I'm too tired to title this roleplay

Well, that went pretty well.

Honestly? We're disappointed. We were waiting for Kohime to nut up and throw hands or Brangel and her real girlfriend to get us from behind. We knew damn well Double-V wasn't going to do shit. That whole group is filled with nothing but pussy and god forbid they would have to dirty their hands after one of their own gets beaten down for the second time on their watch. There was also a small glimmer of hope that we could be the meat in a Colhime sammich. Savannah Scandal could've had that one for free!

But alas. Nothing but pouting and threats about what we already know is coming. “ShE's CoMiNg BaCk, YoU kNoW?” No shit. We did light work. All we're waiting for is if somebody new pops up on the roulette wheel. The worst part is they didn't even ask the best questions. Instead of “why?” or “how could you?”, what they should've asked is “don't you feel guilty?” That would've been a juicier inquiry. Something to really sink the teeth into.

And the answer is…no.

Okay, maybe we couldn't feel it in the moment because we compartmentalize things, right? There's always a certain amount of emotional distance when we're caught up in action. So that makes sense. And we sure as shit wasn't feeling it after we came home and got dicked down. But I was thinking that maybe the morning after or a few days removed, something would've hit.

Because the crazy part is we don't feel pride about what we did to Ria either. How could we? There isn't really all that much to feel proud about. We beat the living fuck out of her backstage when she didn't expect it just like every other person. Yawn. Boring. Change the channel. It's a day ending in y and she can't even have the slightest bit of hope without somebody caving her head in.

But it was us doing it. Anna Daniels. The woman she called her sister. The one who was always on her side. We should feel shame about it. We see that assumption on Sandra Brooks’ face as she asked the question. We gauge the anger in Kohime Mori's face as she stomped her feet. We felt the pressure the moment we stepped foot into the arena. This aura of “you should feel like shit, what you did was shit, and you don’t deserve respect for shit”. We should feel bad for this and we know it.

Yet we still don't. And we're just as baffled as you are.

If they really wanted to have that conversation, we would be more than happy to have it. But they didn't. Not really. The opinions are already solidified. When she said “everybody wants to know why”, she knew she was lying. So did we. So why humor ‘em?

The sad part is once again, we've been proven right. Because not a single person even gave a thought about the gold we possess and what it's supposed to represent.

________

“So I heard ya got a massive dick.”

Welcome to awkward conversations with the Daniels Clan. Starring Jacky Rex as the smirking husband, Anna as the cackling wife, and featuring Bucky as the greatest dog in any universe. On this episode, we catch up with our heroes in the basement. Specifically, it is a Saturday and on Saturdays, we do laundry. And I bet you can't guess who said that line in particular.

The Muse grins as she shoves yet another miscellaneous load of clothing into the robot sink and presses the buttons.

“A fucking whopper one, Jack. It's damn near certified.”

Trash talk can often turn strange. One woman talks about dick during one of her rants on how she gets treated like a freak (she doesn't). Another makes a joke about the comment being kinky. Before you know it, you're measuring physically non-existent cocks via threats of a wrestling match. Try guessing which one Anna was in this situation.

If you think she was the former, you lose. Pay up, bitches.

“If I didn't know any better, I’d feel hideously emasculated.”

“Hey, now. We specifically stated ours was a metaphorical cock.”

The Aussie stops folding for a moment and scratches his chin. “I dunno, Annie. How do I know you haven't gotten ran over by a bus and did the whole regener-ma-thingy?”

Faux-shocked by this line of questioning, Anna stretches the band of her shorts and peeks into her nether region.

“Nope. That's still a non-haunted vagina.”

“So my exorcism is still working!”

“Four years and counting. We think you missed your calling.”

“I could still do it, ya know? You think I'd look good with a collar on?”

Oh, there are thoughts that go along with that little statement on both sides. It’s obvious given the looks they not-so-stealthily send each other. The black lab, however, heard the word collar and immediately went running out of the basement. 

“We can do that later tonight if you want?”

Jacky's arms go akimbo, tangled up in a fitted sheet. It's always nice to see you can still fluster the hell out of your spouse. He sputters out monosyllables, only calming down slightly once a hand is placed on his shoulder. After a moment, he speaks.

“Y-you don't have another match tonight?”

“The next one is tomorrow for some…old friends? That situation is a bit mysterious, but hey. It's something to tide us over.”

It took a moment for the dots to connect. Once it connects, he can't help but feel an instant spike of worry. He knows his wife could take care of herself and is more than capable. But the prospect of her once again diving into deathmatches brings out the protectiveness in him.

“Annie”, the Iron Fist chooses his words carefully, “what does that stuff attract in you?”

There's a pause in the conversation. Her hands go to slowly unravel the tangled fabric from his frame. A moment of thought.

“It's a challenge.”

“Still?”

“Always.” The word is as gentle as the scent of fabric softener. “Even if you get used to the elements at play, the twisted mindset of people, and the pain, nothing is ho-hum. It can't be. You can't just walk into such situations and expect it to be a walk in the park. You can't be too tense because that's no way to live. But everything is dangerous and being involved sharpens your senses. Not much different than living here in Oz, really.”

Suddenly, something clatters to the floor followed by a boisterous bark. Bucky brought his collar.

________

Luc LaBell.

There seems to be a pattern forming here. Temu Cecilworth for the title, Wish dot com FLAMBERGE to defend it. Are they trying to put us into a false sense of security or are they just trying to piss us off? It's not really working either way. What's next? AliExpress Joe Fontaine? And after that would be just Hayes Hanlon, the poor bastard.

In truth, Luc has it even worse that ol’ Charlie de Lacy. At least Charles was acknowledged. Luc is just there and as we've probably said way too many times in years past, being just there is a death sentence in PRIME.

Let's look at the things that currently define him, shall we?

#1: Man’s French Canadian. To some people, that makes him the lesser of the French and of the Canadians. Personally, it's whatever to us. There's been many great Maple Syrup French Toasts in professional wrestling. Right off the top of the dome, there's the brothers who sang about being all American boys (albeit mockingly) before one of them cosplayed as a not-Mountie, the other not-Mountie who went on to be Frankenstein, the strongman that got murdered by the Mafia (allegedly), Mr. KO, and Pat Pa–

Okay, that guy wasn't so great. Nonces are always trash even in Puerto Rico. But the concept stands, right? So you’d think that that would give him some points. Except…

#2: He’s an MMA guy.

-1000 points. Instant deficit.

MMA guys are hella skilled for what they do. That's not in dispute. They can hurt people, even kill them in the wrong frame of mind. That's something we gotta keep in mind as a strike happy speedster that also occasionally throws bodies around. But all of that is usually negated by the fact that MMA guys have egos so big they have their own gravitational pull. And when they get into wrestling, it's much worse.

“Pro wrestling's fake, so I’ll win everything” tends to be the mantra of these assholes. Most of the time, they couldn't cut it in their chosen profession and butt fucking each other in a cage for two minutes to the absolute disappointment of the crowd for a few pennies ain’t paying off. Big paydays are reserved for the rarest blend of genetic jackhammer simpleton and the occasional plucky underdog the promoter wants to burn out quick so they can dish out even more disappointment.

As much as these jackoffs don't want to admit it, if you want to make the cash on sexualized violence, the only options remain hardcore porn and pro wrestling. With the latter, you get less ultra STDs.

…unless you're fucking the ring rats. Then you're on your own, boo.

Now losing to Rose? That might humble him some. This early in the game, we bet he would still need a few more ass whuppings.

#3: He’s a heel.

Okay. Let's look at what heelish deeds he’s done.

Huh? He yaps? We already have a pointless yapper though. His name’s Tony Gamble and his mouth muscles are master class even when the rest of him ain’t. What else does he got?

…

Oh. That's it. We see.

…

We would say get on our level. But most people can’t even handle it. This boy isn't ready at all.

________

Tokyo.

If it wasn't for Sydney's loving embrace (both in terms of the overall vibes of the place and her husband's close proximity), Anna Daniels would most certainly live in the tiniest shitbox she could find right here. Mainly because it always seems to be the one place where everything makes sense. It is the place where she has bled and fought in the most. A country whose own strangeness has become as familiar to her as her own. The irreligious gather in sacred shines, neon lights meshing with the darkness of night, and everything feels better after you gnaw on a McGriddle at a Japanese Macca's super early in the morning.

Insane as this may sound, she has plenty to feel good about.

After making PRIME her main priority for over three years and stopping damn near everything to get Glass Jaw Academy stabilized for the past year, it was finally time to get back to what she does best: fight everywhere and prove her status isn't unfounded. In the kingdom of Troy, she was always seen as a joke in one form or another. Some of that was by her own design, especially the past 365 days or so. But in realms outside of the smug superiority, Anna is an icon. A pillar. A legend. Somewhere along the way, she forgot that.

The gold and pink world title that sits across from her and the fading soreness of her back forced her to remember. Two defences already under her belt plus a return to her deathmatch homestead, all victories and TARDIS Bombs. Things like this never last forever, so it's always best to ride the high when you have it. Gently, she takes that world title and places it back into the gym bag on the opposite side of ring gear and delicates.

The Alias is back at home, taking up space on a kitchen counter until the time comes to lift the weight back up. Despite what anybody else thinks, Anna Daniels is not the Alias champion.

Yet.

Until there is a successful defense to go along with the title, she is a glorified belt warmer. And unless she can go the distance, the whole thing stays meaningless. Which means that in spite of all she's ever said about the piece of shit, she is now under the obligation of giving it the credence it deserves. To right one of PRIME's largest wrongs…or at least have some fun in the attempt.

She picks up the phone. Somehow, the weight ended up feeling a lot lighter once she deleted Jabber into the shadow realm. That was the first step to this great cultural reset. Can't crash out if you don't have the platform for it. What she didn't have the heart to delete, she muted it until she chose to engage. There's probably a message or a billion from the rest of the Whoresmen discussing one brand of nonsense or another. That thought reminds her to put something into her notes widget

(Check in on Rob. Emphasis hers.)

in between a randomly generated quote that made her smirk

(“The comfort zone is where dreams go to die.” - Anonymous)

and her schedule, steadily filling up. The Alias may be miles away, but the wheels have already begun turning. How does one turn the past year and some change of struggle, false hope and crashouts into something better?

Alchemy.

Turn fool's gold into gold, chaos into progress, and your own suffering into other's suffering.

________

If we’re really thinking about what these belts were supposed to be before they became parodies, they were supposed to be great.

The Universal is obvious. Best in the PRIMEverse at the time as opposed to the higher ups’ pet wrestler. The tag titles for best duo, also sullied with favoritism and probably destined to end up back in the bin unless something crazy happens. The Five Star is supposed to be the workhorse title which is a laugh and a half considering nobody remembers that it exists except when booked for it. Intense is for people willing to bleed for their place in the sun which never gets the respect it truly deserves unless it's Ultraviolence season maybe.

And the Alias? Originally destined as an ego stroke “name this title for the lulz”, it surprisingly was given a lifted profile for the faux-revival. It became the stepping stone for the Five Star and Intense championships with the whole “choose your stipulation” routine. It's also the hardest to defend because in spite of said routine, very very few have the gumption to carry their reigns across the finish line. More often than not, the champions fail. Their reigns would mean nothing and return to nothing.

In spite of the toughness, it is still seen as the lowest of the so called mid-tier championships in PRIME. Is the Alias title a joke? Sure. But wielded with the right hands, it can be a dangerous joke. A ticket to glory if you don't sink in your own bullshit.

It is only because of this that we’re certain that Luc LaBell isn't ready. But we want him to be. We want him to realise so badly of where he's at, what's at stake, and what he currently is. We don't want the faux-arrogance. We want his heart and soul because if he can't bring his, why the fuck should we bring ours? We cannot purify the air without smoke and

We

Want

All of it.

We're so done with the lame shit. Three year investment of blood, sweat, and tears to get spit in the eye and laughed at? Fuck that. We want our investment back with interest. And since nobody's willing to cash us out

(...side, how bout dat?)

we don't have much of a choice but to play repo man and squeeze every single last ha'penny out of every pound of flesh that comes bounding out the ring towards us. We want Luc's best because we are the best. We deserve it. We earned it. It's ours.

If he can't bring it? We'll crush him and his manhood. Maybe at the same damn time.

________

She resists the urge to mindlessly scroll other avenues just long enough to send a text message to PRIME HQ.

We know what our stip is.