Down to Size - Parker Ward vs Bashira Matsumoto [Standard]

[Parker]

Match Type: Standard, One Fall
Victory Conditions: Pinfall, submission, knockout, count out, or disqualification.

Backstage at LAW, the air carried that heavy cocktail of anticipation. The muffled bass of entrance themes vibrating through the walls, the constant shuffle of bodies coming and going, and the faint tang of sweat and tape.

Perched on the edge of a bench in the shared locker room, Parker Ward tugged at the laces of her boots, cinching them tight with quick, practiced pulls. Her ring gear was a mix of practical and pop, enough going on visually to stand out while fitting her just as snuggly as her laced boots. It wasn't the best to breathe in, but it felt good to move in, which was just as important. Especially tonight.

Parker had already gotten the heads-up earlier in the day when one of the staff, clipboard in hand, mentioned her opponent’s name with that sheepish little wince that immediately set off alarm bells. They had said her name was Bashira and had this tone that felt like they had been asking for her forgiveness in advance, followed by the loaded question: “You think you’ll be okay?”

Red flags were raised at full mast, clapping in a hurricane-force wind. It hadn't taken long to dredge up some information online. Old interviews, small video collections, and even a taping of a match here at LAW. She understood the question now. It wasn’t because Parker was a rookie to the promotion, it was the gaping chasm between their sizes. Bashira looked like a mountain in motion compared to her own lean frame. And the ring announcer in the video she saw was to be believed? The woman was just shy of doubling her weight by a few kilograms. Only in professional wrestling was a fight like this legal without a stack of liability waivers.

The plucky Canadian wasn’t the time to back down from a challenge though, or complain she had been given a tough hand. That was the business. If she was going to make it here, that meant having to trudge up whatever rocky path that was set before her. Parker clapped her palms to her cheeks, flushing them with a bit of color. No point in overthinking things outside her control. Before slipping from the locker room she had one last gaze at herself in the mirror, imparting one thought that summed up tonight. “Big tree… meet small axe.”

Good 4 U - Olivia Rodrigo

★The North Star★ Parker Ward

As the first one out to the ring, it fell on her to hype the crowd. So the brunette rookie didn’t strut or stalk from the curtains, she sprang. Quick on her feet, almost bouncing in place at the top of the ramp, her grin broad and unguarded. She cupped her hands to her mouth, shouting out over the music in sync with the beat, egging the crowd into clapping along. When they answered back with a few scattered shouts and stomps, she beamed like they’d just crowned her champion.

Jogging down the ramp, Parker slapped every hand that stretched out, looping her path from side to side so nobody was missed. Her chest rose and fell with quick breaths, her cheeks already flushed, not with nerves, but from sheer excitement to be back in the ring in front of a massive crowd.

Grabbling hold of the bottom rope, she hopped herself up onto the apron and leaned back, rolling into the ring. She rose quickly and threw her weight into the ropes, springing off to lightly jog from one end of the ring to the other. Pumping a fist in the air, she nodded along to the beat as the music wound down, her gaze shifting back towards the stage.

“Big tree. Small axe.” She muttered softly to herself, repeating her mantra for tonight as she idly checked the fist of her gloves.

[killcarrion]

Venturing abroad and air travel in general was seldomly an issue for Bashira. Well, it might have been an issue for the unfortunate sap seated beside her having to cope with several hours of her tyrannic snoring and tendency towards slugging anyone who tried jostling her out of this slumbered hibernation, but that's beside the point. Federations around the world were having their hands full booking flights and hotel accommodations for the rotund grappler's numerous appearances within their indie territories. In spite of her obnoxious attitude and backstage bullying not exactly accumulating to sterling reviews from past employers, the fact remained that Bash was nevertheless an undeniable attraction who generated ticket sales wherever her swaying pony-tailed noggin and bodacious backside roamed. A monstrous behemoth of her size definitely turning heads, especially in an industry rife with emaciated supermodels and airheaded cheerleaders who'd probably waft into the sky from a strong gust of wind. Yep, Bashira considered herself a certificated star attraction now. Raking in that sweet cheddar and flexin' all over these hapless bimbos...until the GM's got sick of her BS and tore up her contract anyway.

Nevertheless, whether people wanted to see the Bear Woman get served some justified comeuppance or they wanna see her piledrive her foes halfway through the ring canvas, all it meant was that business was fucking good. Once the check cleared, she packed her tote bag and made way for the next territory to conquer. So it came as sort of a shock to the system when her old haunt LAW was the next location on her match docket. She hadn't heard from them in a hot second, figuring the place had learned better than to feed her anymore of their floundering pantywaists. Guess they finally sacked up and acknowledged the raw aptitude and massive superstar they had under contract. Either lining up someone worth her time or a fresh-faced rookie whom they wanted to chuck into the deep end to see if they would sink or swim. Although Bashira had a hunch about the caliber of opponent they had lined up for her given the terrified expressions of backstage employees once she arrived on the premises. Muttered confirmations amongst themselves about confirming the presence of onsite paramedics and waived liabilities within talent contracts on her way towards the Gorilla position...

Otherworld

"...And her opponent, hailing from Kanigawa, Japan and standing at 5'11, weighing in at 280 lbs...making her debut, the barbarically brutal BEAR BRAWWWWWWWLER...BASHIRA...'BASHER'...MATSUMOTOOOOOOOO!!!"

The Grizzly Beast

Fumes of grey smoke engulfing the entrance ramp in conjunction with guitar shredding heavy metal around the speaker laden arena. A lone figure marching forth with a white towel draped over shoulders and chewing gum within her joweled mouth, singlet stretched to capacity around her rotund musculature signaled as she ominously strode towards the ring. She spared not one iota of attention to the audience members offering high fives who were summarily left hanging. The only memento offered from Bashira being the bubblegum plucked from her mouth and callously discarded into the masses as Bashira's stamped steps continued onward, earning the fans disdain and cementing whom their biased adulation would be rallied behind. Bashira afterwards climbing up the steps and entering the ring through the ropes, flicking her towel onto the ring-post behind her and cracking her gloved knuckles with dead-eyed menace directed towards the bright-eyed Canuck in the middle of the ring. Bashira steadily approaching Parker with a rotation of massive arm, standing before her foe and making the size/weight disparity that much more obvious in the process. “I bet right around now you’re starting to regret coming in to work today. Care to take a guess at how long it’ll be before I have that fire in yer eyes smothered out, Puke Star?”

[Parker]

When Bashira’s silhouette first crept past the curtain, Parker honestly thought the woman was wearing some kind of hulking entrance attire that ballooned to fill the archway. But as the stage lights washed over her, reality came into focus. No, Bashira just was that big. From a distance, it was almost impossible to process, her frame swallowing the dimensions of the entryway itself like she’d been carved out of shadow and steel.

“Tree is… very big.” Parker muttered under her breath, tugging at the velcro of her gloves in a nervous little ritual. Not exactly the bravest battle cry, but it was all she had in the moment.

Inspiration for her confidence didn’t hit until Bashira helped her out by plucking gum from her mouth and flicking it into the crowds. Parker visibly winced, recoiling as the jeers rippled outward. Her eyes darted toward the commotion, catching a group of people clustering around a poor soul she could only imagine had just gotten saddled with the world’s grossest souvenir. Her brain filled in the blanks with someone’s night being officially ruined thanks to a pink wad tangled in their hair. She shuddered at that.

By the time Bashira stepped into the ring, Parker was watching her coldly, unimpressed. Not about to admit the heavy thud of each step rattling the canvas had her stomach twisting knots. Leaning forward, she stepped from the ropes, taking her part in closing the distance, her boots squeaking as she marched forward until they were face to about chest level.

It took every ounce of stubborn bravado not to tip up onto her toes to squeeze out another inch against the mountain in front of her. Instead, she stood firm, stoic, chin tilted high, even as her pulse hammered like a marching band inside her ribcage. Parker wore her heart on her sleeve more often than not, but this time? No. This time she’d bury it deep, even if her knees wanted to wobble.

And then Bashira spoke.

Puke Star…

Parker broke. A sharp snort burst out of her before she could stop it, laughter bubbling until she nearly choked on her own spit. She leaned back, taking her opponent in as though trying to capture her entire frame for a photograph. “Puke Star? Really? Points for originality, but c’mon...are you serious?” She screwed up her face, giving Bashira a lopsided look that all but screamed: you can do better than that.

“I’d imagine it's going to take pretty long if we are going to have to pause for your lunch break.” Parker added with a shrug, eyes flicking to the crowd before snapping back to Bashira. The larger woman had painted some lofty expectations as an intimidating spectacle but the moment she uttered a word, that spell over the rookie had been lifted. The line got a rise from the crowd, but the brunette's grin was sharper than her nerves. The reality of the size difference did not escape her, it was impossible to ignore. Still, she refused to let Bashira take both battlegrounds. Strength? Maybe. But spirit? That was Parker’s. If she was going to get run over tonight, she’d make sure the crowd knew she wasn’t going down quiet.

[killcarrion]

Hey Hey HEY. As comfortable as Bashira felt within her gargantuan mass, Bash felt that much more foreign with a writer's pen in her hand. Thinking up clever witticisms, thought provoking dialogue, and ingenious nicknames for her adversaries wasn't exactly within her particular wheelhouse. An undeniable fact which anyone could ascertain from merely one glance of her academic scores in high school, and quite frankly she personally thought Puke Star was one of her more ingenious trash-talking takedowns. Unfortunately, all it apparently served to do was shatter the aura of sheer intimidation she had going for her as the auburn haired Puke-Star's chortled guffaws settled down an anxious audience into believing Parker may actually have matters well under her control. Compounded by Parker's smacktalking barb about a lunch break and the tempo of the match switched decidedly in her favor without a punch or dropkick even being thrown yet. Hope now arising in favor of the earnest youngblood now gathering pockets of crowd support for the plucky rookie who stood upright in valiant defiance of the overwhelming odds and substantial muscle mass stacked against her. Painting the imagery of a veritable David vs. Goliath type of situation but with the conclusion still not set in stone.

...Bashira, meanwhile, kept her intensified vision locked squarely on the soon to be flattened Puke she just nicknamed as such. A narrow-eyed grimace and huffed exhale through her flared nostrils like a cantankerous bull locking onto the flamboyant matador across the stadium. All throughout Parker's courageous rebuttal, Bashira contemplated as to where exactly all this confident bravado was coming from. Whether this shrimpboat earnestly thought she had a fighting chance, perhaps Parker had some secret weapon up her sleeve...or maybe the Puke was just certifiably insane. Whatever the exact reason was, suffice to say that Bashira did not appreciate being made to look like a fool. But in an uncharacteristic display of sportsmanship, Bashira would seemingly begin to take it all in stride. A chummy smile on her relaxed facials as she raised her hands in a defeatist manner. "...Heh, alright alright, you got me. I admit that wasn't my best material. Guess you newcomers are coming along faster in the witty banter department than in my generation. Tell ya what, let's start over. Name's Bashira. A pleasure. Let's have a killer match~..." An offered handshake accompanying the polite greeting...except taken or not, Bashira would attempt a duplicitous cocked back lariat intent to mow down Parker before the match even started.

[Parker]

Parker had never seen a woman quite like Bashira. Not in movies, not on TV, not even scrolling through the internet at 2 a.m. It was one thing to know the woman was heavyset, but standing across from her made it impossible to comprehend just how much mass she carried without towering over everyone in the room. Parker’s mind wandered briefly. What must it feel like to haul that frame day in and day out? She quickly shoved the thought aside. She was big on body positivity, and making jabs at Bashira’s expense wasn’t her style.

The lunch crack earlier had been her little bit of pushback, an eye-for-an-eye for Bashira’s bullying. A jab, not a knife.

Now, she stood tall, her silhouette swallowed by Bashira’s presence, but rooted in defiance. She knew she was going to get thrown around, probably more than once, but that was part of the job. If she wanted to grow, she had to take her lumps.

So when Bashira’s grimace softened, shoulders loosening, lips quirking into a sheepish grin, Parker’s guard slipped almost without her realizing. Her brows lifted, her own grin tugging wider, good nature winning out over suspicion.

“Heh… yeah?” she said, leaning in just enough to keep her voice between them. “This a newbie hazing thing, coming on so strong?” She flashed her teeth in a smirk, almost conspiratorial. “Parker Ward, pleasure’s mine. Appreciate you saying that, by the way.”

She reached out, palm firm, giving Bashira’s hand a shake. The crowd murmured at the show of sportsmanship. Parker gave a shrug like see, no hard feelings.

“Yeah, let’s give ’em a killer...”

The words died in her throat. A jolt of realization lit her face as her eyes widened, pupils snapping down to Bashira’s cocked-back arm.

“Wait-!”

The lariat crashed into her chest like a steel beam. The sound was a sickening thwack of flesh meeting flesh. Parker’s boots left the canvas as her whole frame whiplashed, spinning half-sideways before gravity yanked her down. She hit the mat with a brutal smack, limbs sprawled wide, chest heaving from the blow. For a second, all she could do was stare glassy-eyed at the lights above, her lips parted in a wheeze that carried no air.

The crowd gasped in unison, half booing, half cheering the cheap shot. Parker lay there, stunned, a perfect victim for whatever Bashira decided to do next.

[killcarrion]

As anyone can imagine, Bashira was never much a of "strategist" when it came to combat tactics. She just figured...why devote time and energy into elaborate tactics and counterattacks when bulldozing straight through someone gets the job done every time? Suffice to say though that while Bash may be strategically inept, she was nevertheless acutely familiar with utilizing specific tools of the bullying trade when it came to deception and the exploitation of the gullible. Bashira playing the role of a veritable wolf in sheep’s clothing as she seemingly humbled herself and prayed on the naivete of a newcomer to the federation, offering a reciprocated handshake alongside the possibility of a newfound friendship as well. Parker having neglected or failed to notice the fans in attendance warning her against accepting the cordial gesture until it was too late, the rookie's decision to lock hands simultaneously sealing her fate as someone who was about to be on the receiving end of one of the harshest lessons the business can teach you. On the positive side though, Parker would have her question thoroughly answered as to how Bashira hauls her rotund frame around.

The answer...remarkably well, apparently. And with the mammoth strength of a pudgy bulldozer. The adjacent referee issuing warnings and voicing the discontent of those in the audience showering the duplicitous act with jeering disdain as Bashira towered over the spreadeagled rookie counting the lights. "Oh, don't you worry. It will be. Although I will admit that Puke Star probably wasn't my best material, but hopefully this works better as far as first impressions go..." Bashira ominously imparted down towards the newcomer eclipsed by her threatening shadow, those bear mitts of hers reaching down to claw into the brunette's mane for a hauled upheaval back towards verticality. An assertive side-headlock swathing Parkers’ head in muscled pudge in the several seconds taken to march them both towards one corner turnbuckle. Bashira theatrically pointing across the ring to signal what was about to go down before callously flinging Parker across the ring in an Irish Whip. Whether the newcomer possessed the faculties to see it coming or not, a wrecking ball of a humanity would come stampeding straight towards her in an attempted corner belly splash.

[Parker]

Being hauled upright felt less like a reset and more like being handled. Parker’s boots scrambled against the canvas, squeaking and slipping as Bashira’s hand wrenched her up by the hair. Her head was swallowed into the headlock, not so much held as engulfed—a fleshy vice that mashed her cheek against the mountain of Bashira’s side. Wedged so deep in her girth, she couldn’t even crane her neck, couldn’t see daylight. Every trudging step toward the corner was oppressive, the weight of the larger woman bearing down, suffocating as much in presence as in pressure.

She twisted, jerking at the arms that cinched her neck, her wiry frame straining against the suffocating pudge and muscle. Parker flailed with her fists, desperation punching through her movements as she hammered at Bashira’s belly and side. But the angle robbed her of leverage, and each strike landed dull, muffled, more slap than hit. The blows sank into the folds, swallowed without a dent, Bashira’s grunt more annoyance than pain.

Then Parker was wrenched loose, not released, but hurled. Bashira’s ripcord Irish Whip nearly tore her arm from its socket, the brunette stumbling before the momentum pitched her into a full sprint. Her boots pounded helplessly toward the corner, speed not her own, and behind her the earth seemed to quake with Bashira’s thunderous footfalls. The turnbuckles loomed closer, and the thought of turning into them, of letting that avalanche hit her flush, was a death sentence. They would be scraping her off the turnbuckles for days.

Her heart pounded hard in her ribs as she made her gamble. She leapt, legs snapping outward in a long jump, boots colliding against the second rope. The steel bit into the soles of her boots, sending a sharp pain ricocheting up her calves, the recoil jolting her frame. For a second it almost buckled her, almost dumped her back into Bashira’s path. But then the rope snapped back, springing her body upward just as the shadow of the oncoming freight train threatened to swallow her whole.

Parker launched herself backward blind, body folding into a tight arc as her knees snapped up, then stretched long, legs scissoring overhead. For a breathless instant she was airborne, backside first, no ground beneath her, just faith and instinct.

Her hands shot down as she passed overhead, clawing desperately for an anchor. Fingers hooked deep into Bashira’s thick hair, a gasp tearing from Parker’s lungs as she used it to wrench herself downward. Her body dropped like a stone, tailbone cracking into the canvas with a jolt of pain that rattled her spine. But the momentum snapped with her, the drag violent, improvised, trying to pull down the back of Bashira’s head toward the mat in a brutal makeshift reverse facebuster.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t rehearsed. It was all grit and desperation, born in the moment. But if it landed, if the crowd saw the mountain toppled by nothing but nerve, they’d witness the rookie turn a death march into a miracle counter, proving she wasn’t here just to be fed to the wolves.

[killcarrion]

Sometimes Bashira wondered if she would have been a capable ranch-hand if her family actually lived in the more rural parts of the country. She could have seen herself hauling around gigantic bales of hay and capturing misbehaving farm animals...of course these were just melodramatic daydreams considering that she'd probably be too lazy and cantankerous to perform even one iota of actual fieldwork. But these thoughts nevertheless crossed her mind as she seemed to be a bonafide natural when it came to corralling the pugnacious punk wrestler currently scrambling for freedom once having her cranium swaddled within an overbearing headlock. Being built like a cross between a howitzer tank and a bulbous bowling ball enables Bashira the fortified endurance levels to absorb clock cleaning strikes with remarkable ease, so Parker's panicked flailing didn't come off as anything more than a slight nuisance at best since the Punk Puke was at a disjointed stance anyway. Still, the Bear Brawler was willing to offer some modicum of credit to the puke for not being an outright limp noodle after taking that colossal lariat. Crying shame that all its gonna amount to is a few extra minutes of Bashira squashing the fuck out of her before Parker learns the virtue of silence.

"Settle down, ya little puke..." Bashira grumbled on her trek towards one of the corner turnbuckles, bearing down on the abrasive headlock with a strangled flex of swelled muscle flab before reaching their cornered destination. Some theatrical posturing preceding Bashira pitching Parker clear across the ring in the Irish Whip with an enraged buffalo stampeding straight behind her. The ring canvas quaking beneath her stamped boots with her ponytail fluttering in the wind and audience members beginning to clutch their metaphorical pearls in apprehensive anticipation when Parker subverted some brutal expectations via some nimble footwork and dynamic aerobatics. Bashira only having a half-second to react with a cocked eyebrow and boot skidding stop from the rookie vaulting herself overhead when the clutched fulcrum that was her pony-tailed hair wrenched the brawler backwards. "WHATTHA!!!" Bashira bellowed into a booming backsplash that caused a visible ring quake with Bash cradling the back of her head alongside frantic stomps of her feet. Aching head pains inhibiting any chance of a swift upheaval for Bashira as she eventually started swiveling herself over onto her hands and knees, shoving herself upward off one knee in a grimaced daze if uninterrupted...

[Parker]

Parker launched herself in a frantic arc, legs folding tight as she vaulted backward over Bashira’s hulking frame. For a heartbeat she rode pure motion, the world a blur of canvas and roaring air, then her fingers found the ponytail and she yanked with everything she had. The big woman’s head snapped back, and Bashira’s balance teetered just long enough for Parker to clear the brawler’s shoulder and come down hard.

The impact stole the breath from her. She landed flat on her backside and felt the sting light up across both thighs, and a sharp jolt ran up her spine, she would be feeling this tomorrow for sure. The sound of the thud echoed in her ears; for a second everything went white at the edges. Parker hissed, one hand slapping the mat while the other came up to rub at the sore meat of her hip. Pain pulsed with every shallow breath, but so did a bright, elated pulse under it, she’d actually put Bashira off-balance. Toppled the beat and rattled the whole damn ring.

"Puke that!" she panted, half-shout, half-laugh, adrenaline whipping her forward despite the ache. There was no time to admire it. Opportunity didn’t linger for rookies. ”Okay… fair it is harder in the moment.” She snorted, the terrible quip reminding her the crap she had given Bashira moments earlier.

She scrubbed a hand along her backside, grimacing at the heat there, then pushed herself up. Her legs trembled, stubborn and burning, but she forced them to steady. Parker jogged to the ropes with a bouncy, cautious gait at first, testing bearings, feeling the soreness start to fade into a dull numbness, then let it slide into a full-on run as the sting backed down and the fight nerve took over.

She rebounded off the ropes, sight locked on Bashira as the big woman clawed back to her feet. Parker timed it, rose into the air and drove both boots forward in a sharp dropkick aimed at Bashira’s head. It wasn’t going to be pretty, but she needed to keep the big woman down, long enough to at least try to lock in a submission.

[killcarrion]

Hackneyed though the comparison was, David and Goliath allusions were already being bandied about from the ringside announcers who were currently incapable of regarding this as an even 50/50 matchup when one adversary was potentially several weight classes above the other. Not to mention the underhanded method with which Bashira opted to commence the match, compounded with Parker's precarious position of being potentially pancaked via a pernicious predator within the ring corner. And yet those non-believers assuming Parker was mincemeat were certainly finding religion today as the nimble lightweight spiraled through the air and out of the rampaging behemoth's path of destruction. A last second hair clench ensuring Bashira was going to be reacquainted with the canvas alongside the rookie, except with a cataclysmic backwards collision that even had the referee's balance shaken up. A jiggled bounce to her prodigious belly as Bashira remained docile for only several seconds on the canvas before beginning to soldier herself upwards.

"...The fuck was that bullshit..." Bashira's first immediate question the being the most relevant in her rattled mind, glowering while beginning the taxing process of ascending underneath her own strength. Squinting initially and wobbling her face side to side to clear the cobwebs out of her cranium from a maneuver she figured she'd need to watch back home on replay in order to find the answer to her question. For now though she'd concentrate on the task at hand, which was finding that little puke and taking extreme pleasure in squashing her like a smart mouthed little bug. Bashira cradling the back of her head with one pawed hand as she steadied herself upright on two legs, grimacing as she swiveled in place just in time to have a pair of boot treads stamped into her joweled mug. The rattled beast sent careening into a backpedaled stupor towards the ring ropes behind her, but using the elasticity as a means of bouncing herself back into the ring in an adrenaline-fueled rage. Kicking up one leg in an attempt at a Big Boot aimed right for Parker's baby blue eyed face.