Post by Dollface on Aug 7, 2015 21:59:24 GMT -5
Kelli stomps in, fresh from recording a promo for the general PCW Verse, looking no more cheerful than she had when she left. Raising an eyebrow, Mark Harris looks up from his magazine, having hoped his mercurial employer would be slightly calmer after venting her spleen at a video camera for a while.
"Didn't get it out of your system?"
Kelli has the grace to look abashed, scuffing her glittery pink sneaker on the expensive carpet.
"I didn't even talk about what I'm really mad about." Staring at her feet, she pretends to be super interested in the sparkles of light rather than risk meeting Mark's all too perceptive gaze.
"Well, what are you really mad about, Kelli?"
THERE it is. As if she'd been waiting for permission (and to be honest, she kind of had), Kelli forges ahead with the gripe.
"I've been hearing some shit lately. Not just some shit, but Some Shit. All kinds of noise, rumor and wrangle, ballast and bullshit. Seems like Non Compos Mentis wants to run his mouth about how I've betrayed him."
"Didn't you?"
"I didn't betray him - he flat out failed, and his male ego can't handle the idea that maybe he done fucked up somewhere. I don't see HIM beating the Black Hand's ass, right?"
"You also don't see him HELPING the Black Hand, Kelli."
Kelli schools her features into an expression of piety, surprisingly effective for its hollowness. "It is better to be the hand of the Devil than in his path."
Mark frowns. "Don't talk like that, that's not cool."
"Are you serious right now?" Mark opens his mouth, but Kelli cuts him off before he can even begin. "Dude, don't EVEN. I've been holding this in for MONTHS and I'm fucking tired of it. I'm tired of people assuming why I'm helping the Black Hand, I'm tired of people assuming the Black Hand are even bad guys -"
This time it's Mark's turn to interrupt. "How are they NOT bad guys? You've seen what they've done to people, you've seen how badly they've hurt some of the talents on the roster. You saw what they did to Eira..."
Kelli winces, but quickly forces the expression away. "No. I'm not dealing with that. Do you know how fragile the first few weeks of pregnancy are? For all we know Murdoc drilled her too hard the night before and he did it himself with his massive -"
Mark claps his hands over his ears, shaking his head. "NOT LISTENING."
Kelli stares at him a minute, arms crossed in annoyance.
"No, seriously, I'm tired of it. I'm tired of everyone talking about what evil dudes they are, and how I'm such a turncoat and traitor. I know how this shit works, and in this business it's almost worse than anywhere else. When it comes to their women superstars, I get it, the PCW Faithful want a certain kind of someone. They want pretty - so they don't clamor after Eira, because she's creepy looking and intimidates a lot of them. They want someone they can really rally behind - so they don't go buying fap calendars of Alexa, because she fucking kills people for no reason. They want someone they can really cheer for - so they don't appreciate ME anymore because I've become too unpredictable."
Mark just looks at her sadly, shaking his head as he rises from his chair. "They used to really cheer for you, Kelli. They used to love you, and what you stood for." He makes his way towards the door, giving her a nod before he moves through and closes it behind him. "Maybe you need to remember what that was."
Kelli scowls after him, glaring metaphorical holes in the door for a good few minutes before flopping unceremoniously into the nearest chair of the Manor's foyer. Tilting her head back, she stares at the ceiling, a heavy sigh dragging through her frame as she considers her chances.
NCM. Non Compos Mentis. The former Hobo King. Even more formerly known as Sean Rhodes, who was formerly known as the PCW World. Freaking. Champion. So, THAT'S a thing. This is his shot at the Grand Slam, and he's going to bring this match everything he's got short of anti-aircraft artillery. Then again he might have a few hobos scattered around the crowd armed with broken glass bottles, so who the hell knows, right? Nah. That's not really his style anymore - I guess. So he says. Anyway, now that he's back and Fighting the Good Fight, he's pissed off at ME because I didn't jump onto his bandwagon of "let's help NCM become more of a fucking legend than he already is". After seeing his behavior from when I joined PCW til now, it's almost impossible for me to believe that he has any kind of altruistic intentions. Any at all.
Scrunching her face up, she closes her eyes tight, wishing for some kind of saving grace to come give her inspiration. Maybe... was that... nope. Just gas.
It's going to be my second match of the night. I'm going to take a hit because I'm already tired, I've already gotten my ass kicked around a ring once. When, exactly, did I decide this was a good idea? Oh right. When I thought I'd have more time to get ready. When I thought I'd have less of the rest of the world all up in my everything when I needed time to get ready. THAT'S when I thought this was a thing I could actually pull off. Spoiler alert, folks: I fucking can't. I'm calling it now. NCM is going to walk out of that ring the new and arguably more deserving International Champion. Let's be real here - I don't even know how I beat Nathan last time, except I used that low blow move, but only because I really wanted Sadistic to let me GO.
Hands in fists, she pounds the arms of the chair, annoyed when the soft padding absorbs the sound without so much as a squeak of protest.
And here we have Sadistic again! Because really, that's a thing happening these days. I don't know what's going on anymore. I guess it's time to wrap this shit up and focus on what I'll be doing as the Tag Champion, IF I win the Tag Championship, because I'm just too distracted to figure this shit with NCM out. It... it sucks. It honestly sucks. I wanted to hold this belt for a while, to really be a contender. Whitey became fucking famous because he held the International so long, and I want to be that famous too. Sure it's great to hold the belts and get those ticks in the "have I held it" column, but to really hold it and do it justice? That's what I want. That's what I want, and that's not gonna be what happens here. NCM is going to win, I'm going to lose, and he'll consider it the Universe (or God - is he a God goon? who knows) setting things to rights because I'm the untrustworthy harlot. Fuck that guy anyway. It's not like he tried very hard to figure out what I was trying to say to him. Didn't even have the sense to try meeting me HERE or anywhere we would actually be guaranteed to - you know - BE ALONE.
Opening her eyes, she lifts her head and rises from the chair, stumbling a bit on her way to her room. Her shoulders slumped, her posture reflects the weight of her recent thoughts, ricocheting around inside her skull.
So here we go, folks. This is it. This is Kelli "Dollface" Starr losing the International Championship because too much. That doesn't seem like a reason, does it, too much? Think about it. You'll work it out. You'll work it out just fine.
NCM? Enjoy your fucking title, you self righteous, try-hard prick.
"Didn't get it out of your system?"
Kelli has the grace to look abashed, scuffing her glittery pink sneaker on the expensive carpet.
"I didn't even talk about what I'm really mad about." Staring at her feet, she pretends to be super interested in the sparkles of light rather than risk meeting Mark's all too perceptive gaze.
"Well, what are you really mad about, Kelli?"
THERE it is. As if she'd been waiting for permission (and to be honest, she kind of had), Kelli forges ahead with the gripe.
"I've been hearing some shit lately. Not just some shit, but Some Shit. All kinds of noise, rumor and wrangle, ballast and bullshit. Seems like Non Compos Mentis wants to run his mouth about how I've betrayed him."
"Didn't you?"
"I didn't betray him - he flat out failed, and his male ego can't handle the idea that maybe he done fucked up somewhere. I don't see HIM beating the Black Hand's ass, right?"
"You also don't see him HELPING the Black Hand, Kelli."
Kelli schools her features into an expression of piety, surprisingly effective for its hollowness. "It is better to be the hand of the Devil than in his path."
Mark frowns. "Don't talk like that, that's not cool."
"Are you serious right now?" Mark opens his mouth, but Kelli cuts him off before he can even begin. "Dude, don't EVEN. I've been holding this in for MONTHS and I'm fucking tired of it. I'm tired of people assuming why I'm helping the Black Hand, I'm tired of people assuming the Black Hand are even bad guys -"
This time it's Mark's turn to interrupt. "How are they NOT bad guys? You've seen what they've done to people, you've seen how badly they've hurt some of the talents on the roster. You saw what they did to Eira..."
Kelli winces, but quickly forces the expression away. "No. I'm not dealing with that. Do you know how fragile the first few weeks of pregnancy are? For all we know Murdoc drilled her too hard the night before and he did it himself with his massive -"
Mark claps his hands over his ears, shaking his head. "NOT LISTENING."
Kelli stares at him a minute, arms crossed in annoyance.
"No, seriously, I'm tired of it. I'm tired of everyone talking about what evil dudes they are, and how I'm such a turncoat and traitor. I know how this shit works, and in this business it's almost worse than anywhere else. When it comes to their women superstars, I get it, the PCW Faithful want a certain kind of someone. They want pretty - so they don't clamor after Eira, because she's creepy looking and intimidates a lot of them. They want someone they can really rally behind - so they don't go buying fap calendars of Alexa, because she fucking kills people for no reason. They want someone they can really cheer for - so they don't appreciate ME anymore because I've become too unpredictable."
Mark just looks at her sadly, shaking his head as he rises from his chair. "They used to really cheer for you, Kelli. They used to love you, and what you stood for." He makes his way towards the door, giving her a nod before he moves through and closes it behind him. "Maybe you need to remember what that was."
Kelli scowls after him, glaring metaphorical holes in the door for a good few minutes before flopping unceremoniously into the nearest chair of the Manor's foyer. Tilting her head back, she stares at the ceiling, a heavy sigh dragging through her frame as she considers her chances.
NCM. Non Compos Mentis. The former Hobo King. Even more formerly known as Sean Rhodes, who was formerly known as the PCW World. Freaking. Champion. So, THAT'S a thing. This is his shot at the Grand Slam, and he's going to bring this match everything he's got short of anti-aircraft artillery. Then again he might have a few hobos scattered around the crowd armed with broken glass bottles, so who the hell knows, right? Nah. That's not really his style anymore - I guess. So he says. Anyway, now that he's back and Fighting the Good Fight, he's pissed off at ME because I didn't jump onto his bandwagon of "let's help NCM become more of a fucking legend than he already is". After seeing his behavior from when I joined PCW til now, it's almost impossible for me to believe that he has any kind of altruistic intentions. Any at all.
Scrunching her face up, she closes her eyes tight, wishing for some kind of saving grace to come give her inspiration. Maybe... was that... nope. Just gas.
It's going to be my second match of the night. I'm going to take a hit because I'm already tired, I've already gotten my ass kicked around a ring once. When, exactly, did I decide this was a good idea? Oh right. When I thought I'd have more time to get ready. When I thought I'd have less of the rest of the world all up in my everything when I needed time to get ready. THAT'S when I thought this was a thing I could actually pull off. Spoiler alert, folks: I fucking can't. I'm calling it now. NCM is going to walk out of that ring the new and arguably more deserving International Champion. Let's be real here - I don't even know how I beat Nathan last time, except I used that low blow move, but only because I really wanted Sadistic to let me GO.
Hands in fists, she pounds the arms of the chair, annoyed when the soft padding absorbs the sound without so much as a squeak of protest.
And here we have Sadistic again! Because really, that's a thing happening these days. I don't know what's going on anymore. I guess it's time to wrap this shit up and focus on what I'll be doing as the Tag Champion, IF I win the Tag Championship, because I'm just too distracted to figure this shit with NCM out. It... it sucks. It honestly sucks. I wanted to hold this belt for a while, to really be a contender. Whitey became fucking famous because he held the International so long, and I want to be that famous too. Sure it's great to hold the belts and get those ticks in the "have I held it" column, but to really hold it and do it justice? That's what I want. That's what I want, and that's not gonna be what happens here. NCM is going to win, I'm going to lose, and he'll consider it the Universe (or God - is he a God goon? who knows) setting things to rights because I'm the untrustworthy harlot. Fuck that guy anyway. It's not like he tried very hard to figure out what I was trying to say to him. Didn't even have the sense to try meeting me HERE or anywhere we would actually be guaranteed to - you know - BE ALONE.
Opening her eyes, she lifts her head and rises from the chair, stumbling a bit on her way to her room. Her shoulders slumped, her posture reflects the weight of her recent thoughts, ricocheting around inside her skull.
So here we go, folks. This is it. This is Kelli "Dollface" Starr losing the International Championship because too much. That doesn't seem like a reason, does it, too much? Think about it. You'll work it out. You'll work it out just fine.
NCM? Enjoy your fucking title, you self righteous, try-hard prick.
