Victory by: Pinfall, Submission, or K.O
Tonight, another battle was waged.Two combatants, one destined victor - herself. Who else deserved victory? No one, that's who. Fights are her lifeblood, after all. And when a Reinhardt pushes their divine will to a goal, they achieve immaculate success, worthy of the world. And thus, tonight, the only thing that mattered was achieving that sweet victory. The only thing to improve that victory was hearing her opponent's anguish, stewing in defeat, broken and limping as they're dragged off. It was something only her own two, tiny hands can achieve. And as the long hours trickled into minutes, she stood ready at the gorilla position, awaiting the cue.
The ominous thumps of KRR’s entrance music played amongst a crowd on tenterhooks. As darkness enshrouded the filled rows, spotlights swirled upon the German who stood five feet and two inches tall. The (self-proclaimed) indomitable Karla “Ray” Reinhardt wore the typical skin-tight black bodysuit underneath an oversized white-coat, garnished further by cherry lipstick and velvet shades. And as she strode down the ramp, the crowd welcomed her with hails of boos and whistles.
Amidst this firestorm of scorn, her arms elevated to shoulder-height. She gave a complete turn, sashaying, so her coat tail coiled against her thighs. Once she reached the ring steps, her chin tipped towards the ceiling, drawing out each step along the apron. Once satisfied with the attention, her cheek turned against the crowd, glancing towards the referee.
Obedience was paramount, but they didn’t come this time. Sigh, there’s always SOMETHING that ruins a nigh-perfect entrance. Karla did gift one last thing for the audience who siphoned their mediocre wages to see women wrestle. A blown kiss turned into a middle finger, finished by a sneer that surveyed the entire crowd. What despicable people - but alas, they didn’t matter. None of them did—just the noise they made with their wet throats, the chants and eventual horror.
So, she weaved between the ropes, stowing her shades inside her coat’s pockets. It slipped off her shoulders, dangling by her forearms before being folded onto a single arm. Striding over to the referee, she whipped the attire piece into their face, forcing a stumble as the crowd reprimanded the blatant disrespect. Her back turned, running her fingers through velvet tresses, whipping them high like an explosion of scarlet flame before it settled against her back, the lowest strands touching her butt. And finally, she blessed the corner with her presence, making minute adjustments with her hair while she waits.
Spoiler
