| Welcome to CWC. We hope you enjoy your visit. You're currently viewing our forum as a guest. This means you are limited to certain areas of the board and there are some features you can't use. If you join our community, you'll be able to access member-only sections, and use many member-only features such as customizing your profile, sending personal messages, and voting in polls. Registration is simple, fast, and completely free. Join our community! If you're already a member please log in to your account to access all of our features: |
| Why Do You Fight? | |
|---|---|
| Tweet Topic Started: Apr 21 2017, 11:41 PM (103 Views) | |
| Nurse Kinsley | Apr 21 2017, 11:41 PM Post #1 |
|
Member
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]()
|
[align=center]It's late. Real late. Like, "you have work tomorrow, you should be in bed" late. But for those that neglect their adult responsibilities--or those that never had them--a special treat. A commercial in the wee hours, long after the stroke of midnight; an advertisement for Blue Collar Wrestling. It's the same that always shows, regardless of the time. Morning, evening, night... a common sight on the local channels around the midwest. Something's amiss, however. The usual display of fresh talent the montage of action from the first show is cut short. Static. A voice. Dry. Sharp. "Why do you fight?" Scenes cut in, interrupting the static erratically. A woman, thin, in a tattered and stained nurse's garb. A mask. A bottle of pills. A swinging hook. An empty syringe. A wrestling ring. She drives a white boot into an opponent's jaw. She cracks a short baseball bat across someone's back. She grinds a young man's face across the side of a steel cage. "That's it, isn't it? The great puzzle. The riddle of the sphinx. The question to end all questions. Why would anyone in their right mind go out there, night after night, and put their body on the line? Risk their health? Their lives? Why step into the colisseum and face someone larger than you, stronger than you, someone that wants to end you? Why do you fight?" More footage. Abrupt jump cuts. The same woman, the gaunt nurse figure, flying off the top of a ladder. Slipping brass knuckles from one of her boots. Hooking a car battery up to someone's torso. Spearing someone into barbed wire around the ring. "It was selfish, at first. I was self absorbed, egotistical. Still am, to be honest. Before I stepped into that ring, I lived my life without control. I was manipulated, used, by the rich and the old and the powerful. I was a tool, just one more cog in the great machine. Once I realized my calling--once I won that first match--I realized that THIS, this was how I'd take my life back! In the ring I had control. In the ring... I was god. Every joint, every bone, they were mine to do with as I pleased. Whether or not someone walked out or left on a stretcher, that was MY decision! My... sole... discretion." Chairshots. Blood. Centipedes. She leaps onto an opponent's back, pulling a chloroform rag over their mouth and riding them around the ring. "I was a fucking monster." Booing. Jeering. People hurling things at the ring. Signs in the crowd: "Kinsley gave my son nightmares." "Kinsley's gonna kill you." Commentators, other wrestlers, their voices distorted over the shaky footage. "Kinsley... offends me." "Kinsley is dangerous. She's a danger to this sport, and everyone that competes in it." "Kinsley doesn't belong in this company." "I was high--high on painkillers, and high on my own success. I rode that high for miles, and the closer I came to the top of it all... the more the light began to peer through the cracks. The truth. The filthy, disgusting truth. Wrestling companies are exactly that: companies. Corporations. Businesses. I rose because they let me, because for how foul, how disgusting, how inhuman my behavior was... for how detestable my acts were, I was dollar signs in someone's eyes. They encouraged me. Drove me to grander and grander violence, booked me in more ridiculous and hazardous matches... until the day they were done with me. Until the day I flew too close to the sun." Kinsley, the frail girl in the nurse attire, takes a spinebuster through a table. She's hurled down a flight of stairs by a much more intimidating figure. She's handcuffed to a turnbuckle and beaten by a gang of men. She's dragged through the bottom of a cage, suspended above the ring, and her thin frame crashes through stacks of tables below. Briefly, ever so briefly, are shots of the woman unmasked... struggling against restraints. Fighting to rip herself from a hospital bed. Screaming into an oxygen mask. "I was never destined for greatness. They didn't see it in me. I didn't have the look, I wasn't the type to win championships. I was a sideshow act, a circus spectacle. I wasn't main event material, I was bloodsport, and I wasn't alone. There were so many like me, beaten and bruised and scarred and broken, used up and left to rot once they'd become old news. Never given a real chance. Never judged on their own merits. Only worth the number of pints they could spill. I changed." An old hospital. Abandoned. Drenched in dust. Decorated with cobwebs. The woman sits in a faded office chair, her masked chin clutched in one gloved palm. She breathes in deep... and she leans back, one long leg crossing its partner. "I realized that I'd been doing this all for the wrong reasons. I wanted control. I never had it. Never could. Never hoped to. I thought I was dealing the cards... I wasn't even playing the game. I made my choice, then and there, that things would be different--that I would be different. I stopped fighting for myself, and started fighting for EVERY other freak, every grotesque attraction, every weirdo, every bizarre MUTANT this industry could drudge up from the strangest corners. I started fighting for every underdog, every unwanted, unwashed NOBODY that had been instilled with false hope and empty promises! I started fighting for EVERYONE that had ever had the future dangled in front of them, just to have it pulled away by some UNSEEN HAND of WITLESS AUTHORITY!" She stands, shoving the chair across the room. It slams into the grafitti stained wall behind her with a dull thud. Harlow runs a shaking hand through her dyed red hair, shuddering breaths dragging to a slower pace. "And I fought... for everyone in that crowd. Everyone who still wanted to see me. Everyone who stuck by me, no matter how terrible I was. Everyone that sent me letters in the hospital. Everyone that posted online, asking about me after I overdosed. Everyone that thought I could make it, thought I could... thought I could be something. When I first started wrestling stateside, I wanted to own the wrestling world. I wanted to rule these companies, be the shining figurehead at the top of the business. I wanted to be on posters, T-shirts, cereal boxes. I wanted to be the face of the industry. Now... Now I'm here to dismantle it. I've heard the rumors. Seen the magazines. People wonder if I've gone soft. No. I'm still every ounce the vile, hate-filled creature I always was. My arteries are still clogged with poison. It's still spite and barbiturates that get me up every morning. My violence has just... shifted directions. My hate has been aimed anew. I don't want control. I want no one to have control. I want to see the old roads of nostalgia, of nepotism, of corporate hierarchies and wrestler-bookers and BUYRATES dictating OUR LIVES to be brought down! I will not allow some JACKASS in a SUIT, who's never STEPPED into a god damn ring before, TO PULL MY STRINGS ANY LONGER! I will no longer let "The Business" be described as a singular entity, and treated like it's a distinct FUCKING persona! I am the business! Jen Stevens is the business! Journeyman Phillips, Evie Gerard, LJ Jackson, WE ARE THE BUSINESS! Those people out there in the stands, those dedicated few paying twenty to fifty dollars A SEAT, THEY ARE THE BUSINESS! You pencil pushers in your highrises, skimming the numbers and figuring out how best to screw over the next big up-and-comer... you're not the business. You're not. And I've made it my mission... my new reason to live... to see that the inmates get their run of the asylum. Ị̣̙̅͌̋'̜͚̞̰͙̜̽m̦̣̪̹ ̼͕̞ͅc͍õ̩̹̮͖̠̯̠͆̅ṁ̞̖̣̩̑ͨ̏̋̈ͮi͔̝̬̦̤̥̝̿̒̚nͣ͌̏̅͒ͤ̄g̗͍̼͚.̠ ̝͉̥̬̰̳̓̔̋͂ͮ̏̅ ̹͖͇͓̟ͮ͋͊̊ͦ̔͒ͅ ̛̺̣͊̈́̔͛͋ͩ̇ͣ͂͠ ̸̴͍͓̱ͧ͌̂̒ B͔̳̼͓͉̬̗ͣͥ̂e̥ ̀̌͛ͣ̈́͌r̽̍e͔̫͎͖͗̓ͥ̀͛͒ͧa̳̱͍̙̳̗̓ͩd̪͈̲̈́̓̔͆ͫ͒ͭy̠̲͇̰̺̝̭̎ͬ.͍̄ͧ" Distortion. Static. Screeching. Black.[/align] |
| |
![]() |
|
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| « Previous Topic · CWC Archives · Next Topic » |
| Theme: Zeta Dark 2 | Track Topic · E-mail Topic |
7:45 PM Jul 10
|
Theme Designed by McKee91
Hosted for free by ZetaBoards · Privacy Policy





![]](http://z3.ifrm.com/10/168/0/f265291/Pulse_Pip_R.png)





7:45 PM Jul 10