Post by Arcadia on Nov 19, 2010 23:33:52 GMT -4
The scene opens inside the basement apartment underneath the Blackwell Academy. Our resident luchadora has pulled back the plain cotton curtain that runs from floor to ceiling along the far wall, revealing her treasured entertainment center. The state-of-the-art, fifty three inch, plasma HD gaming television is bright with the picture of glowing-eyed zombies coming toward the screen. Gunshots and the unholy moans of the dying echo out through the Bose surround sound system, making it feel like the monsters are crawling through the very walls. In the center of the room, Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti reclines in her black gaming chair, holding a wireless controller as she plays Call of Duty: Black Ops. The glossy black entertainment system looks extremely out of place in Katrina's dilapidated basement apartment, where most of her furniture is snap-together. The far wall however, is completely devoted to her gaming fetish. Three systems are currently hooked up to her television and numerous others are sitting on a high shelf above said wall, which is literally filled corner to corner with video games.
Arcadia hears pounding on her steel fire door. It's forceful enough that the railing on the stairwell is rattling. “Come in,” she calls without breaking eye contact from her television. A nondescript man in uniform comes jogging down the stairs with a small, brown paper package in hand.
“Katrina Olivetti?” When she nods once in acknowledgment, he impatiently holds out an electronic clipboard for her to sign. She reaches her left hand over for a sloppy signature, not will to relinquish her trigger finger from the controller as she continues to fight zombies.
She quickly asks her party to wait and turns to the delivery man. “Is this my dry cleaning? I've been waiting on my wrestling gear for a week now.” She unties the laces and starts turning the paper back to reveal what's inside. The delivery man hurriedly steps back up the stairs when Arcadia stops him with a shriek. “WAIT!” She runs to the bottom of the stairs and holds the crumpled paper and its contents out to him. It appears to be a tiny beaded dress, with some feathers on it. “This isn't mine. You've mixed up the orders. Take it back and give me my gear.” Katrina holds out the package expectantly.
The man in the brown uniform comes back down towards her. He knows he got the right person. He knows he's already wasted almost 10 minutes banging on this lady's door. But, he also knows she's cute, and he is a man. He double checks her name again and says, “No, if you're Katrina Olivetti, then that belongs to you. Maybe another package is on its way for you, but that one is yours.” The delivery man spins and makes it to the top of the staircase, opening the door a crack before Arcadia stops him again.
“No, you don't get it,” she says adamantly, “Maybe your boss switched the addresses on accident. This. Is. Not. Mine.” She eyes are shadowed with embarrassment at what the man might be thinking. “Just take it back to the store and give me my dry cleaning. Please.”
The man rolls his eyes. Cute or not, he had work to do. “Look, lady. It's yours now. You signed it, you keep it. Take it up with my boss if you don't like it. But it's definitely yours. I got the order slip right here." He crumples it into a ball and tosses it at her before he is out the door and gone in an instant. She deftly catches the paper and smooths it out to read:
SHIP TO:
Katrina Olivetti
110 New Moriches Rd.
Lake Grove, NY 11755
ORDER FROM:
Masquerade LLC
DBA Halloween Adventure
1362 Naamans Creek Rd.
Garnet Valley, Pa 19060
PAID: Visa ************6894 IWC Reginald Schmidt
At that moment, the speakers behind her explode with snarling and the screen starts pulsing redder and redder. Arcadia panics, lunging for the controller and trying desperately to button mash the life back into her character as the Hell Hounds rip him to shreds. It is of no use, however. She's dead and she knows it. She would normally be above such amateur gaming tactics like button mashing but she is upset and confused. It effects her concentration on the game. She hates when people mess with her games. She should have been paying closer attention. No, her team should have waited for her. No, the real culprit here was the man who sent her this stupid little outfit. He's the one who ruined her day. It was his fault she just died in Black Ops. He was the one who caused this.
The Hardcora Luchadora's body trembles as she drops her controller, crushing the packing slip and the dress together between her balled up fists, her eyes blackened with rage. She flies up the steps and out the door to her apartment, her long, blonde, plait flying out behind her and she storms through the Blackwell Academy, skirting around her peers and their trainers. Katrina makes a beeline directly for the IWC General Manager's office. She throws the door open without knocking and it cracks against the wall, coming back at her from the impact. Player One is already striding towards Mr. Schmidt's desk, and the swinging door closes behind her, narrowly missing her hip as she passes. She plants her feet wide and slams the package onto his desk, chasing the welcoming smile right off of his face. Katrina crosses her arms over her chest and narrows her glittering green gaze at the IWC General Manager.
He straightens his tie and clears his throat, asking, “Is there something I can help you with, Ms. Olivetti?”
“What the hell were you thinking?” She grinds out between her teeth, barely holding her rage in check.
Reginald glances down at the costume on his desk and replies, “Oh, I just thought we would have a little fun with the holiday coming-”
“Fun!? What kind of girl do you think I am?!” Katrina says, cutting him off.
He folds his hands, smoothing down his tie before settling them in his lap. “I think you are a very talented and respectable woman who would enjoy a little sport and festivity-.”
“So you thought I would parade around in this little,” she sputters for a moment, trying to find the right words, “heathen bikini for your own private, twisted, pleasure?” She punches a fist into her hip and makes a slash through the air. “Well, no, sir! I was not raised to be that sort of woman! Katrina 'Arcadia' Olivetti is no one's harlot!” Her face is flushed, though the only indication not completely hidden by her mask is her parted lips and the rapid breathing between them.
Mr. Schmidt blinks, apparently confused, though he tries his best to calm Arcadia down. He hasn't had any problems with this particular wrestler, but problems with his employees were becoming more routine than he would have liked. It would be a welcome change to have a friendly or, at the very least, business-like interaction with one of the roster members. Something that ended in a handshake as opposed to a boot to the jaw. He signals for Arcadia to calm down as he tries to reason with her. “Now, Ms. Olivetti, it's not nearly all that bad. Of course you aren't a harlot! I personally picked out this costume and it is quite tasteful, if I do say so myself. I think you will look perfectly appropriate in it. And when you perform in front of the fans, they will simply adore it as well. Not to worry, now, all the girls will be wearing one. Why, even I-”
The Hardcora Luchadora's shocked face contorts into a violent one as she slams her palms down on the desk and leans in close to Reginald, interrupting him once more. “How many other girls were you trying to involve in this? I don't know what kind of sick shit you are into, but I won't have any part of it, do you hear me? I hope the others will be enough for you, pervert! What would your wife think if she knew?! You sir, can go fuck yourself.” Katrina spins on her heel and marches towards the door.
Reginald Schmidt is shocked into silent stuttering, his mouth opening and closing like a set of saloon doors. He collects himself right before Katrina wrenches the door open and comes running out from behind his desk, flustered. He grabs the door and with each of them standing on one side of the doorway, starts speaking. “There is no need for a lady like you to debase herself with such foul language, Ms. Olivetti. That said, why am I perverted? What about my wife? Ma'am, please, I demand an explanation for your over-reaction.”
Katrina whirls on him, fire blazing in her eyes. “Over-reaction!?” She screams, her volume going up a notch with every word, “Over-reaction?? You send me this slinky costume, tell me you thought I would be up for some 'fun' with you and who knows how many other women, that you want me to 'perform' for you in front of the fans while wearing this thing and I'm over-reacting?” She pulls herself up to her full five-foot-four-inches and stares daggers at the IWC General Manager. “I don't know who you think you are, but Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti does not sleep her way to the top! She wrestles there!”
Understanding dawns on Mr. Schmidt's face like a Trevor Blackwell Bootstomp. He shakes his head slowly and says, “That is what I'm referring to, Ms. Olivetti. Your wrestling match. For Thanksgiving. In the IWC Arena.” He nods his head with each sentence, hoping she understands his words.
A series of emotions flicker across Arcadia's face before settling on one. This one, the world knows as the “oops” face. She licks her lips and says, “So...you weren't just trying to...you know,” She waves her index fingers back and forth between their bodies from his to hers, not willing to finish the sentence. Reginald vehemently shakes his head and Katrina breathes a sigh of relief, raising her shoulders in an innocent shrug and grinning nervously at the manager. “Sorry, Reggie. Maybe you're not so bad.”
Reginald, pleased with himself at finally diffusing a potentially bad situation, smiles and preens slightly, replying, “No harm, done, Miss, no harm done. So why don't you just go grab your outfit from the office and be festive during your match?” Katrina gives him a blank stare and Reginald wonders at her intelligence.
“Why would I need that for my match?” She asks.
“You will be tagging with Delilah as Indians and facing off against Amber and Isabella, who will be dressed as Pilgrims. Was I not clear? Haven't you taken a glance at the card at all?” He sternly glares at her.
It is Player One's turn to reach enlightenment and once she does, she explodes in anger. “WHAT!? That is even worse! I'm the Hardcora Luchadora and you want me to prance around and have a fucking Thanksgiving Day food fight with a bunch of other girls? IN COSTUME!?? Do you know how insulting that is?!” She points a finger into his chest and pokes him hard before continuing. “You better watch yourself. You will slip up, and I will get you when you do. You can't hide from me until the match is over. I will make you regret this, Reginald Schmidt. The women of IWC are Hardcore bitches and we will teach you that lesson firsthand. Mark my words.” She spins on her heel and stalks off, the camera fading out on Reginald's rapidly deflating sense of ease.
Arcadia hears pounding on her steel fire door. It's forceful enough that the railing on the stairwell is rattling. “Come in,” she calls without breaking eye contact from her television. A nondescript man in uniform comes jogging down the stairs with a small, brown paper package in hand.
“Katrina Olivetti?” When she nods once in acknowledgment, he impatiently holds out an electronic clipboard for her to sign. She reaches her left hand over for a sloppy signature, not will to relinquish her trigger finger from the controller as she continues to fight zombies.
She quickly asks her party to wait and turns to the delivery man. “Is this my dry cleaning? I've been waiting on my wrestling gear for a week now.” She unties the laces and starts turning the paper back to reveal what's inside. The delivery man hurriedly steps back up the stairs when Arcadia stops him with a shriek. “WAIT!” She runs to the bottom of the stairs and holds the crumpled paper and its contents out to him. It appears to be a tiny beaded dress, with some feathers on it. “This isn't mine. You've mixed up the orders. Take it back and give me my gear.” Katrina holds out the package expectantly.
The man in the brown uniform comes back down towards her. He knows he got the right person. He knows he's already wasted almost 10 minutes banging on this lady's door. But, he also knows she's cute, and he is a man. He double checks her name again and says, “No, if you're Katrina Olivetti, then that belongs to you. Maybe another package is on its way for you, but that one is yours.” The delivery man spins and makes it to the top of the staircase, opening the door a crack before Arcadia stops him again.
“No, you don't get it,” she says adamantly, “Maybe your boss switched the addresses on accident. This. Is. Not. Mine.” She eyes are shadowed with embarrassment at what the man might be thinking. “Just take it back to the store and give me my dry cleaning. Please.”
The man rolls his eyes. Cute or not, he had work to do. “Look, lady. It's yours now. You signed it, you keep it. Take it up with my boss if you don't like it. But it's definitely yours. I got the order slip right here." He crumples it into a ball and tosses it at her before he is out the door and gone in an instant. She deftly catches the paper and smooths it out to read:
SHIP TO:
Katrina Olivetti
110 New Moriches Rd.
Lake Grove, NY 11755
ORDER FROM:
Masquerade LLC
DBA Halloween Adventure
1362 Naamans Creek Rd.
Garnet Valley, Pa 19060
PAID: Visa ************6894 IWC Reginald Schmidt
At that moment, the speakers behind her explode with snarling and the screen starts pulsing redder and redder. Arcadia panics, lunging for the controller and trying desperately to button mash the life back into her character as the Hell Hounds rip him to shreds. It is of no use, however. She's dead and she knows it. She would normally be above such amateur gaming tactics like button mashing but she is upset and confused. It effects her concentration on the game. She hates when people mess with her games. She should have been paying closer attention. No, her team should have waited for her. No, the real culprit here was the man who sent her this stupid little outfit. He's the one who ruined her day. It was his fault she just died in Black Ops. He was the one who caused this.
The Hardcora Luchadora's body trembles as she drops her controller, crushing the packing slip and the dress together between her balled up fists, her eyes blackened with rage. She flies up the steps and out the door to her apartment, her long, blonde, plait flying out behind her and she storms through the Blackwell Academy, skirting around her peers and their trainers. Katrina makes a beeline directly for the IWC General Manager's office. She throws the door open without knocking and it cracks against the wall, coming back at her from the impact. Player One is already striding towards Mr. Schmidt's desk, and the swinging door closes behind her, narrowly missing her hip as she passes. She plants her feet wide and slams the package onto his desk, chasing the welcoming smile right off of his face. Katrina crosses her arms over her chest and narrows her glittering green gaze at the IWC General Manager.
He straightens his tie and clears his throat, asking, “Is there something I can help you with, Ms. Olivetti?”
“What the hell were you thinking?” She grinds out between her teeth, barely holding her rage in check.
Reginald glances down at the costume on his desk and replies, “Oh, I just thought we would have a little fun with the holiday coming-”
“Fun!? What kind of girl do you think I am?!” Katrina says, cutting him off.
He folds his hands, smoothing down his tie before settling them in his lap. “I think you are a very talented and respectable woman who would enjoy a little sport and festivity-.”
“So you thought I would parade around in this little,” she sputters for a moment, trying to find the right words, “heathen bikini for your own private, twisted, pleasure?” She punches a fist into her hip and makes a slash through the air. “Well, no, sir! I was not raised to be that sort of woman! Katrina 'Arcadia' Olivetti is no one's harlot!” Her face is flushed, though the only indication not completely hidden by her mask is her parted lips and the rapid breathing between them.
Mr. Schmidt blinks, apparently confused, though he tries his best to calm Arcadia down. He hasn't had any problems with this particular wrestler, but problems with his employees were becoming more routine than he would have liked. It would be a welcome change to have a friendly or, at the very least, business-like interaction with one of the roster members. Something that ended in a handshake as opposed to a boot to the jaw. He signals for Arcadia to calm down as he tries to reason with her. “Now, Ms. Olivetti, it's not nearly all that bad. Of course you aren't a harlot! I personally picked out this costume and it is quite tasteful, if I do say so myself. I think you will look perfectly appropriate in it. And when you perform in front of the fans, they will simply adore it as well. Not to worry, now, all the girls will be wearing one. Why, even I-”
The Hardcora Luchadora's shocked face contorts into a violent one as she slams her palms down on the desk and leans in close to Reginald, interrupting him once more. “How many other girls were you trying to involve in this? I don't know what kind of sick shit you are into, but I won't have any part of it, do you hear me? I hope the others will be enough for you, pervert! What would your wife think if she knew?! You sir, can go fuck yourself.” Katrina spins on her heel and marches towards the door.
Reginald Schmidt is shocked into silent stuttering, his mouth opening and closing like a set of saloon doors. He collects himself right before Katrina wrenches the door open and comes running out from behind his desk, flustered. He grabs the door and with each of them standing on one side of the doorway, starts speaking. “There is no need for a lady like you to debase herself with such foul language, Ms. Olivetti. That said, why am I perverted? What about my wife? Ma'am, please, I demand an explanation for your over-reaction.”
Katrina whirls on him, fire blazing in her eyes. “Over-reaction!?” She screams, her volume going up a notch with every word, “Over-reaction?? You send me this slinky costume, tell me you thought I would be up for some 'fun' with you and who knows how many other women, that you want me to 'perform' for you in front of the fans while wearing this thing and I'm over-reacting?” She pulls herself up to her full five-foot-four-inches and stares daggers at the IWC General Manager. “I don't know who you think you are, but Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti does not sleep her way to the top! She wrestles there!”
Understanding dawns on Mr. Schmidt's face like a Trevor Blackwell Bootstomp. He shakes his head slowly and says, “That is what I'm referring to, Ms. Olivetti. Your wrestling match. For Thanksgiving. In the IWC Arena.” He nods his head with each sentence, hoping she understands his words.
A series of emotions flicker across Arcadia's face before settling on one. This one, the world knows as the “oops” face. She licks her lips and says, “So...you weren't just trying to...you know,” She waves her index fingers back and forth between their bodies from his to hers, not willing to finish the sentence. Reginald vehemently shakes his head and Katrina breathes a sigh of relief, raising her shoulders in an innocent shrug and grinning nervously at the manager. “Sorry, Reggie. Maybe you're not so bad.”
Reginald, pleased with himself at finally diffusing a potentially bad situation, smiles and preens slightly, replying, “No harm, done, Miss, no harm done. So why don't you just go grab your outfit from the office and be festive during your match?” Katrina gives him a blank stare and Reginald wonders at her intelligence.
“Why would I need that for my match?” She asks.
“You will be tagging with Delilah as Indians and facing off against Amber and Isabella, who will be dressed as Pilgrims. Was I not clear? Haven't you taken a glance at the card at all?” He sternly glares at her.
It is Player One's turn to reach enlightenment and once she does, she explodes in anger. “WHAT!? That is even worse! I'm the Hardcora Luchadora and you want me to prance around and have a fucking Thanksgiving Day food fight with a bunch of other girls? IN COSTUME!?? Do you know how insulting that is?!” She points a finger into his chest and pokes him hard before continuing. “You better watch yourself. You will slip up, and I will get you when you do. You can't hide from me until the match is over. I will make you regret this, Reginald Schmidt. The women of IWC are Hardcore bitches and we will teach you that lesson firsthand. Mark my words.” She spins on her heel and stalks off, the camera fading out on Reginald's rapidly deflating sense of ease.
