Storm v The Morrigan – Bar Brawl Hardcore Match

[hamish1024]

Match takes place at LAW-owned backstage bar, behind locked doors. KO or submission only.


Well, this was different. Storm had a confident spring in her step as she navigated the corridors of LAW toward the allotted venue, but she was surprised at how odd it felt to be booked in a backstage match. As a seasoned wrestler, she was used to certain rhythms in her pre-match rituals – eyeing up a match card, listening to the reactions of the crowd, simply getting a taste for how much blood or mayhem was in the air – but there was none of that here. A surprising quietness, beyond the few LAW functionaries scattered around the entrance. Still, Storm was hardly a tits-and-teeth showboat, so the lack of crowd hardly worried her. A locked-room hardcore match would be focused, and ferociously violent – a prospect which had excited her to say yes to.

This was despite her misgivings of the the match’s marketing. As was typical of many tourist traps, LAW boasted a tacky, tired, faux-”Irish” pub. Storm could barely remember the name, it had been some generic variation of ‘the Shamrock’, in the style that 90% of the world’s Irish bars adhered to. It was run-down now, and due a remodel, which is why the higher-ups had decided to give it a send-off by letting two wrestlers smash the shit out of the place. She applauded the decision, although she was less keen that they’d automatically decided that the Scottish Storm would be at home in an Irish pub. She wasn’t entirely sure if they realised the distinction between Scots and Irish, or if they were painting her as the villain, or what. It mattered little, it was an excuse to trash the place, and Storm was looking forward to it.

The pub was integrated into the LAW complex. She turned a few more corners and was at the entrance, where an official waved her through the front door. The brunette marched into the empty bar. She cast her eyes around, affirming she had arrived first. There might have been no crowd to play off, but she knew there would be cameras everywhere, capturing all the action from every angle. She gave a sly grin.

“Honestly. Throw one bitch through a table, and suddenly you’re a hardcore girl,” she smiled, unable to resist a quick throwback to the violent end of her last match. And why not, she was proud of it.

All the hallmarks of ‘foreign interpretation of a pub’ were there. Tacky memorabilia on the walls, a curious indistinction between British and Irish drinks, wood panelling everywhere, sticky-looking tables and a stickier-feeling old carpet, patterned in a truly vile dark red. Scuffed fruit machines and even a pool table lurked in the fringes.

Without an obvious corner to go to, Storm gravitated to the bar, leaning propriatorially across it. Surprisingly, given the shut-down, it was still stocked with an impressive array of spirits, even if most of the bottles were largely empty, and at the cheaper end of the whisky market. Maybe they weren’t worth salvaging, for whatever this place would be rebranded into. To occupy herself whilst she waited for her opponent, Storm turned her reasonably-knowledgable eye to the rows of bottles, seeing if she could pick one out that wasn’t shit.

“Ugh, this is all Irish,” she rolled her eyes in exaggurated fashion, playing up for the hidden cameras.

Storm

[BlackAkuma]

♬”While in the merry month of May, now from me home I started
Left, the girls of Tuam were nearly broken-hearted
Saluted father dear, kissed me darling mother…”♬

Good Lord, they were actually playing the Rocky Road to Dublin.

The Morrigan had been making her way to the pub when she heard that song playing, and she had to stop and let out a hoarse laugh. She didn’t even hate the song, really, and she’d been a big fan of the rendition in Sinners - she’d liked a lot of things about that movie, actually. In isolation, she didn’t mind hearing it, but it was one of those things that had been run into the ground, mostly because it was one of the only Irish folksongs that the wider world cared to know about. She appreciated the interest in her culture, but it seemed like few people had any interest in delving any deeper.

She’d even been asked to sing it a few times. Which she could do. Fairly well, too. But there were other songs she would’ve preferred, had she her druthers.

It brought a little snicker out of her as she approached the place, fingers shoved deep in her pockets and the brisk night air on her back. Silly as it was, she would be lying if the place didn’t give her a wee dose of nostalgia. Before she hooked up with Sabine and got into the wrestling life, she’d spent an inordinate amount of time in places like this, fully throwing herself into the Irish stereotypes. She drank, she fought, she fucked, she puked, and if she was lucky she got to do it all in that order. It wasn’t a life she was ever going back to, but she would be lying if she said she didn’t miss it, sometimes. This was as close as she’d ever get to a time machine.

She made her way in, took a look around, nodded - well, she couldn't take points off for a lack of effort, credit where it was due. Whoever was in charge of the set design, they’d gone the extra mile with this place. Wood paneling, a fully stocked bar, bric-a-brac on the walls. The place smelled a little too clean, even the nicest pubs Morrigan had been to had the faint scent of spilled ale and vomit about them, but that would’ve been asking too much.

No crowd, either, which was a shame, but she supposed there was no getting around that. It made finding her opponent easy, at least. Not that it would’ve been too hard if there had been a crowd - Storm struck her as the type that would’ve stuck out.

Big, brawny, busty. Not quite as big, brawny, and busty as Morrigan herself, but close enough that it wouldn’t make too much of a difference in the fight, she wagered. Perfectly spankable arse, too. Made her wish they’d thrown some hentai stips in this, too, but then again, there was nothing to stop them from getting a little handsy, if the mood took.

The Morrigan made her way over as Storm spoke, her voice full of Scottish brogue, thick and hearty. ”’Course it is, love. Only the best.” She winked at Storm, sat on top of the bar, swung her legs over and leaped over to the other side with a heavy thud, one that shook the walls as her combat boots came crashing down.

She went down the aisle, scanning over the selection. Not bad, not bad. She hadn't seen some of these brands in a good while. Assuming they didn’t destroy the bar, she’d be taking a few of these home with her.

spun about and faced her opponent with her palms on the bar and a gleam in her good eyes. ”Almost midnight, closing time. Last call for alcohol.” She took a glass in one hand, a cloth in the other, and wiped it clean. ”Pick your poison. On the house.”