Dirty Whores cry for mercy in there last hour

I can feel the cold, hard floor beneath me. The room is dark with only one heavy, steal door, locking me in my prison. No window or even the smallest gap in the concrete walls, no spec of light anywhere around me. I used to think that when you died, if you had lived a life full of sin and complete selfishness, you would be damned to hell. All fire and brimstone, little demons pocking at your naked flesh with their pitchforks, the usual image portrayed by most that believe that hell exists. I now realize how wrong I was, this is hell. Complete silence, the darkness engulfing you, the freezing floor numbing your naked body ensuring that you feel no comfort or warmth. You have no idea why or how you are here, eventually, as the days without food or water ware on, you start thinking about you inevitable fate. I start to think of the things I could be punished for, all the times I have done something sinful or against the word of God. I never believed the bible but if I’d thought about just how punishing and cruel Hell was going to be I would have led a very different life obeying God’s every word; maybe I would have become a Nun? If I were not so scared, cold and thirsty I would have found the thought of myself living in a convent with all the other sexually depraved woman amusing, but I’m too weak to even smile.

My drifting thoughts are disturbed by a noise, it startles me as I have not heard anything for days, or what I think is days as keeping a concept of time is extremely difficult. Every minute drags like an eternity. The sound of footsteps echo from out side the door, although it’s hard to tell as staring into the black abyss of this room is both confusing and disorientating. I will my fuzzy, tired brain back into focus and try to get myself into some sort of state of readiness.

A light is suddenly switched on outside the room, the soft buzzing sound of it warming up, then it clicks fully on and although only the thinnest line of light penetrates the darkness from under the door, it actually hurts my eyes. The footsteps are coming closer and I begin to realize that whoever it is, they are probably the one who bought me here.

I have very little memory of that horrifying night. Nothing stood out in my mind as being out of the ordinary, just the same as any other Monday: Saying goodbye to my friend after going to a bar after work for quick drink, then running to catch the subway, but just missing it. From then on it gets slightly fuzzy, I sat down to wait for the next train, the platform was practically deserted aside from one elderly tramp, who was half asleep in the corner. A hand grabbed me from behind and holding a cloth over my mouth, their grip was so strong that struggling was almost impossible, it must have been doused chloroform or something because the next thing I remember is waking up here. When I first woke up I tried screaming and shouting, but to no avail. My clothes had been ripped, my head was spinning and I had quite a few bumps and bruises, nothing life threatening but since then the lack of food, water and warmth are certainly becoming a major problem. The anticipation of the door opening once again has kept my nerves so on edge, why the hell am I hear? What sick perverted pleasure does someone get from keeping me here, and when they do finally reveal themselves, what are they going to do to me?

The footsteps have stopped, not right outside, as I see no shadow. I push myself into the far corner and try to prepare for the worst, whatever that may be. Despite everything, I’m unsure if I’m ready to die. I’ve always had a fighting spirit, even though my heart feels as if it may explode, It’s beating so fast and so hard I can actually hear it. Feeling tense, scared and on edge all the time has obviously taken it’s toll and I’m not sure how much, if any, of a fight I could put up. I have made very little movement in the past few days, or however long I’ve been here, Aside from trying to get to grip with my surroundings. I suppose I will eventually die of dehydration, if not some other horrific means. I’m not sure what could be worse, if they open the door, or if they don’t and I’m left here to die. My fighting spirit has always kept me going through my life, but now it is being sucked out of me and I’m too exhausted and scared to even care. I don’t want to die, but I’m beginning to accept the fact that that is a large possibility.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention as I hear the footsteps again, a man says something in a language I can’t understand: just outside the door another answers him. The sound of a key turns in the lock, and the door bursts open, flooding the room with light. I cover my eyes as it’s shocking how bright it is, my eyes sting but I desperately try to adjust and focus on the man standing in front of.

"Come with me"

His accent was thick, although from what I could see he looked English. He had short hair, but was built like a monster. Wherever he wanted me to follow him to, I didn’t want to go. Thoughts raced through my head, he could do anything to me, I was in no fit state to stop him. Whatever gruesome fate awaited me, I didn’t want to face it.

"Tell me why I’m here, why are you keeping me here?"

I try to cover the shakiness of my voice, try to sound brave and defiant, but it’s an impossible task and even before I’m finished I can feel myself choking up and the tears beginning to well.

"SHUT UP, come with me now."

"Please, I’m begging you, please just let me go. I won’t tell anyone that I was even here, I swear. Just let me go."

My voice was cracking, I wanted to be brave and push past him, run out the door and escape but I’m too weak and scared. I feel pathetic, broken.

"Lady, don’t fucking push me. I can end your miserable life at any fucking time….. Now do as I say, follow me."

"NO, I can’t! Just let me go… I have money, anything you want, just for fuck sake let me go!"

I looked into his hard, grey eyes pleadingly, but they were empty. He started laughing as he turned toward the open door, his evil cackling sound echoing through the room. He started through the door but then quickly spun round, smacking me on the side of my head with his gun, just missing my ear. The impact made a sick sound as it made contact with my skull and I was immediately knocked out.

I’m awake, too scared to open my eyes, unsure how long ago it was that I regained consciousness, my head is throbbing and I feel woozy. I’m tied to a hard metal chair, my arms tied together behind it, the rope cutting into my wrists and ankles. I remain in my slumped position, not moving, barely breathing. I can’t hear anything but I can feel someone’s in the room with me, I’m sure of it, I feel eyes boring into me, waiting for the slightest movement to indicate I’m awake. Why am I not dead? The disgusting thought of rape passes through my mind but I try to dismiss it quickly, as I have done every time the word appeared in my head while I was alone in my cell. It is an awful possibility though, one I and every woman in the world hoped she would never have to deal with. Why would anyone want do this? I want answers; want to know why me and I want to go home, see my mother and cry in her arms, only her comforting hug could stop me from being scared.

"Hello Sarah, I know your awake, you can stop pretending – but then again you were always very good at that weren’t you"

I slowly sit upright and open my eyes. I know who it is that sits before me, the very thought of him sends shivers down my spine and now he’s in front of me. Sitting on a chair like nothing’s wrong, like we’re just a couple of old friends catching up and reminiscing about old times. I should have known: he was the only person I know who could do this to me. Who would want to see me suffer so much.

"You haven’t changed, after eleven years your still as beautiful as ever."

He came closer but I sat frozen, staring into the distance. He touched the side of my swollen face ever so lightly and I moved my head away in disgust. I despise him; the look he gives me makes my stomach wretch and guts churn. Rico.

"You obviously haven’t changed either, you’re still the sick twisted bastard you always were. How did you get out?"

It seems like a stupid question really, It’s not that I care or even want to know. I have to ask because fear prevents me asking the questions I really want to. I’m so scared of the answers I’ll get; I’m not dealing with an ordinary person here. Rico is sadistic, an evil bastard who, in the year we spent together, did everything he could to try to manipulate and control me.

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So, Swan...what are you waiting for? And engraved invitation, perhaps? Shit, son...you're getting the chance of a lifetime, stepping into the ring with the very best wrestler you'll EVER face, and you've got nothing to say about it? Of course not, you're too busy finding an asshole to plug? Fucking faggots, there all the same, bitch and moan about being treated equally yet, there the most repulsive thing to ever exist. Well, let me clue you in on a little something, Cockless. This isn't some fucking soap opera, it's wrestling. You're not going to go through a couple of 'seasons' of looking for that one faggot to hump you back or whatever, only to find it at the end of a match, jackass. And let me tell you, motherfucker...the only thing you're going to find at the end of a match with me is pain, humiliation, and a fucking autograph upside that cock holster you call your head.

See, while you're mooning over getting your ass rammed to hard by Justin Kash, I'm dominating the business that you work in, bitch, and I'm making it look ridiculously easy, too. It's not even really work for me. I just show up, be my Absolutely awesome self, and people generally fall down for the three-count just like I did to are former champion Cyber Punk. It only took ME one try to defeat you, Punk. One-on-one, you've never beaten me, and guess what ass-hammer? You never will. Suck on that. If you ever even THINK about getting in a ring with me again, I'll break your other leg, bitch. Hell, I'll break 'em both, just for the trouble of having to look at that ass you call a face. I know what it is. You're not love sick, you're just pissed off you got stuck with a name like Swan. And who wouldn't be? Uneducated teenage crack-addicted downs syndrome bitches come up with better names for their babies than fucking "Swan". You need to find whoever gave you that name and beat the fuck out of them something proper, like I'm going to do to you on Sunday, fuckerface.

Maybe then you wouldn't be all sulky, like some angst-riddled teenager whose all depressed because the cocks don't poke back. Perhaps you should try a different profession, Swan. Being a meter maid has to be a helluva lot safer than climbing in the ring with moi'. But then, I suppose if you had the sense God gave the average retard, you never would have gotten into this business. You know, I heard somewhere that you've seemed to fight a lot because you had nothing else to do. A piece of advice? Find something fucking else to do come Sunday, Swan. It won't be pretty for you if you don't. Ah, fuck it. I know you're thinking that despite the fact that no other motherfucker in this industry has been able to truly figure out how to put me on the mat for the three count, you somehow have the magic fucking spell, the wonder recipe for defeating Rico Sutton. Well, alright Betty Crocker. Bring that shit to me at Direct Hit. I got news for you though. That ring -my ring- isn't some Cyber-Bake oven, motherfucker.

But, don't worry, you'll have a fag story you can tell your grand kids one day, assuming you can get some stupid faggot to stick around long enough to adopt huh, I believe I just stumbled on Johnny Styles secret. He‘s a fag just like you Cock. But, let's make that gigantic leap for a moment, and assume you end up with little grand-Lee's. You can tell 'em you were in the ring with the very best to ever lace 'em up in this business. Hell, I'll be so old by then, I won't even mind if you embellish a bit and tell them you gave me a good match. Just don't outright lie to them and tell them something ridiculous, like you beat me. There's a special place in hell for liars, Swan. By the time you get old enough to lie to your grand-bastards, you'll be more worried about things like whether or not the other people in the home can smell the shit in your Depends than you will be about lying about what you did all those years ago on the greatest night of your professional life.

Not that it's going to be great because you're going to do anything worth remembering. It'll just be great because you're going to get to share ring time with me. Personally, I'd rather be at home banging a hot-ass model than wasting three minutes of my life showing the world what a fucking Useless Cunt you are. See, Swan, one thing people like you don't seem to understand, no matter how many times guys like myself tell you, is that you're simply not on our level. Period. No, not period....Absolutely. Yeah. Absolutely. You just weren't born with the talent or skill to overcome what we are. And what are we, people like myself? I’M Better.Than.You. A fact you'll become infinitely familiar with, no matter how little amount of time it takes me to thoroughly wipe any notion of success against me from your mind, and show the world how insignificant you are in my world. Don't feel bad, there, though. You're in the same boat with every other person in the east, in wrestling, in the world. You're all a bunch of utterly Useless....oh, wait...silly me. I already used that one, didn't I? I have so many, it's hard to keep up, sometimes. Suffice it to say that I exist on a plane the rest of you will never attain. I call it the Top of The Mountain. No matter how high you climb in this business, no matter how you strive, or how far you stretch out your hand, you simply will never have what it takes to walk my hallowed ground. There is, after all, only ONE Rico Sutton.

And you simply are no match for me, Swan. But don't let that stop you from trying. Maybe if you make me break a sweat, I won't feel like those three minutes that I spent destroying you were totally wasted. If you have anything akin to an "A game", Swan....please bring that. It won't avail you, but it's always nice to know I'm getting someone's best effort, no matter how pathetic it really is. But any thoughts you have of being successful, or even actually winning this week.....you might as well check those at the door. And hey, look at the bright side...you're going to get an autograph from Rico Sutton that you won't even have to pay money for.

I'll see you Sunday, Swan. Just don't forget your place. Recognize and whatnot. Oh, and before I go…there is one more thing I need to let you in on. Carmine Vestieri didn't book this match because he doesn't like me. He booked it because he doesn't like you. Guess what that means for you? Nothing special really. Just that you are exactly like everyone else in NLWF, and like everyone else in NLWF, YOU WELL BOW DOWN TO THE FUTURE!