Mentioned: Demonica, Nikita, Reno Frost, Seraph
Appearances By: None


Flipper
No, Not The Dolphin


“Throw Away Your Television” by Red Hot Chilli Peppers


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“Francine Fern still holds fast to her accusations that two N.E.W. wrestlers attacked her last month during one of their televised broadcasts…”

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“Infamous N.E.W. wrestlers, Demonica and Gwenivere Jordan have their court date set next week in Philladelphia where they will be…”

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“New Era Wrestling’s Superstars, Gwenivere Jordan and Monica ‘Demonica’ Macon are under investigation…”

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“Last month, New Era Wrestling athletes, Gwen Jordan and Monica Macon…”

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“Wrestlers, Demo--”

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“New Era…”

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“Gweni--”

“Bah,” I muttered, aggravated, pressing the OFF-button on the remote. My eyes went wide when the television didn’t turn off. “Bah!” I rapidly hit the button until the television finally decided to turn off. It was the epitome of laziness, but I could not have cared less at that point. I threw the remote to the other side of the sofa, crossing my arms about my chest. Behind me, the washroom door opened. I glanced back, smiling faintly. One of my legs crossed over the other at the knee.

Mid-back length, red hair was slicked down against pale skin. Faded blue jeans held fast to lithe hips; a few rips present in the legs and the back, left pocket was missing completely. Hazel pools glanced at me once before he began to move towards the couch. He took a few moments to tie his hair back, exposing the sides of his head that were shaved. His upper torso was naked and exposed now, showing red marks in lines down his arms, stomach, chest and back.

His name was Caleb Inverness. He was the man who I had used as a demonstration during my date with the press. Needless to say, his recently formally girlfriend had not been impressed. I’d laughed and, completely out of spite, had taken dear Caleb to my hotel room. I had this problem where I found nearly everything to be a challenge. Perhaps not one of my better qualities, but it did prove interesting on occasion.

Caleb knelt on the floor beside me, resting his hands, folded across my knees. His chin settled atop his hands. Those hazel orbs gazed up at me. I knew the look. I was a revered, but lustful look.

My hand reached out to stroke along the top of his head. I made one pass through his wet hair, before drawing my dull nails down his cheek. His skin rose slightly, reddening in my nails’ wake. His eyes closed as he drew a quiet, but pained breath in. Droplets of blood pooled on his cheek. Apparently, my nails weren’t as dull as I had thought.

“Go home, chéri,” I murmured quietly. I ran my fingertips around in the blood, causing his pale skin to turn into a reddish hue that was a few shades darker than his hair. He gazed at me, almost lost in my words, as if I were speaking a completely different language. Another problem with submissives: they have a tendency to stick around even if you don’t want them. Were I not a more caring individual, I would have thrown him out the window.

“Why?” He inquired, his naivety showing plain and true through his not-so-innocent eyes. I had remembered that look. That look used to be on my face. My one and only dominate had taken a picture of me giving that look. As far as I knew, he still had it framed on his wall. No matter how big of a fish you are in the pond, there’s always another fish who’s bigger.

“Because I’m letting you go. Go to your girlfriend and show her all the wonderful things you’ve learned. By her dominate. She wants one. I saw it in her eyes when I made you get on your knees in the parking lot,” I said. It was a bit crude, but the truth in its clearest form. He looked upset. All I could do was sit and watch him go through his thoughts. I wondered what he would do. Would he be one that stalked her? Or take her to court? Or perhaps, he’d up and kill her? Or at least try to.

Eventually, after a few moments of nothing, he nodded. He got to his feet, taking one of my hands and kissing the knuckles. He went off to find his shirt and without another word, was gone from my hotel and my life forever. Thoughtfully, I ran my fingers along my bottom lip, grazing over the three silver rings there.

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Silver was always my colour. I didn’t like gold. It looked cheap. I was up against Nikita this week. What fun. It was about fucking time I had a revenge match. Pity it wasn’t Hardcore. Still, I had yet to see a truly Hardcore match within N.E.W. It probably wasn’t allowed these days. Now that would have been fun. I have enough backup to keep Nikita’s dogs at bay. Oh well. Too late to get good ol’ Reno to change it.

I’ve noticed that people talk a lot of trash about me. Hell, I don’t much blame them. I’m underhanded, sluttish and twisted. People just don’t understand me. Demonica and Seraph are the only ones that understand me, because they’re exactly the same way. We all have our own ways of going about it, but in the end, we’re all dominants and sadists. People like Nikita, however, are submissives and masochists. They just don’t know it completely.

Perhaps dear Nikita is not a physical pain masochist, I believe she gets off on more emotional pain. I’ve seen enough of her bull shit to call it when I see it. It’s not that difficult to locate a sub. Their posture is usually slouched, their interaction with friends generally quiet or introverted. Placid, if you will.

Everything I do leads up to the climax. Everything anyone does leads up to the high point. No matter whom you are, what you are, your entire life is leading to your pinnacle. But what’s after this apex? The decent. I’ve not yet even approached my peak. Nor have I found my way down the decline. In complete sincerity, I’ve barely touched the hill that will lead up to my zenith. Not even close.

There’s a thin border between the day you’re on top of the world, and the day that you’re underneath every other person. Can you feel the weight yet, Nikita-dear? I’m not going to say how I’m going to train extremely hard this week to beat you. That’s a given. I’m not going to say I’m going to leave you lying in the ring, waiting for the E.M.S. to assist you out of the ring. Also, a given. But I will say this, using an infamous cliché: every dog has its day. Well, today, this week, this year… these just aren’t yours. It’s the year of Gwenivere Jordan, deary. The year of Demonica. The year of Frost Incorporated. Breakout will not be your day. Your week. Your month. Your year. Sorry to break it to you, love, but it just ain’t kosher.


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