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Lacklan · (07-24-2019)

*****HAND PRINT IDENTIFICATION*****

A gloved hand before a monitor. Subtle leather, a red so dark that it threatens to be black. Another joins it, fingers touching their counterparts, before pulling on the edges. The glove pulls away to reveal a pale hand, the color a mixture of cream and pale moonlight, each finger tipped in nails lacquered black with tiny flames of orange and red. The hand splays open, fingers wide, the shine of a ring upon one of the fingers sparkling out, tiny alternating rows of diamonds and rubies. The hand presses down atop the monitor and a line of light falls from top to bottom and then back the way it came.

*****RETINAL IDENTIFICATION*****

Glasses with sparkling frames and thick lenses are removed to show a set of oddly red eyes. Surrounded by thick black lines painted on by a steady hand, the eyes pop out from the angular face like slits in a furnace, the flames pushing out and seeking to engulf. Face slowly moves forward to another monitor and a line of light moves left to right, forcing the eyes to narrow in momentary pain.

****VOICE IDENTIFICATION*****

The glasses are replaced and the face backs away from the monitor. Hand raises up to face, fingers to mouth, and the small sound of a throat clearing is heard. Hand moves away, eyes close to show the designs of a wolf painted onto the eyelids, and ruby lips open.

“aaaaaa”

A beautiful sound, low in the register.

“aaaaaaaaaaa”

The voice rises up the register with the clarity of an island sea.

"aahhhhhhhhhh!”

The voice reaches the upper end of the register and cuts off smoothly, the note echoing in the room with a soft reverberation. With a loud grinding protestation, the wall begins to separate in the center, the two halves pulling apart away from one another along tracks in the ground. Smoke fills the room as cool air blows through, pushing against the pale skinned woman. Dark robes of black lined with red flow in the air as the doors separate, and a smile creeps onto the cold beauty of the woman.

Shoes, glorious shoes!
Hot tall heels and knee highs!!

Sarah prances into the room and we see row after row of shoes. The room stretches far beyond the eyes, far longer than should be possible in the house, and every corner of it is covered with shoes in variety of shape and color.

I’m always in the mo-od
SWEET heels and fla-ats!!

She twirls as she sings, her gown flowing out from her like that of a skater spinning on the ice. She rushes towards one of the sides, her lithe fingers dancing over several pairs of shoes as she goes by.

Thin straps and stilettos!
What next is the question?

She dances to the other side, as light on her feet as any dancer. Indeed, the years of dance, the years of ballet, which led to her successful cheer career, are on full display as she walks along the very tips of her toes. Her feet are finally seen to be encased in ballet shoes, no doubt for this very moment.

Rich hawt chicks have it, girls --
In summation!

She glides to the center again and runs away from the door and deeper into the room. She comes to a large pit in the ground, and as she gets to the edge we are able to peer over her shoulder and see that it is full of shoes. In a flash, she moves her hands around her body and the black and red silks fall to her feet, revealing a one-piece black bathing suit, thin and tight enough to seem painted to her curves. A large tattoo of a white mask is visible on her right shoulder, the shading providing harsh lines for features. After stepping out of her dress and sliding it aside, she settles her feet and leaps from the edge, her arms out in a swan dive worth a 10 at any Olympics, and dives into the shoes. She pops up moments later further down and begins to swim through the shoes, her face a picture of rapturous joy.

“O! To be me! O! To have THIS wealth of life!”

Just as she gets to the edge of the pit, she dives back down, her body disappearing under the pool of shoes. After a few seconds, she emerges in the center of the pit, having pushed off against the edge and swam further with such form that the Women’s Olympic Swim team...AGAIN... pleads for her to give up wrestling and instead take her place as the Greatest Swimmer Ever.

“But you can’t ALL be me, of course! That’s just silly. Instead...well...you’re this:”

Sarah looks up to the camera and winks as she reaches underneath and pulls out an old pair of sneakers. They are worn, the painted plastic peeling off in many places, the tread along the bottom long since rubbed smooth.

“Oh, Drez-Dawg.”

Sarah shakes her head as she looks at the shoe.

“Its not that I hate you, or anything. I mean, sure, you are WAY the WRONG direction from everything I like in life, ya know? I like poise. Wit. Killer tits. And you have, like, none of those things. You’re just this gross old dude who can’t string three coherent sentences together in any way which a normal person could understand! Sers legit, its abs potents that you are completely illiterate! And in a sport which demands vibrant communicative skills to go along with physical badassery, being illiterate is totes a bad thing. So if its not HATE...what DO I feel about you?”

She grimaces at the shoes.

“Disgust, I suppose. You ARE disgusting. Though maybe not in the way most would assume I mean the word. I mean...sure...you ARE ugly. And gross. Those ARE the same socks you wore before you took that time off and wooooo BOY do they smell. But my disgust has less to do with how you smell and look...though, again, pretty gross...but more to do with your career. Sure, you’ve won a bunch of title and regularly pin Vinnie clean and all, but this business is NOT about what you did a bajillion years ago. I mean, shit, look at all the ‘ZOMG LEGENDS’ that have come back to this fed lately. Have a single one of them done ANYTHING worthwhile? All Page has done is gotten himself embarrassed by Main...which is totes being repeated throughout the promotional period of Leap of Faith, for that matter...and even Robbie, who got that pin on Barney, turned into a little bitch when it came Title Match time. THAT is the reality of ‘ZOMG LEGENDS,’ ya know? So this begs the question:

“What have YOU done lately?

“The answer to that is somewhere between Jack and his buddy Shit. Legit, since I’ve come around to this fed to show them what a modern wrestler looks and acts like...that would be hawt as flame and a supes badass in all things, bee-tee-dubs…all you have been able to do is get wins over shitfucks like the Miz and guys with dumb names! And I know that there is some fat neckbeard...probably in a trailer in Florida, or something...screaming at his ten terabyte Seagate Barracuda gaming computer that wins aren’t everything...but guess what? That shit MATTERS, D-Dawg! Because this IS a sport about WINNING. This IS a sport about DOING shit! And when faced with ME, when faced with someone who wrestles around the world at a high level, who surrounds themself with even BETTER wrestlers so as to have room to grow, who fucking DOMINATES every room she walks into, the seventeen one-syllable words you offer up to go with your 1980’s moveset and mentality about wrestling have as much chance of walking away with your money as the aforementioned Page does of dethroning Main with his line of tired cliches.”

She swings the shoes in a circle by the laces.

“Of course, if we’re talking about REALLY shitty takes on using cliches over something original or inspiring, D-to-teh-REZ has NOTHING on Count Sparkula.”

She lets the string go and the shoes go flying back into the sea of their brethren. She takes a deep breath and lowers herself into the pool of shoes, her head going underneath, and then pops back up, sending a spray of shoes of all types and sorts. She smiles at the camera as she shows us the shoes now in her hand, an old pair of 12-hole Doc Marten boots, the toes scuffed and falling in just that way to show the steel underneath them. Because of COURSE they are steel-toed.

“Oh, 1997. How I am SO GLAD I wasn’t QUITE born yet!”

She turns the large and clunky shoes around in her hand, taking them in at all angles.

“Back before vampire vaginas sparkled, there was a time...a terrible and dark time...when the Masquerade was king and people were hanging out at the mall while wearing dumb shit like locks around their neck and dyed their hair black and called themselves Vlad or LeStat. Sweet BABY Jesus, its like Ashcoft leaped straight into that Mary Sue crossover fanfic of when Spike got plowed by Louis while Angel fondled himself and waited for his turn. Oh, you KNOW the one, the don’t shake your head at me!”

Sarah mumbles to herself as she looks at the old and clunky shoes, things like “good God he axly said shit like ‘freshly fallen snow,’ ‘sack of so many potatoes,’ and...fuck, its embarrassing to even repeat it…’eternal sleep’ as if its anything other than derivative and uninspired bullshit…” before ultimately tossing them back into the sea of shoes.

“But! That’s what I’m dealing with, I guess. I mean, its bad enough that I have to deal with Noah in the Anarchy match and he, as I predicted, said a gimmick word 291 times and thought he was being clever or creative, but FIRST I have to deal with THIS nonsense. Dumb shit like Ashcroft thinking that turn-of-the-century shenanigans and quackery paired with the barest of minimum of research into his opponents would be worth more than jerking the curtain.”

She rolls her eyes so hard that her glasses slip from her nose in the process. She adjusts them with an extended forefinger while mumbling something which MAY have been “...Christ...literally said Barney’s ship had sailed...fuck me in the goat ass, I do all that work coming up with ways to talk about how much Barndoor sucks now and this dipshit literally...LITERALLY...says that his ship has sailed.” She breathes in deeply and lets it out with a long sigh.

“Listen Micky Ash, I’m not necessarily going to swim here and pull a Corey and cry about promotional video settings which have already been done and all, but for the love of the greatest beard of all time...that would be Jesus’, obvs...I DO require you to put in at least a LITTLE effort outside of your tumblr roleplays posts, okay? This is, as I have continued to push as part of my message to the XWF, 2019, and we expect a quality FAR higher than what YOU are willing to offer! I mean, sure, this was abs supposed to be renamed as ‘The Free Win for M-Ash Open’ until I stepped in with my killer tea party with Att, but I am really hoping you provide more of a challenge now that you see the depth of these waters. Because I promise you...I PROMISE YOU...that if you go into Round Two of this shindig with the same mentality of ‘Hey guys! Check ME out while I drop some cliches! Ain’t I great?!’ like you have thus far, then you are going to find yourself holding a shoulder an inch away for being torn away from its socket and wonder what the fuck happened to all of your super powers and strength.

“Because THAT is the reality of 2019, buddy boy. Since coming to this fed, I have defeated monsters, aliens, generic evil preachers, the Terminator (or maybe Agent Smith?), anime barbarians, polygon vixens come to life, 15-year-old drug mules, one of those midget lucha dudes, a ‘legend’ that pisses his diaper when he gets beat clean, the boss’ dumb pig, and a freakin’ OWL. And if you do NOT step up your game, if you do NOT do anything more than offer up some shitty Stoker-Meets-Highlander LARP in that rathole state you call home, then you WILL be just another person added to this growing list of terrible.

“Oh! And another thing! If you DO just offer up some ball of craptastic nonsense that StigMatyr probs jerks over in the bathroom, it is in your best interest to be like any of the other returning ‘legends’ around here: Make it a one and done. Do you little gig, get a nostalgia rub from the boys, get your happy ending of at least putting up something before getting your ass kicked by the modern wrestlers, and then fade away into the darkness. Because if you DO stick around after Leap of Faith, if you DO hang out long enough to see me strutting the halls of Savage in all the shoes that Drezdin’s $50k is going to get me as I and my Beloved beat down in the tag tourney, then I PROMISE you that it will NOT go well for you. Because if you and I ended up in a singles match and I have the opportunity to axly turn my attention to you?”

She offers her Billion $$$ Smile as she wades into a backstroke, her arms flowing through the shoes with ease.

“My God, the thrashing will be beautiful.”

She continues to swim with the backstroke, gliding through the shoes as a dolphin through the oceans of the world. She finally comes to a halt as she reaches the end of the pool.

“Hey, Barnacle.”

She pushes against the side of the pit underneath the shoes and swims away.

“Know what sucks about you? Know what is, like, totes lame? In all this vastness of shoes, I don’t have a single thing which I can compare to you. Because while at least the Drez Dawg and Vamp McVamperstein are just delusional old fucks and thus I can dig out some old shoes. But you? You’re just bullshit. Oh! Hey!”

She suddenly dives underneath and, after a moment, comes back up with a pair of heavy boots with thick tread. They are covered in flecks of brown and she holds them away from her as far as her arms will allow.

“Look! Shit kickers! Like, literally! They are covered in shit!”

She waves them around in the air.

“Just like you, Barbs. Because all you’ve done in the last few weeks is bemoan your pathetic lot in life and how terrible you are. And there are only TWO kinds of people in this world who do that: Either schmoes looking to get dominated by some monster like Maxine, or else the kinda-sorta fat chick who talks about how insanely fat she is so that her friends get all ‘OMG you are SO not fat, stop it!’ And I haven’t quite decided which one you are, yet. Like, ARE you that shitty dude in the bodybuilder.com forums who constantly cries about how he’ll never be as buff as some of the chicks? Or are you the attention-seeking whore who doesn’t deserve it?

“Ya know...if its the former? If you enjoy getting your head squeezed between thunder thighs? I guess I’ll do that for you. I mean, I have dat #SquatBooty, ya know, and once legit squeezed out a man’s soul in a body scissors a couple years ago, so I can totes do it. And if its the latter? If you’re all ‘omg i’m so pathetic’ and hoping that I’m gonna be all ‘OMG NO YOU’RE AMAZEBALLS’ then you are out of luck there. Because I’m the person who goes ‘Yep, you’re a fatass, alright! Better drop 20 pounds right this second!’ and I’m going to simply confirm that, yes, you ARE the pathetic piece of shit who can’t even get a single match booked for a show he’s been promoting for MONTHS and that even includes the castoffs in that rip-off fed a couple of months ago that lasted one show after all the admins won the titles. Sers legit, you’re so authentically pathetic that not even THAT group of losers would bother bringing you in. Not even really gonna be fun kicking your ass, tee bee haitch.

“Oh, and-”

“…YEAH, I GOT MONEY CUNT! YOU GOT MUTHAFUCKIN’ NONE CUNT! I’M NUMBER ONE CUNT, YOU’RE FUCKIN’ DONE CUNT! YOU’RE MOVIN’ STICKS CUNT, I’M MOVIN’ MUTHAFUCKIN’ TONNES CUNT…”

Sarah cuts off as a REALLY inappropriate ringtone plays from up above.

“Un instant s'il vous plaît.”

Sarah swims to the side where she climbs up a ladder and out of the pool of shoes. Once on top, she pulls out her SWEET Windows Phone from her dress.

“‘Sup?”

Muffled sounds.

“Bobbi...um...no. Hanari is literally the only person I know is NOT the stalker. Totes in front of me when the first locker room was set on fire.”

Muffled sounds. Sarah sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose in frustration.

“Bobbi! I didn’t hire the Mad Rhymes Protection Agency to NOT have you find my stalker! Stop focusing on Hanari! It’s probs that pissbaby. Or maybe Taco. Probs still mad I’m YOUR Federweight Champ.”

Muf-

“JUST KEEP ME UPDATED FOR FUCK’S SAKE.”

She slams her phone closed, mumbles “...whatev…” and flashes her Billion $$$ Smile at the camera.

“Welp, that’s it for me! I can’t WAIT for you all to see all my NEW SHOES after Leap of Faith!”

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode For the Love of Shoes, Part II
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