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Jenny Myst: Her thong is black. Like her soul.
07-04-2017, 10:00 PM
Post: #1
Madison Dyson leans down over the monitor, scrutinizing the grainy image on it. She waggles her finger at the image and calls out to the man standing beside her without looking at him.

So where is this right now?

The man steps up next to her. He's wearing khaki's and a green button up. The name badge around his neck identifies him as an employee of Dyson Arms.

Mosul. I've just been told that they are in position for the test fire now. Can I get one last confirmation on that?

Mr. Khaki's pulls a radio up to his ear. He nods his head and drops it down again.

We are in position. Incidentally, the target is an ISIS cell, we have good intel on that. Two men, one woman. They're believed to have been responsible for the vehicular terrorism that occurred in Brussels last week.

Mmmmm hmmmm. And the little dotty things here at the bottom, what are those?

The man draws in a deep swallow, suddenly looking uncomfortable. He fiddles with his sleeve a little, drawing his eyes away from the screen.

We believe those are children, ma'am. Two of the terrorists are their parents. We have been trying to isolate a time for the test in which they would not be...erm....effected. But they are consistantly on the grounds and you wanted...

I know what I goddamn well wanted Paul, we needed this test underway. But this....?

It's very, uh, unfortunate and...

This is a goddamn BONUS.

Paul looks at her, startled. His silence finally tears her away from the screen.

Oh don't look at me like that. You know how early they indoctrinate these little fuckers. What other option did we have, blow the shit out of their parents and give little Johnny and Janey Jihad the chance for a glorious revenge killing? Fuck that, drop those fat boys.

Paul brings the radio up to his lips, a very slight tremble in his hand.

We're good. Yeah, yeah, she knows.

Once again the radio goes down, and Madison is enrapt by the screen.

You can expect to see...

I know what I'm gonna see.

Madison bites her lower lip, as a smile tugs at her features. The grainy image zooms in a bit further.

So much the better to see you with my dear. We're the wolves at the door you fuckers.

Madison seems to be enjoying this. Like, really really enjoying this. Her fingers grip the sides of the console, knuckles turning a shade of white. She lets out the slightest satisfied murmur, as a rosy flush starts to appear on her cheeks.

And then, it happens. The grainy image explodes with two consecutive bright blasts of concussive force. When it clears, the targeted building is in ruins. One of the child size dots has been blown clear, it is still and it's heat signature is fading fast.

Madison gasps with pleasure and her body bucks ever so slightly. She bites down harder on her bottom lip, to the point of drawing a tiny pinprick of blood. Paul looks over her shoulder, both confused and concerned.

Ma'am....are you....are you okay?

Mmmmmm hmmmmm. What's a bitch need to do to get a smoke around here?

The scene fades out, and we return inside a board room. Madison is the only one inside, her feet propped up on the long mahogany table as she spins slightly side to side in the patent leather chair. A cigar is jammed between her lips. She takes a huge drag, and releases it in a concentric series of smoke rings that drift up and serve to obscure the massive corporate logo on the wall behind her.

Dyson Arms and Munitions.

Madison gestures at the logo with the cigar, spilling ash on the no doubt expensive rugs as she does so.

My daddy's company, in case you were wondering. Or at least, it was. My daddy's dead too. He bequeathed me this multi-million dollar arms empire and was everything a sweet southern girl could want in a father. Different strokes for different folks, I guess.

She pulls another drag and considers the cigar before continuing.

Yeah, nice try at trying to deadline drop me though. Ya know, I was gonna call it a day but you....oh ho ho YOU! You just dropped fucking CHRISTMAS in my lap! But before we start unwrapping those particular presents there is something I want to make very, very clear.

Don't you ever talk politics with me. You're way out of your league.

I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm not particularly BOTHERED by what you managed to pull up on Google, as you frantically slammed those ape like fists on your keyboard and somehow stumbled your way onto DailyKos or ThinkProgress or some shit like that. You even found that Jeff Daniels clip from Newsroom! You do know he's an actor though, right? Yeah, he was in Dumb and Dumber too. You should check it out, I'm thinkin' it would speak to you.

Actually, side bar....what the fuck were you trying to say with the Jeff Daniels clip? Honey, you should have used that to SUPPORT your argument that America sucks, but instead you used it to rail against liberal bullshit like safe spaces and non-cis gender bathrooms and basically all the stuff I hate too. Did you even WATCH it, or did your eyes just glaze over after about a minute because nobody was telling you how hot you were?

Anyhow, Jenny Myst's Google-Fu is stronger than I thought it was and she read some of “Babby's First Anti-American screed” to try to prove me wrong. But you see, having been in the world of politics as long as I have, there's one thing I know that you don't and it is this: nobody gives a fuck. Nobody cares about facts or counter arguments or any of the shit. It's all tribalism. Please honey, scream “the founders were slave holding racists” to the mountain tops. Go ahead, I'll wait.

She waits.

Hark, are those revolutionaries I hear?! Why, the people are enraged that the history they were spoonfed is a LIE! Except they aren't. Because NO. ONE. CARES. At the end of the day, people will see whatever side of the founders they want to see, and who they actually were makes no difference. Reality is post-fact. Kind of like your constant assertions that I'm ugly. While you accuse me of having nothing but cheap looks jokes to go on. Riiiiiiiight.

But enough about all that! It's boring, and people really just want to hear me call you a slut. But ehhhhhh, haven't I done that enough? I think so. So let's talk about your sense of entitlement. Let's talk about how you think a four and four CAREER win/loss record warrants you a shot at anything. Did you have an aneurysm during the part of my last promo where I said I've been doing this shit for almost ten years? But oh, no...Jenny Myst has was tearing shit up for 8 whole months! Bitch, I've had FEUDS that lasted longer than 8 months. Your “career” is an insignificant speck. An iota. A nothing. And you think I should be shook by that?

And then there was that time you assumed I slept my way to the top like you did. Uhhhhh, no bitch. Never in the entirety of my nearly 10 year career did I get any sort of special attention because of who I was fucking. Unlike you, who readily admits that you're only facing higher end competition because you were Chris Chaos' cock sleeve.

Let me be clear. YOU ARE OWED NOTHING. The only environment in which a .500 record is worth anything is in baseball and those aren't the kind of balls your used to catching.

Whoops, guess I'm not done calling you a slut.

She throws her feet down off the table and allows herself a hearty laugh.

But it seems like little Jenny is starting to win back some of that confidence. Why, she's even proclaiming herself the queen of XWF again. Boy, that was a quick turnaround from all those tears last time. Maybe I just have that certain “je ne sais quoi” that makes people realize that their bullshit “crisis of confidence” character development angle was hurting their cause. Or maybe that's just one more thing about you that's fake. Either way, no, your attempts at trying to turn the tide of this match in your favor are FAILING. I'm gutting you verbally and you're too stupid to know how bad you're doing. You wanna give your new found search talents a work out? Google “the Dunning Kruger” effect. I'm not waiting this time though, it'll probably take you like two hours to figure out how to spell it.

Madison spreads her arms wide, with a deep self satisfied look on her face. In fact, she is positively JUBILANT.

And now, the moment I have been waiting for. “Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree....”

She playfully taps out the rhythm to the carol on the table before continuing.

We finally bring your dimestore Sun-tzu “secrets to victory” promo series to it's inevitable fiery car crash resolution. Because MY GOD YOUR DADDY SOLD YOU INTO SEX SLAVERY!!!!

Madison puts her hands to her face. She's like a kid, coming down the stairs for the first time on December 25th, an entire night's worth of nervous, giddy anticipation blossoming into a moment of pure wonder and joy!


Madison takes a drag of the cigar.


Madison finally chokes and sputters into some semblance of self control, but it takes a while.

Hooooo...whew wee. Ok, here we go. **snrkt** I got this. Deep breaths.

We're good.

So, just found out you were sold into sex slavery. Which does absolutely nothing but verify the point I made waaaaaaay back when that your sole distinguishing feature is that you are here to be FUCKED.

But Jesus, what is the “Fifty Shades of Grey” sadomasochistic poorly written by a horny Mormon housewife porn novel that is your life? Your entire existence is like some creepy autistic teenage boy cranking one out to what his fetish dream girl would be. Like, are you making your life's history up because your some kind of freak who secretly gets off on knowing how much seed is being spilled every time you cut a promo? Or is your life just 30 something years of nonstop wank material? I swear to God I think I read your biography on DeviantArt once, accompanied by, and I'm no prude, some of the most graphic depictions of female anatomy having Sonic the Hedgehog stuffed inside of it that I have EVER seen.

I am just in complete and utter awe of you. And I'd think that's something a normal human would want to keep under wraps but just put that twisted rape shit right out there, don't you? Because it gives you depth right oh no! No, no, no!

Because it makes you STRONG, right? There's that old “overcoming adversity” chestnut again. No better way to garner cheap heat. But you're overdoing it, sweetheart. And you're proving every last goddamn thing I ever said about you. Because being a constant victim you're whole life doesn't make you strong. Check it, there have even been studies that show that hardened criminals can pick out a rape victim just by watching a clip of them.

People have victimized you because you're WEAK. Because they can smell it on you like a cheap perfume. And because, try as you might, those feelings of insecurity just never go away. “Am I pretty enough? Am I good enough? Do I have on the right make-up? I'm still prettier than all the other girls, right? Maybe I should flash a panty shot.” Like a groveling dog returning to eat it's own puke, you're never far from the lifetime of inferiority those experiences have given you. You sad, pathetic, broken mess of a person.

Madison puts up a hand.

But it's not over for you. Really, it's not. I mean, I think we've established you'll never be as good as me. It's simply not possible, your life is one long, mean running joke that you are the butt of and it has left a taint on you the size of Gorbachev's birthmark.

But I can make you better. Ok, ok....part of the deal is that I'll have to turn you out to Engy. He's a horny little monkey and I've had to have the shower snaked at my place TWICE because he keeps masturbating in it. But as we've seen you're used to that. But there is so much I could teach you. Not just about wrestling...but about life, about the world, and about accepting your place in it wholeheartedly.

Jenny....I need a Rollerwhore.

What's a Rollerwhore you ask? Roll the clip.

A clip rolls from a promotion called Hardkore World. It features two gas mask wearing, leather clad, women named Thalia and Erato. They wear roller skates. They fight. And they fuck. No, really. We are treated to a highlight reel of Rollerwhore debauchery. Oral sex. Riding Sybians. Ambushing a poor grocery store clerk in a sex starved frenzy. And, oh yeah, destroying anyone that Madison orders them to. The works, as they say.

I miss my Rollerwhores Jenny. And you? You're perfect for the job. I even bought you your first gas mask.

Madison produces one from under the table.

Don't let your ego get in the way. You need to get serious here. Your reputation is completely in the shitter, and you just keep making it worse by airing your dirty laundry. Chris Chaos is on a downward spiral, so the shelf life on you be able to leach off of his name brand is rapidly dwindling. You need to make a choice.

Continue to suck. Or be my Rollerwhore.

She pushes the gas mask closer to the camera.

The choice is clear.

Madison finishes off the stogie and taps the remainder out into the ash tray. She gets up, leaving the leather chair spinning in her wake. The shot fades out on the Dyson Arms logo.

[Image: 9QBn3eQ.jpg]

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