TONIGHT! Someone will drool.
And just who was that someone? Spectre’s hunger was giving a different tummy growl as of late. She considered herself one with a finger on the pulse. Rookies entering, streaks that are reaching new high-points, when certain moving faces enter a rough streak. Spectre searched the feeds and panned an evening over her selection process.
She arrived at one name: Alaina Sanders-Haines.
Does she NEED an introduction? NO, she did not. Her history was all online. A library of matches that went on like some absurd flagship enemies. She bet Alaina could create an armour of her titles to deflect a bullet. Enough awards to give her bejewelled knuckles. Despite it all, she was the same Amazonian with muscles that sheened for the camera lens, sealed in eternal time like an Olympic flame. If Hall of Fame had an award, then Alaina was a candidate for the credit.
Or so she thought.
Slam-A-Thon At the Amazon.
She knew what happened. How she left it. Such a person, at her age, in her place, would be embarrassed deep down, wouldn’t they? A slip of step. Now the doubters have fires they can flame. That meant getting back in the saddle and proving them WRONG! And that’s… Where Spectre envisioned herself tonight. Their segment’s time couldn’t come fast enough. The stadium darkened! Her music summoned after the toll of . Chrome Skulls animated along the sliding banners of the upper and lower bowls. The Stadium posts gave four beam lights that pointed up towards the ceiling. Crowd members looked up to see a descending shadow. Her very suggestion brought the crowd to a blanket of jeering.
“You are in the presence of your Viral Overlord, so bow your heads and raise your wallets.” Panic, the Ai, played some experimental welcoming words while the Virus lowered herself from above on a grappling hook. Another voice, younger and more life-like. “While standing at only five-feet tall! She weighs a clean one-hundred pounds of pure optimization!” Brief outlines and shadows could be seen of her, but nothing lasted for longer than a millisecond. After a spotlight initiated in a sphere around the centre ring, she dropped directly into it and rose from a crouched position to stand tall. Another voice. This one digitized and patchwork from a standard voice to one jumping between other voices of the troupe. “She is your one and only pathogen of victory! An unforgettable armature of abuse! The only God that deserves its name, so three screams for: !” A mic was in her hands, ready to be employed with her free arm spread to the side holding her cape.
“Show’s now mine.”
She bowed, then straightened again to throw her cape up. The lights again turned to normal.
She started to pace.
“We all saw what happened. Alaina Sanders-Haines got her ass beat! On her own TURF? Who does that? Accolades? Rear-view window. HAHA, GOOD!”
As the crowds attempted to boo over her, Spectre took a thinking posture, looking down and snapping her fingers over the microphone so the POPs aggravated their ears. “There’s this thing… About that. See, I--” A hand placed on her own chest. “--Quite enjoyed seeing ol lady haines giving other fatties a strong dunk. The catharsis of seeing allllll that excess armour and jelly.” Her hand wobbled in-front of herself, “Jiggle.” Then she visibly grimaced, eye-rolled and turned attention back to the Titantron. “But now with her current trajectory, the old-timer opportunities are bound to pour in. While I have no no clue what such a wrinkly brain would embark on, I reckon it’ll something like--”
The Titantron flipped to an image of a giant ketchup bottle with tribal-patterned trim on the label, Alaina’s mug on the centre, then the brand read: HEINZ-HAINES. Spectre put a hand over her eyes to feign emotion. She slowly turned around, face in her palm, shrivelled with her shoulders towards the ring’s centre. “It’s just so sad… All that legacy…” Then she grinned, rising up and pointing a finger to the ramp, “To have not been snapped in half by me first! You know what such inconsideration gets?”
“A beating?” Panic replies. “A mauling?” Goes Katja. “A CATastrophe?” Added Dot.
“No!”Spectre threw the microphone into the air, having it flip and spin vertically as the Virus punched a fist into her palm. “A squashing.”
And with the microphone stick landing directly in her bust, she turned to a side profile, extended an open hand to the stage. “Fair and square.”
