Post by Emma Danielson on Nov 26, 2010 23:54:50 GMT -6
We open on a thumping sound. It sounds like something being struck against a wall repeatedly. The camera walks slowly through what the viewers may recognize as Emma Danielson's hotel room, coming to the edge of the bedroom area. The sound gets louder, and the camera peers around the corner to reveal Emma thumping her head against the drywall. She looks down, sighing loudly before headbutting the wall another time and slumping down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling with a despondent look on her face.
“Oh my lord...you say I can't listen? You call ME ignorant, you little Californian twat? This is beautiful. This is simply brilliant. First off, it's AYLA St. James, you disrespectful dumbass. Zelda didn't need power to beat me. She just needed to be the single most talented performer in this company's history. You? You're nowhere near her level. You're not even fit to lick her boots clean, and this is coming from someone who hates her guts. Trish, you simply aren't good enough to beat me. You couldn't beat Zelda, and you can't beat me.”
She sits up, leaning against the headboard of the bed. Emma smiles to herself, still a bit dazed from her head-on confrontation with the wall. She brushes some of her hair out of her face, looking at the deactivated TV as her head swims. Emma coughs a bit, and she tries to focus, rubbing the bridge of her nose. As the buzzing in her head begins to grow in intensity, she begins to regret her decision. Moving on, she tries to present herself as well as she can.
“I understand that you feel ripped off. You hit the last move. But it's about more than just being able to hit moves. You need to be an opportunist. To be successful in this business, you need to know when to strike for maximum effectiveness. I did that. I chose my moment to move in, and I walked out with the Women's Title because of it. You think you've been chasing this belt for a long time? You have NO IDEA how hard I've worked for it. So to hear you complain and bitch and moan about spending “too long” chasing the belt just pisses me off.”
Emma looks at herself in the mirror leaning against one of the walls. She smiles faintly at the image presented to her: a woman in her late twenties, chronically sleep-deprived and more muscular than some of the men on the roster, but still with an odd charm about her. Most importantly, she's a champion. Emma nods to herself, sitting up even more as she speaks.
“You think I'm going to get winded beating you down? I was a track runner in high school. I haven't been neglecting my conditioning just so I could get raw power. That would be stupid. I mean, who would want to see an overmuscled hoss wheeze their way through a match?”
Emma shoots a knowing glance, winking at the camera and mouthing “Nothing personal, Dave.” She looks back away towards the mirror.
“Exactly. I'm smarter than you give me credit for, you dumb bitch. I wouldn't have this title if I hadn't considered more than just my strength. Do you want me to make you tap out? Fine. I've got ways to make that happen too. Seriously, I'm willing to dish out the pain to you any way you want me to. Got any more requests? Maybe I should break your leg while we're in there. Maybe I piledrive you through a table. Anything can happen in nCw, it's just limited by your imagination!”
She laughs to herself, showing a glint of madness in her eyes. Emma stands up, walking over to one of her suitcases and opening it up. She withdraws a Singapore cane, grinning to herself, and sets it aside. She does the same for a sledgehammer and a baseball bat, before grabbing a steel chair from the bottom of the suitcase. She opens it up and sits down in it, stretching out with a big grin on her face.
“You think that a chair scares me? Look at my name. I'm the Hardcore Hellion for a reason. I make people hurt. I do things with weapons that nobody thought possible. I'm friggin' Rembrandt with a Singapore cane. I'm Monet with a ladder. I'm Picasso with a stop sign. I turn hardcore wrestling into an art form, and each and every one of my opponents is my canvas. You want to put yourself in that position? Be my guest.”
Emma's face goes from happy to depressed in a heartbeat, and she stands up, grabbing all her hardcore toys and putting them back in the suitcase. She folds up the chair last, patting it fondly and giving it a quick kiss before setting it on top of the pile of weaponry and closing up the suitcase. Emma walks back over to the bed, flopping back down with a huge sigh of disappointment.
“But this isn't a hardcore match, sadly. We have to play nice with each other, and that means no weapons. However...I can still use the ring against you. The ropes, the posts, the apron, the stairs...that's all I need to make your life a living hell. Ohh, it's going to be even more fun than I thought. You thought you were crazy? You're nothing compared to me. You are NOTHING, do you hear me?”
She laughs to herself again, shaking her head and folding her arms behind her head. Emma looks around, laughing somewhat dementedly. She stops herself, trying to focus, and lets out another quiet sigh before fully leaning back. Her hair pools out around her head, disrupting her minimal efforts at restyling her hair.
“I probably sound crazy. Well, maybe I am. Maybe I'm crazy. So what? That makes me more awesome. Nobody wants a sane champion. Sanity is boring. You, on the other hand...what's distinguishing about you? You're Californian? You're entitled? You're a bitch? Trish, you're as cookie-cutter as they come. I might not be what you think is hot, but I'm unique. We went from a manic pixie with a video game obsession to me. See, no matter what, nCw's women are anything but generic. You're generic. I've heard your act before, and I've heard it done better.”
Emma sits up, rolling her eyes. She pulls her hair back and grabs a binder from the table, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. She looks at herself in the mirror, grinning to herself. She nods appreciatively before turning and leaning against the near wall. Emma closes her eyes, letting her imagination take over.
“I can hear you whining now: “But I'm better than them! I'm Trish Newborn!” I don't care if your name is Chester McCheesington the 57th. As far as I'm concerned, you're just another victim. See, I don't play by the rules that a lot of other people do. I do what I want, when I want, for my own reasons. And if you're not down with that, I got two words for you...tough s***. Like I said, I do what I want, when I want. And what I want this Sunday is to drill you into the canvas for the one-two-three. And it'll happen. Trust me.”
Danielson walks back to the bed, laying down. She rolls onto her side, looking at the alarm clock. The red numbers stare back at her, and she shakes her head, speaking to them while intently glaring back at the harsh LED lighting.
“Trish, this is a guaran-damn-tee. I'm going to beat you. And I'm going to have enough energy afterward to freakin' run a marathon. Wake up. This isn't your time. It's my turn, and you won't deny me my time in the limelight. You can try if you want to. But there is no way in hell that you're winning. Quoth the Hellion...f*** it, I don't have anything witty. Just die already.”
Fade to black.
“Oh my lord...you say I can't listen? You call ME ignorant, you little Californian twat? This is beautiful. This is simply brilliant. First off, it's AYLA St. James, you disrespectful dumbass. Zelda didn't need power to beat me. She just needed to be the single most talented performer in this company's history. You? You're nowhere near her level. You're not even fit to lick her boots clean, and this is coming from someone who hates her guts. Trish, you simply aren't good enough to beat me. You couldn't beat Zelda, and you can't beat me.”
She sits up, leaning against the headboard of the bed. Emma smiles to herself, still a bit dazed from her head-on confrontation with the wall. She brushes some of her hair out of her face, looking at the deactivated TV as her head swims. Emma coughs a bit, and she tries to focus, rubbing the bridge of her nose. As the buzzing in her head begins to grow in intensity, she begins to regret her decision. Moving on, she tries to present herself as well as she can.
“I understand that you feel ripped off. You hit the last move. But it's about more than just being able to hit moves. You need to be an opportunist. To be successful in this business, you need to know when to strike for maximum effectiveness. I did that. I chose my moment to move in, and I walked out with the Women's Title because of it. You think you've been chasing this belt for a long time? You have NO IDEA how hard I've worked for it. So to hear you complain and bitch and moan about spending “too long” chasing the belt just pisses me off.”
Emma looks at herself in the mirror leaning against one of the walls. She smiles faintly at the image presented to her: a woman in her late twenties, chronically sleep-deprived and more muscular than some of the men on the roster, but still with an odd charm about her. Most importantly, she's a champion. Emma nods to herself, sitting up even more as she speaks.
“You think I'm going to get winded beating you down? I was a track runner in high school. I haven't been neglecting my conditioning just so I could get raw power. That would be stupid. I mean, who would want to see an overmuscled hoss wheeze their way through a match?”
Emma shoots a knowing glance, winking at the camera and mouthing “Nothing personal, Dave.” She looks back away towards the mirror.
“Exactly. I'm smarter than you give me credit for, you dumb bitch. I wouldn't have this title if I hadn't considered more than just my strength. Do you want me to make you tap out? Fine. I've got ways to make that happen too. Seriously, I'm willing to dish out the pain to you any way you want me to. Got any more requests? Maybe I should break your leg while we're in there. Maybe I piledrive you through a table. Anything can happen in nCw, it's just limited by your imagination!”
She laughs to herself, showing a glint of madness in her eyes. Emma stands up, walking over to one of her suitcases and opening it up. She withdraws a Singapore cane, grinning to herself, and sets it aside. She does the same for a sledgehammer and a baseball bat, before grabbing a steel chair from the bottom of the suitcase. She opens it up and sits down in it, stretching out with a big grin on her face.
“You think that a chair scares me? Look at my name. I'm the Hardcore Hellion for a reason. I make people hurt. I do things with weapons that nobody thought possible. I'm friggin' Rembrandt with a Singapore cane. I'm Monet with a ladder. I'm Picasso with a stop sign. I turn hardcore wrestling into an art form, and each and every one of my opponents is my canvas. You want to put yourself in that position? Be my guest.”
Emma's face goes from happy to depressed in a heartbeat, and she stands up, grabbing all her hardcore toys and putting them back in the suitcase. She folds up the chair last, patting it fondly and giving it a quick kiss before setting it on top of the pile of weaponry and closing up the suitcase. Emma walks back over to the bed, flopping back down with a huge sigh of disappointment.
“But this isn't a hardcore match, sadly. We have to play nice with each other, and that means no weapons. However...I can still use the ring against you. The ropes, the posts, the apron, the stairs...that's all I need to make your life a living hell. Ohh, it's going to be even more fun than I thought. You thought you were crazy? You're nothing compared to me. You are NOTHING, do you hear me?”
She laughs to herself again, shaking her head and folding her arms behind her head. Emma looks around, laughing somewhat dementedly. She stops herself, trying to focus, and lets out another quiet sigh before fully leaning back. Her hair pools out around her head, disrupting her minimal efforts at restyling her hair.
“I probably sound crazy. Well, maybe I am. Maybe I'm crazy. So what? That makes me more awesome. Nobody wants a sane champion. Sanity is boring. You, on the other hand...what's distinguishing about you? You're Californian? You're entitled? You're a bitch? Trish, you're as cookie-cutter as they come. I might not be what you think is hot, but I'm unique. We went from a manic pixie with a video game obsession to me. See, no matter what, nCw's women are anything but generic. You're generic. I've heard your act before, and I've heard it done better.”
Emma sits up, rolling her eyes. She pulls her hair back and grabs a binder from the table, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. She looks at herself in the mirror, grinning to herself. She nods appreciatively before turning and leaning against the near wall. Emma closes her eyes, letting her imagination take over.
“I can hear you whining now: “But I'm better than them! I'm Trish Newborn!” I don't care if your name is Chester McCheesington the 57th. As far as I'm concerned, you're just another victim. See, I don't play by the rules that a lot of other people do. I do what I want, when I want, for my own reasons. And if you're not down with that, I got two words for you...tough s***. Like I said, I do what I want, when I want. And what I want this Sunday is to drill you into the canvas for the one-two-three. And it'll happen. Trust me.”
Danielson walks back to the bed, laying down. She rolls onto her side, looking at the alarm clock. The red numbers stare back at her, and she shakes her head, speaking to them while intently glaring back at the harsh LED lighting.
“Trish, this is a guaran-damn-tee. I'm going to beat you. And I'm going to have enough energy afterward to freakin' run a marathon. Wake up. This isn't your time. It's my turn, and you won't deny me my time in the limelight. You can try if you want to. But there is no way in hell that you're winning. Quoth the Hellion...f*** it, I don't have anything witty. Just die already.”
Fade to black.