Post by Kris on Feb 11, 2011 22:55:49 GMT -4
Promise me, Allison… that you'll make them pay dearly for what they've done.
I promise, hon. They'll regret ever deciding to drag you into this.
The idea of a man on a mission is one that has stricken fear into the hearts of millions of ne'er-do-wells over the years that it has been in existence. It makes sense, really-- vengeance is the sort of emotion that can drive a guy right over the proverbial edge, turning everything into a bloodbath of epic proportions. Injuries, torture, death… all of it's possible, and pretty much guaranteed whenever the hero of the day goes out with his guns blazin', kickin' ass and chewin' bubblegum all the while - and God forbid he run out of bubble gum. If that happens, then everyone's fucked. There's a problem with that concept, though-- namely, how a man's anger is nothing worth sweating over. Sure, there's all sorts of muster and bluster, curse-words and prick-waving until the cows come home and the roosters come back to roost and so on and so forth… but that all pales in comparison to one thing.
The wrath of a woman.
There's a reason that the phrase 'Hell hath no fury' is tied to womenfolk, after all-- and that's ignoring how much deeper into the depths of Hades one will go once they've survived the self-inflicted torture known as childbirth. Kaycee hasn't experienced that particular trial yet, but that doesn't make her rage any less potent. That's what brought her to my doorstep, through that Southern girl that works for my husband's company… Natalie, I think her name is. It didn't take her long to convince me that something needed to be done, although it sure as shit doesn't hurt that the group she's sending me after is damn near everything I hate about the human race. Cowards, posers, cheap shot artists playing at being clever… tch, all I need is a coupla' big-titted wonderwhores to make it complete. Lester -- since I refuse to buy into the fuckwit's hype and use that tacky-as-fuck name he came up with for himself -- had better hope that she gets her hands on him to put an end to his shit sooner rather than later. Otherwise? He's gonna find himself face-to-face with the one-bitch army that she's set loose on this business once again…
And they'll need DNA records to identify his remains.
The slightest of smirks tugs at the lips of the woman that's pushing thirty as she leans against a simple brick wall, her head canted forward enough to allow unruly black curls to flow forward to obscure the majority of her features. Combine that with the smoke curling up from the tip of the cigarette she's smoking and not much at all can be discerned about her appearance beyond the face that she's pale... paler than anyone with pitch-black hair has any right to be, if one assumes her to be as Italian as her last name. The blame for that falls on the shoulders of her mother's side of the family-- but that's irrelevant to the scene at hand, as is the oversized white men's long-sleeved dress-shirt she wears, untucked, with blue jeans that have seen better days beyond how they are keeping her from getting arrested for indecent exposure. What matters is that she chooses to speak, her voice low and raspy like a blues singer… well, without the promise of singing talent.
So… this is where I'm supposed to start giving a damn about J.D. Pierce, right?
The slightest of smirks makes it way onto her lips, the warrior knowing full well just what her dismissive attitude is going to do to her opponent. Such a predictable sort, the raging egomaniac… by now, overcoming them had become as routine as going to the grocer's.
Nevermind the fact that I've got more important matters to attend to, nevermind the fact that I've shat more original ideas than you've spewed ever since you walked into IWC… you're supposed to be the only thing that should occupy my attention-- and not just mine, but that of the entire world. You're future of this business, the only one that could possibly shoulder such a burden, and the fun part? You're just another dime a motherfucking dozen egomaniac that’s never once actually opened your eyes and looked around at the world around you. If you had, then maybe you'd be worth more than ten percent of my attention… but as it stands, right now? I can drive a Hammer right through your skull without much thought at all. Y'see, that's the thing about being an actual trailblazer in this business, one of the rare broads that can go into the ring and kick a man's ass day in and day out until he's the one in the kitchen making her a sandwich; you learn how to tell a challenge from a cakewalk. And you, J.D.? You're gonna be easier than two plus two. Now sure, I could be wrong. It's happened before, after all. You could put up a fight, actually make good on those Velveeta promises to at least attempt to hurt me that I've long since come to ignore-- but you know what I've got to say about that?
Allison takes another drag from her cigarette, extracting it from her lips with her left hand; her wedding band gleams with the motion, although it is a small thing compared to how the Scourge finally sees fit to look up. The right side of her face is pretty enough, one could suppose; a bit sharply defined, perhaps, but that's a matter of taste. As for the left, well… it's obvious that this is a woman that has survived more than one variety of Hell. The wounds that left behind those scars look to have been slashes from a knife, the topography of another's anger-- and if anyone thinks they're bad? Look up Kathryn Harding to see just what happened to the proverbial 'other guy.' When next she speaks, it is in a perfect deadpan.
Good fucking luck.
The Scourge scoffs, shaking her head before she continues.
Of course, that isn't what you're going to see, is it J.D.? You're going to look at me and not see a multiple-time champion, someone that has given more than the standard pound of flesh in the name of the game over the years and built a legacy with what she was given in return… instead, you're gonna see nothin' but the fact that I've got a pair of tits, and you're gonna make the same assumption that has cost more than a few of my opponents dearly. It doesn't matter how small they are - and believe me, I know that I'm miles away from Dolly Parton - they're all that you're going to pay attention to. There was a time that I would've been frustrated by that, annoyed and pissed off beyond all measure that you'd be underestimating me on account of how my dick takes four double As to function properly… but now? It's just more cause for amusement, yet another way that you're as much of a threat to me as a one-legged man in an ass kicking contest. I'd say that you were in good company for still thinkin' that this is the fifteen hundreds, but let's be honest-- the only reason you're like that is on account of how you can't look down in the shower without being ashamed at the tiny bits that you see.
Oh, and did she mention that she's made an artform out of emasculating macho men? Because she has-- right down to the condescending smirk that tugs at her lips. She'd done enough for now, she decides… after all, her opponent hadn't had the balls (gee, she wonders why?) to show his face yet, so why waste the breath?
Oh, before I forget… on what fucking planet does the phrase 'Kamikaze Revolution' make sense for one person? I mean, seriously-- for one, it's a rebellion because you're not going to win, and for another… do you even know what the word kamikaze even means? Tch, whatever. You've already had your big explosion, J.D., so it's time for you to fade away into obscurity… and me? I'm just the broad to show you the door. Now if you don't mind… I actually have something better to do.
Everything fades to black as the Scourge puts out her cigarette… and hauls out a pack of spearmint gum. Looks like the world's safe from clusterfuck explosions for now, ne?
I promise, hon. They'll regret ever deciding to drag you into this.
The idea of a man on a mission is one that has stricken fear into the hearts of millions of ne'er-do-wells over the years that it has been in existence. It makes sense, really-- vengeance is the sort of emotion that can drive a guy right over the proverbial edge, turning everything into a bloodbath of epic proportions. Injuries, torture, death… all of it's possible, and pretty much guaranteed whenever the hero of the day goes out with his guns blazin', kickin' ass and chewin' bubblegum all the while - and God forbid he run out of bubble gum. If that happens, then everyone's fucked. There's a problem with that concept, though-- namely, how a man's anger is nothing worth sweating over. Sure, there's all sorts of muster and bluster, curse-words and prick-waving until the cows come home and the roosters come back to roost and so on and so forth… but that all pales in comparison to one thing.
The wrath of a woman.
There's a reason that the phrase 'Hell hath no fury' is tied to womenfolk, after all-- and that's ignoring how much deeper into the depths of Hades one will go once they've survived the self-inflicted torture known as childbirth. Kaycee hasn't experienced that particular trial yet, but that doesn't make her rage any less potent. That's what brought her to my doorstep, through that Southern girl that works for my husband's company… Natalie, I think her name is. It didn't take her long to convince me that something needed to be done, although it sure as shit doesn't hurt that the group she's sending me after is damn near everything I hate about the human race. Cowards, posers, cheap shot artists playing at being clever… tch, all I need is a coupla' big-titted wonderwhores to make it complete. Lester -- since I refuse to buy into the fuckwit's hype and use that tacky-as-fuck name he came up with for himself -- had better hope that she gets her hands on him to put an end to his shit sooner rather than later. Otherwise? He's gonna find himself face-to-face with the one-bitch army that she's set loose on this business once again…
And they'll need DNA records to identify his remains.
The slightest of smirks tugs at the lips of the woman that's pushing thirty as she leans against a simple brick wall, her head canted forward enough to allow unruly black curls to flow forward to obscure the majority of her features. Combine that with the smoke curling up from the tip of the cigarette she's smoking and not much at all can be discerned about her appearance beyond the face that she's pale... paler than anyone with pitch-black hair has any right to be, if one assumes her to be as Italian as her last name. The blame for that falls on the shoulders of her mother's side of the family-- but that's irrelevant to the scene at hand, as is the oversized white men's long-sleeved dress-shirt she wears, untucked, with blue jeans that have seen better days beyond how they are keeping her from getting arrested for indecent exposure. What matters is that she chooses to speak, her voice low and raspy like a blues singer… well, without the promise of singing talent.
So… this is where I'm supposed to start giving a damn about J.D. Pierce, right?
The slightest of smirks makes it way onto her lips, the warrior knowing full well just what her dismissive attitude is going to do to her opponent. Such a predictable sort, the raging egomaniac… by now, overcoming them had become as routine as going to the grocer's.
Nevermind the fact that I've got more important matters to attend to, nevermind the fact that I've shat more original ideas than you've spewed ever since you walked into IWC… you're supposed to be the only thing that should occupy my attention-- and not just mine, but that of the entire world. You're future of this business, the only one that could possibly shoulder such a burden, and the fun part? You're just another dime a motherfucking dozen egomaniac that’s never once actually opened your eyes and looked around at the world around you. If you had, then maybe you'd be worth more than ten percent of my attention… but as it stands, right now? I can drive a Hammer right through your skull without much thought at all. Y'see, that's the thing about being an actual trailblazer in this business, one of the rare broads that can go into the ring and kick a man's ass day in and day out until he's the one in the kitchen making her a sandwich; you learn how to tell a challenge from a cakewalk. And you, J.D.? You're gonna be easier than two plus two. Now sure, I could be wrong. It's happened before, after all. You could put up a fight, actually make good on those Velveeta promises to at least attempt to hurt me that I've long since come to ignore-- but you know what I've got to say about that?
Allison takes another drag from her cigarette, extracting it from her lips with her left hand; her wedding band gleams with the motion, although it is a small thing compared to how the Scourge finally sees fit to look up. The right side of her face is pretty enough, one could suppose; a bit sharply defined, perhaps, but that's a matter of taste. As for the left, well… it's obvious that this is a woman that has survived more than one variety of Hell. The wounds that left behind those scars look to have been slashes from a knife, the topography of another's anger-- and if anyone thinks they're bad? Look up Kathryn Harding to see just what happened to the proverbial 'other guy.' When next she speaks, it is in a perfect deadpan.
Good fucking luck.
The Scourge scoffs, shaking her head before she continues.
Of course, that isn't what you're going to see, is it J.D.? You're going to look at me and not see a multiple-time champion, someone that has given more than the standard pound of flesh in the name of the game over the years and built a legacy with what she was given in return… instead, you're gonna see nothin' but the fact that I've got a pair of tits, and you're gonna make the same assumption that has cost more than a few of my opponents dearly. It doesn't matter how small they are - and believe me, I know that I'm miles away from Dolly Parton - they're all that you're going to pay attention to. There was a time that I would've been frustrated by that, annoyed and pissed off beyond all measure that you'd be underestimating me on account of how my dick takes four double As to function properly… but now? It's just more cause for amusement, yet another way that you're as much of a threat to me as a one-legged man in an ass kicking contest. I'd say that you were in good company for still thinkin' that this is the fifteen hundreds, but let's be honest-- the only reason you're like that is on account of how you can't look down in the shower without being ashamed at the tiny bits that you see.
Oh, and did she mention that she's made an artform out of emasculating macho men? Because she has-- right down to the condescending smirk that tugs at her lips. She'd done enough for now, she decides… after all, her opponent hadn't had the balls (gee, she wonders why?) to show his face yet, so why waste the breath?
Oh, before I forget… on what fucking planet does the phrase 'Kamikaze Revolution' make sense for one person? I mean, seriously-- for one, it's a rebellion because you're not going to win, and for another… do you even know what the word kamikaze even means? Tch, whatever. You've already had your big explosion, J.D., so it's time for you to fade away into obscurity… and me? I'm just the broad to show you the door. Now if you don't mind… I actually have something better to do.
Everything fades to black as the Scourge puts out her cigarette… and hauls out a pack of spearmint gum. Looks like the world's safe from clusterfuck explosions for now, ne?
