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Dolly Waters · (02-20-2021)

OOC: This RP is a continuation of Pity Abjured, where we last saw Dolly Waters departing her hometown on a train headed for Morbidonia.

Monday, May 25th, 2015
The Side of Highway 24
…15 Miles from the Brunswick Train Station…

Trudging the road toward Morbidonia, I couldn’t help but feel this ever peculiar, ever enigmatic sensation blossoming through the sharp winds that roared from the Androscoggin River, a river whose silence played a deafening tone over to my right; while to my left, the sun was settling down behind a curtain of thick northeastern forest. Though the season of new life was beginning to bloom, the nights were still as dark and cold as the frosty seasons from before.

Much of this was true for me as well, for though I had become reinvigorated with determined purpose, I still had this weighing, damn near crippling innate means for a cause to flight; this crushing sense of fear loomed over me like a cold dark cloud blanketing an unsuspecting town before a storm.

Granted, I am an eleven year old girl walking down a vacant highway by myself! Maybe this is a more natural sensation than some extraordinary call to self-realization. But then again, I do too often over complicate the norm. Maybe it's just easier to say that I was fucking cold.

Not to mention I was tired. The train ride into Maine was rather unpleasant as my seating plotted me between two rat looking men who were smoking cigars and arguing over the baseball spreads from at least a dozen different newspapers. Needless to say, I couldn’t wait to get away from these assholes.

The train could only take me as far as a little hole in the wall town called Brunswick, which was still roughly 35 miles from Morbidonia. Apparently no mass transit vehicles went near my destination. I had planed to catch a cab, and since I was dead broke, was scheming to jump out and run from the cabbie once I got close enough, but no cabs would go there either; no Uber, no law enforcement, no military, no civilians, and I’m just guessing no fucking birds or wild animals either.

So it was just me…

Me and Pete and Charlie, or lefty and righty, Addida’ and Nike, whatever you wanted to call them; just me and all God gave me barreling down a road that was certainly less fucking traveled, you know, all that Robert Frost type of shit.

Did I mention it was cold? Sure maybe a mid-May night in the South was fairly warm, but up here in New England, I guess this is New England, it sure as shit wasn’t; and as I watched the Sun finally sliver away behind the forest it was as if Jack fucking Frost himself had given me a giant bear hug, and wasn’t planning on subsiding.

After several miles of journeying through the nothingness, I had met my match; I was cold, tired, starving and afraid; the road had not become my proverbial bride, the road had become my aloof master.

But there was something from behind me now, an isolated pair of headlights accompanied with the rumbling of a loud exhaust. As the vehicle neared me and began to slow down my mind was running wild: “Oh fuck, OH FUCK! Now I’m going to get raped, possibly fucking killed, out in the middle of Nowhere, Maine!”

The old rusty looking Ford Bronco pulled up beside me, I could kind of see inside of it, but not too well on a count of the darkness, so I approached the window, and I mean what else was I to do? Inside was a young white male, axe murderer stereotype number one. But the young guy looked fairly clean cut and pleasant, his dark hair tucked underneath a white baseball cap; and looked fairly shocked at the sight of an eleven year old walking alone on a damn near abandoned highway. “Hey, are you okay?” he asked, I’m sure I looked either dying or near death, “Yeah I’m just trying to get to a friend’s house”, “What are you doing out here alone? Where are your parents? Don’t you know there are wolves out in these hills?”

Goddamnit, I hope that’s not some sort of cliché symbolism...

“Well hey, I guess I could take ya’ where you need to go…”

Of course he could.

“…where you going anyway?”

“Morbidonia.”

This guy’s face turned with utter anguish, looking on rather quizzically like I was a Jew telling him I was walking into Auschwitz. “You’re kidding right? Nobody and I mean NOBODY, goes to Morbidonia… Hell I’m not even sure it actually exists.” “Yeah, it exists alright; I’ve been there before… my best friend lives there.” I wasn't sure if Morbid was actually my best friend, but we were close, close enough that for whatever reason the powers that be in the universe saw it fit for me to first think of him when I had nowhere to go, thus landing me in this particular position. The guy looks on puzzled for a moment before finally reaching across his front seat to unlock his passenger side door, “Well c’mon then, it’s too cold to be out here walking. I’ll take you to the city limits, but that’s it!” The guy was acting like I was really putting him out of his way, so that was probably a good sign.

I hopped in the Bronco, literally having to hop inside, throwing my backpack down at my feet and promptly put my slender, glowing red hands in front of the heat vent. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, the vehicle wasn’t well kept, but smelled of gasoline and thus giving me the perception that my new friend was a working man. His oil stained hands diligently gripped the steering wheel as I finally got a closer look at his face; he was probably in his early twenties, not too far removed from high school I would assume and had these beautifully deep blue eyes that gleamed with wholesomeness.

After a mile or so of a gutting silence, my new friend turned up the radio a bit:

“You see I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name, it felt good to be out from the rain, in the desert you can’t remember your name, cause there aint no one for to give you no name.”

“Oh, I love this song! What’s your name by the way?”

“Dolly… what’s your name?”

“Sawyier. Sawyier McGahee.”

We briefly shake hands; his hand was sweaty as fuck. Then there was this strange moment where he looked directly into my eyes, damn near piercing my soul as he very awkwardly and very slowly slid his hand away from mine before abruptly slamming it down on his steering wheel. I jumped back toward my door. Did I do something wrong?

“But I don’t like my name…”

“Well what name do you like?”

I nervously asked,

“Saw-her”

“Sawyier?”

I was confused,

“NO! SAW HER! Like 'I saw her standing there’ by The Beatles, June, 1963. Great song.”

Or saw her in fucking half, perhaps?

“Alright Saw-Her, nice to meet…”

He cuts me off, again slamming his hand on the steering wheel,

“No! I like the name Matthew.”

This was spiraling downhill, and fucking quickly. I slide over and try to discretely unlock my door, planning for what would be my inevitable jump from the Coo-Coo’s Nest.

To be continued...

Pussies and gentledicks, my name is Paul Heyman, and today I am a very proud Paul Heyman; for I am the advocate of a young woman who we have all had the pleasure of watching develop into one of the XWF’s most dominate forces in recent weeks. From capturing her first Television Title, to defending her first Television Title, to RELINQISHING her SECOND Federweight Title due to a lack of competition, to holding her own on Warfare; there is absolutely no denying it… Dolly Waters is exactly what this company needed, and Dolly Waters will remind perched upon her throne built from the bones of those her dare challenge for so long as she fucking desires.

This week on Savage, my client will be again defending her championship, just like a good fighting champion does, perhaps the only good fighting champion in this entire company; against a one Kitt Kennedy. A PERSON WHO MY CLIENT HAS ALREADY SQUASHED, NOT ONCE, BUT TWICE!

And while I noticed Kitt had either a pen stroke or a brush of amnesia during one of his promos for Warfare:

Dementia Kennedy Said:You talk about beating me twice. You can actually only claim one

Well then let’s rewind the tapes shall we?

Saturday Savage 10/01/2016 Said:Winner and new Savage Champion: Dolly Waters

Federweight 10/06/16 Said:Winner and STILL Federweight Champion - Dolly Waters!

Kitt is simply clinging on to this falsehood, like a preteen who still believes in Santa Clause and the Easter Bunny, that he is somehow BETTER than Dolly Waters, which has to be of the most hysterical acquisitions I’ve ever heard.

It’s almost as comical as:

Kitt Said:I took a title that you severely disgraced

You mean you dug it out of a shit filled porta-potty like the disgusting, undeserving piece of trash that you are? Because you didn't take a goddamned thing from my client.

Kitt Said:and restored it to the prestige that it deserves.

You’ve restored it to the prestige that is deserves? How exactly have you done that? By defending it against some one-hit-blunder named ShakerJones and a fucking mutated walrus that merely growled at you? OH YES KITT! I see you’ve really brought the big names to the division haven’t you? I’m sure the Steve David’s, the Luca Arzegotti’s, the Gator’s and the John Maddison’s of the world are lining up around the block to hopefully take a stab at your great trash talking prowess, Kitt! HELL! I’m sure even the Holy Ghost, Sid Feder himself is smiling at you now from some creepy candid camera in your wife’s dressing room and toasting to your accomplishments.

Kitt, get the fuck over yourself!

8==D Said:you can’t beat me

Okay… interesting, but again, it already happened, twice. I can already tell that these next couple of days are going to be one long painstaking process of me verbally dismantling your entire little fable filled world that you dreamt up while playing kiss and don’t tell with your cousins in the closet. I can already tell I’m going to grow tired of this, real quick, as if I haven’t already. Tired of listening to you bitch and moan, and complain about how I cut promos for my client, bitch and complain about my client’s new stable, bitch and complain about how you sent your imaginary butler to dig through a vitamin-d rich shit in the porta-potty to fetch out a title that you so proudly wear around your waist today.

You're little

, Kitt, and there isn't any scenario, not one, that leads to you walking away from Savage as the new TV Champ, bitch.

But what might happen, what very well could happen is this: Dolly Waters wakes up tomorrow and says: ‘Fuck it! I don’t want to absolutely crush Kitt Kennedy on Saturday. I feel bad for him; I want him to just HAVE my championship.’ But you’ve gotten to know my client pretty well, how do you like your chances of that happening?

Face it bucko, it’s over… back to the back of the line bub. This Saturday, my client is going rip your heart from your chest while it’s still beating and hand it to your wife in a goddamned doggy bag, so yeah it’s no looking good for you. My one suggestion? Keep your fucking mouth shut from now until Saturday, and maybe, JUST MAYBE she’ll let you leave New Orleans on a stretcher rather than a body bag.

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