Angelina Tarrant vs Shimmerlace Snuggleblossom - Gibbet Match

[Monsy]

One hand for this woman’s face is a price she can live with. Burn on her knuckles and all its nerves cussing themselves, twisting into knots and dipping themselves in vinegar. Her whole hand felt like a swollen ball, knuckles reddened lumps with purple dots. Sink it. Sink it. Sink it. Right up her forearm. Both can snap with how she hit. But it did them more. Either they’re a pulp, some loser for an alley nap, or an orphan calling out for their pet. Which was it? WHICH. Was it?

“NNK!” Right on the fucking mouth. It got a good squeal, like stepping on a puppy’s tail. Angelina rolled back with the momentum, hands to her mouth, turning to her tummy, elbows, and knees, and quickly scaling to her feet. “FUCK!!” Her gums went numb. Sometimes she hardly felt them. A mix of bending another and pacing in a circle, stomping her boot and working up the courage to lick her teeth, slip a hand beneath the bones, and at her scarlet fingertips. Shit was messed up.

“Alright. Fair fuckin’ play.” Angelina looked back over, spitting a red wad at the ground. Deep breath. One-two. One-two. Once they hobbled up, it was time to GO. One sprint to a lightning bolt. She leaned low, caught by her hands, hopping over so her legs and back faced the defaced scion. Her lead leg was planted and became her rocket where Angelina leaned back, took flight, spinning a full rotation and a half from her belly facing the sky, where her lead heel swung HARD to catch them right on the chin, the cheekbone, the temple. WHEREVER, it didn’t matter, so long as this shuriken cork bit into something pixie.

[Malkavia]

That squall when Charlotte cracked this wildcat's snout—Christ on a bloody stick. I hope something snapped what’ll stay fuckin’ snapped. Some dent in the nose your girl could spy months hence. Ay, ole Shimmer put that there.

”He knows his ma. He knows me, knows what girl held his bottle, and it's not you. Never fuckin' you. And you can't. Fuckin'. Steal that.” And he did know her. Her smell, her touch, the way she let her feelings flow. Stroke. By light, tiny stroke. Through his wee comb. If she was honest, it was the only real thing in the whole fuckin' coterie.

A girl’s body can get kettle-weight heavy sometimes. Everything added to the pounds—even the popped veins in the whites of the eyes, those sores that buzz angry every time you blink. It’s mental weight. Another obstacle to shove through so you could show up and claw to the front and hope you landed a lucky shot to the pussy. ”All this desperate scavenging must rot your head if you can’t see—”

Concussive force rippled through Charlotte’s face. ka—POW. Light goes bright (what?) diagonal, dark (What the fuck?). Ache in the neck, rattle in the bones, she's falling. And FUCK on the face itself—feels like the skin is peeling. Her brain’s working overtime just to string the sequence. One moment Angie’s hobbling, next. Fuck. You start to see it. Kung Fu shit. Jedi master shit. Body like a scarlet ribbon unfurling, twisting, flowing through the air until it strikes your face with the missile hidden in all that bright flow. A staff like crystallized tinfoil clattered across the mat.

Get up. No need to say it cunt. Charlotte was already scrambling. But somewhere, a bleeding, empty-handed feychild’s jaw had gone a few millimeters more slack.

[Monsy]

House had a dog and cat. Siblings used to love ‘em. The so-called Ma and Pa were always their Ma and Pa. Aye, yet, time was a fuckin’ bitch there. Enough feedin’ the pair and messin’ with them, giving them catnip and playing fetch in parks, walks, and laser pointers. They knew who took him home, but a memory counter marked stronger, kept her small bed snuggled and stolen, sometimes. This can be the same. They don’t forget. They become content. Fluffball and she already shared a minor wavelength. Shit was easier. Can pick him up, feed him, watch him. Play sometimes. Sometimes she got somethin’ back. Day-by-day, it was less Shimmer’s and more her own. Got to be.

That became her power. Offence to defend what she now claimed. Spin, twist, and flick that sledgehammer of a foot -- bit clean, and Angelina followed through, heaving out and sucking in. Picture perfect to drop the bitch.

“His ‘ma’ ain’t you anymore.”

Girl still had feather-feet with rockets on her ankles. Tip-top, toes-to-toes, loose arms and shoulders, breathing, puffing, calm, collected and strong. Her eyes settled on the ropes ahead. When she willed it, she did it. By the power of her own carrying feet, zipping and grabbing the top rope, then leaping off first up to second and shooting herself back -- aimed to land on Shimmer’s shoulders, facing forward. She leaned back, arched and whipped her hips, squeezing hold of Shimmer’s head to pull her back, head-first with a Frankensteiner.

[Malkavia]

Day to day, walking doesn't take thought. It just happens, another unnoticed miracle of lizard brain dexterity. But then you tax the reserves. Your thighs go hollow. It takes gut-sucked-in will just to keep the knees from bending, and nothing stops the trembling.

It all put Charlotte in the back seat. From there she watched as Angelina took the sky. They call it a springboard because you spring from rope to air, but honestly? To Charlotte, it looked like flight. The wings eluded her eye, but she saw the way Angelina dove up the spotlight, a slender red drake on an updraft, slicing the soundless air. And her face—blood-flecked laugh under eyes pure magic. No malice. None of the vulture beak curve. Just the wild purply delight of sky. Charlotte ached.

And that ache kept throbbing, even when the mat rose up and get her snout another sick crunch. Her brain went wobbly, but the ache sat there. A brand-hot splinter in her sternum that fissured wider as the updraft from a wild audience made the gliding drake glow.

I want it. Want what? It. Eyes were a windshield in the rain with no wipers, and the ground—well, it was a ship after all, and it listed like one. But the ache knew which way was up. You could see it from the bleachers: Shriveled half naked once-pink thing gathering itself up. Swaying, but it pushes. Or is tugged, invisible string yanking from its back. Fishing line from the sky. It gets to one knee, and you think it must be on the verge of a sob from the shape its face makes, but it just grits its teeth all stagger-like and pushes hard through its thigh until the whole body shakes. But there’s a world of weight between its knee and the sky.

[Monsy]

All began with board tricks, running up a few obstacles, and throwing yourself back. You’re blind for a moment. Don’t know where you can land. You just knew how to spin. Where to place the weight, which angle to thrust. The rest was a guess. Toss the dice and hope to land on the grip tape. How many times did she fuckin’ splat concrete -- land primo, split it in two with her tummy, helmet or sprain a wrist. But that sweet magnum opus of attempt ten-thousand. It didn’t truly mean ten-thousand attempts. You did it in your head too. Over and over, until it felt like it. When you felt it, your legs get that extra spring, flip with extra violence, soar with more grace, and land so straight that a needle can balance on its head. Landing on those shoulders was just that.

A cloud nine that she almost forgot to follow-up on. Then, lean and reap the reward. Splat. Angelina landed on her stomach, hands, and knees to a knee, a push-up with a hop and a mental fist-pump in the air. Cat-like smile. So self-pleased that she turned around, hands on her hips, looking down with glittering gold in her eye. One more.

“Watch me, Shimma.” Because now it was time for your coup de grace. A blitz towards the corner, no slowing down or hands going up to catch the ropes. Full-speed right to the end. Her foot caught the middle turnbuckle pad, leaned back, and stepped up to the first. Her lead leg pushed off as her second already swung. Arms out to make a wingspan, a twist -- she needed an extra twist. Shit was usually a 360 -- but with Shimmer behind, she gave this all her go, to go high, flip, turn careful not to overshoot. Hips followed shoulders, the back leg came over with the lead leg reaching its zenith, almost straight up, then coming down like an executioner’s axe, a moon kick tight to the crown.

[Malkavia]

The Marauder rode with a crowd. He could feel the held breath of every watcher in the stands. Tight as a balloon blown so full its skin hums. They all lean in, eyes gleaming as one whopper of a move after another span out from the rabbit-napper. Could you blame them? When LAW sold tickets, this was what the people paid for. He kept his eyes on the “Pixie.” He’d used her parking space long enough, the least he could do was give her a pair of eyes.

Shimmerlace didn’t need to be told what to watch. Normally she was the type to bounce—rubber ball. Smack her down, watch her laugh. Last few moves, though…it was like someone put cement in her shoes. She stood in her muck and watched the same show as everyone else.

Then this beat hits. It’s a Hell of a moon kick. Top card stuff, and she sees it coming. You’d think she’d try to spider-crawl out of the way, or at least lean back, but no. If anything, she leans into it, like some leash tugged her into the strike. But that’s probably just an illusion. More likely, she just froze.

She knows it’s gonna hurt—not just hurt. Break her. You can read that in her sagging jaw, the frantic sheen over her eyes, the way her whole body sagged. Puppet with no string. There’s a microsecond beat of total silence, then a meat-thump of a THUD as the Marauder’s boot connected with skull.

Boy, but he could feel the hit. You felt it not just in your face, pain, but in your gut. Fist pump. A quiet pump, in his case, but willing or no, acknowledgment had to be paid: It might not be coming from the girl you want, but that was what wrestling looked like.

1…2…3…

She lay in a smeared puddle of her Gloaming Sap. A crumpled up carcass, face flat against the mat, shoulders bent at a numb, diagonal angle. Anyone could see it: Shimmerlace was gone.

[Monsy]

Look at that. Look at THAT. Fuckin’ MONEY SHOT.
Came down like an anvil. Swung so hard that her knee was feeling the jerk. Once the adrenaline gave way, all was just aches in her half-clotted red side. Still leaked from all the twists and turns. Looked more gross than it is -- a straight line down her side, with most of the red having dried to the skin, coupled with rapid bruising that started purpling around the edges. Burned like a stove element. She wanted to arch, get away from it, place a hand and close an eye. Suck it up. Look at what ya done. Girl checked out. Slump of cherry, pink, soap, and fallen magic. Wasn’t a war. But damn was there a few good licks. Crowd lapped it up, still. Got ya punks at the guard rail, ya little fairies in their seats, standing and peering, the most loyal jeering but they were wildly drowned out, only noted by their thumbs down when she glanced.

Soon, the Gibbet caught that glance. A twinkle where her tongue stuck out between her teeth, tasting iron but smiling. One floaty bridge between the ring and poolside, where the steel man-shaped cage awaited. “Ugh.” A look to her side and its nipping burn and Shimmer, who might as well have been a very big sack of wet sand and sneeze dust. Yep, probably should’ve done this over there. Alas. Her eyes rolled. “Attention Shimland, this is your Captain speakin’.” She doddled over, picked up a wrist and walked. The torque on her shoulder is immediate. Yet her joint held firm and headway is gained. Thank god for leather boots. She picked up the staff along the way, and moved towards the ropes. “We are now approachin’ Losah City. A lovely place between ya got knocked’ and the fuck out. Please keep ya arms and legs strictly to the body as we approach ya final destination.” Once to the ropes, she let go, quickly grabbed the top rope, slung back, and shot herself over. Easy peasy. Then she snatched up their arm after hopping to the floating pad, a little odd for balance, and yanked her underneath. Eventually, it was two arms on one wrist. Angelina went on her heels. Heave-HO! Heave-HO! A few inches each time. Sucked that this platform sunk a bit and teetered a tad. Water was sloshing on her boots. Not too bad, but -- SQUEAK. She tripped on the pool’s edge, sitting on the deck. “Please forgive ya Captain for any and all delays, we seem to be experiencin’ temporary skill issues caused by passenger weight.”

Ok, on her knees, facing the pool, she pulled the arm, reached and hooked the second arm, yanked their head over the lip then walked back until they came over. Angelina fell on her butt, staff at her side. Quick to pop the squat right in front of their head, she took the staff and began to poke them in the face. “Shimland… Shiiiiimland. Ya in there? We got one last stop to make. I need, youuuuu, to answah’ one special question. Correctly, this time.” Poke. Poke-pokepoke. “What’s my Rabbit’s name?”

[Malkavia]

Sea foam made of sand curls round Shimmerlace beneath prickly black dust hills. An ember-glowing butterfly lands on her cheek—irritating, earns a swat. Except she misses. Misses and misses and misses. The butterfly never moves but her hand’s never in the right place. Fuckin’ irritating.

“Nnng…?” Suck a breath between your teeth. Eyes blear open, cringe, squeeze shut. Nah ma’am, that’s a wee bit bright for just now.

Oh—she realized the issue. Her arm weren’t moving. Order went out on the intercom: Right hand to left cheek. But her shoulder just sat there, stupid as clay, numb, and full of pinpricks. If only she could say the same about her snout. Her nose was a splatter firework, phosphorous hot. Wrong shape, throbbing with eye-watering pain. And getting worse. Fuck fuck fuck—

Rabbit. The word lands blurry, as if through a pool of molasses. For some reason it makes her stomach turn. She starts to squirm, hands pawing around like it’s 3am on the floor but the pub’s closing. Rabbit rabbit rabbit.

Finally, some sense of the order of things comes pouring back. Cold ship deck. Pale blue sky. Tall iron cage. Fuck. Charlotte’s eyelids drooped open. Ruby drake with amethyst eyes, talon on your cheek. What’s his name? Charlotte swallowed.

”Th...Thist...” Tongue’s dry. Sharp breath. Smack the lips. But the word still slides out slurred. Her eyes are on her knees. ”This...tle….Ddddowng..."

[Monsy]

Squatting wasn’t too comfortable afterall. All scrunched up in the middle. Legs were fine. Knees all bent, legs open to look in-between. Nah, it was the hunch. Spine keeling over, your sides and just the odd position of your head. Though, just about any position of the head kinda sucked. Spinning and flipping had its way of turning around your world and thinking you’ll start sticking to the ceiling. Ah, well. She had her doll. Muddied up gold, coming to as expected.

“Ah? Yes… Yessss… Come on, Shimland. Cap’n will treat ya to ice cream if ya spit it.” Poke-Poke. Though what came next made her lips purse, cheeks puff, and look into their eyes. “Nyaw. ‘Fraid I dunno who that is…” She talked with the pout. Her cheeks popped into blowing raspberries. “Mm-bleghhh. Heard that guy sucks up to posahs. Ah, well.”

Angelina stood, threw the staff up with a glorious spin. “Atttttention Shimmland! This is ya Cap’n speakin’ to ya for the final time.” The light metal came into her hand, the momentum used to spin on her heel once around and place the boot on Shimmer’s chest. If Angelina had half a mind to realise the egregious pink panty-shot this was. Oh well.

“Due to customah’ conduct, we will be forced to suspend all amenities and terminate ya ride on this here losah express. Worry not. For we have picked a very special place to drop ya off. We on the losah’ express call it Pain City. A midpoint where all incompetent fuckas can scream, cry and reflect.” The staff was dipped, so the end pointed at their ribs, golf-swing style. “Hell, we’re all goin’ to be doin’ that.” Her gold went high and golf-swung into the ribs. “Openah!” Another -- the staff held over her head, chopping-wood style, came down like the axe against their belly. “Encore!” Shit slipped her hand some. Her grip re-settled and the thing turned, alas, one more hoist like a golf swing, “Annnnnnnd…. Finale.” It came whipping into their side. This time it snagged. First tug didn’t do it, so she asserted her grip and gave it a good rip.

[Malkavia]

Vision was finally starting to clear when the boot settled onto her sternum. Once more under the black leather heel. Grand! Charlotte cocked her head and, cockeyed, sneered over her diagonal nose. Welcome, Pain City, to the Charlotte Shit Circus. We don’t do a lot with this brand, preferring to invest in higher value real estate, but fuck if it can’t swallow a kick. Kick after kick after kick. If Angie decided to play the leering wee gobshite long enough, maybe Shim’s fingers would start working again.

First blow crumpled the piss-stain’s ribs. Air billowed through her gullet, and the next breath wheezed. ”...That the best—” Don’t even ask, because a topper of a meteor’s coming right for the gut. That one rocks her abs, makes her clutch herself and shout. Throat is still gravelly as fuck, and shouting makes the old larynx ache like huffing sawdust, but the barbarian bellow puts some blood in her flesh. ”MORE, YA CUNT WEASEL—”

That third blow, though. Something about that hits different. There’s the THUNK, the tremor through the body, yet another concussive FUCK through her side. But then.

An itch. ”H-hey…” What is that? Itch becomes a slither that starts to burn. A leak. Drip drip. Angelina rips a snagged staff, and the wing-shaped edge, metallic and hooked and thin, unzips a small mouth of skin.

”STOP! STOP! STOP—”

Drip drip drip. Her hands latch on the staff, but what can she do? Does she want it in or out? She sees blood, imagines more. Not a splatter, not a nosebleed smear, but a growing dark pool. Then the images dance like an itch on her brain. That’s her gut…her lungs gut, her liver gut. What if she spills out? Her skin is marble-cold. Wet. Chest contracts, nausea rests its haunches on her stomach curling spiderlike away from the cut. Leaking. ”THISTLEBRO!”

It’s out. It’s out and she’s shit, worse than shit. The sense of living in her skin is slimy. Not that it makes any difference. The only way out is through. One last yank and the staff comes unstuck, leaving a dribbling hole. Charlotte’s hands cup the wound, trying to keep the last of herself from leaking away as she collapses into heaving, high-pitched sobs.