Post by Deleted on Feb 14, 2017 20:07:23 GMT -5
OOC: This is my third attempt at writing this RP, and what a ballache it was, too! Lol. Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading it nonetheless. Google Docs has it at 1500 words, exactly. Also the dialogue that have these: < insert witty remark about cabbages > thingies are people speaking in Japanese instead of English.
Enjoy! ^__^
This week, I finally make my presence truly known in Union Battleground...and already it’s a farce. What should have been a moment of glory for me--Saint Saito, the goddamn New Ace of Pro Wrestling--has been tarnished by what I could only assume is pure incompetence on the booking team’s part, for their booking me in some lower mid-card match against some Welsh random I never even heard of?
And to make an already poor decision even worse: this random those assholes in booking set me up with? Garbage wrestler!
I am a multi-generational Joshi--the heir of two wrestling families. Two of them! I main evented at the goddamn Tokyo Dome. I won my first championship when I was fourteen years old, for chrissakes! And the best they could give me for my frigging debut is some trashlord who likes to play in the garbage?
Wow. Just...just wow.
The evening was pleasantly cool in the Shibuya district of Tokyo. It was a more than welcome change to the routine that was the bitter cold of the typical Japanese winter. Or, at least, typical according to one Saint Saito. Saito was a California girl, through and through, and a Japanese winter was Antarctic in comparison to what she had grown up with. She for one could not wait for spring to come.
But for now, she walks through the streets of Shibuya with her smartphone in one hand and an iced smoothie in the other. It was purple.
“So, it occurs to me that some of you people people seem to not know who I am,” said Saito in English, staring into the tiny camera in her phone moments after she set it to record, “and sadly it’s not logistically possible for me right now to catch them while they’re sleeping and personally beat the living shit out them just so I can enlighten them. Not yet, anyway.”
“So! That said, if you assholes are watching this, this will have to serve as your enlightenment: The kawaii-as-fuck little lady talking to you is Sara Saint. Y’know: a.k.a. Saint Saito? The New Ace of Pro Wrestling?” she waved her smoothie dismissively. “Ehh, you’ll know me soon enough. And when you do, you’ll know that although I’m adorable, carnage and a whole lot of black comedy follow where I walk.”
Saito shrugged her shoulders, and then she gave herself a few moments to enjoy her purple smoothie before she continued.
“Now, I’m telling you guys all this,” she said, “because a week ago, I was taking a day off, sitting on a beach in Okinawa--awesome place. I’m chilling, enjoying the warm sands and the blue water...when I check my phone and find out that you guys booked me--Remember: Saint Saito. New Ace. Yadda-yadda-ya--in some lower card match against this Welsh guy I never even heard of until last week: this...Damon Xalvador?”
Saito gave the camera a tiny scoff.
“Okay, little off-topic here,” she said, “but...‘Damon Xalvador?’ Now, that’s a cookie cutter tough guy name if I ever heard one! Where’s the flair? Where’s the...je ne sais quoi that comes with a cool fighting name? You probably can’t come up with something as cool as ‘Saint Saito,’ true. But, come on, Chief...put some effort into what you call yourself, next time, ‘kay? Kay.”
“Actually, while we’re talking about being cookie cutter: I glanced this adorable little Welsh honey cake’s profile page for, like, two seconds, and apparently...he’s pretty much exactly like the other sixty-thousand rough childhood, broken home, raised-on-the-streets-so-obvs-I’m-tough guys whose faces I’ve caved in over my career! Whaaaaat?! Noooooo...!”
The little scoff grew into a resigned chuckle as Saito looked away from the camera to take another sip of her smoothie.
“I swear to God there must be a factory somewhere that cranks out these generic ‘tough guys’ with the tragic backstories and ship them off to all these wrestling companies…” Saito commented. And she had a point. How many wrestlers were there out in the world who all happened to have similar backstories, who came from broken homes so lower-than-low income they’d have to borrow a nickel just to rub two together? How many of them lived on the streets and think doing so made them badasses?
“But anyway, back on topic,” said the young Japanese girl. “I’m sure that in whatever little bingo hall trash heap you guys plucked him from, he’s the King Shit. I’m sure he’s the kind of guy who eats lightbulbs for breakfast and poops broken glass with the same regularity as a guy with a lot of fiber in his diet. I’m sure that all the drunken redneck cousin-fuckers and their legions of derpy inbred progeny chant his name every time he busts a two-by-four over someone’s head and they call him a champion for it. I mean, I get it: dude’s hardcore, and you probably thought he’s a worthy first opponent for me, right?!”
“Exceeeeept...no: he’s not. Hell, in my not-so-humble opinion he’s not even that hardcore! You wanna know what being hardcore truly means? No, it doesn’t mean that you want to be a famous wrestler, but whether by choice or fate you’re too much of a talentless wannabe to, y’know, make it as a wrestler. It doesn’t mean hanging around all these crappy little bingo halls and high school gyms with a wrestling ring where you and the other no-talent fools beat on each other with garbage while you get cheered on by those aforementioned rednecks. Nor does it mean going back to whatever trailer park that’ll have you after you’re done playing in the garbage and mainlining crack into your eyeball and cursing your life choices before you cry yourself to sleep. Rinse and repeat for the rest of your miserable days.”
Saito tossed the half-empty smoothie cup as she passed a couple that also walked the streets of Shibuya, covering them both with thick, purple beverage. Saito kept on walking with absolutely zero care in what she did. Instead, she kept talking, and there was a wicked glint in Saito’s eyes as she spoke.
“No, no no! That’s not what hardcore means!” she exclaimed to the camera, and by extension the people watching the video. “Hardcore is fighting with the only weapons that mean a damn in the wrestling world: The strength in your fists,” she said, balling her free hand into a fist and raising it close to her face for the camera, “and the power in your kicks. Hardcore is throwing a punch and breaking bone. Hardcore is caving in some dude’s skull and giving him a concussion that lasts for weeks, all with a simple kick to the head--and when it comes to kicking fools in the head, we Saitos are the fucking masters.”
“<Hey! Hey you! You just throw a smoothie at me?! What the hell, lady?!>” Saito could hear a man yell at her, but she ignored him.
“That is what hardcore means, my misguided friends,” concluded Saito, dropping her fist to her side. “Now, as for Damon Xalvador, I got a message for him, too. Hey, pendejo, if you’re watching this, know that the gates of Hell have been opened, and you’re the first guy getting stampeded by what comes out of there. You might I’m talking out of my ass or something, but I tell you that as fair warning--because, seriously, chief, you’re not gonna believe what I’m gonna do to you after that bell rings--even while it’s happening.”
“<Hey! I’m talking to you!”>
“You and all the people in attendance at Lights Out, and all the guys in the back, too, all of them will bear witness to brutality the likes of which even Dickhead Devereaux can’t help but weep in shock and horror after they’ve seen what I’ve done with you. Just so I make it nice and clear: I am going to send you to a deep, dark place and I am going to have fun doing it! Believe it, my friend. You have until Wednesday to put all your affairs in order, Xalvador. Omae wa mou...shindeiru.”
“<Hey!>” Saito felt a hand grab her by the shoulder that stopped her mid stride. She stood there and stared at the camera in her phone with an annoyed look on her face for a moment before she turned her head to look at an irate young man with purple all over his jacket.
“<What do you want?>” Saito responded when she turned her head around to look at him.
“<Why the hell did you throw a smoothie at me?!>” he demanded.
Saito looked at the mess she made and back to his angry face. “<You shouldn’t have been in the way,>” she told him, shrugging her shoulder away from his and walked away from him as if she couldn’t care less. She scoffed as she was about to shut off the camera, muttering in English, “Take me to Judge Judy, dickhead...god damn...”
Enjoy! ^__^
This week, I finally make my presence truly known in Union Battleground...and already it’s a farce. What should have been a moment of glory for me--Saint Saito, the goddamn New Ace of Pro Wrestling--has been tarnished by what I could only assume is pure incompetence on the booking team’s part, for their booking me in some lower mid-card match against some Welsh random I never even heard of?
And to make an already poor decision even worse: this random those assholes in booking set me up with? Garbage wrestler!
I am a multi-generational Joshi--the heir of two wrestling families. Two of them! I main evented at the goddamn Tokyo Dome. I won my first championship when I was fourteen years old, for chrissakes! And the best they could give me for my frigging debut is some trashlord who likes to play in the garbage?
Wow. Just...just wow.
****
The evening was pleasantly cool in the Shibuya district of Tokyo. It was a more than welcome change to the routine that was the bitter cold of the typical Japanese winter. Or, at least, typical according to one Saint Saito. Saito was a California girl, through and through, and a Japanese winter was Antarctic in comparison to what she had grown up with. She for one could not wait for spring to come.
But for now, she walks through the streets of Shibuya with her smartphone in one hand and an iced smoothie in the other. It was purple.
“So, it occurs to me that some of you people people seem to not know who I am,” said Saito in English, staring into the tiny camera in her phone moments after she set it to record, “and sadly it’s not logistically possible for me right now to catch them while they’re sleeping and personally beat the living shit out them just so I can enlighten them. Not yet, anyway.”
“So! That said, if you assholes are watching this, this will have to serve as your enlightenment: The kawaii-as-fuck little lady talking to you is Sara Saint. Y’know: a.k.a. Saint Saito? The New Ace of Pro Wrestling?” she waved her smoothie dismissively. “Ehh, you’ll know me soon enough. And when you do, you’ll know that although I’m adorable, carnage and a whole lot of black comedy follow where I walk.”
Saito shrugged her shoulders, and then she gave herself a few moments to enjoy her purple smoothie before she continued.
“Now, I’m telling you guys all this,” she said, “because a week ago, I was taking a day off, sitting on a beach in Okinawa--awesome place. I’m chilling, enjoying the warm sands and the blue water...when I check my phone and find out that you guys booked me--Remember: Saint Saito. New Ace. Yadda-yadda-ya--in some lower card match against this Welsh guy I never even heard of until last week: this...Damon Xalvador?”
Saito gave the camera a tiny scoff.
“Okay, little off-topic here,” she said, “but...‘Damon Xalvador?’ Now, that’s a cookie cutter tough guy name if I ever heard one! Where’s the flair? Where’s the...je ne sais quoi that comes with a cool fighting name? You probably can’t come up with something as cool as ‘Saint Saito,’ true. But, come on, Chief...put some effort into what you call yourself, next time, ‘kay? Kay.”
“Actually, while we’re talking about being cookie cutter: I glanced this adorable little Welsh honey cake’s profile page for, like, two seconds, and apparently...he’s pretty much exactly like the other sixty-thousand rough childhood, broken home, raised-on-the-streets-so-obvs-I’m-tough guys whose faces I’ve caved in over my career! Whaaaaat?! Noooooo...!”
The little scoff grew into a resigned chuckle as Saito looked away from the camera to take another sip of her smoothie.
“I swear to God there must be a factory somewhere that cranks out these generic ‘tough guys’ with the tragic backstories and ship them off to all these wrestling companies…” Saito commented. And she had a point. How many wrestlers were there out in the world who all happened to have similar backstories, who came from broken homes so lower-than-low income they’d have to borrow a nickel just to rub two together? How many of them lived on the streets and think doing so made them badasses?
“But anyway, back on topic,” said the young Japanese girl. “I’m sure that in whatever little bingo hall trash heap you guys plucked him from, he’s the King Shit. I’m sure he’s the kind of guy who eats lightbulbs for breakfast and poops broken glass with the same regularity as a guy with a lot of fiber in his diet. I’m sure that all the drunken redneck cousin-fuckers and their legions of derpy inbred progeny chant his name every time he busts a two-by-four over someone’s head and they call him a champion for it. I mean, I get it: dude’s hardcore, and you probably thought he’s a worthy first opponent for me, right?!”
“Exceeeeept...no: he’s not. Hell, in my not-so-humble opinion he’s not even that hardcore! You wanna know what being hardcore truly means? No, it doesn’t mean that you want to be a famous wrestler, but whether by choice or fate you’re too much of a talentless wannabe to, y’know, make it as a wrestler. It doesn’t mean hanging around all these crappy little bingo halls and high school gyms with a wrestling ring where you and the other no-talent fools beat on each other with garbage while you get cheered on by those aforementioned rednecks. Nor does it mean going back to whatever trailer park that’ll have you after you’re done playing in the garbage and mainlining crack into your eyeball and cursing your life choices before you cry yourself to sleep. Rinse and repeat for the rest of your miserable days.”
Saito tossed the half-empty smoothie cup as she passed a couple that also walked the streets of Shibuya, covering them both with thick, purple beverage. Saito kept on walking with absolutely zero care in what she did. Instead, she kept talking, and there was a wicked glint in Saito’s eyes as she spoke.
“No, no no! That’s not what hardcore means!” she exclaimed to the camera, and by extension the people watching the video. “Hardcore is fighting with the only weapons that mean a damn in the wrestling world: The strength in your fists,” she said, balling her free hand into a fist and raising it close to her face for the camera, “and the power in your kicks. Hardcore is throwing a punch and breaking bone. Hardcore is caving in some dude’s skull and giving him a concussion that lasts for weeks, all with a simple kick to the head--and when it comes to kicking fools in the head, we Saitos are the fucking masters.”
“<Hey! Hey you! You just throw a smoothie at me?! What the hell, lady?!>” Saito could hear a man yell at her, but she ignored him.
“That is what hardcore means, my misguided friends,” concluded Saito, dropping her fist to her side. “Now, as for Damon Xalvador, I got a message for him, too. Hey, pendejo, if you’re watching this, know that the gates of Hell have been opened, and you’re the first guy getting stampeded by what comes out of there. You might I’m talking out of my ass or something, but I tell you that as fair warning--because, seriously, chief, you’re not gonna believe what I’m gonna do to you after that bell rings--even while it’s happening.”
“<Hey! I’m talking to you!”>
“You and all the people in attendance at Lights Out, and all the guys in the back, too, all of them will bear witness to brutality the likes of which even Dickhead Devereaux can’t help but weep in shock and horror after they’ve seen what I’ve done with you. Just so I make it nice and clear: I am going to send you to a deep, dark place and I am going to have fun doing it! Believe it, my friend. You have until Wednesday to put all your affairs in order, Xalvador. Omae wa mou...shindeiru.”
“<Hey!>” Saito felt a hand grab her by the shoulder that stopped her mid stride. She stood there and stared at the camera in her phone with an annoyed look on her face for a moment before she turned her head to look at an irate young man with purple all over his jacket.
“<What do you want?>” Saito responded when she turned her head around to look at him.
“<Why the hell did you throw a smoothie at me?!>” he demanded.
Saito looked at the mess she made and back to his angry face. “<You shouldn’t have been in the way,>” she told him, shrugging her shoulder away from his and walked away from him as if she couldn’t care less. She scoffed as she was about to shut off the camera, muttering in English, “Take me to Judge Judy, dickhead...god damn...”