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Old 12-25-2017, 08:55 PM   #1
Vongola27
 
Join Date: Jan 2013
Posts: 52
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Default The Superheavyweight Champion (BBW, XWG, Stuffing)

((Hey, everyone! Turns out there was one more gift under the Christmas tree, and it's a new story from yours truly! Hope that you enjoy it!))

It was the night of the Showdown Supreme, when all the top names in the Global Wrestling Federation came together in a battle for the ages. Title belts were placed on the line, friendships were made and ended, and bitter rivalries came to blows. The losers were sent home packing, while the winners had their names etched into the halls of history. And on the night of the thirty-fifth showdown, there was no greater winner than Mickey Ramone.

Yet she was depressed.

The end of the evening, teetering on 1 AM, found her soaking her aching body in a tub of ice. In the last six hours, she had defended her Women’s Intercontinental Belt against the lithe but brutal Shinobu Misawa, reclaimed the Women’s Tag Team Belts from the Strong Baddies with the help of her partner, KC Sky, and won the Women’s World Championship from her eternal rival, the conniving Sadie Storme. On top of that, she had to face off against the Storme Troop, Sadie’s goons who regularly ran interference on their matches. This meant having to fight off four other women, one of whom was a head taller than her and fifty pounds heavier. It was a hard-fought match that sapped every ounce of strength left in her body, but it was worth it to walk away with the Triple Crown of the GWF.

Mickey rolled her head forward and glanced down at her battered frame wrapped in sapphire spandex. There were bruises all over, especially a nasty one near her ribs, which she swore had been broken by the hard-hitting Shinobu. Her toned stomach and powerful legs appeared warped by the water and ice, and a tired chuckle escaped her lips. She could almost make out her face, where a nice shiner rested on her right eye and tape had gone over her nose to keep it from busting much more. At the very least, she could count her blessings that Sadie had not broken her neck with one of her infamous piledrivers.

“Checking out your battle scars?” asked the man in the chair beside her.

Raymundo Valdez was her manager and boyfriend, and the two had worked together ever since meeting in a small Georgia promotion ten years ago. He was a modest man just a hair or two shorter than her and a doughy body that belied his behind-the-scenes activity. Unlike some managers, who were more in it for the act and often got into the ring themselves, Ray chose to focus on his promo skills and making sure Mickey got the best. For being a shorter man in a big man’s world, he had no problem butting heads with creative whenever he felt that his girlfriend was not getting the work she deserved. It was that tenacity that made him a valuable asset in her career; Mickey could not imagine getting to Showdown without his help.

“Just keeping track of the damage,” she grunted as she shifted around in the tub. “I want to make sure I pay back that punta, Sadie, in full tomorrow night.”

Ray shook his head at that. There was no stopping Mickey and Sadie whenever their never-ending feud sparked up; you had a better chance of breaking up a cobra and a mongoose. He glanced over the young woman’s tan, bruised body, and sighed, “Just promise me you won’t sucker punch her with a roll of nickels in your fist again, okay?”

“Only if you can make sure she doesn’t come to the ring with a scalpel again,” Mickey scowled, her fingers instinctively going to the gnarly scar on her forehead. Just thinking about that sneaky taint got her blood boiling, which her boyfriend helped cool by adding a fresh bag of ice to the tub.

Their privacy was interrupted by a knock on the door. Mickey lolled her head over and called out, “Come on in!”

In walked one of the backstage technicians, specifically the man who helped change out the plates on the title belts. He walked over to the duo and presented three large belts to the Latina wrestler, who gestured for him to hand them to Ray. Drew, always a polite man, glanced over to Mickey and smiled. “Great job out there, Mickey. Been a long time since I’ve had the privilege of setting up a Triple Crown of belts.”

“Thanks, Drew,” she replied with a tired smile.

As the man left the room, Ray flashed the golden beauties to his lovely lady. They were all roughly the same design, but they each had their own features: the Intercontinental featured two wrestlers grappling with each other, the Tag Team had those same two wrestlers back to back, and the World Championship had the company logo etched in the center. Framing the center of the belts were black discs that displayed the letter M in barbed wire, which was part of Mickey’s logo.

“Says it right there in big, bold letters,” her eager manager remarked as he looked over the belts. “’MICKEY RAMONE’ looks right at home on them, don’t you think?”

When he peeked over for an answer, Mickey was not even looking at the belts. Instead, her gaze was fixed on a mirror across the room. Ray shouldered the hefty belts and tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, Mick…you okay?”

This shook her from her daze, and her focus returned to the belts, albeit with much less interest than he had anticipated. “Oh, yeah, awesome. New belts, yay.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “Something wrong?”

The punk girl sighed and covered her eyes. “I’m sorry, Ray; I don’t mean to come off as a coño. I’m just really tired of this.”

“Hey, I get it. You’ve had a long night, and you just want to get to the hotel and rest up.”

“No, no, it’s not just tonight,” she groaned. “It’s every night. We’ve been doing this for so long and I’ve gotten so many titles in that time, and I don’t know why, but I’m so tired of it all.”

That was something he never expected to hear from Mickey. As long as Ray had known her, she always had this fantastic love for the business that simply could not be matched. Of course, she would not be the first person to lose interest in the game, but why now, so suddenly? She must have read his mind, because when she turned to meet his eyes, she shook her head.

“I’m not saying I’m retiring or anything; you couldn’t drag me away from the ring. No, I’m just tired of winning the same sorts of titles over and over again, with the same gimmick. I’m the punk who defies the authority and meets any challenge because she doesn’t care if she lives or dies.”

He nodded and remarked, “Yeah, and the crowd love it.”

“For now, but if I’m bored of it, how long will it take until they turn on it too?”

“So what were you thinking?”

Mickey’s gaze returned to the mirror and she let her hand fall to her chin. “I’ve been thinking about my grandfather.”

Her grandfather was ‘Hog Wild’ Lou Ramone, a legend in the industry for a few reasons. First, he had a timeless look, wearing wrestling trunks under overalls and nothing else; second, he was one of the toughest S.O.B.s back in the day; third and most remarkable, he was close to six hundred and fifty pounds in his peak. Lou had been a blimp of a man who made up for zero agility by focusing on powerful blows and drops that seemed to make the arenas shake. He was literally one of the biggest men in the history of the business, let alone the GWF, and when he passed away just a year after Mickey was born, everyone in the company poured out for the funeral.

“What about him?” asked Ray.

She turned back to face him, the ice shifting around her powerful body, and replied, “I have won so many variations of the same belts: world titles, tag titles, intercontinental, cruiserweight, hardcore, and so on. I’m proud of my accomplishments, but I need something new to aspire to; I need to be a groundbreaker like my grandfather.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“The Superheavyweight Championship,” she answered with a grin.

When she was met with a confused look, she sighed and reached for her phone. Once in hand, she dug through her photos until she pulled up a picture of an old belt encased in glass. It was nowhere near as big as the belts of today, looking more like a tool belt than anything else, and it featured an embossed eagle with arrows in one claw and holly in the other.

“My grandfather regularly competed for this belt back in the day,” Mickey explained. “It was a special belt for a special category of wrestler: only those who weighed upwards of four hundred pounds could qualify. Lou held this title three times in his life and was the last man to win it before it was discontinued; this here is the original, still sitting on a shelf in our home.”

“So what, you want to bring the Superheavyweight Division back?” he asked, still not getting the picture.

Mickey shook her head. “I don’t just want to bring back the Superheavyweight Division: I want to be their champion!”

If it were anyone suggesting this, Ray would have laughed at how ridiculous it was. This was Mickey Ramone talking though, the same woman who once demanded she take a bump through a flaming table covered in barbed wire; after the C4 match at Fright Night 12, he knew she was deathly serious about stuff like this.

The flustered manager clapped his hands together and took a deep breath. “Okay, voice of reason time, mi princesa violenta. You’re talking about reviving a division that’s been dead for over forty years. You want to be the champion of said division, despite there being no other women wrestlers that come close to that weight class, including yourself. Hog Wild was over six hundred pounds in his prime; you’re about a fifth of that. Even if you could get corporate to sign off on this, you’d be taking a huge risk on this.”

As she languished in the tub with closed eyes, she murmured, “Thirty-five.”

“Come again?” Ray asked.

“That’s how many times you’ve told me that, Raymundo. Thirty-five times, you’ve told me I’d be taking a huge risk. And how often does it work out for me?”

He could not do the math, but he knew that she was more often right than wrong. Mickey was a risk-taker, but she did everything in her power to make things turn out in her favor.

“Ray, look at me,” she told him. When he looked to her bruised face, he swore that she had never looked so determined in her life. “This is what I want to do. I don’t care what anyone says, but I am going to be the Superheavyweight Champion.”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. There was no talking her out of this, not when she got into one of her moods; arguing with the creative department was easier than getting Mickey to change her mind.

“Fine, fine,” he relented. “I’ll get us a meeting with the boss and see what we can do for you. But I’ll tell you right now, Mick: Dave is going to say…”

***

“Not a chance in hell!”

It was the day after the Showdown, a few hours before Monday Night War. Mickey, who now wore a white tank-top, leather jacket, and torn jeans, and Ray, who wore a casual suit, sat on the other side of a table in Dave Ericson’s hotel room. Mr. Ericson was the owner of the whole GWF and had been for the last forty years, and it showed. He was closing in on seventy-five years old, his eyes were often bloodshot from working twenty-hour days, and his face was wrinkling like a raisin. At the same time, Dave had been on the juice for a good few years back in the day and still regularly worked out, which meant that he was still a tough man. On this day, the day after his most successful event of the year, he wore a dark suit that fit him like a glove.

“Let me tell you both something right now,” he grumbled as he carved up his steak and eggs. “I have heard some crazy ideas come my way; hell, I’ve even made up a few myself. This has got to take the cake though.”

“Is this really any crazier than the time you tried to run an incest angle involving yourself and your daughter?” asked Mickey with a sarcastic smirk.

Dave scowled at her, but Ray intervened before words could be exchanged. “Dave, we’ve got this figured out in a way that will allow us to make this happen; we spent all night planning this.”

“Then pretend I’m a mark and sell me on it,” the boss said to the manager.

Ray brought out a notepad that he had been scribbling on since that conversation in the early dawn. “First, we write Mickey off TV tonight with some injury, like a broken tail bone or quad; after last night’s beating, people will buy it and we can forfeit the titles. Next, we’ll have Mickey on a rigorous schedule that will balance out her gaining with exercise so that she’s not just getting fat; she’ll be getting strong too, like John Henry. The way we’ve got her schedule planned out now, we should have her up to about three hundred pounds by next year’s Beach Brawl, where she can make her big comeback and start building up to the title belt at Showdown the following spring.”

Dave sighed and put on his readers so he could look over the notepad. He perused the scribbles, nodding here and shaking his head there, and when he finally put it down, his frown remained. “So what I’m getting is that you want to keep our top name in the Women’s Division on the bench for two years?”

“That’s about how long it would take us to get to the appropriate weight for the belt,” Ray explained.

“We’re not doing that,” the owner disapproved. “The only reason I’d let that happen is if you had a legit injury, but I’m not keeping you off TV for two years.”

Ray was about to make another attempt, but Mickey stepped in. “Dave, I totally get where you’re coming from: you don’t want to lose a hot commodity and all the merch that comes with it, especially for so long. But I am going to do this with or without the GWF. Believe you me, I am sure that there are a lot of promotions that would eat up something like this. Who knows? Maybe I’ll bring take it to the BCW in Osaka, the HCW in London, or, Heaven help you, TNW.”

If there was one thing Dave hated, it was losing talent to other promotions, particularly Total Nonstop Wrestling. He furrowed his brow at the pair across from him before sliding the notepad back to them. “All right, you can do the Superheavyweight angle, but you will follow my conditions.”

He raised his fingers one by one as he fired off the terms. “First, when you come back, I will be booking you against the men; they’re the only ones I’ve got over three-hundred pounds, and I’m not about to fatten up anyone else in your division. Second, you will legitimately win every match; submissions or pinfalls, but no interference. Lastly, you will gain the appropriate weight by next Showdown; you get that big in a year, or I will send you back down to developmental until you’re back to your billing weight now.”

Ray’s jaw dropped as he struggled to put together the numbers in his head. There was no way Mickey could gain that much weight so fast; it was physically impossible. Yet the punk princess only looked to Mr. Ericson with that same determination she had the night before. She was not going to run from such rigid challenges, not when she had her foot in the door.

“Deal,” she agreed as she reached out to shake her boss’s hand. Dave returned the favor with a smirk of his own, though whether it was cockiness or admiration, no one could say.

“Now, do we have any other business, or can I get back to my breakfast?” the owner asked the duo.

Mickey looked down at the decadent dish on the table. There was a hearty strip of steak, a small pile of scrambled eggs, a foot’s worth of sausage links, and what seemed like a whole potato in hash. She looked back up to her boss and grinned.

“Just one last question—how fast can room service get here?”
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