“Oh, Storm,” Lyssa replied with carefree condescension. “You can really tell that you never grew up in a gang.”
“Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing,” Storm interjected, but Lyssa ignored her.
“Look…” the blue-haired girl continued. “If you’ve got personal beef with someone, want to see them suffer up close, then sure, get your hands dirty. But if you really want to send a message, to let the other bitch know that she is out of her depth and has seriously fucked up, you get your other guys to do it for you. Lets them know that your side is bigger than theirs.”
“...and makes them feel small,” Storm mused, nodding as she mulled this over.
“Exactly! She thought she could pick a noble little battle, but instead she’ll find herself in the middle of a full-scale war,” Lyssa beamed with malicious relish. “Now, go and give that interfering little bitch both fucking barrels, okay?”
…
A hush descended on the busy LAW arena as they reached an unscheduled break in the evening’s card. The announcer quickly cut in before the fans became restless.
“Making her way to the ring, at 5’11’’ and 180lbs, from Scotland, UK, it is “Thunder” Storm Mackintosh!!”
Her high-tempo guitar intro playing, Storm marched onto the entrance ramp to some cheers. She didn’t have the highest profile since her move to LAW, but she wasn’t an unknown, either. She certainly looked imposing, her muscular frame clad in a blue lycra two-piece, with black boots and pads, and her scowling face framed with short brown hair. Clutching a microphone, she made her way to the center of the ring, pacing with purpose as the music calmed.
She licked her lips. Mic work wasn’t the strongest part of her skillset – since she’d turned heel, Storm had left a lot of the shit-talking to her loudmouthed partner, Lyssa, who was much more of a natural. It was Lyssa who had insisted that Storm get out of her ‘strong and silent’ comfort zone, and address the crowd alone. The Scotswoman took a breath, eyes scanning the arena as the rows of onlookers wondered why she’d interrupted their evening.
“Lillian. Fucking. Byrne,” Storm began, directly addressing her call-out to the entrance ramp. “Seems to fancy herself something of a crusader, now. Thought she could pop up at the end of Wendy and Ducky’s match the other week, and take the shine off of Wendy’s win.”
Storm motioned to the big screens, who began playing selected clips from the grudge match nicknamed the Southern Screwjob. They didn’t portray poor Ducky in a very flattering light – focusing on her inglorious (and incredibly unfair) end at the hands of a double-teamed smother between Wendy and the referee herself, before Lillian barged in to break up the post-match beatdown.
“See, before now, I thought Lillian was cool. Tough little fighter. Took no shit. But now? Now we have a problem. I think we all want to know, where has this white-knight bulllshit come from, Lillian?
Storm paced the ring. She knew it would take a few moments for news of the call-out to reach its target, so she could play the crowd a little longer. A cruel smile formed on her lips.
“In fact, Lillian, I have a suggestion. If you really like sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, then be sure to stick it right here when I make you kiss my arse!”
Storm playfully pulled down the back of her booty shorts, revealing her broad backside clad in a tight black thong. She twerked her rear briefly at the ramp, before pulling her costume back up, pleased at the raucous response from the fans, who now seemed far more excited to see Lillian respond to this provocation!
