Post by Brenna Gordon on Jun 20, 2016 19:05:13 GMT -5
There was something unspeakably pure in Brenna's rage.
It had been building and building long since before she clicked 'play' on the video that Chris Parsons had recorded in regards to their match, truth be told. In the deepest corners of her mind which even her own conscious did not dare to dive into? It had been steadily expanding, sending lengthening tentacles out to feel out its limits to only find cold, open water. Other things grew alongside of it, of course--the grief she felt at never having a normal relationship with her mother, the sadness that any stray thoughts of her ever-absent father brought forth, the loneliness she felt that her numerous one-night stands only served to temporarily distract her from--but it was what many considered to be the ugliest of emotions, the most human of them that had been gathering mass and weight and form. And while it was bound to rise to the surface to tear apart anything that dared to float upon the surface of her gaze, well... the man that had decided to try to come at her with condescension and blatant disrespect had made a mistake that he hadn't even considered until the bell rang and she came at him with a vicious brutality that he might have been able to avoid if only he'd kept his fool mouth shut. He had given all of that gathered power, all of that endless and seething rage the only thing it needed to be unleashed. He gave it an easy target to focus on.
He had painted the fucking thing right between his own vacant eyes, as a matter of fact.
There wasn't an ounce of regret to be found in the one allegedly Born of Myth as she stood beneath the shower's flow, dark hair clinging to the pale topography of her shoulders and neck as her head bowed forward to allow the hot water to do its work. Adrenaline may have helped her throw around the supposed Nightmare like she was far closer to his size, but she knew full well that its departure would leave her upper body in ruins if she wasn't careful. Pain may have become an intimate friend by now--doubly so, considering the division she had wound up being declared the Queen of--but she knew that even if most of what Parsons had said was absolutely useless, there was one thing he had mentioned that was dead on. Even with there being weeks between shows, the toll of professional wrestling would wear her down unless she was careful. Tiger balm and taking it easy for a couple days would be enough, she was fairly sure... but then again, the idea of leaving the ache alone was just as appealing. A low sigh of contentment left her lips before they curled vaguely toward a smile. It would be a reminder, she decided, a pleasant reminder of how she took a disrespectful little punk like Parsons and brought him to heel--
Brenna's eyes snapped open at the intrusion of her mother's voice in her mind, the tension that suddenly coiled in her frame sending fresh waves of discomfort through her awareness. Forcing herself to raise her head is a Herculean effort, a furtive gaze cast out over the large shared shower ensured that she was alone before she closed her eyes anew and reached for the mental image of that roughly-hewn vase of simple wood and the scent of pollen. For a moment, a sweet and blessed moment, she swore she could feel calloused hands upon her own and the brush of a beard that was more cinnamon and sugar than salt and pepper against her brow--but then the waving, moving mass of windblown and golden fields darkened, the white sprouted ends of the hay turning into literal foamy caps as the stalks distorted and darkened. The many merged together into the one veritable Legion of the ocean during a storm, gold giving way to the darkest of blues that may as well be considered black... and as the waves grew closer to her mind's eye?
Her knees trembled before they turned to liquid, sending her tumbling backwards to the unforgiving tile below.
Even if the drain was working as it should, she swore she could feel the water rising-- the sensation of slowly being submerged dragging stars before her eyes that burned their way through to make themselves at home in her lungs. Trying to draw in a breath only made their fire grow, but panic didn't allow her to try to hold onto any air. It only made every last biological function run all the faster and that cold fire burn all the brighter as her lungs filled with fluid all over again, the world wavering and the sounds of the shore growing all the more distant... even though her mother's voice came through as clear as day. Of course it did-- Moira Gordon was never a woman to be denied, and the steel of her poet's fingers wrapping themselves around her sole heir's throat made that all the clearer.
That grip tightened upon her mind and her throat, her range of vision going dark about the edges as she struggled to find some way, any way of breaking the surface to get at the life-giving air that was just beyond her reach. Her hands clawed uselessly above her for a moment before she found the cool marble of what she imagined an enraged goddess' skin must feel like, unyielding and strong beyond all measure. She strained with all of her might to force those otherwordly hands to part, to release their hold upon her--and the little bit of distance she created was something she seized upon because she had no other option to get out of this alive. "G-Get out... get out of my mind."
"I SAID GET OUT!" Her voice rose in a panicked scream that echoed off of the tile around her, the sound distorting about the edges as she used every fiber of her being to shove that poisoned presence away from her before it did her in--and when she did? She felt resistance at first, a thickness that felt almost like a humid night on the coast before something gave, the sound of something shattering rattling every bone in her body. A vibration, a tremor of rage that felt so very much like her own sent her into a world of agony for a split-second before she was alone, well and truly alone again. Her eyes bolted their way open as she coughed raggedly, a mouthful of saltwater ejected with all due prejudice from her lungs before she was able to gasp for air. Tentative fingers rose to explore the pallid flesh of her neck, the dark-haired female wincing when they came upon the beginnings of what she was sure was bruises. She'd need to figure out a way of covering those up, she knew. Maybe she'd figure out something when she was capable of doing more than laying there, listening to the sound of her pulse rushing in her ears... but it didn't sound quite right. It sounded like--forcing herself to sit up, those seemingly too-large eyes went even wider as she scrambled her way to her knees, her pupils swallowing the darkness of her irises whole as she realized just what that sound was.
Every last shower head in the room was on and gushing water at full blast.
...water that smelled too much like salt for her comfort.
Hello again, PCW.
A small part of me is tempted to rub Chrissy-Boy's nose in his loss last Trauma--okay, so more than a small part of me wants to do that. I want to emasculate him further, remind him repeatedly that his ever-so-better-than-everyone ass lost to... whatever it was that he called me. I've already made a point of forgetting about the bullshit he spewed since I beat him, just like he said I wouldn't. I hope it was worth the effort, getting a clock set up just so and paying someone to edit the video together just right. If you ask me, though, you would've been far better served not worrying so much about running your mouth and focusing instead on training, on putting some work in on what actually matters in this business. I know that I'm just a rookie that hasn't been wrestling professionally all that long, but pro tip: having a large and overblown entrance doesn't mean fuck all if you're losing your ass off more often than not. I hope you're the one paying for it because if not, I see a downsizing in your future. Hell, maybe you'll be downsized off the roster entirely since you're failing to live up to your own hype.
A girl can hope.
(On a side note: Whoever put the surfboard under the ring... cute. Real cute. Mind leaving me something a little less clunky next time? Thanks in advance.)
Anyway, now that I've gotten that off my chest... it seems as if management has decided to truly throw me into the deep end for Trauma 194. I've never been in a fatal fourway before, though I can't imagine that it's all that much different than a triple threat. After a certain point, it's just a matter of there being another body involved that wants to get the win over me and, considering how the Underground Championship is up for grabs? That's only going to make this even more of a bloodbath than it would be otherwise. I'm not going to flinch away from this newest challenge, though, not when I'm just now finally becoming comfortable in my position as the Queen of the Underground. There's no such thing as being royalty (even if it's just a moniker) in times of war without getting one's hands dirty, after all, and I'm more than happy to oblige--
Oh, wait.
I'm supposed to be quaking in fear here, right Alexa? Shaking in my boots at the idea of getting into the ring with a woman that brutally injured Non Compos Mentis the same night that I made it to the finals of the Icemann Invitational Tournament. Yeah, well.. about that. I'd say I'm sorry to disappoint, but I'm not. You don't scare me. You don't come even remotely close. Sure, you're the leader of a group called the Darkness and you talk a big game about how you're going to end anyone and everyone that gets in your way... but there's a problem with using hyperbole like that, and it's one that I'm stunned no one else has called you on. You said you were going to end Rick Majors for wanting to dismantle the Darkness as an example, right? That you were going to wipe him off of the face of the Earth. Maybe it's because I was raised in a bilingual household, but to end someone means to... well, end them, right? Fade to black, game over, and so on.
But look at who's still alive and kicking.
Hell, you and your toadies needed to ambush Rick Majors just to subdue him long enough to kidnap him! And that's my entire point, Alexa. Each and every person you vowed to break is still here--and I'm pretty sure that NCM is going to be back sooner than later to take back that North American Title. Call it a hunch, if you want. And even if you want to argue that you did put him on the shelf for awhile... you didn't do it alone, now did you? Oh, no--just like damn near every other time you've made an impact, you've done it with help. What kind of living monster needs a whole army of help to take down a single man? A fraud, Alexa... and at Trauma, I'm going to see to it that you're exposed as one.
And your buddy is gonna help me do it.
Baby Jenks... I almost wonder if you've superglued your brass knuckles to your hand by now, as much as you rely on them to get anything done. Though wait, no--glue wouldn't be hardcore enough for the whole image you're trying to go for. You've got them sewn on with black leather cord you bought at the same shitty Halloween store that Seromine and his merry band of Mickey Mouse fuck-ups patronize. You did it with a rusty needle and nothing to help with the pain beyond the glass you ate for breakfast and... and... and I can't do this anymore. I can't humor the idea of you being anything but a pretender that's hitched herself to the nearest convenient group of Hot Topic goffs so that you can hide all those cracks in your facade behind a crowd of morons dressed in fake leather and dripping in Manic Panic. Not that there's anything wrong with the aesthetic-- Kelli makes candy-colored hair look good, as an example--but there's not a wardrobe change in the world that'll hide how yellow your stomach actually is.
Or are we supposed to ignore how the only time you ever manage to win is when you cheat?
I know that's gotta hurt your ego there, Jenks, but let's be real with ourselves here. If you were as skilled of a fighter as you want us to believe, then you would have a trail of victories behind you instead of a bunch of failures--some of which happened when you tried to be all clever only to be caught with your hand in your favorite weapon. And I know that there's no ban on weapons in Underground matches, but your lacking versatility and talent means that the only real chance of victory you've got... is none other than the only person that doesn't expect you to punch their lights out. You're allegedly loyal to Alexa, after all--and since you've got that insider perspective to know how far up her own delusions her head is? You know where her blindspot is. If it wasn't for how I have an obvious interest in winning this match, I'd almost consider sitting back and watching Alexa's head explode after your cheap shot... but you're just going to have to wait for another day to make your mark.
Isn't that a pity.
That leaves Dontevius Ellis and... mm. You're a breath of fresh air in this match, I hope you realize. Not just because you exist in the real world instead of whatever group hallucination Alexa and Jenks are sharing, but because you're a genuine challenge--and I don't get nearly enough of those. That isn't me dissing Grimm or Dan Fierce or St. Jury, of course... it's more a statement on how there's literally so much bullshit in this business that it's sometimes hard to remember just what it's all meant to be about. The only thing that's supposed to matter is what goes on in the ring. The only challenge? The person (or people, like in this case) across from you that trained just as hard as you did to have the same chance at success as you do. Size and strength and speed and weapons and all those other factors have a hand in it, sure--but that's where it ends. It's a shame that it isn't going to be that simple, huh? That we have to deal with the Darkness and whatever-the-Hell Seromine and his followers call themselves is bullshit, but I guess there's a bright side to all of this.
At least we don't have to suffer the nonsense of those fools alone, right?
That slight bit of kidding aside, you have something that neither of my other opponents have-- my respect. I know from experience that overcoming Kelli Starr's not remotely near easy, and you've done well for yourself in the ring even when you've lost. All anyone with a brain needs to do to see that you're going places is to bring up the tape of your match against Nathan Saniti because just like when I took Grimm to his limit only to fall short at the end? Holding your own for long enough makes just as much of a point as a win. I know you're not going to make this easy, Dontevius--and that's what I'm looking forward to. Thinking about it, how about when the bell rings... you handcuff Baby Jenks to one railing, I'll do the same thing to Alexa Black on the other side, and then we have ourselves the one-on-one match that we both want to have instead of having to worry about their dumb asses?
Once again, a girl can dream.
Then again, you know what else this girl can do? I can come out of this match the other side with my title reign intact... and that's what I will do. I don't care about the odds that are stacked against me, the inevitable interference and cheap tricks and heart-filled attempts to hold on until the bitter end-- I'm nowhere near done with making my presence as the Queen of the Underground felt. I won't be done until my name is what people associate with this championship above all others, and that's going to take awhile. A long while, actually... but it's like I've always said. I'm not afraid of a challenge. And I'm also sure as Hell not afraid of any of you. So in the (slightly amended) words of the man that has the greatest chin in all of B-moviedom?
Hail to the Queen, baby.
It had been building and building long since before she clicked 'play' on the video that Chris Parsons had recorded in regards to their match, truth be told. In the deepest corners of her mind which even her own conscious did not dare to dive into? It had been steadily expanding, sending lengthening tentacles out to feel out its limits to only find cold, open water. Other things grew alongside of it, of course--the grief she felt at never having a normal relationship with her mother, the sadness that any stray thoughts of her ever-absent father brought forth, the loneliness she felt that her numerous one-night stands only served to temporarily distract her from--but it was what many considered to be the ugliest of emotions, the most human of them that had been gathering mass and weight and form. And while it was bound to rise to the surface to tear apart anything that dared to float upon the surface of her gaze, well... the man that had decided to try to come at her with condescension and blatant disrespect had made a mistake that he hadn't even considered until the bell rang and she came at him with a vicious brutality that he might have been able to avoid if only he'd kept his fool mouth shut. He had given all of that gathered power, all of that endless and seething rage the only thing it needed to be unleashed. He gave it an easy target to focus on.
He had painted the fucking thing right between his own vacant eyes, as a matter of fact.
There wasn't an ounce of regret to be found in the one allegedly Born of Myth as she stood beneath the shower's flow, dark hair clinging to the pale topography of her shoulders and neck as her head bowed forward to allow the hot water to do its work. Adrenaline may have helped her throw around the supposed Nightmare like she was far closer to his size, but she knew full well that its departure would leave her upper body in ruins if she wasn't careful. Pain may have become an intimate friend by now--doubly so, considering the division she had wound up being declared the Queen of--but she knew that even if most of what Parsons had said was absolutely useless, there was one thing he had mentioned that was dead on. Even with there being weeks between shows, the toll of professional wrestling would wear her down unless she was careful. Tiger balm and taking it easy for a couple days would be enough, she was fairly sure... but then again, the idea of leaving the ache alone was just as appealing. A low sigh of contentment left her lips before they curled vaguely toward a smile. It would be a reminder, she decided, a pleasant reminder of how she took a disrespectful little punk like Parsons and brought him to heel--
"And so you will bring them all to heel, my daughter."
Brenna's eyes snapped open at the intrusion of her mother's voice in her mind, the tension that suddenly coiled in her frame sending fresh waves of discomfort through her awareness. Forcing herself to raise her head is a Herculean effort, a furtive gaze cast out over the large shared shower ensured that she was alone before she closed her eyes anew and reached for the mental image of that roughly-hewn vase of simple wood and the scent of pollen. For a moment, a sweet and blessed moment, she swore she could feel calloused hands upon her own and the brush of a beard that was more cinnamon and sugar than salt and pepper against her brow--but then the waving, moving mass of windblown and golden fields darkened, the white sprouted ends of the hay turning into literal foamy caps as the stalks distorted and darkened. The many merged together into the one veritable Legion of the ocean during a storm, gold giving way to the darkest of blues that may as well be considered black... and as the waves grew closer to her mind's eye?
Her knees trembled before they turned to liquid, sending her tumbling backwards to the unforgiving tile below.
"But before that, Brenna... you must be brought to heel. You must stop denying what you are."
Even if the drain was working as it should, she swore she could feel the water rising-- the sensation of slowly being submerged dragging stars before her eyes that burned their way through to make themselves at home in her lungs. Trying to draw in a breath only made their fire grow, but panic didn't allow her to try to hold onto any air. It only made every last biological function run all the faster and that cold fire burn all the brighter as her lungs filled with fluid all over again, the world wavering and the sounds of the shore growing all the more distant... even though her mother's voice came through as clear as day. Of course it did-- Moira Gordon was never a woman to be denied, and the steel of her poet's fingers wrapping themselves around her sole heir's throat made that all the clearer.
"Embrace that you are above them, the empty-headed pinkette and the man that pretends to know what lays beyond his feeble mortal comprehension! Breathe deep of our ancestral home and become what you are meant to be!"
That grip tightened upon her mind and her throat, her range of vision going dark about the edges as she struggled to find some way, any way of breaking the surface to get at the life-giving air that was just beyond her reach. Her hands clawed uselessly above her for a moment before she found the cool marble of what she imagined an enraged goddess' skin must feel like, unyielding and strong beyond all measure. She strained with all of her might to force those otherwordly hands to part, to release their hold upon her--and the little bit of distance she created was something she seized upon because she had no other option to get out of this alive. "G-Get out... get out of my mind."
"You will--"
"I SAID GET OUT!" Her voice rose in a panicked scream that echoed off of the tile around her, the sound distorting about the edges as she used every fiber of her being to shove that poisoned presence away from her before it did her in--and when she did? She felt resistance at first, a thickness that felt almost like a humid night on the coast before something gave, the sound of something shattering rattling every bone in her body. A vibration, a tremor of rage that felt so very much like her own sent her into a world of agony for a split-second before she was alone, well and truly alone again. Her eyes bolted their way open as she coughed raggedly, a mouthful of saltwater ejected with all due prejudice from her lungs before she was able to gasp for air. Tentative fingers rose to explore the pallid flesh of her neck, the dark-haired female wincing when they came upon the beginnings of what she was sure was bruises. She'd need to figure out a way of covering those up, she knew. Maybe she'd figure out something when she was capable of doing more than laying there, listening to the sound of her pulse rushing in her ears... but it didn't sound quite right. It sounded like--forcing herself to sit up, those seemingly too-large eyes went even wider as she scrambled her way to her knees, her pupils swallowing the darkness of her irises whole as she realized just what that sound was.
Every last shower head in the room was on and gushing water at full blast.
...water that smelled too much like salt for her comfort.
------------------------------♒------------------------------
CHAPTER FIVE
s i d e w a y s
------------------------------♒------------------------------
CHAPTER FIVE
s i d e w a y s
------------------------------♒------------------------------
[Excerpt posted from bornofmyth.blogspot.com
Dated: June 19th, 2016]
Dated: June 19th, 2016]
Hello again, PCW.
A small part of me is tempted to rub Chrissy-Boy's nose in his loss last Trauma--okay, so more than a small part of me wants to do that. I want to emasculate him further, remind him repeatedly that his ever-so-better-than-everyone ass lost to... whatever it was that he called me. I've already made a point of forgetting about the bullshit he spewed since I beat him, just like he said I wouldn't. I hope it was worth the effort, getting a clock set up just so and paying someone to edit the video together just right. If you ask me, though, you would've been far better served not worrying so much about running your mouth and focusing instead on training, on putting some work in on what actually matters in this business. I know that I'm just a rookie that hasn't been wrestling professionally all that long, but pro tip: having a large and overblown entrance doesn't mean fuck all if you're losing your ass off more often than not. I hope you're the one paying for it because if not, I see a downsizing in your future. Hell, maybe you'll be downsized off the roster entirely since you're failing to live up to your own hype.
A girl can hope.
(On a side note: Whoever put the surfboard under the ring... cute. Real cute. Mind leaving me something a little less clunky next time? Thanks in advance.)
Anyway, now that I've gotten that off my chest... it seems as if management has decided to truly throw me into the deep end for Trauma 194. I've never been in a fatal fourway before, though I can't imagine that it's all that much different than a triple threat. After a certain point, it's just a matter of there being another body involved that wants to get the win over me and, considering how the Underground Championship is up for grabs? That's only going to make this even more of a bloodbath than it would be otherwise. I'm not going to flinch away from this newest challenge, though, not when I'm just now finally becoming comfortable in my position as the Queen of the Underground. There's no such thing as being royalty (even if it's just a moniker) in times of war without getting one's hands dirty, after all, and I'm more than happy to oblige--
Oh, wait.
I'm supposed to be quaking in fear here, right Alexa? Shaking in my boots at the idea of getting into the ring with a woman that brutally injured Non Compos Mentis the same night that I made it to the finals of the Icemann Invitational Tournament. Yeah, well.. about that. I'd say I'm sorry to disappoint, but I'm not. You don't scare me. You don't come even remotely close. Sure, you're the leader of a group called the Darkness and you talk a big game about how you're going to end anyone and everyone that gets in your way... but there's a problem with using hyperbole like that, and it's one that I'm stunned no one else has called you on. You said you were going to end Rick Majors for wanting to dismantle the Darkness as an example, right? That you were going to wipe him off of the face of the Earth. Maybe it's because I was raised in a bilingual household, but to end someone means to... well, end them, right? Fade to black, game over, and so on.
But look at who's still alive and kicking.
Hell, you and your toadies needed to ambush Rick Majors just to subdue him long enough to kidnap him! And that's my entire point, Alexa. Each and every person you vowed to break is still here--and I'm pretty sure that NCM is going to be back sooner than later to take back that North American Title. Call it a hunch, if you want. And even if you want to argue that you did put him on the shelf for awhile... you didn't do it alone, now did you? Oh, no--just like damn near every other time you've made an impact, you've done it with help. What kind of living monster needs a whole army of help to take down a single man? A fraud, Alexa... and at Trauma, I'm going to see to it that you're exposed as one.
And your buddy is gonna help me do it.
Baby Jenks... I almost wonder if you've superglued your brass knuckles to your hand by now, as much as you rely on them to get anything done. Though wait, no--glue wouldn't be hardcore enough for the whole image you're trying to go for. You've got them sewn on with black leather cord you bought at the same shitty Halloween store that Seromine and his merry band of Mickey Mouse fuck-ups patronize. You did it with a rusty needle and nothing to help with the pain beyond the glass you ate for breakfast and... and... and I can't do this anymore. I can't humor the idea of you being anything but a pretender that's hitched herself to the nearest convenient group of Hot Topic goffs so that you can hide all those cracks in your facade behind a crowd of morons dressed in fake leather and dripping in Manic Panic. Not that there's anything wrong with the aesthetic-- Kelli makes candy-colored hair look good, as an example--but there's not a wardrobe change in the world that'll hide how yellow your stomach actually is.
Or are we supposed to ignore how the only time you ever manage to win is when you cheat?
I know that's gotta hurt your ego there, Jenks, but let's be real with ourselves here. If you were as skilled of a fighter as you want us to believe, then you would have a trail of victories behind you instead of a bunch of failures--some of which happened when you tried to be all clever only to be caught with your hand in your favorite weapon. And I know that there's no ban on weapons in Underground matches, but your lacking versatility and talent means that the only real chance of victory you've got... is none other than the only person that doesn't expect you to punch their lights out. You're allegedly loyal to Alexa, after all--and since you've got that insider perspective to know how far up her own delusions her head is? You know where her blindspot is. If it wasn't for how I have an obvious interest in winning this match, I'd almost consider sitting back and watching Alexa's head explode after your cheap shot... but you're just going to have to wait for another day to make your mark.
Isn't that a pity.
That leaves Dontevius Ellis and... mm. You're a breath of fresh air in this match, I hope you realize. Not just because you exist in the real world instead of whatever group hallucination Alexa and Jenks are sharing, but because you're a genuine challenge--and I don't get nearly enough of those. That isn't me dissing Grimm or Dan Fierce or St. Jury, of course... it's more a statement on how there's literally so much bullshit in this business that it's sometimes hard to remember just what it's all meant to be about. The only thing that's supposed to matter is what goes on in the ring. The only challenge? The person (or people, like in this case) across from you that trained just as hard as you did to have the same chance at success as you do. Size and strength and speed and weapons and all those other factors have a hand in it, sure--but that's where it ends. It's a shame that it isn't going to be that simple, huh? That we have to deal with the Darkness and whatever-the-Hell Seromine and his followers call themselves is bullshit, but I guess there's a bright side to all of this.
At least we don't have to suffer the nonsense of those fools alone, right?
That slight bit of kidding aside, you have something that neither of my other opponents have-- my respect. I know from experience that overcoming Kelli Starr's not remotely near easy, and you've done well for yourself in the ring even when you've lost. All anyone with a brain needs to do to see that you're going places is to bring up the tape of your match against Nathan Saniti because just like when I took Grimm to his limit only to fall short at the end? Holding your own for long enough makes just as much of a point as a win. I know you're not going to make this easy, Dontevius--and that's what I'm looking forward to. Thinking about it, how about when the bell rings... you handcuff Baby Jenks to one railing, I'll do the same thing to Alexa Black on the other side, and then we have ourselves the one-on-one match that we both want to have instead of having to worry about their dumb asses?
Once again, a girl can dream.
Then again, you know what else this girl can do? I can come out of this match the other side with my title reign intact... and that's what I will do. I don't care about the odds that are stacked against me, the inevitable interference and cheap tricks and heart-filled attempts to hold on until the bitter end-- I'm nowhere near done with making my presence as the Queen of the Underground felt. I won't be done until my name is what people associate with this championship above all others, and that's going to take awhile. A long while, actually... but it's like I've always said. I'm not afraid of a challenge. And I'm also sure as Hell not afraid of any of you. So in the (slightly amended) words of the man that has the greatest chin in all of B-moviedom?
Hail to the Queen, baby.
