Emergency. 3
Anne leapt high from the ladder.
Charina barely managed to roll clear, and Anne’s chest crashed squarely onto the empty table.
With a sharp crack the table split clean in two. Anne clutched her chest and stomach, choking out ragged gasps.
“This is completely insane. You’re telling me this is a women’s match?”
Booker K muttered it like he was talking to himself, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Our Rina’s killing it, right?”
“You said she was a student of the Dudleys… Mac, why are you acting so proud?”
“We gave them a ton of advice for this match.”
Mac Hardy shrugged, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.
Beside him, Jet Hardy’s eyes burned like he was about to fire lasers. To Iva it looked like he wanted nothing more than to jump into a match like this himself right that second.
Charina, having rolled free of the table wreckage, snatched up the baseball bat Anne had brought in—the same one that had been tormenting her all night—and snapped it clean across her own thigh.
She recreated the exact frustrated gesture of an MLB batter after a swinging strikeout, right there in the middle of the ring.
Whoa! Whoa!
Charina flung the broken handle out of the ring and kept the head. Her face had gone flushed crimson, eyebrows shooting skyward. She was so fair-skinned that anyone watching could tell she was absolutely furious.
Holding the jagged bat like a wooden spear, she advanced on Anne as if she meant to drive it straight through her.
The referee immediately stepped between them and stopped her.
“Whoa. Her acting’s even better than it was against Dorothy last time.”
That was John—who valued showmanship every bit as much as pure technique.
“Ha! Technique’s solid, but with those looks and that acting ability? Kid’s going places.”
“Yeah. Both of them are way too good to be stuck in TPA.”
When Booker K piled on in agreement, a whole mess of feelings surged up inside Iva.
Looks and technique went without saying. Her frame was bigger than Charina’s, yet her strength was weaker. And she hadn’t inherited a scrap of her father’s showmanship either.
Jealousy toward Charina—who seemed to have everything Iva lacked—boiled hot in her gut. But as a former wrestler herself, she couldn’t help but revere what she was watching. The kind of match she had dreamed about since she was a kid was unfolding right in front of her eyes between Charina and Anne.
In the end the referee pried the bat head out of Charina’s hands.
What she picked up next was the barbed-wire-wrapped bat she herself had carried to the ring. She pressed the wire-covered section against Anne’s face and started grinding it back and forth.
What the F….
Oh my God!
Someone’s shout rang out loud and clear through the suddenly hushed arena.
When Charina finally pulled the bat away, Anne’s face was a mask of blood.
“John. Is this even okay to put on the air?”
“These are PPV. Paid viewership—so yes.”
“Ah, right. These guys can push R15 if they feel like it.”
“Exactly.”
Booker K kept talking as he watched, bouncing the conversation off John.
“This match is completely ridiculous.”
“What kind of bullshit is that? It’s every bit as desperate as a men’s match.”
“It’s a cage match and they’re not using the cage at all. Same as barely using the steel chairs. Ladder and table only got a couple of brief spots—nothing sustained. Shouldn’t we just call this a baseball-bat match?”
“Heh. Fair point.”
Charina seized the blood-soaked Anne by the throat and hoisted her as if setting up a chokeslam. Anne rose into the air looking like a blood-drenched killer straight out of a horror movie.
“Crazy strength. How is that even possible?”
“There’ve always been a few wrestlers who pack serious power relative to a skinny frame. Must be that type. Hell, we’ve got one sitting right here.”
John’s eyes flicked toward Jet as he spoke.
“True enough. Jet always had ridiculous strength for how lean he was.”
Wanting even more impact, Charina started walking with Anne still aloft toward the steel chairs scattered across the mat. After maybe three steps Anne jackknifed her legs high and locked an armbar onto Charina’s arm.
“Aaaagh!”
Charina screamed and toppled. They hit the canvas together, but Anne refused to release the hold for anything. Charina shrieked and dragged herself toward the ropes, finally grabbing hold.
The referee never called for a rope break.
“Why?! Aaaagh! Why aren’t you calling it?! Ugh!”
Charina snarled at the official like she genuinely couldn’t understand why the break wasn’t happening.
“Damn! The booking on this is killer. She’s a rookie, so not knowing that No-DQ matches don’t get rope breaks makes perfect sense. Who wrote this? It’s fantastic.”
Booker kept feeding lines to the easygoing John, and John—surprisingly—kept answering.
“Jane. Jane Kim wrote it.”
“Jane?”
“Yeah. She’s handling the four rookies who debuted this time.”
“She was godawful at promos herself, but the woman can write.”
“Caught me off guard too.”
While they talked, Charina—still with Anne dangling from her left arm—hauled herself upright using the ropes. Then, bracing her left hand with her right, she slammed Anne into the mat.
Thud.
Thud.
Only after the second impact did the hold finally break. Charina stood grimacing, cradling her left arm. Anne rolled across the canvas clutching the back of her head, face still a bloody mess.
The crowd roared as Charina finally got free.
You see as much as you know—and the legends in the building couldn’t close their mouths at the sheer superhuman strength Charina had just displayed.
Damaged left arm or not, Charina was first to her feet. She couldn’t scale the top rope in one go, so she climbed one strand at a time until she stood balanced and ready. The moment Anne rose, the Eclipse landed clean.
Thud.
As if that still wasn’t enough, she followed with a Lionsault before dropping into the cover.
Anne’s shoulder twitched at two.
“S~~h~~i~~t!!”
Realizing even that combination hadn’t finished it, Charina clawed at her own hair and howled. Then she scanned the ring.
What she grabbed was her Boston bag. She unzipped it, flipped it upside down, and shook it hard toward the mat. Something silver and glittering cascaded out in a glittering flood.
The big screen caught it clearly: hundreds of thumbtacks.
“She’s… insane.”
The word came from Jet Hardy—who had worked more hardcore matches than anyone else sitting there.
“Jet. You didn’t know either?”
“Nobody mentioned the tacks. Sandy’s going to have nightmares watching this.”
“Mick Foley, on the other hand, is going to be bouncing off the walls.”
Even twenty years later, the mere sight of thumbtacks still gave Sandy Orton flashbacks and heart palpitations.
“It’s Charina who’s going to take them. Is she going to be okay?”
“Jet! No spoilers.”
The ring was already cluttered with broken table debris, steel chairs, and ladders. Spreading tacks across one whole section left almost no safe space at all. Even without the tacks, landing or being thrown anywhere would have been catastrophic.
“John. You hear how long this match is supposed to go?”
“No idea. Deliberately didn’t ask. Last time I watched cold it was way more fun. Booker—watch it like a regular fan, same as me.”
“Damn it. This is killing me.”
Both wrestlers were already painted in the blood streaming from Anne’s face. How much more they would spill was anyone’s guess.
Anne staggered, clinging to the ropes. Spotting it, Charina sprinted to the far side for momentum, then vaulted onto Anne’s neck while the champion rested her arms across the middle rope. She threw her full weight into it, bouncing and grinding down on Anne’s throat. The rope bit into Anne’s neck; she choked and gasped again as fresh blood began to flow.
“Ha. Last week’s promo never looked like it was heading somewhere this vicious…. They papered over a clumsy, forced story with pure match quality. By the way—why does Charina use so many of that Jericho bastard’s moves? That rope choke was one of his staples too.”
Booker K had always been talkative; once he put on the commentator hat he never shut up. Every new spot sent him rattling on without pause.
“I heard she’s a fan of both Jericho and Mick Foley.”
“Pfft. What kind of combination is that? Those two have nothing in common….”
“Looks like a porcelain doll and she’s a Mick Foley mark? Completely unhinged.”
The idea was so absurd that even quiet Iva finally spoke up; Booker K piled on right after.
“No idea what match converted her, but she renamed the Walls of Jericho into the Walls of Charina and uses it.”
“Does Jericho know?”
“Beats me. Haven’t even spoken to him.”
“Lucky bastard…. Ha! I wish somebody would start using my moves like that.”
Apparently deciding she had Anne sufficiently under control, Charina seized a fistful of hair and dragged her toward the tack-covered patch of mat.
Noooo—
Huuuh—
The crowd made the sound of collective breath being stolen.
Charina set her feet and hoisted again—another chokeslam attempt. But Anne seemed to possess some special knack for escaping them; she slipped free once more. The instant she was lifted she jacked both legs high, flipped her entire body, wrapped Charina’s head, and spun.
The head-scissors whip landed perfectly. Charina’s back crashed down onto the tacks.
“Kyaaaak!”
She thrashed in agony, tried to push herself up with her hands—and when the tacks punched into her palms she screamed all over again.
“Uwaaagh! It… hurts! It hurts!”
The raw realism of the screams made Iva leap straight out of her seat.
It was Anne who hauled Charina—still twitching like she’d been electrocuted—back to her feet. Dozens of tacks, forty or fifty at a glance, bristled from the black tank-top bra across Charina’s back; more glittered under the lights where they had sunk into bare waist and shoulders.
Thud.
“Aaaagh!”
Anne simply hit a power slam, but the still-embedded tacks made Charina wail and claw at her own back.
“Uncle… does that really hurt that much?”
“Iva. If you’re that curious, go to the office and press a handful of tacks into your palm.”
“I already know that. I’m asking if there’s some trick to it.”
“There’s no trick. You just take it with your body. Ordinary guts aren’t enough even to dream about it. Hell, even Jet’s never done it. That’s why she’s special.”
Iva looked over at Jet Hardy. He was still sitting in the exact same posture as the opening bell, eyes locked on the ring like he could burn a hole through it.
“We’re almost at twenty minutes and there’s still no sign of a finish.”
Anne suddenly clamped Charina’s head between her thighs and tried to hoist her. Charina dug in with pure strength and refused to leave the mat—then reversed it, dumping Anne with a back body slam. Anne crashed into the shattered table debris on the way down.
Charina, face twisted, shook out her gear like she was shedding a second skin. She swept her hands down her waist and shoulders, scraping free the remaining tacks. Most of them pulled loose and clattered away; blood welled gently from every puncture.
In that same window Anne recovered enough to climb back to her feet and set herself. The match that had looked finished the moment Charina hit the tacks had reset to zero.
“Just stay down already!”
“You stay down! I’m going to kill you!”
Both women, pure malice now, traded vicious chops.
Slap.
Slap.
Charina won the exchange. She shoved Anne into the ropes, then sprinted to the opposite side herself. She chose a flying forearm—launching herself and driving the forearm into the opponent. Anne chose a dropkick.
They collided in mid-air. Anne’s boots caught Charina flush in the face and sent her flying backward. This time the impact looked truly devastating; Charina didn’t even scream or twitch. She lay completely still, as if knocked cold.
Anne unfolded the table Charina had originally set up, then righted the fallen ladder as well. She started to drag Charina up by the hair, changed her mind, dropped one more leg drop for good measure, and only then laid Charina across the table.
Anne climbed the ladder slowly, settled her balance, and jumped again.
Crack—
Thud—
This time Charina had nowhere to go. Anne landed dead-center on her chest. The impact clearly rocked Anne too; she clutched her own midsection with one hand and barely managed to drape the other across Charina’s chest.
The referee’s count came fast. The crowd counted with him.
One!
Two!
Three!
Ding-ding-ding—
Whoa!
Anne! Anne! Anne!
The moment the winner’s call hit and her theme music rolled, Anne simply sat there and buried her face against the canvas. She looked completely spent.
The cage door swung open and the medical team—doctor and stretcher—poured into the ring. Once they began checking both women, Anne staggered upright first. Charina rose a moment later with the medics supporting her.
Seeing both of them on their feet, the entire arena rose as one, raining down cheers and applause.
Woooah—
Holy shit! All-time classic!
Good game! Good game!
Both of you killed it!
Caught in the same spell, Iva stood and clapped until her hands stung.