you goofs! Don't disparage Lumber Jackson like that! His mother says he's a husky boy!

DTW DeathTube #2, Kalinda RP 1/1: Weapons-Grade Autism

My first DTW match signed, sealed, and delivered.

Thank the gods! It felt good to wrestle how I'd wanted to, without limitations, without rules, without sanctions put in to take away everything that makes me special, and without motherfucking stage hands in black grabbing all the shit I intended to use to beat the fuck out of people with and spiriting it away to the back.

I'm singing "Grandma Got Run Over By a Dragon," a little tune of my own composition and am folding my ring gear up and putting it in my bag when something is wrapped around my neck and tightened.

Hmm. I think it's barbed wire attached to two wooden handles, which are meant to be crossed over behind my neck and twisted tighter and tighter, either increasing the choke, or breaking my neck.

DTW DeathTube #1, Kalinda RP 1/1: Of Granny Gankings and Girlcocks

For perhaps the first time since being forcibly dragged from my home world to this bland, boring backwater of an uninspired orb-shaped realm (whose creator being is obsessed with beetles), I was actually feeling like I was back home.

Unfortunately it wasn't the "being happily left alone without having to adventure, left to run my tavern/inn/pizza parlor in peace" sort of home-y feeling, but rather the "being dragged to big social gatherings put on by the rich and powerful and competing for silly prizes in any of a thousand various ridiculous dog and pony show events" sort of home-y feeling.

Much to my sorrow the day's festivities lacked my favorite event. I was just as loud and vocal about my displeasures back home as I was when given a microphone and an international television audience, so I had a tendency to piss people off. But alas, no one had challenged me to an honor duel or attempted to kill me.

UWA Olympus, Kalinda RP 1/1: Darko's Self-Loathing On a Forklift Match

The Raeth Report
By Ron Raeth

Leading into Olympus the UWA's two day fan festival was quite a success, though there were some interesting highlights, or lowlights if you will.

The last signing of the first day featuring Kalinda Kriegsdottir, Angelica Jones, and P. Clarence Whitman was marred by the notably sensitive British gentleman making his way to the tables first, and shortly thereafter being introduced to Kalinda.

Apparently having repressed the memories of the horrible horrible Kalinda/Hush/Whitman vs. Leviticus/Fitzgerald/Stumpy Rodriguez feud in IWC, a feat that I'm sure many IWC fans would like to be able to replicate (I know I would), Mr. Whitman took one look at the towering form of the Azure Nightmare and promptly passed out.

Every time he would reawaken he would look around with his usual look of befuddlement at the world around him, catch sight of the Big Blue Beastie, and then return to the great state of unconsciousness.

About halfway through the signing Kalinda got up to her usual mischievous tricks and in between signing autographs spent several minutes of the signing using her marker to inscribe devil horns on Whitman's temples, Frankenstein-esque stitching on his neck and wrists, and for the magnum opus added what appeared to be KISS inspired facial designs.

Mr. Whitman can only hope that the marker manages to wash off before his debut match with Lilith Evans later tonight.

UWA Outbreak #7, Kalinda RP 1/1: The Flaccid, Dangling Terror of the Nudistry

I hate adventuring. It requires too much trust in unreliable people. The folks that hand out the quests seldom do anything themselves. They park their butts in one place and yell at passing sword-sporting individuals to go out and help rid the scourge of ogres ravaging the countryside by slaying ten ogres and retrieving their buttocks as proof of the deed.

And then when you complete the unpleasant task of battling nearly a dozen creatures that are like NFL lineman with an extra two or three feet of height and two hundred pounds of blubber packed on, you've got to remove the buttocks from the corpses, which is a stinky, unpleasant task as ogres are culturally opposed to bathing. Much like Rayne Young they don't think that scrubbing under the folds is gangsta, yo.

With all that unpleasant business behind you, you haul in your burlap sack of severed buttocks, plop it at the guy's feet, and get rewarded with whatever coinage he found in the couch cushions and some article of clothing or weaponry from the back of his basement closet.

UWA Outbreak #3, Kalinda RP 1/1: A Not-So-Brief Kayfabe History of the Universe

Delilah Darkbolt.

Fuck.

While she was the closest thing I had to a friend amongst the dark elf nobility, I'd kind of been avoiding her for the past few days. Not for the usual reasons either. I mean the usual reasons why everybody else avoided her.

Delilah na Kinai, Scion of House Darkbolt, Firstborn True Daughter of Dara na Kinai, Heir to the Matriarchy.

Dark elves are born with innate magic, tied to the totem animals of their race, house, and family. It always manifests in the same three ways: sorcery; the application of raw magical power as destructive energy, enchantment; the application of magical power for strengthening one's self or allies and weakening one's foes, and channeling; the act of imbuing one's self with the raw essence of one's patron, gaining their traits and physical aspects.

Delilah was a pure Enchanter, and to compliment their powers of being able to enhance others most enchanters went out and found a fearsome beastie and bound it to them as a loyal protector.

Delilah had tried that. Dozens of times.

ULW Paranoia, 6/27/15, Kalinda RP 2 of 2

I sit in the darkness, illuminated by the cone of light provided by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The scarred and tattered table before me has born witness to creation and destruction both. The creation of wondrous devices, prosthetics, and effects for use in film and television, as well as the destruction of dozens, perhaps even hundreds of individuals.

This is where the magic happens. This is where the Dark Man himself, Desolation, verbally devastated a stunning amount of people during his career. Today it's not covered with special effects debris, photographs of foes, or piles of title belts. It is not a place for the trophies of my mentor, but rather my own.

Spread out before me are the remnants of those who have fallen before me. Swords, knives, maces, staves, spears; the enchanted arms and armor of dozens of men and woman. I give the bulb a tap with my fingers setting it swaying from side to side as the camera zooms out.

There isn't just one table. There are several. And they are not alone in their contents. The floor holds a vast array of treasure and trophies alike. Precious metals in the form of coins, of bars, of crafted works like cups, statues, ceremonial attire and weapons, and other decorative objects.

ULW's Fuck'd Up Friday, 5/29/15, Kalinda RP 1 of 2

-CD-

You never realize how much you miss something until it's gone, until a thing that has been a part of your life for as long as you can remember vanishes into thin air. Gone in an instant. Sometimes it's a relief, sometimes it's a pain, and sometimes it's something so dire you wonder how you're ever going to get along without it.

So when a constant companion unexpectedly slipped back into my life I was overwhelmed with emotion, relief, joy. I'd lost something that had been alongside me every step of the way since having fled a dark elf insurrection years upon years ago up until I found myself stolen away from my home and dropped into an unfamiliar world.

I could ruminate on my feelings and plumb the depths of emotion (and no doubt my incestuous fascination with an absent mother figure according to Freud) later. For the moment I had business to attend to.

You hear various figures about exactly how much of the human body is made of water, sixty, seventy, eighty, some batshit insane google results somewhere up in the 90's and probably some Steiner match clocking it in at 141 ⅔ percent water. Whatever the truth is, there's enough water there for my innate ties to the element of water to get a pretty good fix on people.

ULW's Fuck'd Up Friday, 5/15/15, Kalinda RP 1 of 1

Some people would say that the ULW is rotting, that it's decaying, that a sickening tumor has metastasized and the prognosis is grim. Me, on the other hand, I just think that ULW is just inching further and further up its own ass week in and week out.

For some reason ULW thinks it's a caterpillar, the ropy coils of intestines of its own anus are its cocoon, and that once it gets all the way up there it will emerge as a pretty, IWC-colored butterfly.

Because not only has ULW decided to court, embrace, and get a mouthful of love trickling down their chin from the two biggest boils on the backside of professional wrestling…

Not only has ULW decided the let non-wrestlers rampage all over its television product…

Not only has ULW decided that having some people defend their title belts every is what the cool kids are doing these days…

But now ULW is getting to the point where I'm worried that it's going to murder the IWC, skin it, and wear the tanned hide around with its penis tucked back singing songs about putting the lotion in the basket.

ULW's Fuck'd Up Friday, 4/24/15, Kalinda RP 2 of 2

Take in a deep breath with me. Draw in a big whiff of the world through your nose, and then let it out slow.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

What do you smell?

Air, right? Just plain ol normal air.

But that's not normal air, that's not healthy air, that's just what you're used to. It's filled with filth, filled with pollution, filled with extraneous CO2 that really shouldn't be there. Maybe you can smell the mold and mildew from cheap drywall. Maybe there's that faint burnt plastic stench that you can never quite clear out of your household appliances. Maybe there's that 10 percent floral, 90 percent nose-rape scent of an air freshener that's twice as strong as it needs to be.

Take a deep breath and you'll smell all the ways that corporations are fucking you. Fucking you right in the nasal passages. That mold and mildew? That wouldn't be there if your house wasn't built by the lowest bidder, using the cheapest materials, with the minimally skilled labor possible, all assembled to the barest of standards and codes.

They didn't pour the concrete right, letting the water seep in through your basement. They didn't put the vapor barrier in the right place, and now the insides of your walls are a greenhouse. They used the wrong kind of insulation, and now the walls of your home are a breeding ground for pestilence.

That plastic stench? That's the scent of the best labor twenty cents a day can buy in some overseas slum, pieced together with parts put together in some third world country. But it's made in the USA, because somebody spends five minutes screwing in the pieces that make up your toaster oven.

And that's all you can afford, the cheapest of electronics in the cheapest of houses. Why? Because corporations want to be free. Free of restrictions. Free of limitations. Free of pesky little things like human rights, of outside oversight, and of government regulation.

ULW's Ascendancy, 3/17/15, Kalinda RP 2 of 2

What's wrong, Lenore? Why are you so quiet all of a sudden? Why aren't you frothing at the mouth and chomping at the bit to get at me, hmm? Why aren't you just bursting at the seams with the desire to verbally butt in to my life, eh?

Because you seem oh so eager to throw yourself at me when my back is turned. That you just adore coming at me when I'm not looking and trying to blindside me.

You're all ready and raring to go, as your mush-mouthed manager would say, a mare all a-lather, and yet here you are. It's been three weeks since FUF VII, where you stuck your nose all up in my business once again.

But you haven't said a word. Not one peep.

IWC's Last Stand, 2/25/15, Kalinda/Legion RP 1 of 1

Five months ago I severed ties with the IWC. Five months ago I cut the federation that I spent six months of my life prepping for. Five months ago I said farewell to the collection of idiots, morons, hacks, and egomaniacal dipshits that decided that the best place to put a seven foot tall dragoness was in a freakshow division fighting against an idiot, a moron, and a retard.

And they teamed him with an autistic and a midget.

I'm better than that. I know I'm better than that. But because I didn't pick a side, that I didn't surgically graft my lips to the asses of either one of the emergent factions whose warfare dominated IWC I was ignored. I was an afterthought. I was given no opportunity to thrive amidst inferior fellows. There were teeming masses of non-wrestlers and the personal friends of Mr. Flies and the Dumbest Woman in Professional Wrestling needed lavish paydays, and brother dude jack, trickle down Hoganomics is what's best for business, Mean Gene!

And in those five long months I've shown the IWC what fools they were to waste me like they did. Remember my farewell pay per view match? You know, the one that was signed into being at virtually the last minute. The one that got made as an afterthought. The one where two people who had been with the IWC since its founding were given less consideration than some schmucks who had just signed with the company days before.

And speaking of schmucks, do you know just how wonderful and forward looking that little contest was? Of the four people that stayed with the fed in those five months only Leviticus has wrestled, he only did it for one match, and he sucked ass in it.

Yeah, the exact moment I left the fed, they stopped bringing in Fitzgerald. Amazing, isn't it? It's like he was brought in with the sole intention of being an embarrassment and being a gods damned albatross around my neck.

ULW's Fucked Up Friday, 1/30/15, Kalinda RP 2 of 2

In order to most efficiently beat the absolute FUCK out of somebody you have to know three things. You have to know yourself, you have to know your enemy, and you have to know the world you two are living in.

Now for most people that first one is easy, 'cause there really has to be something wrong with you in order for you to be lying to yourself so damned bad that you're a goddamn stranger to your own sorry ass self. And I don't me lying on your left arm til it goes numb and using it to jerk off.

Knowing your enemy? That can be easy or it can be hard. But with video tape… well motherfucking DVD's and the interbutts these days, it's pretty easy to get to know the person you're aiming to skullfuck into sausage meat if they're a pro wrestler. They invite you into a jam session in their skulls twice a week and then you get to see 'em fight.

Now knowing the world? That's the motherfucking kicker. There's a bunch of shit that goes down that most people don't know about, 'cause they can't fucking see it. I'm not just talking about angels and demons and ghosts and devils and shit (well, maybe not shit. You can see shit. Though sometimes you don't, you step in it, and you track filth all over the fucking place.)

That's simple stuff, that's shit you can see by turning the dial every so slightly so that you get a bid of a bleedover between channels. Spooky shit you can understand, because it does stuff. It wants stuff. The creeps fucking do things, ya know?

Not the Eyes, man. Not the motherfucking Eyes. They might not be there all the time, but they're there for import things, and they're watching, man. They're fuckin' watching."

-SPIDER


There are times when you just want to be alone, to just sit by yourself along with your own thoughts and hash them out. Or in my case get them all in order so you can sit down and write an article about how exactly you managed to go from your native high-magic, rather interesting world with a plethora of sentient species to a magically barren crudball of a world with only one species of person that can carry a conversation.

The universe hates those times and will move heaven and earth to do whatever it can to fuck with them. Case in point, I'd plopped myself down with my laptop and a big orange mug of hot chocolate that was approximately one third marshmallow by volume when somebody started pounding on my door like it owed them money.

ULW's Fucked Up Friday, 1/30/15, Kalinda RP 1 of 2

"Here you are, my dear, adamant in admitting that you want to go home. Incensed that you were being denied the opportunity. Drowning your sorrows in drink when the powers that be when you see you path home blocked from your footsteps. And yet… and yet you somehow managed to fail in achieving that which you most desired in all the world."

The life of a professional wrestler is fraught with its ups and downs, its triumphs and tragedies, and they're only made worse when you have a cannibalistic dragon goddess living inside your cranium.

Like the bitter, racist great aunt nobody wants but someone ends up having to take care of out of familial obligation. Only in this case it just so happens that I ended up with big scaly bitch queen numero uno, who literally ate herself out of house, home, and worshippers, by offering a rather non-specific prayer in the right place at the wrong time.

So as her sole draconic worshipper, as a technicality, I'm kind of stuck with her. Spark and I have been calling her Miss Hissy, as to reveal her true name to millions of people would be a rather poor idea. Douchebag Old Testament Jehovah's got nothing on her, and it wouldn't be good for anybody if she were allowed to take roots and get a foothold of the faithful on a backwater, near magic-less world.

That racist old grandma in this case is an unabashed dragon supremacist. It'd be like some tribe in deepest, darkest Africa that's never interacted with any other members of humanity dumped into the care of the Grand Wizard of the KKK. I'm not going to inflict her on anybody.

But last week my trainer, mentor, and friend Desolation pulled a Spark and applied a little bit of pop culture to the situation. She'd probably prefer the new name to the old, but I'm not going to call her either Miss Hissy or Eleanor Rigby to her face. Even though she did indeed die in a church and was buried along with her name.