I am bloody mental...THAT'S WHY!!! (750 word RP Freestyle)
Oct 7, 2022 18:56:25 GMT -5
Harvey Marx likes this
Post by "Ginger Ninja" Molly Hatchet on Oct 7, 2022 18:56:25 GMT -5
Pain, aches, bones always on the mend, bruises, cuts, and dried blood decorate my body every time I take that long, post-match walk from the wrestling ring through the back to the locker room. Sometimes I’m asked a question by an interviewer, most times I’m left to find a quiet spot to lay down and catch my breath. It’s no different on this night either, having just faced been through a difficult hardcore match. Wasn’t my best, but it wasn't my worst either.
The locker room was a standard one you’d find at any venue, maybe a bit nicer for once as this was a community rec center in the southeastern United States. I got a few cat-calls and whistles as I shed my gear. I guess even bruised and bloodied, you’d call me something of a looker. Nudity is nothing new. Shared locker rooms are that way and I couldn’t give two fucks what anyone thought of my body. I just wanted out of the sweat soaked and bloodied gear, and under a hot shower. Oh did it feel good to start rinsing the night away.
A question dances through my mind always. Why do I do this to myself? Am I a bloody sadomasochist? I seem to get such a rush from the violence that always awaited me each night I step into that wrestling ring. It was a question I planned on answering this very night. After a meticulous cleaning, I step out to dry my freckled and tattooed flesh with one of the provided towels, and got dressed.
Blue and white cargo pants, a WSOW T-shirt, black running shoes, and a necklace with razorblade dog tags on it were what I decided to wear. Why? Because I’m not fancy, but I do like cool things, yeah. I grab my bag and head out of the locker room to find a quiet, isolated spot in the arena loading dock, where the crowd could barely be heard at all.
I set the camera up on a tripod, a nice little Nikon DLSR I got on sale. I then grab a crate, set it down in the middle of the floor, and sit before the camera to begin recording with the push of a button on a small remote in my pocket.
“Aye, hello there. Tha’ name’s Molly Hatchet, tha’ Ginger Ninja and chief of tha’ Hatchet clan. When I got my golden ticket, I dinnae’ know what to expect from tha’ World Series of Wrestling. This competition is so much unlike anythin’ else I’ve done before. I was given a question ta’ answer before all this and it’s one I’ve answered before, but usually I was in such a time crunch to answer that I simply said stupid shite like, ‘Oh I do it fer fun’ or ‘tha’ money was good and it beats washin’ dishes and cleanin’ bed pans fer a livin’ yeah.”
I think on it for a moment, rubbing my hands together as I genuinely wanted to give a good answer.
“I’ve ne’er really given it hard thought or an honest answer because, well it is one of the more fun jobs you can ask fer when ya’ take tha’ drama surroundin’ it out of the equation. Oh ya’ get yer prima donna twats who act like their shite don’t stink & take their ball n’ go home when they donnae’ get their way, but tha’ truth is… even with that… with all tha’ numpty horse-shite that comes with it, I wrestle fer the pure love of tha’ game.”
A smile crosses these lips as indeed, I think of all the absolute batshit insanity that has made up my life as a professional wrestler.
“Sure there are times when bellends make it really hard to love my sport, but when I’m in that ring, all eyes on me, screamin’ and carryin’ on, it just drives me up to a whole ‘nother level. Tha’ thrill, danger, and excitement just drive me forward to do things I donnae’ think I could do without fans eggin’ me on.”
I can’t help but chuckle at how giddy the thought just makes me.
“It’s an adrenaline rush for sure and I bloody well love it. The blood, sweat, tears, tha’ spectacle… all of it. I wouldnae’ trade this life for any other. That me friends is why I am a wrestler.”
With the push of a button, I kill the recording.
The locker room was a standard one you’d find at any venue, maybe a bit nicer for once as this was a community rec center in the southeastern United States. I got a few cat-calls and whistles as I shed my gear. I guess even bruised and bloodied, you’d call me something of a looker. Nudity is nothing new. Shared locker rooms are that way and I couldn’t give two fucks what anyone thought of my body. I just wanted out of the sweat soaked and bloodied gear, and under a hot shower. Oh did it feel good to start rinsing the night away.
A question dances through my mind always. Why do I do this to myself? Am I a bloody sadomasochist? I seem to get such a rush from the violence that always awaited me each night I step into that wrestling ring. It was a question I planned on answering this very night. After a meticulous cleaning, I step out to dry my freckled and tattooed flesh with one of the provided towels, and got dressed.
Blue and white cargo pants, a WSOW T-shirt, black running shoes, and a necklace with razorblade dog tags on it were what I decided to wear. Why? Because I’m not fancy, but I do like cool things, yeah. I grab my bag and head out of the locker room to find a quiet, isolated spot in the arena loading dock, where the crowd could barely be heard at all.
I set the camera up on a tripod, a nice little Nikon DLSR I got on sale. I then grab a crate, set it down in the middle of the floor, and sit before the camera to begin recording with the push of a button on a small remote in my pocket.
“Aye, hello there. Tha’ name’s Molly Hatchet, tha’ Ginger Ninja and chief of tha’ Hatchet clan. When I got my golden ticket, I dinnae’ know what to expect from tha’ World Series of Wrestling. This competition is so much unlike anythin’ else I’ve done before. I was given a question ta’ answer before all this and it’s one I’ve answered before, but usually I was in such a time crunch to answer that I simply said stupid shite like, ‘Oh I do it fer fun’ or ‘tha’ money was good and it beats washin’ dishes and cleanin’ bed pans fer a livin’ yeah.”
I think on it for a moment, rubbing my hands together as I genuinely wanted to give a good answer.
“I’ve ne’er really given it hard thought or an honest answer because, well it is one of the more fun jobs you can ask fer when ya’ take tha’ drama surroundin’ it out of the equation. Oh ya’ get yer prima donna twats who act like their shite don’t stink & take their ball n’ go home when they donnae’ get their way, but tha’ truth is… even with that… with all tha’ numpty horse-shite that comes with it, I wrestle fer the pure love of tha’ game.”
A smile crosses these lips as indeed, I think of all the absolute batshit insanity that has made up my life as a professional wrestler.
“Sure there are times when bellends make it really hard to love my sport, but when I’m in that ring, all eyes on me, screamin’ and carryin’ on, it just drives me up to a whole ‘nother level. Tha’ thrill, danger, and excitement just drive me forward to do things I donnae’ think I could do without fans eggin’ me on.”
I can’t help but chuckle at how giddy the thought just makes me.
“It’s an adrenaline rush for sure and I bloody well love it. The blood, sweat, tears, tha’ spectacle… all of it. I wouldnae’ trade this life for any other. That me friends is why I am a wrestler.”
With the push of a button, I kill the recording.