Post by anna on May 4, 2020 7:22:19 GMT -5
The Multitudes check her neck and push the mouth into a smirk.
Indeed. They have been checking the neck throughout the days, at least once a day. They are reminded of how humans are. Any ordinary being would’ve quit. Any human under the same circumstances as she would’ve been a whimpering mess, suffering all the while. Their weakness would’ve been evident in the way they touched it and the distraction it would’ve caused. They would’ve been so worried about their life blood draining from their body. The pain caused by that wire and how far they would have to push themselves to persevere.
But for them and for her, there was no push. No worry. No wimper. There was only a switch. A shift. A flow. And in that night from bulldozing that meaningless cunt above and beyond the commentator’s table to the endless slither in position to hearing that joint pop cleeeeeeaaaaan off of Riddle’s body, there was a rush. One that was had been missing for a long, long time. The body, mind, and soul of Anna Daniels have been through a lot of matches since regenerating. Won a decent amount of belts. Hell, she even has a standing appointment with murderdeath in Japan every month! And yet it was the demolishing of Cy Riddle that made them feel...right where she needed to be.
Does this make us a bully?
Does this make us evil?
Does this make us sick?
Perhaps.
Looking at her neck--her beautiful, flawless, scarless neck--the smirk pushes itself to a smile because it’s the proof in the pudding. One can doubt a lot of things. They can doubt the otherworldly beginnings, the dueling hearts, the time travel all the motherfuckers want. Being able to walk out a bloody mess and walk back in like it never happened with the only evidence being a stream on a river? The number of beings on this multiverse that can do that are very very low and everybody knows that those shitlords who can’t even produce an “owie” when they get thrown off of balconies don’t even count as living souls in the first place.
We’re beyond.
And oh how it feels so good.
It’s funny how the grandious has long lost its luster and the small becomes meaningful. One little delicate way of the world can become the whole ballgame. The past propels the present.
Willie Pete.
Oh! Sorry. THE Willie Pete.
It’s definitely possible that he and she underestimated each other the first time around. Hell, why wouldn’t they? Some people see Anna as a whole as...crazy. In a way, those people are correct. Juuuust never in the way they expect. As for Willie, take one look at the guy and you can think he’s not really meant to be inside of a wrestling ring. He looks for all the world like a pot smoker who seems more at home hanging around in some bulshit street corner in Bumfuck, Egypt.
But that’s just the thing about looks and assumptions. They never tell the whole story. Nothing can. Not even actions. Yet actions are what make pro wrestling a thing. To that little shitlord’s credit, he knows his shit. He even has something resembling talent. How else could he have gotten that Warhorse Championship? And oh, that Bobby Benson hanging on to him like a damn spider monkey screaming into the megaphone and just in general being a pain in everybody’s ass. So early in Willie’s career and he’s rising. Good for him. Most people never quite get it that easy. Some don’t reach any meaningful success at all. There’s no doubt that short of any misfortune, this could very well be only the beginning for him.
And yet, misfortune is at his doorstep. Right here, right now.
Because when one first enters a promotion--especially one like Union which has some form of clout--nobody reveals the totality of themselves right away. It’s a feeling out process for both parties, even more so when one is a veteran. Even one so often flying at the edge of her seat still holds things back. If you’re not having your cards on your chest in the early going, you’re not playing the game. But there’s also a second part to the game. A most lovely part.
Keep your eyes wide open.
Willie did so good in the first part simply by existing. He carefully crafts this non-caring attitude to make a fool out of people and it’s such a perfect out, innit? How he’s all grease and degrading of his foes. The problem is that was his only card. The only one he could put down. The only one he knows. And the man can’t conceive anybody playing anything but one simplified card. He doesn’t know how to play against someone with a full deck, let alone someone with a different deck. The Anna he knows is the Anna he scoffs at. The Anna he sees is the Anna he claims to be better than.
Which means he doesn’t know a thing. Which is a good thing. Not so much for him because he’ll have to admit his blindness eventually and he has too much pride for that. So much pride. For anybody else? Those with anything resembling a working brain. Those who think for more that two fucking seconds. His blindness is a god send, if one believes in such a thing. And the hilarity of it all is...he really has no one else to blame. Except maybe Benson Burner. But that loud mouth is just as dim witted as his charge.
It is because of this that there is a brief thought of conducting one of those bland promos people often display on the Network. You know, the ones where they claim to be the BEST IN THE WOOOOORLD. In this one, she would show up in front of a shitty GoPro camera of some half assed indy fed drunk and slurring “if you got 21, I have 22”. And people would enjoy it because they would think that she was the buffoon. Really lay that blindness in. Of course, anybody who knows the reference also would know that man who slurred those words was also dangerous with a clear mind. It would be funny. It would be a master stroke. It would be art in contrast to what will inevitably happen.
But William, who is really nothing, tends to run the gauntlet on useless references.
The smile pushes into a grin because she and they know what they have earned when they broke that little fucking mute. Even though it was such a small victory given the opponent, it was still one to build on and let’s be honest. It wasn’t so much seeing “Anna Daniels d. Cyrus Riddle” on a pad of paper. It was how it was done. It didn’t have anything to do with the blood or the weaponry or even the risk. It was the sheer defiance of it. The purity of a good fuck you. The throwing around of her psychic weight. What she felt after the lights went out and her scarf was on was power.
A Time Lord binging on power is a M A R V E L O U S thing.
Standing upright, the choir sings. It’s time to play another card.
Indeed. They have been checking the neck throughout the days, at least once a day. They are reminded of how humans are. Any ordinary being would’ve quit. Any human under the same circumstances as she would’ve been a whimpering mess, suffering all the while. Their weakness would’ve been evident in the way they touched it and the distraction it would’ve caused. They would’ve been so worried about their life blood draining from their body. The pain caused by that wire and how far they would have to push themselves to persevere.
But for them and for her, there was no push. No worry. No wimper. There was only a switch. A shift. A flow. And in that night from bulldozing that meaningless cunt above and beyond the commentator’s table to the endless slither in position to hearing that joint pop cleeeeeeaaaaan off of Riddle’s body, there was a rush. One that was had been missing for a long, long time. The body, mind, and soul of Anna Daniels have been through a lot of matches since regenerating. Won a decent amount of belts. Hell, she even has a standing appointment with murderdeath in Japan every month! And yet it was the demolishing of Cy Riddle that made them feel...right where she needed to be.
Does this make us a bully?
Does this make us evil?
Does this make us sick?
Perhaps.
Looking at her neck--her beautiful, flawless, scarless neck--the smirk pushes itself to a smile because it’s the proof in the pudding. One can doubt a lot of things. They can doubt the otherworldly beginnings, the dueling hearts, the time travel all the motherfuckers want. Being able to walk out a bloody mess and walk back in like it never happened with the only evidence being a stream on a river? The number of beings on this multiverse that can do that are very very low and everybody knows that those shitlords who can’t even produce an “owie” when they get thrown off of balconies don’t even count as living souls in the first place.
We’re beyond.
And oh how it feels so good.
It’s funny how the grandious has long lost its luster and the small becomes meaningful. One little delicate way of the world can become the whole ballgame. The past propels the present.
Willie Pete.
Oh! Sorry. THE Willie Pete.
It’s definitely possible that he and she underestimated each other the first time around. Hell, why wouldn’t they? Some people see Anna as a whole as...crazy. In a way, those people are correct. Juuuust never in the way they expect. As for Willie, take one look at the guy and you can think he’s not really meant to be inside of a wrestling ring. He looks for all the world like a pot smoker who seems more at home hanging around in some bulshit street corner in Bumfuck, Egypt.
But that’s just the thing about looks and assumptions. They never tell the whole story. Nothing can. Not even actions. Yet actions are what make pro wrestling a thing. To that little shitlord’s credit, he knows his shit. He even has something resembling talent. How else could he have gotten that Warhorse Championship? And oh, that Bobby Benson hanging on to him like a damn spider monkey screaming into the megaphone and just in general being a pain in everybody’s ass. So early in Willie’s career and he’s rising. Good for him. Most people never quite get it that easy. Some don’t reach any meaningful success at all. There’s no doubt that short of any misfortune, this could very well be only the beginning for him.
And yet, misfortune is at his doorstep. Right here, right now.
Because when one first enters a promotion--especially one like Union which has some form of clout--nobody reveals the totality of themselves right away. It’s a feeling out process for both parties, even more so when one is a veteran. Even one so often flying at the edge of her seat still holds things back. If you’re not having your cards on your chest in the early going, you’re not playing the game. But there’s also a second part to the game. A most lovely part.
Keep your eyes wide open.
Willie did so good in the first part simply by existing. He carefully crafts this non-caring attitude to make a fool out of people and it’s such a perfect out, innit? How he’s all grease and degrading of his foes. The problem is that was his only card. The only one he could put down. The only one he knows. And the man can’t conceive anybody playing anything but one simplified card. He doesn’t know how to play against someone with a full deck, let alone someone with a different deck. The Anna he knows is the Anna he scoffs at. The Anna he sees is the Anna he claims to be better than.
Which means he doesn’t know a thing. Which is a good thing. Not so much for him because he’ll have to admit his blindness eventually and he has too much pride for that. So much pride. For anybody else? Those with anything resembling a working brain. Those who think for more that two fucking seconds. His blindness is a god send, if one believes in such a thing. And the hilarity of it all is...he really has no one else to blame. Except maybe Benson Burner. But that loud mouth is just as dim witted as his charge.
It is because of this that there is a brief thought of conducting one of those bland promos people often display on the Network. You know, the ones where they claim to be the BEST IN THE WOOOOORLD. In this one, she would show up in front of a shitty GoPro camera of some half assed indy fed drunk and slurring “if you got 21, I have 22”. And people would enjoy it because they would think that she was the buffoon. Really lay that blindness in. Of course, anybody who knows the reference also would know that man who slurred those words was also dangerous with a clear mind. It would be funny. It would be a master stroke. It would be art in contrast to what will inevitably happen.
But William, who is really nothing, tends to run the gauntlet on useless references.
The smile pushes into a grin because she and they know what they have earned when they broke that little fucking mute. Even though it was such a small victory given the opponent, it was still one to build on and let’s be honest. It wasn’t so much seeing “Anna Daniels d. Cyrus Riddle” on a pad of paper. It was how it was done. It didn’t have anything to do with the blood or the weaponry or even the risk. It was the sheer defiance of it. The purity of a good fuck you. The throwing around of her psychic weight. What she felt after the lights went out and her scarf was on was power.
A Time Lord binging on power is a M A R V E L O U S thing.
Standing upright, the choir sings. It’s time to play another card.