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.
Unfortunately for my attacker, I'm a part of the Metsuki Tahari bloodline. A dark elven warrior and smith, she was the last villain to win the Cycle of Champions, where the dormant power of an imprisoned Great Old One was siphoned off to grant the winner in a battle between good and evil a single wish.
And she wished that none of her kin need ever fear weapons again.
The closer the blood relation, the stronger the gift. Tahari herself couldn't be so much as harmed by anything wielded with ill-intent, and she got to do something that few dark elves ever got the chance to do. Die peacefully of natural causes at a ripe old age in her sleep.
My best friend back home, Delilah, had been her granddaughter, and as long as she could sense a weapon coming, she could ask it to not harm her, and it wouldn't. It was always quite a sight to see arrows stop millimeters away from the surface of her skin and fall harmlessly to the ground.
I felt a hefty weight on my back as my would be attacker attempted to add his bodyweight to the choke. I simply leaned forward to counteract the somewhat portly gentleman riding me piggyback and continued folding my clothes.
He abandoned the garotte and instead attempted to draw a knife across my throat.
Due to my egg being left buried in the wilderness, I wasn't quite sure who my parents were, or how they were related to the Tahari bloodline. But by comparing my own capacities at shrugging off weaponry to other members of the family, I was about somewhere between two and four steps removed.
Somewhere between the child of a sibling with weak blood ties (like having said blood ties be overwhelmed by having one parent being a huge bloody dragon), the child of a half-sibling, or a second cousin.
It took a good, solid magically enchanted in order to hurt me, and even then slashing weapons didn't work particularly well as my draconic skin was quite durable. So even if it had been enchanted, the knife wouldn't have done much more than leave a welt.
Seeing that the throat slitting didn't work, my attacker switched to stabbing, generally aiming for my heart and failing miserably. The stabbing actually felt rather good, like a deep tissue massage.
"A little to the left, please. I've got a bit of a knot."
"What. The. Fuck." said Damian Hister as he dropped off my back.
"You must be that Mr. Hister guy I've heard so much about. I'm Kalinda, nice to meet you!" I said rather pleasantly, holding out a hand to shake.
"Seriously, lady. What the fuck?" said my would-be assassin, who looked at my extended hand as if it were a poisonous snake I was thrusting at him, rather than a somewhat creepy clawed gauntlet with a skull adorning my elbow. He gingerly grabbed two of my fingers with two of his own and a thumb and gave a single limp wiggle.
"Dragon. You need enchanted swords or elemental power to actually do damage to us." I said, getting really sick and tired of repeating what ought to be blatantly fucking obvious to anyone who'd ever seen me wrestle.
"Otherwise the worst you can really do is make me somewhat sore. Making most folks about as dangerous as hindu squats."
"Then let's see how you deal with fire! As in firearms!" he says, reaching behind his back and attempting to draw something from a concealed holster, only to get it stuck. Mr. Hister bounces and wriggles around comically for a few moments trying to get the thing loose.
"Need some help?"I ask.
"Nope! I've totally got this. Just give me one sec!" he says.
"Are you trying to draw your gun, or are you doing a weird dance?"
"I've almost got it!"
Damian finally manages to get the gun loose, and he comes up with a tiny two shot Derringer looking thing that looks ridiculous undersized in his somewhat pudgy hand. I can see a neon pink grip through the gap in his fingers.
"Now witness the power of the best gun that one hundred bucks can buy! Goodbye, dragon!" he says, pulling the trigger.
It clicks.
"Is the safety on?"
"I don't think so."
"It's that little round button kind of in the middle between the grip, hammer, and barrel."
He pushes it. Now it doesn't even click.
"Nope. Safety was off."
"You did remember to load it, right?"
"What kind of an idiot do you take me for?"
"I don't know. What kind of idiot are you? Do you need a moment to check and see?"
"If you wouldn't mind."
I nod and turn around, ensuring that I won't be able to see if my erstwhile assassin had forgotten to load the bloody gun. But I can hear the jangle of somebody getting bullets out of their pocket and putting them into the gun.
"Okay, yes, I very definitely put bullets in. But I think they were bad bullets, so I had them replaced. I most certainly did not forget to load my gun, nosiree bob."
"Okay. Good to hear." I say, turning back around.
Mr. Hister pulls the trigger, but the gun doesn't fire.
"You put the safety on, remember." I say.
"Right. Right. Yes. Okay, there we go."
"Okay, just so you know, that's a .22. That's barely going to even do anything to a normal human being, let alone a dragonblood."
"Shut up!" Hister says, holding the gun to my forehead.
"They're very low powered rounds. You don't want to aim for anything with bone behind it, you want soft fleshy bits." I say, gingerly taking the pistol's barrel between my thumb and forefinger and relocating it to my throat.
"Thanks. I don't know a whole lot about guns."
"You're welcome." I say pleasantly.
He pulls the trigger again, and once more no bang.
"Safety's still on. You have to push it all the way to the other side"
"Dammit!" Hister says, finally putting the safety into the off position.
"Sorry this is taking so long."
"Quite alright. I've been privy to a goodly number of assassination attempts in my time. If it makes you feel better you're not even in the top 20 most poorly executed. If you'll forgive the pun."
"Heh. Executed. Okay, safety is off."
"Yes."
"Bullets are in the gun."
"Yes."
"Aiming at a soft part where there's potential for major damage to the windpipe and umm… the thingies with the blood."
"Veins and arteries in the neck, keep the blood flowing to the brain. Very important."
"Okay, I think we're good. Usually, I don't get this far. Usually, somebody punches me in the face and beats the crap out of me by now."
"I could hit you a little bit if it would make you feel more comfortable?"
"No, no, that's fine. I think I've got this. Ok, ready?"
"Ready."
"I'll count down, okay? In three? Three, two, one..."
"Hiya boss lady, who's your new friend?" Claudia says, having just wandered into my dressing room somehow without having gone through the door. She had a tendency to do that. She's got some kind of quantum something or other. If she's not being directly observed, she can be just about anywhere.
And what with Mr. Hister occupied with me, and me occupied with Mr. Hister there was no one watching the room to make sure it stayed empty.
"JESUS CHRIST!" Damian Hister screams, turning and firing the gun, hitting Claudia in the arm.
He winces and sticks a finger in his ear and wiggles it around.
"Ow. Holy fuck that's loud."
"Guns usually are."
"I wouldn't know, I've never gotten one to actually go off before. And when I do it turns out that some asshole has sold me a realistic looking cap gun."
"Those meanies!" Claudia says, frowning at the hole in the sleeve of her dress, which is also sporting a growing pinkish-purple stain. She sticks her fingers into the hole, seeming to dig around for a few moments. Her tongue slithers out the side of her mouth in concentration. It only goes out about six inches or so before she manages to grab the bullet, which she pulls out and drops on the floor.
Mr. Hister just stares.
"This is actually a pretty good reflex shot. Not too terribly much damage though. Is that a .22? They have a tendency to tumble and lose power when they hit clothing."
"I did warn him about that. Maybe he ought to try the knife?"
"Oooh, he has a knife? That might work! Okay! Let me have it!" She fiddles the fabric around her her heart would be, pulling it taut."Right here!"
"Thank you, I really appreciate this."
"Oh it's no bother. I've never been stabbed in the heart before. Usually, somebody tries it from the back and gets my ribs, or comes down in a downward stab and gets me in the boob."
"Well, to be fair there is an awful lot of boob that can be hit."
"Hush, you!" Claudia scolds.
And Mr. Hister slips the knife in perfectly between her ribs, getting her right in the heart. It's not a very big knife, and it doesn't make that big of a tear in her dress, so all the blood ends up being contained by Claudia's dress, staining it with the otherworldly taint of her hybrid fey-dragon-demon-devil-undead-who-the-fuck-knows blood.
"Oooh, kind of tingly, and gushy. I think I'm going to pass out from lack of blood to the brain now." the clown says, passing out from a lack of blood to the brain.
Mr. Hister throws his hands up in the air and does a little touchdown dance.
"Woohoo! I did it! My very first kill."
"Mmm. Not quite."
"You mean we have to wait until like clinical brain death sets in, right?"
"Oh no. I mean that stabbing her in the heart isn't going to kill her."
Claudia sits up, draws in a deep breath, and gets back to her feet, the knife still stuck in her chest.
"It's a good try though! I'm sure it would've killed just about anyone else." she says happily.
"B-but… all the blood!?"
"Oh that. It comes back quickly. See?" Claudia takes the knife and jams it into her own jugular. This time without her dress to get in the way it sprays and splatters all over everything quite messily. Though mostly on Mr. Hister.
Once again without enough blood to keep her brain going, Claudia passes out and hits the floor.
"Does she do this often?"
"No. Usually, she has somebody else do it. She says it doesn't feel as good when she does it herself. She says she has to let her blood out every so often, or else it gets kind of itchy."
"Kind of itchy, how?"
"As best I've been able to tell, her blood naturally provides an unhallowing effect that bolsters undead as well as temporarily infusing the area with enough negative energy to facilitate the necromantic creation of lesser mindless undead. So she has a natural urge to let it out every now and then to gather a horde of undead minions."
"Huh?"
"Her blood is a portable desecration ritual that makes zombies and skeletons."
Mr. Hister just stares at me and shakes his head.
"I'm sorry. This is just too weird for me. I'm out."
"Aww! But we were just getting started!" Claudia whines. "I was going to let you cut off my hand and show you the thing I can do with it when it's not attached!"
"Nope." Damian Hister says, shaking his head and walking out of the lockeroom covered in Claudia's blood. "Nope. Nope. Nope."
My henchwoman sighs.
"I never get to do my severed hand trick."
"Because we only just got your hand working properly again with getting all the tendons aligned after the LAST time you cut your hand off."
"Oh well. I guess I can just do "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" the normal, boring old fashioned way." she says, staring forlornly at the knife.
"Oh! He forgot this!"
She rushes to the door.
"Hey Mister! You forgot your knife!" she says, lobbing it to him.
Damian Hister screams as the blade gets him right in the buttocks.
"Come back and play again!" Claudia says, waving and closing the door.
She turns to me, "I think he likes me. What a sweet fella!" she says with a lovestruck sigh.
Wow, DTW, when I said if you gave me a goddamn Make-a-Wish kid to wrestle I'd beat him with his own fuckin' colostomy bag and ganso bomb the son of a bitch, I didn't really mean it.
I mean sweet mother of fuck, I say that and two weeks later I'm wrestling a dude that looks like he's an evil vizier undergoing chemotherapy.
What the fuck is wrong with you people? And where can I find more like you? Because this is absolutely hilarious.
I mean I did kick the complete and utter shit out of Psychnuts last week, so I'm not surprised going from a cancer survivor to a guy outright getting poison injected in his veins to stop the growth of the festering, pustulant tumor on his taint that he probably got from wanting to look more socially acceptable than his toothless old mum, and so rather than smoke the meth, he was injecting the stuff straight into his pericardium and wouldn't you know it, shooting random chemicals into your fleshy fun bridge for shits and giggles can give you cancer.
Then again, breast cancer DOES run in the family, and even the dudes have an increased chance of titty tumors from some shitty genes passed down the family tree. So maybe he had a nipple or two fall off. And judging from Mama and Junior, I'm guessing the… whatever the hell the family name is, I'm pretty sure that that particular gene pool needs some chlorine poured in it.
Because seriously, Riddick's got something wrong with him. Well, aside from the juvenile onset male pattern baldness. I mean what kind of developmentally disadvantaged moron powerbombs his own mother through a fuckin' door? I mean this is 4chan levels of proud, entitled weapons-grade Autism here.
Except he didn't whip out his undersized prepubescent dick and literally piss on his mom because she wouldn't get out of bed after drinking herself to sleep after getting home from her job selling rubber cocks at the sex shop. Oh no, Riddick powerbombed his momma because she wouldn't drive down to Burger King to get him some chicken tendies, and after that?
Well, ol Psychnuts wasn't allowed behind the wheel anymore and there were no more tendies for poor lil Riddick, ever, so he beat the crap out of his mom, beat the crap out of the other students at his school like the overly aggressive Special Needs Child he is. Then got sent to Juvie, got out, and then saw Pitch Black, took up the name of the edgy bald dude Vin Diesel was playing, and channeled his aggression to beat the living fuck out of people in the wrestling ring.
Ok, I'm exaggerating and adding in humorous details, but do you know what the scary thing is? I'm not exaggerating all that much. Instead of pissing on his mom at night because she wouldn't get him deep fried breaded bird bits, Riddick pissed on his own dead brother's corpse at the goddamn funeral.
Instead of calling somebody a faggot on on Reddit or Xbox Live or some shit, Riddick went and did it on a streaming internet wrestling program. I mean the dude is like one utterance of the word "cuck" away from being one of those douchebag edgelords you see in the comments section of any given website ranting about the evils of whatever his stupid-ass philosophy that makes his shit life not his fault says is evil.
I mean come on, you know exactly where these sorts of people hang out on the internet. Riddick's already tweeted that he wants to bend me over and fuck me. I might as well come out to the ring in a t-shirt with the goddamned Gadsden Flag snake on it with the caption of "DON'T GRAB MY PUSSY."
Seriously. Don't grab my pussy. I have teeth down there. You'd lose fingers. Or what's left of your dick after the cancer got done with it. Don't inject intravenous drugs into your taint, children, it does not end well. Just google "Swamps of Dagobah," and make sure to do it on an empty stomach.
Probably the smartest thing Riddick's ever done in his career is to make sure I got an invite to DTW. Do I think he did it out of the last few drops of good he managed to wring out of the shriveled up, black, charred little lump of coal that is his heart? Fuck no.
He did it for the reason he fuckin' does everything. And that reason is to be the center of attention. Since the very first video piece he's put out with DTW he's been chomping at the bit with how bad he wants to wrestle me. Challenges me on Twitter. Gets a bug up his ass after I put on the match of the night with his crazy fucked up mommy, and challenges me after the main event.
I've been tempted, really fucking tempted, to just have Claudia skip out and wrestle the little bald foul-mouthed manchild because he said "wrestle a dragon" and not "wrestle Kalinda," but that's not who I am.
Well, no, actually a big blue troll cackling with glee every time she gets to be a literal genie on somebody is exactly who I am.
But I'm not somebody who dodges challenges. I'm not somebody who avoids getting into fights. I'll throw myself into the ring with anybody and anything, no matter what the odds are against me.
As hilarious as it would be to have Riddick show up prepared to face me and SURPRISE gets a daffy sawed-off clown version of me instead, I'm not going to pull shit like that. Because I know what it's like. I know what it's like to have matches signed, posted on the internet, and advertised, and then the head office swaps out the names with something else.
I know what it's like to want to lay your hands on somebody, only for them to dodge your every attempt at actually getting them into a fuckin' wrestling ring.
Although I don't see what the rush is. We've got a roster of like maybe a half dozen competent people, a squad of assholes that would probably lose to a slightly husky girl scout in a singlet, and whatever the fuck you'd categorize Teiji Shintaro as.
There's only so many credible wrestlers to put me with, and only so many times you can have two people fight before the thing gets stale. I don't care who you are, you have 21 matches with the same dude in four months and nobody is going to give a fuck about your goddamned best of infinity series.
So sooner or later I was going to end up fighting Riddick anyway. So why is he so adamant to get this thing out of the way immediately?
Exposure.
New feds spring up, have a few shows, and then keel over dead all the time. Sometimes you have a big time sugar daddy (or sugar mommy and daddy in the case of the cross-eyed bint from Nashville) willing to foot the bills on a money losing enterprise, sometimes folks just burn a few bajillion bucks in a great big bonfire so they can hang out with the pro wrestlers, and sometimes the stars align, the thing catches fire and you have something that people can enjoy for awhile.
But most feds don't make it past half a dozen shows, and Riddick's been around the business long enough to know this.
So what he wants is to get me in the ring with him ASAP, because he knows that if he can someone manage to eek out a win against me he'll look like the million bucks a certain Southern wrestling promotion with a scandalous acronym for a name's managed to lose in recent months.
He wants to face me, wants to fight me, wants to get all the glory for himself that would come from beating a massive seven foot tall, neon blue, motherfuckin' fire-breathing dragoness. Because you don't see the likes of me every day in professional wrestling.
Well, unless you work with me already, then maybe you do. Technically. I dunno.
Because of course Riddick thinks he's going to win. Wrestlers like him always do. They can never fail, they can only be failed. Because somebody fucked up, because somebody cheated because the referee is slightly more blind and stupid than usual. Seriously, I think you have to have a lobotomy and flunk an eye exam in order to get your refereeing license.
But when people like Riddick lose, it's never their fault. There's a conspiracy against them, they say. Fighting a perfectly normal match and having your planned interference thwarted is unfair, they say.
But a real conspiracy? I know what that looks like. I had it happen to me. When you're TRULY conspired against losing matches is the least of your worries. When the powers that be REALLY want to make you suffer they go out of the way to have announcers talk shit about you, they put you in pointless matches with unworthy foes. They do everything in their power to make you look like a laughing stock.
And after what happened in the UWA, I'm not laughing.
Am I thrilled I'm facing Riddick? No, not really. But it's sure as fuck a step up from being run down on commentary for having the AUDACITY to take a title shot the company itself gave you and being trash talked for being unworthy because you actually DO YOU FUCKING JOB without complaining and come in to wrestle the match the people who run the company actually gave you.
A proper conspiracy has the powers that be trying to run your name in the ground for daring to be a good worker and do exactly what you're told.
But here? Here I don't have the problem.
I'm thrilled by the prospect of being able to wrestle matches without being shackled with a half dozen stupid Thou-Shalt-Nots designed to make me wrestle in the same insipid, bland, homogenized style as the rest of the roster. I'm a delicious steak, and UWA wanted me to be ground motherfucking beef.
I'm thrilled because of the novelty of it all. I get to wrestle how I want. I get to use my tail, run the ring ropes, hit people with weapons, don't have to censor myself.
I mean Mary, mother of God, and her clockwork fuckin' vibrator, can you imagine the shitstorm that would've happened anywhere else if I'd so much as thought the words "Weapons-Grade Autism," let alone applied them to my opponent?
I mean it's not like Riddick is going to fucking care. He'll be all "Hell yeah, I don't have any concept of boundaries, personal space, or appropriate behavior. Call me a fucking Autistic, you overgrown blue bitch. I just hope all the horse steroids you took to grow to the size of a house haven't made your pussy dry up and fall off, because when I knock your ass out at DeathTube I'm going to yank those fucking Bushwhacker pants of your down to your ankles and fuck you right then and there."
And then he's going to have his dingus bitten off because like I said, there are teeth down there and if you really want to know more about it, you can just ask Claudia to sing you her favorite song that uses the tune of "Hakuna Matata."
It's called "Vagina Dentata," just so you know. Something else you can google after you've recovered from visiting the Swamps of Dagobah. Add Goatse, Tubgirl, and Harlequin ichthyosis to the list of things you ought to google, by the way.
Actually, don't. Seriously. Don't google those. You won't like what you see.
And now that I've assured that I'm going to scar some viewers for life, let's talk about the match itself, where I'm going to literally scar Riddick for life.
Because let's face it, an electrified barbed wire match might as well be a normal match where the ropes are somewhat smaller and in funny shapes where I'm concerned. Sharp, pokey metal bits? Not a problem, unless there's magic involved that barbed wire might as well be a series of backscratchers duct taped to the ring ropes.
And electricity? Surely as a water elemental dragon that would be something that would actually be able to cause me harm.
Nope.avi.
Grandma took care of that by bonding me to an elemental spirit of electricity when I was little. The obnoxious little bastard lives inside my noggin and is basically the living personification of all the entertaining parts of the internet, but that's a small price to pay to be able to be hit with a few billion volts of electricity, shrug, and go "Meh."
I mean hell, I had a side job helping out my friend Delilah enchant weapons that needed a zap to get them going. I'd stand outside in a thunderstorm with a big metal pole in one hand, the weapon in the other, and talk shit about storm elementals until I pissed one of them off enough for it to fling a bolt at me.
I really hope they don't have the current on all the time, because all I'd have to do was grab the barbed wire with one hand, and Riddick's shiny chromed melon in the other.
Unlike some wrestlers, I'm not in it to win any and every match I participate in by any means necessary. Winning is nice, but it's not everything. I'd rather lose in a match that was fun and challenging, then win a match where I can stand around for five minutes, let my opponent wail on me, and then hit one move and they're done.
So I'm NOT going to be doing that. Hell, I'm going to cart a bunch of shit to the ring and throw it in so I can use it. Because how many times have you seen wrestlers get put in a match where the stipulation is, say, a chain match, or a nightstick on a pole, or tables, ladders, and chairs (oh my!) and even though there's a no DQ environment, the schmucks just sit there limiting their violence entirely to what the corporate mandate has laid down?
"Golly gee, I'm just going to limit my creativity to the bare minimum and be bland and dull about it. Ba-rump, ba-rump. Ba-rump, ba-rump!"
I make some mouth noises generally imitating a tuba slowly playing "The Worms Crawl In."
Oooh, it's an electrified barbed wire match, so by golly that means I've got to use barbed wire and electricity and only barbed wire and electricity.
Fuck that.
Riddick wants to rant on Twitter about blue balls? Fuck 'em. I'll bring a big blue rubber horse dick to the ring and smash him in the face so hard with it he's going to have a dick-shaped bruise that he's going to have to walk around with for the next week and a half. He wants blue balls, he's gonna get him some motherfuckin' blue balls. Big blue rubber horse balls.
Thumbtacks, a baseball bat, a kendo stick, some trash cans and can lids, hell I'll bring a pair of 15-pound cerulean bowling balls with the express purpose of rolling the goddamn things square into Riddick's crotch. It'll be the most action Riddick's junk has gotten from a woman since he slipped Cammy's mom a roofie or found her passed out drunk, or whatever. Because that guy sure as fuck likes to talk about fucking women when they're unconscious.
Hell, he's probably going to come to the ring in a t-shirt of his own to counter my "Don't Grab My Pussy" Gadsden Flag. Probably something along the lines of "Dead Girls Can't Say No." Because the son of a bitch has brought up dead dudes fist-fucking me already, so why not add implied necrophilia to the list of his crimes against humanity?
By the time I'm done with him, Riddick is going to wish he'd just had someone cram their hand into his ass up to the forearm because at least they're going to be using lube when they're fucking him up.
Me? I'm not. I beat his batshit crazy mother so goddamn hard it turned her sane. I'm not going to mess with what works. So what I'm going to do is fucking beat Riddick so goddess-damned hard he turns into a decent human being.
I know, I know, it sounds like a daunting task. But don't worry, I have the patience to beat all the douchebaggery out of Riddick.
It's going to take a great deal of time and be very, very painful.
But hey, it's going to hurt him a hell of a lot more than it hurts me.
And that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.
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