Post by The Hannahverser on Jun 3, 2016 16:10:21 GMT
Perfect Weapons Are Made Perfect Through Trial and Testing.
I Will Be Made Perfect.
I Will Be Made Perfect.
Andrew Vane-Tempest-Stewart was handed the landline telephone from his assistant, Christopher, who gave him a grave and serious look, and spoke in hoarse whisper.
| Christopher Purdy | : It’s Victoria.
The life disappeared from the room.
Andrew’s face darkened as he lifted the phone out of Christopher’s hand, covered the receiver with his trembling palm before eying Christopher with silent instruction. He watched as Christopher proceeded out of the room to carry out his task with characteristic diligence that assured the conversation Andrew was about to have would be recorded. Andrew inhaled sharply as he straightened, removed his shaking hand from the receiver, lifted the phone to his ear and braced himself.
| Andrew Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : Victoria?
Her voice blasted over the line at him with terrified, agonized urgency.
| Victoria Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY!
He wasn’t ready for it. He never was. The punished sound of her crying with obvious anguish pierced through fiber optic cables at him shooting straight for his heart. He sat there in his cozy study feeling miniature and powerless at his daughter’s current fate. He gulped as her crying threatened to drown out any words he could muster.
| Andrew Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : I’m here, Victoria. Can you hear me?
| Victoria Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : Yes, Daddy.
It was the sound of pain.
He’d come to learn it well throughout this ordeal, hearing how her voice strained through whimpers, sobs and crying in each successive call. He caught his mind wondering at what she had been through and quickly shook away the answers his imagination conjured. The negotiation experts from MI5 had instructed him to remain calm in spite of whatever he might face when Victoria, or her kidnappers, called. MI5 had told him to separate his emotional concerns from the conversation as best he could. He was to be present not as her father, but as the lifeline that would bring her safely home. Even with all that preparation he wanted to burst into tears at the sound of his daughter’s suffering. Still he kept his composure.
| Andrew Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : Victoria, are you all right? Are you safe?
His voice trembled and wavered at the sound of her weakened, pained and wordless sobbing response. Strength, Andrew, he told himself, is a must.
For her.
| Andrew Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : Victoria? I’m doing all that I can to bring you home, baby.
| Victoria Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please,--
‘Longsuffering is a fruit of the spirit’ his church pastor advised him. As he sat there, with his white-knuckled hand shaking with the phone in his grasp, hearing his little girl’s incoherent sentence illustrate the state she was in better than any words could convey, he wanted to punch that pastor in the face. How could a God allow this?
| Andrew Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : I know, sweet heart. I know you’re hurting. I’m doing all that I can, Victoria. Now, I need you to calm down and focus.
Her only response was loud, uncontrolled sobbing. It chilled his blood to have no visual bearing on his daughter’s physical condition, and only her tortured and exacerbated cries to indicate what shape she was in.
Was she bleeding?
How badly had she been beaten and battered this time?
His eyes drifted to her picture on the corner of his desk. Then she was younger. Maybe 16? Blonde. Beautiful. It was the last he’d seen of her. How old was she now, Andrew wondered, and wished his wife were still alive to remind him. She was the lucky one, Andrew told himself, to have missed the brunt of this experience. How long had their daughter been held captive? Somewhere in the empty mansion there was a calendar that marked off the days, counted the months, and lamented the years Victoria Vane-Tempest-Stewart had been missing. If they stood face to face now, would he even be able to recognize his own daughter?
| Andrew Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : Victoria, baby, I love you. I am doing everything in my power to bring you home to me.
| Victoria Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : They want more money, daddy.
She cried softly. His fingernails clenched into his palm and broke skin as he brought his knuckles to his mouth in aggravated contemplation.
His daughter’s life was priceless, he’d assured her of that.
He paid the intial one million pounds without thinking of the financial strain it would place on an already dwindling family fortune. It’s my own fault, he acknowledged. He had never helped to grow the income since he’d inherited it. Instead he had blown it on foolish investments and failed businesses; he did exactly what his father had forbid and sat on the wealth, spoiled his family, he spoiled Victoria, he spoiled himself into softness and never prepared himself for this type of harshness. He gulped once more realizing what all he’d lost.
| Andrew Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : Victoria, I have paid the ransom they asked for when they last promised to release you. How much more do they want?
He stuttered. The lengths he was willing to go to remove her from her circumstances would take him to the very limits of his wealth, to the depths of bankruptcy perhaps, and for a moment his heart broke wondering if he was willing to lose the last vestiges of his wealth. She sobbed loudly in pain.
| Victoria Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : Daddy, please pay them, they’re hurting me.
It stung to the depths of himself. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and stifled his loud, angry sigh as he began to recite some sorry truths.
| Andrew Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : It is the policy of the British government not to pay ransoms to kidnappers, Victoria. Please tell your captors, reiterate for them, that I am raising the money the best that I can on my own, but…
| Victoria Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : Hurry, Daddy! Please, hurry, I can’t—do this--- anymore.
Her pained voice shook and wept. What are they doing to her? He caught his attention before it visualized the worst fates imaginable for his beloved only child and instead tried to remain clinical, but these were the signs he’d been warned about when told to be mindful of cues as to her mental state.
She was starting to crack, and why wouldn’t she?
He’d resided in the knowledge for but a year that his daughter was in nefarious hands. A year for him of contemplating the brutality she had already endured, and would continue to endure unless he rescued her. Andrew had a breakdown moments after the news had been delivered to him in a hushed, grave whisper: Victoria’s been taken, we received word a few hours ago.
| Andrew Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : How much do they want, Victoria?
He shut his eyes tightly in trepidation at the silence on the other end of the line. All attempts to discover the location of the kidnapper’s phone came back scrambled and unsuccessful. 'Whoever has her doesn’t wish to be found', had been the brutally obvious assessment of the experts at MI5.
| Victoria Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : …Two million pounds, Daddy.
He breathed a loud, incredulous gasp accidentally into the receiver.
Two million pounds?!
His daughter sobbed in agony on the other end of the phone at the sound of his balk. Andrew cringed and remembered how they’d gotten to this point.
Victoria Vane-Tempest-Stewart wanted to spread her wings before attending a university. She wanted to grow as a person; she wanted to experience the world. These things she told her proud, smiling parents as she sat before them looking prim and proper, and angelic. Andrew and Margaret Vane-Tempest-Stewart had beamed at the young woman they had raised even as they listed the concerns and requirements of such an arrangement.
Foolishly, Andrew now realized, it was him who had allowed all of this to come to pass. It was him, not his wife, who had fostered young Victoria’s thrill seeking and thirst for adventure. It was him who had let her out of his sight and opted for free-range parenting since the beginning and now? Behold, the danger she was in.
It was his fault for agreeing to send her off with so large a sum of money, almost a blank check, so she could follow her youthful ambitions. 'So much money, Andrew, a young beautiful, naïve, willful teenage girl was an instant target for predators', his wife had said and he had dismissed it with a laugh. A know-it-all laugh had been his reply to the legitimate concern of his wife, and now Victoria's whereabouts, by whom she’d been taken, and when the initial kidnapping had taken place all remained an utter mystery
‘Be glad there is still contact,’ MI5 consultants said as they horrifically outlined for him previous tragic outcomes they’d overseen shortly before their efforts yielded no results, and were forced to inform him they were pulling out of the search. He stared at the younger picture of his daughter on his desk and realized he’d lost her a decade ago.
| Andrew Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : …Victoria… I…
He braced himself once more. She whimpered softly over the phone line until he became resolute.
| Andrew Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : I’ll pay it, Victoria. Can you hear me? Tell them I’ll pay it. The same account as last time?
| Victoria Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : Yes, Daddy.
She murmured in pain that carried over the phone into his own heart.
| Victoria Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : They’re saying I have to go, Daddy.
Andrew opened his mouth, his own voice cracked as a tear welled inside of his eye socket.
| Andrew Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : Victoria, I—
| Victoria Vane-Tempest-Stewart | : Bye, Daddy.
Click.
Andrew blinked at the slow-settling silence that crept onto his phone line. His darkened expression only grew darker as he was left to deliberate over how he was to muster this new exorbitant ransom demand.
~-------~
Confident the call had been scrambled, her location impossible to pinpoint, Victoria Vane-Tempest-Stewart, The Bomb to those it now concerns, set the phone down on the counter next to the sink and proceeded to admire herself in the mirror. Near nude in red satin lingerie, she lifted her leg and rested her foot on the angled seat of the chair leaning on it’s side with the back of the chair wedged firmly under the door handle to forbid entry to the washroom she occupied.
At the sight of her reflection, reddened, glossy lips, hair loosely styled, eyeliner, shadow and blush had refused to smudge or show the signs of her Oscar-worthy kidnap performance, she licked her lips devilishly and fixed her garter and her stocking. She blew a kiss to her reflection, straightened up the washroom and exited.
She came to stand in the doorway of the bedroom, leaned against the door frame and propped one hand confidently against her hip eyeing in at him on the bed with a sexy smirk.
| The Bomb | : Hiya, daddy.
Jace Koufax lay naked under the white goose down bunched-up comforter reading what looked like Vintage Wrestling Club bio information. He looked away from it, setting it down entirely at the sight of her leaning against the door frame with one knee bent, alluringly sliding the sole of her foot along the wood. His attention was quickly roused and fixed on her, his eyes already wandering along her figure.
| Jace Koufax | : Who were you talking to?
She didn't hesitate.
| The Bomb | : The landlord.
She licked her lips, a coy grin her expression for him then she strode into the bedroom, crawled onto the bed, her eyes never leaving his as she straddled him where he lay.
| Jace Koufax | : You were shouting, baby.
She pouted, her hands reached for his wrists and tugged them free of the covers and settled them on the cheeks of her ass.
| The Bomb | : Had to show him who’s boss, daddy.
She watched with her fingertips with interest as she swirled them along his bare, muscular chest contemplatively before returning her eyes to his for sympathy.
| The Bomb | : I’m sorry if my yelling woke you up, daddy. I had to make him see things my way is all.
| Jace Koufax | : Oh yeah?
She nodded.
| The Bomb | : Mmmhmmm. Got our rent paid up for the rest of the year. Maybe two.
| Jace Koufax | : That’s my girl.
She leaned her head to one side; her hands gently pooled her hair down past her shoulder and looked at him possessively.
| The Bomb | : You know I’ll do anything for you, right?
Their grins met as he nodded an anticipatory nod while his fingers kneaded into the flesh of her backside. She leaned down and began kissing his chest.
| The Bomb | : I’m going to make it so we never have to worry about money again. Gonna make it so you only have to worry about knocking the stuffing out of whoever steps to you in that Vintage Wrestling Club ring from here to eternity, daddy. Mark my words.
She looked up into his pleased gaze as she slid lower down his body.
| The Bomb | : They have no clue what’s coming for them.
She whispered as she went lower…
~-------~
I’m not much for cameras.
You’re going to settle for written missives before my matches.
I don’t need you to see my face. I don’t want you to see my face.
The only type of object I will be is a self-guided missile directed at the foundation of the Vintage Wrestling Club.
I will be the axe chopping down your tree.
I will be the hand that holds you down.
And maybe? I’ll be merciful and let you drown.
I didn’t sign on the dotted line to take part in Keenan Hunt’s idea of publicity.
I’m not here to grow your company, little man.
I’m here to keep it just the way it is, the way I like it, the way it’ll stay.
It seems almost counter-intuitive, doesn’t it?
While most of you are joining the Vintage Wrestling Club for the money, or for the prestige of potentially adding a first title, another title, a notch to your win column, the perpetuation of your stardom, or becoming the “face” of the company, or whatever other cornball rationale you have for being here, I’m here to make sure this place stays underground.
This isn’t 4CW.
Perry Wallace can keep his 75% ownership bullshit, and whatever percentage of his fuckery he doesn’t shove up his own ass he can throw at his “hotshots” for bigger boobs, or invest in more mediocre marketing, or he can keep it in his damn pocket where his hand can be found rummaging for his dick.
Don’t bring your marketing here, “Perr-Bear”.
Mind your lane.
You stay where you are, Chris Madison. I don’t say so out of fear, indeed the thrill of competing against you would be quite the honor if, indeed, your streak is as well earned as your manager claims. But I don’t want you bringing your fanfare, your streak, and the media that hounds you into my house dragging their muddy shoes all over my nice, neat, clean new Vintage Wrestling Club floors. I don’t want you, and those like you, turning my place into a circus.
Keenan Hunt you will be made to understand that, by any means necessary, I’m going to commandeer this Vintage Wrestling Club ship and guide it to waters where you can all still make your money, but you’ll make it without the need of creating unnecessarily large waves.
I really hate to break it to you, chumps, but I have vested interest in keeping this place small-time. This will be mine and Jace Koufax’s home for a long time and we want the quiet life of kicking your asses together all the way into retirement without the hassle of “super stardom” that so many of you rush to like moths to the flame.
I just want to do what I love to do, friends, without the trappings you all find so enticing.
Don’t get in my way.
Don’t fuck with me.
And, so I enter this Invitational Gauntlet Battle Royal Match for… whatever branded title Keenan fancies to call it for a few reasons.
I love a good fight. I love the thrill of training, of discovering what limits I need to push past to accomplish what needs accomplishing. I do love gold. I do love winning. I do love staring an opponent in the eye and watching the moment they realize they’ve lost. There’s nothing sexier. And the adverse of that? I also love picking myself up out of the pit of defeat and coming back better than I was before. I love the striving, I love the improving, I love the inevitable pounding of your face into dust from whence it came.
So here’s the thing: when I win this match, when I stand atop the heap of defeated foes that come from near and far to ply their trade it’s me planting a flag. A sort of anti-flag, if you would, that symbolizes me telling all of you, and you Keenan Hunt, that this is my mountain.
I dictate who climbs it, how high you get, when you fall, and how fast.
Again, I repeat:
Don’t get in my way.
Don’t fuck with me.
A field of competitors will storm into the ring May 27th, and I’m likely to be the least of all of them when it comes to height, and weight. Sure, I could list my history, of the wins I’ve gained, of the losses I’ve had to eat, of the dues I’ve had to pay, but one reality I’ve been forced to realize in this business is that it’s not even sexist to brazenly declare that my chances are lessened when fighting against a slew of men, that I’m at a distinct physical disadvantage simply because of my gender.
My reach;
My physical strength;
My endurance;
All are in different ranges than most men. It’s an unfortunate fact. If Axel Odem, or who knows what other tall asshat steps up to me I have to jump twice as high just to kick his head off.
And that’s the beauty of it.
To climb up hill against the odds, to challenge, to risk so much more than those I face makes my inevitable success all the sweeter; to show an obvious disadvantage out the metaphorical door makes my view down the mountain at all the sorry looks on your faces juicier, tastier, more nourishing.
It will be holding the gate to see who makes it up here, friends. It'll be me choosing who's the least likely to take their winnings and make into something that might cause me trouble.
It will be me holding this federation down and steering the ship.
Growing up I used to hear William Golding quoted often when he said that anything you give a woman she would double.
If you give her a house, she’ll give you a home.
If you give her your seed, she’ll give you a family.
If you give her a challenge, adversity, grief, she’ll double it for you and make you sorry you ever brought it to her and thought you could make her suffer it in the first place.
Bring your worst all you Invitational accepters, and I’ll make it so you wish you were never born, that you never signed on the dotted line and thought, ‘heck, that Vintage Wrestling Club sounds like fun’.
Oh sure, it will be, kids.
So much fun.
But there are rules.
Again:
Don’t get in my way.
Don’t fuck with me.
I’ve trained my entire life to fight, to strive, to walk into this underground, hollowed out subway tunnel at Kill Season One and stake a claim of dominance no one has ever seen before.
This Open Invitational Gauntlet Battle Royal Match takes place after my Jace pummels the disgusting snot out of Yair OuttaHere or whatever his name is and sets the tone the rest of the night will follow.
Don’t be fooled by what Keenan Hunt and those like him would try to sell to you. Kill Season does very much mark the beginning of a distinct era of Vintage Wrestling, it’s just not the era he’s marketing.
And don’t be fooled by campaigns to mark out a face for this company.
Plaster your faces all over whatever you want, bitches.
The real power in the Vintage Wrestling Club will be playing well before the Rock Star and the Blonde Troll even so much as hear their entrance themes.
The real power in the Vintage Wrestling Club is something far meaner than two morons critiquing each other’s lifestyles and perceived worth.
The real power in the Vintage Wrestling Club is a weapon in the process of perfecting herself, something worse for your careers than simply a lost match.
My ethos works a little differently when I step into that ring.
I’ll knock your teeth out.
I’ll grab you by the balls and twist.
I’ll disfigure your pretty face into a grotesque.
I will reach straight for the heart of you, find your center, and destroy every little piece of you till there is nothing left, and no reason to fight back.
And all of this, May 27th, Kill Season One?
This is only the beginning.
Perfect Weapons Are Made Perfect Through Trial and Testing.
I Will Be Perfect.
I Will Be Perfect.