Angelina Tarrant vs Shimmerlace Snuggleblossom - Gibbet Match

[Monsy]

Can’t stop it? Then you had no business asking. If you have no business asking. There is no sympathy for ANYTHING done to you. No one likes a loser. Once she found her stride, it was like shredding a hill. Bend the knees, be loose but strong. Follow the motions. Let your body do WORK. It gave that type of feeling that made your spine sparkle and flow with dopamine. It's in the garrot-wielding fingertips. The boots half off the apron. Your straining elbows as you pulled your choke. And in the tip of her horns that felt almost all too real. The culmination can do you into backflips.

“Oi, Snugglebutts. Why such a dead fish?! Start sellin’ like it's fluoroantimonic acid. Maybe they’ll start believin' ya pulp of anotha bullshit!”

Angelina took one boot and put it between Shimmerlace’s shoulder blades, pushed and released her garrot in one coordinated action to dunk the girl into the chlorine depths. It left her free with the crowd, whose jeers took a turn to cheers from her fellow Marauders. Middle-fingers were their salute. Something she gave back with crossed arms before going to the turnbuckle, scaling, and standing on the top. “WOOO!” Shouted through cupped hands around her mouth. She lept, backward into a backflip that planted the canvas clean on her soles and slightly bent knees. Pain shot up her side. She rolled onto her back and through once, coming over to her knees. One hand nursed her cut, still oozing and growing in its gross bruise. Thump Thump. Its nerves gave a nasty punch. But to someone who was still beaming with aching cheeks, she masked it with a crawl, going to pick up her bits of cloth the jewel off Shimmer’s neckpiece, and the necklace itself. She wrapped all the other gold in the ripped fabrics, giving it a small, temporary knock post-haste, turning it into a ball of goods.

“I love yaaaa, so much," She said with a hum, walking on her knees to the middle of the ring til she flopped on her back, holding the ball against her bust, rolling side-to-side, bringing her knees up and giving small, happy kicks, tossing her treasure up so it can fall back down -- into her arms where it belonged.

[Malkavia]

The outline sketch of Charlotte’s body vibrated like loose string, the edge between Charlotte and not-Charlotte fuzzing. The dunk into water registered as cold, as a shock, but up, down...it all melted as the garrotte loosed and blood poured back into her brain. Lucky girl—her instinct not to gulp water was stronger than the searing need for air. She had time to burst the surface, claw her hands around the bottom rope, and hold on. She hung, gasped, breathed until the ground settled. She less panted and more croaked: strangulation had left her larynx angry, spasmed, resentful of anything coming in or going out. Gradually, though, her body reacclimated to the required blood oxygen levels.

…But it was still so loud, between the bleachers somewhere out there and the crowing thing in the ring and her own croaking and the staff was at the pool’s bottom, and...she shuddered. She had just been drowning. But the staff gleamed gold, so a deep breath and, plunk. Charlotte filled her lungs and sank.

She meant to grab her staff and resurface, but. It was quiet down here. Just her and the staff as an anchor and two full lungs. Like the dragon-painted walls of her dim apartment, the water kept out the noise and warped the light. If Shimmerlace had been verbal, she would have told Charlotte to resurface. Take the fight to the bitch—or cunt. The wee cunt. Something like that. Just the smell of a fight would have been enough to get her legs pumping.

It took thirty seconds, but Charlotte had to bob up for air. When she dragged herself out of the water, her hair clung, flat, to her cheeks, dark as cherry. The hollow tubing hung loose off her bare shoulder like sea-litter on some conservation PSA’s victim-mascot. She dripped from exposed skin, from torn costume, from soaked hair. But her staff, at least, still gleamed gold as she slid, shaking, up onto the platform, and then stumbled between the second and third ropes.

[Monsy]

First rise didn’t get so much as a peek. This biz didn’t hand out prizes for participation. It didn’t sparkle of anything of note. Nay, all the gold she wanted was right in her hands. Up, down, up and down. Angelina tossed it, then juggled with her palms, her boot soles. It kept her mind off a lot. Laughing through discomfort. Ignoring her leak. Not that this pain was special. Just, dull and tenacious. Like her wee friend that finally came back, this time, to stay longer than two seconds. There you are.

Angelina pursed her lips, unsure whether to welcome them back with open arms. This was a match, after all. Couldn’t finish it without them. Still, working up that smile and warm embrace was starting to squeeze her throat. The words just didn’t come out. Locked in the staging ground. She continued to toss her ball of gold, soon, her eyes rolled on their own.

“If it isn’t Shimma Snuggle-fake-fuck.” She sighed, “Welcome back.” Her gold was held up with two hands under the sun, trying to replace it. An eye closed, her tongue stuck out, and her head tilted. “‘Fraid I got all I wanted from ya, so, could ya kindly take ya shaking, bunny-less fake ass into that Gibbet for me? Ya act just doesn’t cut it for me anymore, but be a bro and also just leave me ya whole getup too.”

[Malkavia]

Up, down. Your girl’s bloodied snout traced the ball’s path. Hear that? Water lapped at the platform’s edges. Yeah. Me neither. The bleachers made more noise for her going under than coming up. Angelina’s words dropped her on the stoop, and you could see Charlotte shrivel.

Up, down. Shreds of Shimmer and trash on the stoop. Except—she’d made that. She’d made those scraps. Or at least—sewed it. Stitched it. Dyed it. With Thistledown on her lap. There were worse places to be than inside a garrote, and one of them was inside a gibbet.

What would Madeleine do? Charlotte tried to hold the entire flowing movement in her mind’s eye. She would charge. Not straight and dumb and swinging, but darting. Agile like a gazelle. A feint left, a swerve to the right, golden and graceful and tricky to trace. Then up would go the blonde’s leg, pivot up and up, then—CRACK. Axe-kick to the face. Charlotte knew she had no axe-kick inside her, but she could stomp. Stomp Angelina’s smug wee snout, hard. Hard enough to make her scream and give an opening.

Charlotte held Madeleine’s plan in her head, icy, blue, crystallized. Then she executed.

[Monsy]

They took their sweet time nibblin’ on what she had to say. Perhaps there was still water in their ears like she had sparkles in her own. Much better to have that than whatever this creature had. Looked somewhere between half starved, pathetic, desperate and fuckin’ hilarious, yo. Our zero out of five stars looked primed for her new home in that man-shaped cage. Just needed a bow to top off these ugly bits of shit.

Aye, and here she comes.
Angelina’s eyes snapped like the flick of a wrist. The advantage of being on your back is that every damn shake was making you bounce. It echoed in your ear. A drum like stampeding elephants. THUMP THUMP THUMP. Couldn’t help that the chick was soaking wet. Might as well announce your oncoming with how water squelches and squeaks between attire cracks, suctions and pops.

That shadow loomed, sought to crush. She was no half-melted zombie to become beef stew, but a nose broken was smelled a mile away, a million times a second. One hand absorbed the sole, and slowed it down, enough to become the middleman between a hard bruise and her soft cheek. It slid off her face, the arm slipped out, and took the ankle in one swift second stroke. Angelina turned on her side til she was on her shoulder and the edge of her boot, swinging the top leg to slice at Shimmer’s achilles, following through and rotating onto her knees, facing Shimmer’s feet.

The Marauder stood, ankle-locking Shimmer’s limb, giving a twist as Angelina stepped over so that they flipped to their tummy, Angelina facing their head, limb hoisted by her head. Both hands applied to the ankle and thrust it down, shoulders, grit and all, drilling the fairy’s knee into the canvas.

[Malkavia]

Like clockwork—make the plan. Execute. Get picked up in the whirlwind and dropped somewhere bewildering. “Damn it…” Charlotte cursed in a smoker’s rasp. Be a cunt to the vocal chords, and they’ll claws you right back. So (up and around and on her belly she goes) where was the next spike of pain going to pierce?

(More advice, welling up from below and before: Breathe. Cut the learned helplessness junk. Watch for an opening. Ninny nanny cunt-fussing obvious shit that wouldn’t shut up.)

The answer was her knee. What was it with this bleeder and pain? Second strike to the wee kneecap tonight, and this one sent the roots deep into Charlotte’s leg—jellyfish cracks unfurling up the bone. Made her eyes water, her back shake. A curse became a gag became a cough.

A cough — even the chest-splitter it became — didn’t cut mustard. The feeling remained unexpressed, billowing, a steamcloud rattling her ribs. She pushed her palms into her eyes until the black sparkled. She heaved, screamed in whisper. Still wasn’t enough to ease the pressure. In the black, she didn’t see a pink sparkle-comet or even a blonde Countess. All she saw was a headless chocolate rabbit. Blind, furious as a wildcat in a beartrap, she pumped and kicked and flailed.

[Monsy]

Blind as a fuckin’ Charlotte. Runnin’ ahead had its perks, but that game always had two players. Ya rush at a fella’ who knew you were comin’ -- the gamble became knowing how to subvert. Subvert, subvert, subvert. That’s where ya catch the colour in this mildew of stupid grey. Come head on and shit unfolds just how anyone who isn’t senile would do it, and make ya reap every ounce of that mistake.

“Aaaah…” Angelina released, stepped away, putting her fingers to her mouth, together, and looking to the sun for a sweet-savoury chef kiss, “Mwah! C’est merveilleux.” Took her sweet time with that strut, swing of the shoulders, arms, and kick of the legs, a spine of jello to spin around and come back to good ol’ snugglepossum.

One thing that came from seeing those eyes, rather, lack of, was wondering where that wee staff went. Ah, there you are. Hidden over that fat head. “Hup!” Angelina hopped off one foot to the other side, stomped by the staff to give it a small leap, enough so her toes slipped underneath -- one juggle later and its snug in her hand. She gave that sucker a few twirls, twisted it over her palm, over her head, leaning forward to go over her back then grabbed the opposite end. A full-on bar, end-to-end now. No more halberd.

“Isn’t this usually when ya call it quits?” Said with a girlish cackle, walking over to straddle their stomach, watching with a light smile, “Seriously--” The bar came down, HARD, right for the throat. Should that come down, it's a simple matter of batten down the shoulders, leaning forward, and giving that windpipe a nice push. “--Whatcha fightin’ for? Can’t be for MY Thistlebro. I mean --” Angelina giggled again, “You can just buy another one. Right Shimma?? Right?!”

[Malkavia]

Your girl saw it coming—who the fuck wouldn’t with all that baton-twirling cheerleader bullshit? But all the squirming in the world couldn’t eke her out of the horned wrestler’s trajectory. Best she could do was catch the bar half way to her throat and lie there in the pink goop residue, struggling against an ever growing weight.

I’ve been thinking. Really contemplating. I’m…sorry I’ve been leaving you alone. I understand how that must have felt, and, although I can’t promise I’ll get home any earlier…Hey. Happy Birthday Char. His name’s Peter.

Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater Cottontail McGee the twenty-third. He who’s there in those hours Maddie isn’t. Except that name was fuckin’ stupid and Shimmerlace’d had the good sense to stake its heart five minutes in.

”It’s ThistleDOWN...” Dooown! Croooak! It was a wee frog screeching up at Angelina—a frog trembling under arms on the verge of going limp-noodle. Every inch of the scarlet face overhead burnt itself into your girl’s retinas, dragon grin, sorcerer eyes and all. Charlotte would have cut those violet peepers open like grapes if she could. “ThistleDOWN you trick-stealing, pawnshop knockoff piece of—!”

Eleanor always said—Fundamentals, fundamentals, fundamentals. Well Shimerlace had underworked the benchpress fundamentalism, and the fruits of her unlabor snapped under Angelina’s leverage. Aluminum slammed into windpipe and turned shit into a jammed-vacuum wheeze while hate popped from a face already shading purple.

[Monsy]

Little bit of struggle didn’t hurt anyone. Catched half-way, sighting the bend in their elbows. She kept hers straight, only to bend when it came to applying her weight. How much was the size difference? Had to be a few dozen pounds. More, most likely. Half a foot too. Twas’ just so unfair there. Beggars can’t be choosers, but they can be stealers, and man, when that bar finally got its first taste of windpipe, Angelina knew this whole shit was about to be stolen. She deserved it. Burn in her arms, drum in her chest. A headache. Bruises and colour for the dangling key necklace on her neck.

Still. That wasn’t all. Once her arms went narrow to ease off her arms, she took a big heave in and grinned ear-to-ear. Something about that. Thistledown. ThistleDOWN. Call her whatever, it’s all paper against steel. But that word, the suffix. Gold.

“What’s that? Trick-stealin, pawnshop knock off what? Hm?” Angelina said with a quirked brow, then spat. An open bullseye being their whole face. “Ya know what? Ya absolutely right. But that’s real RICH comin’ from a pixie with soap tubes, sneeze-dust, and dildos in exchange for anything that really Shimmas. Worst of all, ya toutin’ a name that doesn’t exist anymore. Say his name, bitch. His new name.”

As much as watching the queasy sight of them going red and blue -- the bar was lifted and replaced with her knee over their collarbone. She shifted to be on her chest. Edges of her skirt can almost touch the chin. A direct top-down lane, with everything free and open. Angelina cocked her fist up, and thrust it down, right for the nose. “Say it!!” Punch. “Say his name, ya bitchclown!!” PUNCH. “Call MY rabbit’s REAL fuckin’ name!!”

[Malkavia]

More wet, more SPLAT across the face. More of the same, fit in nicely with the pink shit and the pool water, except for the heat, and the stickiness, and the way its message made Charlotte’s chin wobble. Lucky for her, Angie followed that loogie with another hammer-THUNK that buried anything but bloody pulp right quick.

Her snout was already splintered. Now it was just taking a CHOP to rotten wood, each blow taking cartilage closer to tenderized meat while another gush of blood added to the face-job of a pink and scarlet Moma exhibit. Pain surged again, another wave to ride. When she grit her teeth, the stain there was clay-red.

“He knows his fuckin’ name!”

Chocolate fucking bunny. That’s all he was to this vulture. Well the scavenger left one scrap of bone loose in her hand while she took to pulverizing Charlotte’s face, and your girl saw a bit of blood not her own glint at its heart-shaped tip. She shot out two hands at the staff, aiming to YANK. To wrest a piece of herself free. And then to CRACK the scavenger on her own beak.