Post by Arcadia on Nov 21, 2010 15:02:46 GMT -4
The scene opens inside the empty arena at the Insane Wrestling Championship building. Nothing about the large room reflects the complete chaos that will reign over the building in mere hours, once the faithful start filing in to view the carnage that is IWC Asylum. Not one pretzel crumb or popcorn kernel can be found under the seats, no sticky spots on the floor from a carelessly spilled beverage, no overturned chairs left in the wake of a drunken fan trying to find the bathroom. For now, the events center is spotless, calm, and quiet, so much so that even the soft tread of the cameraman on the aisle echoes minutely through it.
The serenity is interrupted by a resounding bang, followed quickly by a string of profanities in a familiar voice. As the camera pans to find the source, Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti comes into view at the top of the aisle, bent over a trashcan with another beside her. She appears to be struggling to get the one through the door, which has closed on it, pinning the can firmly to the doorjamb. Katrina jumps up and extends her leg, Superkicking the door open again. She rolls to her feet and quickly yanks the garbage can into the arena as the door slams closed behind her. Straightening her torn jeans and white tank and tossing her braid back over her shoulder, The Hardcora Luchadora grabs the handle of a trashcan in each hand and resumes her walk to the ring, dragging them behind her. As she passes the camera, it becomes apparent that each trashcan is filled well over the brim with weapons. Arcadia reaches ring side and flips the cans onto their sides facing the ring. She lifts the apron and gets on her hands and knees, crawling under the ring, yanking the garbage cans with her inch by inch. She pokes her head back out, and calls to the cameraman, “Are you gonna come in here or do I have to do my promo shouting across the arena?”
The poor cameraman sighs but follows and soon the view changes to blackness as he crawls under the ring with Katrina. He switches on night vision and suddenly the area comes to life in neon greens. Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti is laying on her stomach with her face towards the lens like a scene from a bad horror flick right before the victim gets dragged off by the twisted psycho. With the night vision on, her face is lit up in the negative, with black-green hair, and white-green eyes without pupils. Her mask now white, with a large black “X” struck across her face. Around her, barely inside the frame, are various hardcore accoutrements: the ever present tables, ladders, chairs and, of course, the load she bore down here to begin with; her weapons-laden trashcans. Small, dim shafts of light filter down through the ring above them in occasional spots, places where the canvas had been torn or sliced and then repaired with needle and thread. Dust motes dance in the subtle beams causing the feed to look fuzzy, as if from a bad connection or sub par equipment.
Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti reaches into one of the cans and pulls out three baseball bats. She begins to speak as she tosses them to various corners of the ring. “I have a tag match tonight. For the sake of my sanity, let's strip away the gimmick and the costumes for now and look at it for what it is. Four great wrestlers in a ring together, fighting for the pin.” She nods once to the camera. “Yes, I call us all great. I have never met two of the women who will join me in that ring tonight, including my partner, but their reputations precede them. Both “The Libertine” Delilah and “The Diva of Extreme” Isabella Pazzini are former champions, Isabella still carrying some belt or other, in fact. They have held titles on multiple occasions and have now come to IWC. And Amber Stevens, when we met last in the ring, she gave me a challenge. If Trinity Evans had been even slightly on her game that night, dealing with the two of them together might have proved...difficult for me.”
She grabs two large bags of thumbtacks from her treasure trove and heaves each of them over to different edges of the ring. “You, know Amber, you may not have won our match, but you earned my respect. And respect means a lot to me. But if that means anything, it means that there will be nothing holding me back. I know you can give as good as you get and I plan on giving you everything I have. It's okay,” she smiles, “you will survive it. The best part of evolution is the new knowledge that comes with it. You are right, Amber. We do evolve. And now that I have fought you once, seen firsthand what you are capable of, my knowledge of my enemy has tripled. Sure, I bet I haven't seen everything in your arsenal yet, but then again, neither have you.” Arcadia slowly pulls four wooden beams that have been cut into thirds and the ends wrapped in barbed wire out of a trashcan. She fingers the end of a barb and grins, rolling them to the four corners before she looks back at the camera and continues, her whiteout eyes glinting with the odd luminescence of the green night vision.
“Isabella, Delilah, and I are no strangers to hardcore matches. I wonder at how much experience you have with them, Amber. We shall find out tonight if you can hold your own with a crimson mask. If the Amber Alert can wield a weapon with as much grace and precision as she can executing a Split-Legged Moonsault. I know I can. We will see what you are truly capable of when the four of us step into that ring in a few hours.” The Hardcora Luchadora hefts a duffel bag towards her and unzips it. From the green hue given the scene, no one would know that the bag is pink, though it stands out enough with its Hello Kitty print all over it. A few diehard fans would have easily recognized this duffel, especially after gazing at its contents. At least two dozen Kendo sticks lie inside the luggage, and Arcadia starts dolling them out below the ring like a deck of playing cards.
“I only know what I have heard about Isabella. I've never faced her in the ring, though I have seen some of her matches in other federations, but I do know that my partner, Delilah knows her like the back of her own hand. And “The Diva of Extreme” will have more than enough to worry about between the two of us.” Katrina grabs a cheese grater a few books of matches, a couple bottles of lighter fluid, and a lead pipe from the cans and tosses them at random. “She is a brawler, well versed in the art of torture, submission, and attacks. I say bring it. I look forward to this match, two of the toughest wrestlers in this business facing of against two of the most hardcore. This will most definitely be a night to remember.
“My partner may not have ever met me, but I caught her promo and she knows me well. I am a warrior and will fight by her side for the night, looking for my own pound of flesh from my opponents. I'm not quite sorry to say that I will be using Amber and Isabella as an example and to make a statement to the General Manager of IWC. The only thing I feel regret for right now is that I won't be able to take him down with them.”[/color] She tosses aside one empty trash can and turns the other to the camera. The only thing remaining inside is light tubes. Lots of them. The can is at least still half full with the long halogen bulbs. “A present for my tag partner. I heard she has a penchant for them.” Player One smiles at the camera, her teeth that strange black-green in the negative light. She turns the can to the outside of the ring, leaving the tubes inside so they wouldn't break. She crawls out from under the ring, the cameraman following close behind her, giving IWC's live, 24-hour feed a good minute-and-a-half butt shot, unbeknownst to Player One.
Once both she and the cameraman are back in the arena, Arcadia dusts herself off and sits down on the apron as the camera changes back to normal viewing mode. She turns to the lens with a serious demeanor and starts speaking as if she is shooting a Public Service Announcement instead of a wrestling promo. “This is Insane Wrestling Championship. This is a hardcore federation with a reputation of having the most vicious, brutal, and bloody matches around. There is no women's division here. Because if IWC signs you, you are expected to put up or shut up. They do not pamper, they do not coddle, and they certainly do not book diva-esque matches where the women are expected to dress up and prance around for the fans' amusement. This is a fed where the store rooms are filled with metal, glass, and barbed wire. You will find no down pillows or cookie sheets in the weapons room. There are no bra-and-panty sets or evening gowns in the costume closet. When I walk out of those curtains, I am a wrestler, a damn good one, and I give no mercy to my opponent, male or female. I certainly get none back. I have earned the honor of respect, and corrected the assumption that I am less than a threat because of my size, gender, or technique in the ring. Any intelligent opponent does not discount me any longer if they ever made the mistake to begin with. But it seems the time has come to teach someone again. This time, that person is Reginald Schmidt.”
Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti leans forward with her elbows on her knees, her face becoming a mask of steel, her eyes glittering cold like flints. “You should be grateful, Reggie. Grateful that I didn't look at the card until just a few days ago because I was enjoying my new video game. Grateful that there wasn't enough time between then and now for my anger to build to the breaking point and make me do something you regretted. But above all else, you should be grateful that you are not my opponents right now. That you will never have to step foot with me inside that ring, if you know what is good for you. You need a demonstration on what we are capable of and I know my partner and I plan on giving you the bloodiest fucking match you will ever see. Once the carnage ends, you will understand. And perhaps next time you look at the roster and start booking matches, you will see twenty talented wrestlers, not fifteen wrestlers and five gimmick opportunities. The fans want bloodshed. The wrestlers even want bloodshed. And most of all right now, I plan on giving it to them. I may want your blood, Reggie, but I will settle for that of my opponents. By the end of the night, the canvas will run red and I will be partly responsible. I will relish it and do it wholeheartedly. And you, my friend,” She spits out sarcastically, “will have learned. For the life of you, pray that you will have learned.”
The scene fades out as The Hardcora Luchadora jumps of the ring apron and rigidly walks out of the arena, her spine set in determination to follow through with her threats.
The serenity is interrupted by a resounding bang, followed quickly by a string of profanities in a familiar voice. As the camera pans to find the source, Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti comes into view at the top of the aisle, bent over a trashcan with another beside her. She appears to be struggling to get the one through the door, which has closed on it, pinning the can firmly to the doorjamb. Katrina jumps up and extends her leg, Superkicking the door open again. She rolls to her feet and quickly yanks the garbage can into the arena as the door slams closed behind her. Straightening her torn jeans and white tank and tossing her braid back over her shoulder, The Hardcora Luchadora grabs the handle of a trashcan in each hand and resumes her walk to the ring, dragging them behind her. As she passes the camera, it becomes apparent that each trashcan is filled well over the brim with weapons. Arcadia reaches ring side and flips the cans onto their sides facing the ring. She lifts the apron and gets on her hands and knees, crawling under the ring, yanking the garbage cans with her inch by inch. She pokes her head back out, and calls to the cameraman, “Are you gonna come in here or do I have to do my promo shouting across the arena?”
The poor cameraman sighs but follows and soon the view changes to blackness as he crawls under the ring with Katrina. He switches on night vision and suddenly the area comes to life in neon greens. Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti is laying on her stomach with her face towards the lens like a scene from a bad horror flick right before the victim gets dragged off by the twisted psycho. With the night vision on, her face is lit up in the negative, with black-green hair, and white-green eyes without pupils. Her mask now white, with a large black “X” struck across her face. Around her, barely inside the frame, are various hardcore accoutrements: the ever present tables, ladders, chairs and, of course, the load she bore down here to begin with; her weapons-laden trashcans. Small, dim shafts of light filter down through the ring above them in occasional spots, places where the canvas had been torn or sliced and then repaired with needle and thread. Dust motes dance in the subtle beams causing the feed to look fuzzy, as if from a bad connection or sub par equipment.
Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti reaches into one of the cans and pulls out three baseball bats. She begins to speak as she tosses them to various corners of the ring. “I have a tag match tonight. For the sake of my sanity, let's strip away the gimmick and the costumes for now and look at it for what it is. Four great wrestlers in a ring together, fighting for the pin.” She nods once to the camera. “Yes, I call us all great. I have never met two of the women who will join me in that ring tonight, including my partner, but their reputations precede them. Both “The Libertine” Delilah and “The Diva of Extreme” Isabella Pazzini are former champions, Isabella still carrying some belt or other, in fact. They have held titles on multiple occasions and have now come to IWC. And Amber Stevens, when we met last in the ring, she gave me a challenge. If Trinity Evans had been even slightly on her game that night, dealing with the two of them together might have proved...difficult for me.”
She grabs two large bags of thumbtacks from her treasure trove and heaves each of them over to different edges of the ring. “You, know Amber, you may not have won our match, but you earned my respect. And respect means a lot to me. But if that means anything, it means that there will be nothing holding me back. I know you can give as good as you get and I plan on giving you everything I have. It's okay,” she smiles, “you will survive it. The best part of evolution is the new knowledge that comes with it. You are right, Amber. We do evolve. And now that I have fought you once, seen firsthand what you are capable of, my knowledge of my enemy has tripled. Sure, I bet I haven't seen everything in your arsenal yet, but then again, neither have you.” Arcadia slowly pulls four wooden beams that have been cut into thirds and the ends wrapped in barbed wire out of a trashcan. She fingers the end of a barb and grins, rolling them to the four corners before she looks back at the camera and continues, her whiteout eyes glinting with the odd luminescence of the green night vision.
“Isabella, Delilah, and I are no strangers to hardcore matches. I wonder at how much experience you have with them, Amber. We shall find out tonight if you can hold your own with a crimson mask. If the Amber Alert can wield a weapon with as much grace and precision as she can executing a Split-Legged Moonsault. I know I can. We will see what you are truly capable of when the four of us step into that ring in a few hours.” The Hardcora Luchadora hefts a duffel bag towards her and unzips it. From the green hue given the scene, no one would know that the bag is pink, though it stands out enough with its Hello Kitty print all over it. A few diehard fans would have easily recognized this duffel, especially after gazing at its contents. At least two dozen Kendo sticks lie inside the luggage, and Arcadia starts dolling them out below the ring like a deck of playing cards.
“I only know what I have heard about Isabella. I've never faced her in the ring, though I have seen some of her matches in other federations, but I do know that my partner, Delilah knows her like the back of her own hand. And “The Diva of Extreme” will have more than enough to worry about between the two of us.” Katrina grabs a cheese grater a few books of matches, a couple bottles of lighter fluid, and a lead pipe from the cans and tosses them at random. “She is a brawler, well versed in the art of torture, submission, and attacks. I say bring it. I look forward to this match, two of the toughest wrestlers in this business facing of against two of the most hardcore. This will most definitely be a night to remember.
“My partner may not have ever met me, but I caught her promo and she knows me well. I am a warrior and will fight by her side for the night, looking for my own pound of flesh from my opponents. I'm not quite sorry to say that I will be using Amber and Isabella as an example and to make a statement to the General Manager of IWC. The only thing I feel regret for right now is that I won't be able to take him down with them.”[/color] She tosses aside one empty trash can and turns the other to the camera. The only thing remaining inside is light tubes. Lots of them. The can is at least still half full with the long halogen bulbs. “A present for my tag partner. I heard she has a penchant for them.” Player One smiles at the camera, her teeth that strange black-green in the negative light. She turns the can to the outside of the ring, leaving the tubes inside so they wouldn't break. She crawls out from under the ring, the cameraman following close behind her, giving IWC's live, 24-hour feed a good minute-and-a-half butt shot, unbeknownst to Player One.
Once both she and the cameraman are back in the arena, Arcadia dusts herself off and sits down on the apron as the camera changes back to normal viewing mode. She turns to the lens with a serious demeanor and starts speaking as if she is shooting a Public Service Announcement instead of a wrestling promo. “This is Insane Wrestling Championship. This is a hardcore federation with a reputation of having the most vicious, brutal, and bloody matches around. There is no women's division here. Because if IWC signs you, you are expected to put up or shut up. They do not pamper, they do not coddle, and they certainly do not book diva-esque matches where the women are expected to dress up and prance around for the fans' amusement. This is a fed where the store rooms are filled with metal, glass, and barbed wire. You will find no down pillows or cookie sheets in the weapons room. There are no bra-and-panty sets or evening gowns in the costume closet. When I walk out of those curtains, I am a wrestler, a damn good one, and I give no mercy to my opponent, male or female. I certainly get none back. I have earned the honor of respect, and corrected the assumption that I am less than a threat because of my size, gender, or technique in the ring. Any intelligent opponent does not discount me any longer if they ever made the mistake to begin with. But it seems the time has come to teach someone again. This time, that person is Reginald Schmidt.”
Katrina “Arcadia” Olivetti leans forward with her elbows on her knees, her face becoming a mask of steel, her eyes glittering cold like flints. “You should be grateful, Reggie. Grateful that I didn't look at the card until just a few days ago because I was enjoying my new video game. Grateful that there wasn't enough time between then and now for my anger to build to the breaking point and make me do something you regretted. But above all else, you should be grateful that you are not my opponents right now. That you will never have to step foot with me inside that ring, if you know what is good for you. You need a demonstration on what we are capable of and I know my partner and I plan on giving you the bloodiest fucking match you will ever see. Once the carnage ends, you will understand. And perhaps next time you look at the roster and start booking matches, you will see twenty talented wrestlers, not fifteen wrestlers and five gimmick opportunities. The fans want bloodshed. The wrestlers even want bloodshed. And most of all right now, I plan on giving it to them. I may want your blood, Reggie, but I will settle for that of my opponents. By the end of the night, the canvas will run red and I will be partly responsible. I will relish it and do it wholeheartedly. And you, my friend,” She spits out sarcastically, “will have learned. For the life of you, pray that you will have learned.”
The scene fades out as The Hardcora Luchadora jumps of the ring apron and rigidly walks out of the arena, her spine set in determination to follow through with her threats.
