Post by Kris on Jul 24, 2015 20:07:38 GMT -4
((OOC Note: Two things. First, Johnny Rebel is used with permission. Secondly, my RP clocks in as 2,178 before code, as per Microsoft Word. Good luck to my opponent!))
It takes a certain kind of man to appreciate an insane woman.
Rachel Faulkner (Ellsworth, to the public until the merch sells out and she can have more produced without wastin' money) has never denied that she's more than a few kegs shy of Oktoberfest. Hell, if she's being entirely honest? She's never had the luxury of ever being able to deny it, not with the rumors and the stares and the thousands upon. While the thought of knowing that one is crazy automatically protects one from actually being it is a comforting one, she also knows that it's utter and absolute bullshit--and that's not even going into the stereotypes about a lack of awareness, a lack of ability to be cognizant while in the grips of some of those personal demons of hers that have called her mind home for as long as she can remember. The fact that they hit so close to home is just another beastie clawing merrily away at her gray matter.
Little fucker anyway.
It takes a lot of the Atomic Redhead's self-control to ignore the way that the ceiling overhead wavers as if she's looking at it through the heat shimmer that is usually reserved for blacktop at the height of July, that feeling of lightheadedness that the solid contact of flesh beneath her head is managing to stave off--if only just. The distant sounds of beeping and booping coming from the old school Gameboy in her husband's hands competes with the ringing of a call being put through is another grounding factor, the battered iPhone she holds to her ear mostly still intact thanks to the noble sacrifice of more than a couple Otter boxes. Even though she knows full well that the man she's trying to reach has seen her in her more... brittle kind of moments, she also knows full well that she can't let him cop to it. Not anymore, anyway. As such, as soon as she hears Johnny Rebel?
Thanks for holdi--
It's to those Greatest Hits that she knows will blind him to it.
I send in my contract and ya don't write me back, ya don't call or nothin'... are ya really that bitter about me gettin' hitched and takin' myself off the market? Are you really that hard-up that you miss fuckin' me even if it's been years and ya can find some other tail without much trouble?
For a moment, stunned silence reigns over the connection--distant footfalls coming rapidfire about the only thing that Rachel can hear when she strains. It's about ten seconds later that J-Reb's letting out that familiar, almost infamous howl of a laugh.
Gotdamn it, Red--ya need to warn me before you say that kinda' shit when I've got investors in the room!
The chuckle that leaves her has her spouse looking down at her curiously, but his gaze doesn't linger-- not at the sound of his character taking damage emanating from that vintage hand-held gaming system. Paying no heed to the distraction she's being, the redhead's lips tug into a genuine smirk. Fake it 'til she makes it, and all that shit.
Aw, but then it wouldn't be as fun. 'Sides, they probably thought you had a case of the stomach cramps, what with how you ran out of the room all red-faced and all. Now, at least, they know that you're full of shit.
Aw shaddup.
Another chortle and a 'Whew!' leaves the Rebel One before he's settling down enough to speak, the sound of a chair creaking as he settles into it preceding when he speaks again.
So what's the deal, anyway? It's been ages since you called me.
A brow quirks as the Atomic Redhead tilts her head to one side slightly-- the motion her version of a 'Fair play.' that she's fairly sure J-Reb is going to know is there thanks to the couple seconds' worth of silence the motion earns. There's even a bit of chagrin in her tone, though it doesn't last for long.
Oh, nothin' big. I was just callin' to see just what would constitute cruel and unusual punishment.
Cruel and unusual punishment?
Yeah. Y'know, since you decided to throw Stefan Raabtard with tits and the compulsive urge to dress like an otaku 24/7 into the ring with me. I don't wanna wind up out on my ass after my first match back, after all.
There's another pause, one that the Atomic Redhead knows is paired with that one expression that she has become more than a little familiar with-- that 'Just how far will she go?' concern mixed with the deep thought of one trying to avoid a lawsuit. Ultimately, J-Reb sighs.
No, Rach, you can't shank her. Your name ain't Santana--
Rachel scoffs, rolling her eyes at the memory of the ex-convict that had utterly failed to intimidate her during her run in PW. Then again, no one had managed to be anything more than a minor inconvenience... well, if one ignores how her ex-boyfriend got her fired. Then again, that was outside of the ring shenanigans,--ence it doesn't count in her opinion.
Well no shit, 'Ny. I'm an actual badass to be feared whereas last I heard, he was just a one-eyed bitch of some guy named Bubba.
Even if she knows it's just a guess on her end, she can't help but think that the exasperated sound leaving Johnny's lips is joined by a shake of his head.
All I'm saying is that I'd suggest going off your common sense, but we both know that won't end well. Just... try to go off of Nat's common sense.
A low, resigned groan rumbles forth from her chest as a hand raises to rub at her forehead. Of all the underhanded ways to try to get her to behave... he just has to go for the comparison to her cousin. She slumps.
....siiiigh, fine.
Good. Oh, and Rach..?
Her fingers part despite how Rebel can't see them do so to peek through.
Yeah?
A lot of the mirth vanishes in Johnny's tone, something far closer to concern than either of them is bound to like to admit taking its place.
You do know that I'll still listen if you need an ear when one of those... y'know. I'll talk at you later, Red.
Even if his parting words have her eyes closing tightly, she can still feel her sense of reality rippling around her-- as if called into further prevalence by being mentioned after she did her damndest to ignore it.
...sumbitch.
That tone is what has Richard Faulkner looking down anew--but this time? He ignores the eight-bit noises of protest leaving that Gameboy as he tosses it to land on a nearby La-Z-Boy, fingers that have long since calloused over with everything he's been up to as of late settling into the unnatural crimson of her hair.
I'm here, Rach. I'm real. This is all real.
Richard pauses, his digits continuing to trace their way through hair he's helped her dye more times than he can count over the last decade or so. She can hear the cocksure smirk in his voice just the same as she can feel the warm puff of an exhale against her forehead as he leans down, his tone lowering as if sharing a stereotypical sweet nothing.
...and so's the way you're gonna hatefuck every joint in that RealDoll's shoddy construction. Maybe we'll be able to sell her to those guro motherfuckers, or whatever it's called.
Yes, yes it does indeed take a special kind of man to appreciate an insane woman... and one even more special to love her, proclivities and extreme highs and lows and violent moments and all. Even if it's comparatively tiny, Rachel holds onto that sensation of his presence being real as tightly as she can. It's not enough to make everything sunshine and roses, but that's nothing he ever promised her or that she ever swore to give to him.
They both promised to be there for one another, and that vow being kept is good enough.
This is some shit, man.
This is some Grade A, still fresh and steamin', Chris-Chaos-fuckin'-Trent-Scott-and-the-both-of-em-endin'-up-pregnant-in-the-main-event-of-a-CWF-show shit. Of all the nonsense and foolishness and Uwe Boll-level bullshit you could write on the card of APW's first show back, you--I--SIGH. 'Ny, you motherfucker--you was just about as much my toy as I was yours, damn it! Or did you forget the time that I thought I'd fucked an amputee until I woke up enough to realize that you were just handcuffed to the headboard? I'm not even gonna mention' the part where you started blubberin' like a baby 'cuz of Sir No Longer Appearin' On This Planet--
...wait.
You didn't know about the amputee part, didja?
And I did just outright say that you bawled like a bitch over Measely...
Oops.
My bad, former fuck-buddy. We're still cool, right?
Riiiiight.
Anyway, now that I've got that outta' the way--I guess now's the time that I gotta address the elephant in the room. It's hard enough to ignore one of those things in the first place, but this one? Ohh, this one's probably hopped up on Rock Star and drunk on one too many episodes of the Jersey Shore since it can't keep its fuckin' mouth shut worth a good God damn. It's also just as cliché as those Sonic-The-Douchehog assholes, even, as often as I've heard this particular pachyderm vomit its opinion over and over again out of the mouths of the innumerable wastes of carbon, space, time, and their daddy's spunk that one can find in just about every company in the business. I just so happen to be gettin' the 'Dress Like I Live in Tokyo' edition this time 'round. Not that I give a shit how my opponent dresses, but at this stage in my career? The superficial shit is about the only way to tell the dumbasses apart anymore. Welp, there's no use tryin' to dodge the shit bein' spewed. S'more satisfyin' to shove it right back where it came from 'til the source of it explodes. That bein' said?
Ravetard--and no, I really don't care if you say I can't call you that 'cuz that's what you are-- you're a fuckin' idiot.
'Ohh, hurrr, look at me--I'm so bad-assed and kewl 'cuz I let my ego get in the way of avoidin' career-endin' injury!' Jesus H. Tapdancin' Christ on a pogo stick, man...just how many times were you dropped on your head as a child to make that ass-.backwards logic seem sensible? Oh, wait, I forgot. I'm not dealin' with someone with any sense. Instead, you're that fake kinda edgy--y'know, the kind that comes from spendin' too much time on /b/ and just glancin' at shit like a n00b instead of actually payin' attention to the undercurrent of what actually goes on there, not to mention what remains of your survival instinct. So here's a coupla' questions for ya, Ravetard. How's your pride gonna help you brush your own teeth and feed yourself? Hell, how's your fuckin' ego gonna wipe your own ass after someone like, oh I dunno, me decides that they've had enough of your blatant disrespect and disregard for common fuckin' sense? I'll tell you what, bitch-- you're gonna find out the moment that bell rings.
So go ahead, darlin'. Play the ego card.
By all meeaaaans, be the too-tough-and-too-cool-for-school stereotype.
Refuse to do what's smart.
Because the moment that the ref stops the match 'cuz you passed out?
I'm endin' your career... and that is not an idle threat.
Y'see, bendin' people into fun animal shapes while they cry, scream, and tap out so that I don't do permanent damage to their shoulders, neck, legs, fingers... whatever joint I've got my happy little hands on? That's what I'm known for--and I'm just as notorious for violently responding to willfully ignorant motherfuckers like you and Raabtard. Ravetard, Raabtard... shit. SHIT. We need to neuter both of you immediately so you don't breed and produce the SUPER ULTRA MEGA TARD! Maybe I should get one of those Cones of Shame and some superglue, pop that around your head so you don't get the chance to lick the stitches or whatever-it-is you're not smart enough not to do. And before you get all hurt in the anal region, remember-- you're the dumbass that brags about not tappin' out. I'd ask if you feel dumb yet, but I think it's fuckin' obvious that you're in that sweet spot (Well, sweet for you and Hellish for the rest of us since we need to deal with it!) where you're too dumb to ever be self-aware about it.
Which is why I don't feel the least bit sorry about makin' it so you're never aware of anything from the neck down after I'm done with you.
Remember to learn to love the bomb, kids~! ♥
It takes a certain kind of man to appreciate an insane woman.
Rachel Faulkner (Ellsworth, to the public until the merch sells out and she can have more produced without wastin' money) has never denied that she's more than a few kegs shy of Oktoberfest. Hell, if she's being entirely honest? She's never had the luxury of ever being able to deny it, not with the rumors and the stares and the thousands upon. While the thought of knowing that one is crazy automatically protects one from actually being it is a comforting one, she also knows that it's utter and absolute bullshit--and that's not even going into the stereotypes about a lack of awareness, a lack of ability to be cognizant while in the grips of some of those personal demons of hers that have called her mind home for as long as she can remember. The fact that they hit so close to home is just another beastie clawing merrily away at her gray matter.
Little fucker anyway.
It takes a lot of the Atomic Redhead's self-control to ignore the way that the ceiling overhead wavers as if she's looking at it through the heat shimmer that is usually reserved for blacktop at the height of July, that feeling of lightheadedness that the solid contact of flesh beneath her head is managing to stave off--if only just. The distant sounds of beeping and booping coming from the old school Gameboy in her husband's hands competes with the ringing of a call being put through is another grounding factor, the battered iPhone she holds to her ear mostly still intact thanks to the noble sacrifice of more than a couple Otter boxes. Even though she knows full well that the man she's trying to reach has seen her in her more... brittle kind of moments, she also knows full well that she can't let him cop to it. Not anymore, anyway. As such, as soon as she hears Johnny Rebel?
Thanks for holdi--
It's to those Greatest Hits that she knows will blind him to it.
I send in my contract and ya don't write me back, ya don't call or nothin'... are ya really that bitter about me gettin' hitched and takin' myself off the market? Are you really that hard-up that you miss fuckin' me even if it's been years and ya can find some other tail without much trouble?
For a moment, stunned silence reigns over the connection--distant footfalls coming rapidfire about the only thing that Rachel can hear when she strains. It's about ten seconds later that J-Reb's letting out that familiar, almost infamous howl of a laugh.
Gotdamn it, Red--ya need to warn me before you say that kinda' shit when I've got investors in the room!
The chuckle that leaves her has her spouse looking down at her curiously, but his gaze doesn't linger-- not at the sound of his character taking damage emanating from that vintage hand-held gaming system. Paying no heed to the distraction she's being, the redhead's lips tug into a genuine smirk. Fake it 'til she makes it, and all that shit.
Aw, but then it wouldn't be as fun. 'Sides, they probably thought you had a case of the stomach cramps, what with how you ran out of the room all red-faced and all. Now, at least, they know that you're full of shit.
Aw shaddup.
Another chortle and a 'Whew!' leaves the Rebel One before he's settling down enough to speak, the sound of a chair creaking as he settles into it preceding when he speaks again.
So what's the deal, anyway? It's been ages since you called me.
A brow quirks as the Atomic Redhead tilts her head to one side slightly-- the motion her version of a 'Fair play.' that she's fairly sure J-Reb is going to know is there thanks to the couple seconds' worth of silence the motion earns. There's even a bit of chagrin in her tone, though it doesn't last for long.
Oh, nothin' big. I was just callin' to see just what would constitute cruel and unusual punishment.
Cruel and unusual punishment?
Yeah. Y'know, since you decided to throw Stefan Raabtard with tits and the compulsive urge to dress like an otaku 24/7 into the ring with me. I don't wanna wind up out on my ass after my first match back, after all.
There's another pause, one that the Atomic Redhead knows is paired with that one expression that she has become more than a little familiar with-- that 'Just how far will she go?' concern mixed with the deep thought of one trying to avoid a lawsuit. Ultimately, J-Reb sighs.
No, Rach, you can't shank her. Your name ain't Santana--
Rachel scoffs, rolling her eyes at the memory of the ex-convict that had utterly failed to intimidate her during her run in PW. Then again, no one had managed to be anything more than a minor inconvenience... well, if one ignores how her ex-boyfriend got her fired. Then again, that was outside of the ring shenanigans,--ence it doesn't count in her opinion.
Well no shit, 'Ny. I'm an actual badass to be feared whereas last I heard, he was just a one-eyed bitch of some guy named Bubba.
Even if she knows it's just a guess on her end, she can't help but think that the exasperated sound leaving Johnny's lips is joined by a shake of his head.
All I'm saying is that I'd suggest going off your common sense, but we both know that won't end well. Just... try to go off of Nat's common sense.
A low, resigned groan rumbles forth from her chest as a hand raises to rub at her forehead. Of all the underhanded ways to try to get her to behave... he just has to go for the comparison to her cousin. She slumps.
....siiiigh, fine.
Good. Oh, and Rach..?
Her fingers part despite how Rebel can't see them do so to peek through.
Yeah?
A lot of the mirth vanishes in Johnny's tone, something far closer to concern than either of them is bound to like to admit taking its place.
You do know that I'll still listen if you need an ear when one of those... y'know. I'll talk at you later, Red.
Even if his parting words have her eyes closing tightly, she can still feel her sense of reality rippling around her-- as if called into further prevalence by being mentioned after she did her damndest to ignore it.
...sumbitch.
That tone is what has Richard Faulkner looking down anew--but this time? He ignores the eight-bit noises of protest leaving that Gameboy as he tosses it to land on a nearby La-Z-Boy, fingers that have long since calloused over with everything he's been up to as of late settling into the unnatural crimson of her hair.
I'm here, Rach. I'm real. This is all real.
Richard pauses, his digits continuing to trace their way through hair he's helped her dye more times than he can count over the last decade or so. She can hear the cocksure smirk in his voice just the same as she can feel the warm puff of an exhale against her forehead as he leans down, his tone lowering as if sharing a stereotypical sweet nothing.
...and so's the way you're gonna hatefuck every joint in that RealDoll's shoddy construction. Maybe we'll be able to sell her to those guro motherfuckers, or whatever it's called.
Yes, yes it does indeed take a special kind of man to appreciate an insane woman... and one even more special to love her, proclivities and extreme highs and lows and violent moments and all. Even if it's comparatively tiny, Rachel holds onto that sensation of his presence being real as tightly as she can. It's not enough to make everything sunshine and roses, but that's nothing he ever promised her or that she ever swore to give to him.
They both promised to be there for one another, and that vow being kept is good enough.
-------------------------Ω-------------------------
July 22nd, 2013
Excerpt from learn2lovethebomb.blogspot.com
Excerpt from learn2lovethebomb.blogspot.com
This is some shit, man.
This is some Grade A, still fresh and steamin', Chris-Chaos-fuckin'-Trent-Scott-and-the-both-of-em-endin'-up-pregnant-in-the-main-event-of-a-CWF-show shit. Of all the nonsense and foolishness and Uwe Boll-level bullshit you could write on the card of APW's first show back, you--I--SIGH. 'Ny, you motherfucker--you was just about as much my toy as I was yours, damn it! Or did you forget the time that I thought I'd fucked an amputee until I woke up enough to realize that you were just handcuffed to the headboard? I'm not even gonna mention' the part where you started blubberin' like a baby 'cuz of Sir No Longer Appearin' On This Planet--
...wait.
You didn't know about the amputee part, didja?
And I did just outright say that you bawled like a bitch over Measely...
Oops.
My bad, former fuck-buddy. We're still cool, right?
Riiiiight.
Anyway, now that I've got that outta' the way--I guess now's the time that I gotta address the elephant in the room. It's hard enough to ignore one of those things in the first place, but this one? Ohh, this one's probably hopped up on Rock Star and drunk on one too many episodes of the Jersey Shore since it can't keep its fuckin' mouth shut worth a good God damn. It's also just as cliché as those Sonic-The-Douchehog assholes, even, as often as I've heard this particular pachyderm vomit its opinion over and over again out of the mouths of the innumerable wastes of carbon, space, time, and their daddy's spunk that one can find in just about every company in the business. I just so happen to be gettin' the 'Dress Like I Live in Tokyo' edition this time 'round. Not that I give a shit how my opponent dresses, but at this stage in my career? The superficial shit is about the only way to tell the dumbasses apart anymore. Welp, there's no use tryin' to dodge the shit bein' spewed. S'more satisfyin' to shove it right back where it came from 'til the source of it explodes. That bein' said?
Ravetard--and no, I really don't care if you say I can't call you that 'cuz that's what you are-- you're a fuckin' idiot.
'Ohh, hurrr, look at me--I'm so bad-assed and kewl 'cuz I let my ego get in the way of avoidin' career-endin' injury!' Jesus H. Tapdancin' Christ on a pogo stick, man...just how many times were you dropped on your head as a child to make that ass-.backwards logic seem sensible? Oh, wait, I forgot. I'm not dealin' with someone with any sense. Instead, you're that fake kinda edgy--y'know, the kind that comes from spendin' too much time on /b/ and just glancin' at shit like a n00b instead of actually payin' attention to the undercurrent of what actually goes on there, not to mention what remains of your survival instinct. So here's a coupla' questions for ya, Ravetard. How's your pride gonna help you brush your own teeth and feed yourself? Hell, how's your fuckin' ego gonna wipe your own ass after someone like, oh I dunno, me decides that they've had enough of your blatant disrespect and disregard for common fuckin' sense? I'll tell you what, bitch-- you're gonna find out the moment that bell rings.
So go ahead, darlin'. Play the ego card.
By all meeaaaans, be the too-tough-and-too-cool-for-school stereotype.
Refuse to do what's smart.
Because the moment that the ref stops the match 'cuz you passed out?
I'm endin' your career... and that is not an idle threat.
Y'see, bendin' people into fun animal shapes while they cry, scream, and tap out so that I don't do permanent damage to their shoulders, neck, legs, fingers... whatever joint I've got my happy little hands on? That's what I'm known for--and I'm just as notorious for violently responding to willfully ignorant motherfuckers like you and Raabtard. Ravetard, Raabtard... shit. SHIT. We need to neuter both of you immediately so you don't breed and produce the SUPER ULTRA MEGA TARD! Maybe I should get one of those Cones of Shame and some superglue, pop that around your head so you don't get the chance to lick the stitches or whatever-it-is you're not smart enough not to do. And before you get all hurt in the anal region, remember-- you're the dumbass that brags about not tappin' out. I'd ask if you feel dumb yet, but I think it's fuckin' obvious that you're in that sweet spot (Well, sweet for you and Hellish for the rest of us since we need to deal with it!) where you're too dumb to ever be self-aware about it.
Which is why I don't feel the least bit sorry about makin' it so you're never aware of anything from the neck down after I'm done with you.
Remember to learn to love the bomb, kids~! ♥
