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Dolly Waters · (02-04-2023)

”LOVES ME”... HA!

Dolly spits with a condescending roll of the eye,

IF that bitch “LOVED ME” sooooo much, then she would’ve known that I deserved my stolen tag championships, and she would’ve backed off at SnowJob!

But nOoOoOoO!

Little Miss Sunburn had to go along with management’s bullshit last ditch effort to keep Angie Vaughn relevant!

Sarah Lacklan doesn’t love me, Gag...

Introducing Patel Gagandeep.

He’s wiping away the literal spit just flung onto his face from his enraged employer. Patel is the poor soul alluded to during the SnowJob promotional cycle. The one who had the unfortunate task of delivering Dolly the news of her title defense booking via phone call.

...she only loves my milky complexion and gorgeous hair.

Dolly turns curtley from Patel, aloof to her gob of spit he’s still working out of his eye. She wanders over to a window ledge inside of this nearly empty office. An office she rented for a SnowJob victory celebration. The drab setting has only a simple folding table, with bottles of grocery-brand distilled water, and a bowl of unshelled pistachios. There’s a custom banner dangling down from the ceiling reading:

“✨🥞🎈👩🏼CONGRATULATIONS DOLLY! 🎈🎈🎈DOLLY IS THE BEST!👩🏼”

Patel worked tirelessly to get this whole thing setup in anticipation for Dolly and Charlie’s successful championship defense, but it was not to be.

…so much potential… she gazes out of the window to the waxing moon teasing her from the sky.

The light at the end of the tunnel.

The nearing of fulfillment.

Completion. Ascension. Illumination. Nonsense.

Dolly thinks of her failed efforts to coalesce as a team with Charlie Nickles. It was to be an unconditional bonding of strength, passion and loyalty, where she would be the powerful and adored megastar, and Charlie the expendable loser side-kick.

Was it so much to ask?

…for energy spent elsewhere!

Her lips snarl as she wads up the letter received from Lacklan’s pigeon Josephina, and slings it in the corner of the room. Patel hurries over like the wonderful employee that he is, and picks up the trash from the floor.

Gag?

Dolly stands like a pillar in the center of the window frame, her glare not budging from the moonlight.

Patel pads some sweat and clears his throat before answering.

Yes, Ms. Waters?

He sputters out with an assimilated Southern Californian accent,

It’s not that he's always terrified of Dolly, but today he feels particularly sad for her, and is treading lightly. He wants to avoid giving off the impression that he, along with the majority of the XWF management, the roster, and the fans have either lost confidence in her, or downright loathe her existence.

After all, Dolly has never been good with money, and Patel’s work-load versus compensation is that of a corporate shareholder. No need to rock the boat.

You get my appointment booked?

Oh, uh, the appointment, yeah! Of course with the uhhh…

The Witchdoctor.

She assists her assistant,

Right!

He snaps his finger with an uncertain chuckle,

The… witchdoctor!

A little smile slides across Dolly’s lips, her gaze still glued into the night skies outside her window,

Good… just in time fer’ the full moon.

And in time for your March Madness qualifier against Isiah King

Dolly turns her neck slowly, showing Patel one side of her face that’s washed with incredulity,

Who in the fuck is Isiah King?

King Nothing

A King, huh?

Well, this tournament must be tailored made for you, right? Afterall, at its conclusion we’ll have crowned the next hierarchy of the XWF, ready to usher in their new empire.

Ready to rule over the roster. Ready to headline the biggest shows. Ready to lead this kingdom with the fist of a tyrant.

But that doesn’t sound like you, does it, Ike?

Not in the slightest… the fact of the matter is, you just ain’t up to snuff.

Sure, you’ve got the aesthetics. You’ve got the LOOK of a real champion, a real KING of professional wrestling.

Someone who can be plastered up on billboards, and marketed to these doofus fans who simp fer’ textbook promo cliches.

I mean, if Riaon Kido is a Mary Sue, you know -the A-plus-plus archetype of a virtustic hero in the ring- shouldn’t we at least have the dumbed down version of that? Fer’ under-compensational purposes?

A fuckin’ Larry Lou! LOOOOOSER

Pretending to be perfect in every single way HAS to be exhausting for Kido, so why not strap another rocket to some handsome, chiseled perfectionist to represent that basic ass mold for the midcarders? Well, rookie, I think we’ve found yer’ crown. And it’s gonna’ be lying right next to my boots on Warfare.

Now, before I’m accused of pulling a YOU, and underestimating people I know nothing about in the ring, allow me to be the first to admit: twenty four hours ago, I had no idea you existed. Luckily for me, I don’t need some bloodsucking shadow corporation to keep my endeavors in check. My wonderful assistant Gag helps me keep a low overhead. We ran through some of yer’ highlights, some of yer’ promos. The ins. The outs. The do’s, the dont’s. And when we packaged it all together, there was only one phrase that could summarize what I’d just witnessed:

Mediocrity dressed with ribbon.

That’s you… “KING”.

A peasant wearing robes, trying his damndest to convince everyone he’s something other than a huckster, and a fraud.

Even of yer’ greatest accomplishments to date, the Television Championship win over Graves, and the defenses that followed- you very swiftly, and quietly admitted that the competition you faced in the XWF wasn’t as advertised. You sought more, and you got it… reduced expectations are a bitch, huh? Especially when yer’ a bit slow on the uptick.

So let's not forget the FACTS behind the reasons you won the Television Championship to begin with…

You defeated a woman who barely holds a winning singles-record in Angie Vaughn, earning yer’ shot to face a champion who barely holds a winning singles-record in Graves, who was so obsessed with Mark Flynn, and so UNINTERESTED in a nobody rookie, that he allowed you to pin Harmon Hayes, who if i’m not mistaken, DOESN’T HAVE A WINNING RECORD AT ALL!

Here you were worried about yer’ expectations of the XWF roster being reduced, when you were carrying the biggest red flag of yer’ own mediocrity tied around yer’ waist for weeks! And when push finally came to shove, and you finally got that opportunity to really test yer’ merit against some solid competition, what happened?

Last I checked, yer’ coming off two straight losses, homeslice.

Gotta’ sting, right?

Afterall, you said that you were going to make the Television Championship mean something again. But when it came time to defend yer’ throne, to prove that this empire yer’ trying to build was worthy the “KING” of Saturday Savage allowed his crown to be dissolved at the hands of Ned Kaye.

Bra-FUCKING-vo.

You were basically the catalyst to get the Television Title back around Chris Page’s waist. Not only did you not make the TV title meaningful, you set it back nearly three-years of progression!

Now, I know what yer’ thinking: “bUt dOlLy lEt lAcKlAn gEt tHe tAg tItLeS bAcK tOo!” but we’re not going to seriously suggest that me being so blatantly ROBBED by management of the tag championships, by having odd after odd stacked against me, in a ladder match with six people in the ring is anything like having to only deal with Ned Kay in that clustering shit-show of a finish you two put on, are we?

How lucky it must’ve been to only have to pull down one of the two championships hanging, and then being asked to take the other belt from someone’s waist.

I watched the tape, Ike.

I saw at least three different openings where anyone with half a brain could’ve gotten that belt off Ned. Hell, if you were nearly as smart as you let on, and if you were really as interested in preserving your kingdom as you claimed, you should’ve just left the arena, and held the Wednesday Night crown as ransom.

That’s what I would’ve done.

You can call it cowardly, but any good King would tell you that desperate times call for desperate measures when it comes to defending their castle.

To hell with honor! What did it get you? First in line for an extreme beatdown at SnowJob? Well, shucks.

What’s it gonna’ get you on Warfare when you have to face someone as deplorable as me?

I already know, but the world is gonna’ see it first hand, as the goobery do-gooder spends so much time chasing me around the arena that he forgets to keep his guard up. See, I’m not going to fluff this match up, and tell you that this is going to be some great exhibition where two warriors will clash in some dumbass mythic quest fer’ glory. Fuck that!

I don’t play by the rules anymore, Ike.

I’m gonna’ gouge yer’ eyes.

Pull yer’ ears.

Stomp on yer’ nuts.

Leave rope burn around yer’ forehead so severe, you’ll wish you’d never worn that imaginary crown on head that led you to this moment.

When you debuted in the XWF, you said that you were coming for the throne. That we needed a new King, and that you were the heir apparent.

Well here we are, bucko.

Yer’ moment to prove it… to dawn the crown.

But unfortunately yer’ bout to find out why burning the crown means more than wearing it to Dolly Waters.

The Chariot

Dolly and her assistant Patel, who she affectionately refers to as Gag, have arrived at for her appointment with “The Witchdoctor”.

Madame Maluna’s Metaphysical Manor…?

She recites the words painted on the window of this little coffee-house looking shop.

She’s supposed to be the best in the area at the type of thing you were looking for…

Patel confirms,

Are metaphysics the same as what I was looking for?

Well, when I searched Google for ‘black magic witch doctors capable of cursing 31 professional wrestlers with crippling ailments… especially Sarah Lacklan…

Mhmm, right

She nods,

Well, at first I only got articles about Sarah Lacklan.

Dolly groans with disgust,

...so I took that part about Sarah Lacklan out of the Google search, and then this place popped up.

The website was very well put together, and professional.

There were all types of crystals and potions for sale. But, not knowing what I was looking at, I just booked you a private one on one meeting with The Witchdoctor herself.

Was it expensive?

Very.

Good. That must mean it’s legit!

Without another word, Dolly swiftly makes her way into the metaphysical shop, a cute little bell jingles as the door slides open.

The shop inside is even smaller than it appears from the outside.The walls choked out with smoke. The shelves are crammed with stone figurines, bowls of various rocks with little hand written placard identifiers, old books and other trinkets.

Dolly’s eyes well up, and she covers her nose with her shirt to block the overpowering smell of incense. It smells like burning feces.

The two cautiously proceed toward the back, when a frantic, but excited looking Hippie woman jumps out from nowhere, grabbing Dolly by the shoulders.

IT’S YOU! YOU’RE THE ELEMENT TRINITY!

THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN? she matches the hippie woman’s volume

YOU’RE THE CULMINATION OF LOVING, EMOTIONAL PSYCHIC INTUITION AND CARE!

uhh…no? I just wanna' send some dark energy up my opponents asses.

The hippie woman laughs with glee, and starts dragging Dolly by the arm,

QUICK! LET’S GO MEDITATE!

-to be continued-

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