. Hayter's Vengeance .

January 31st.

An hour after Eruption.

Jamie Hayter sits on an equipment case, hold a bag of ice on her neck, and grimacing in pain and growling as the chief medic checks on her after the wild, unhinged chaos of the night. Whatever the doctor is saying might as well be the “Wah, wah, wah, wah” of Charlie Brown’s teacher as Jamie is in her own world.

All thoughts are consumed by one thing.

Jamie Hayter is going to fucking murder Momo Watanabe.

CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK!

The sounds of aluminum smacking the concrete pavement fills the air as Jamie looks over and sees a battered, neck-brace-fitted, hobbling Drake Maverick approaching her. With a crutch under his right arm, he’s… power crutching? His way over to the larger Brit in frantic, shambling manner.

Me car! Me wife! ME WIFE AND ME CAR!!!

Drake exclaims as his bottom lip quivers in a manner that Jamie can’t tell if he’s enraged… or about to burst into tears.

 I GOT BLOODY WHOPPERED BY A CAR!!!

Okay, it’s definitely rage… and raging tears as they flow down his cheeks in sticky rivulets.

 Did ya see?! Did ya see what that harlot did ta me beautiful wife?! And me beautiful, smartly designed Smart car!

Jamie parts her lips to express some manner of response but the pint-sized Brit just continues on his vehement spewing of hate.

 Bollocks with ‘babyface’ for one night! I WANT YA TO BASH HER BLOODY SKULL IN!!!

Drake “storms off”, which, really, is more of the wobbly, awkward clacking of his crutches on the ground as he hobbles away.

Regardless, Hayter’s expression of confounded puzzlement changes to a cruel, sinister smile as the camera fades…

February 1st.

Holiday Inn French Quarter-Chateau Lemoyne, New Orleans, Louisiana.

As “compensation” for Momo destroying Drake’s Smart Car, WLCW… or rather Mick Foley who was a fan of the yellow school bus colored clown car (and thus also mourns its loss)… has paid to put Drake in a nicer hotel.

Of course, all that really meant is that Jamie took the nice, large bedroom suite and forced Drake to occupy the couch in the living area.

Currently, sat in bed, she’s once more iced down as she tries to work on doing whatever she can to prepare her body for the war that’s coming.

Purple and yellow blotches dot her fair skin, and she knows 48 hours from the war on Eruption isn’t enough time to truly recover, but she also knows Mom will be just as wounded.

Just the way Jamie wants it.

 Came a long fuckin’ way, ain’t we Momo?

Jamie isn’t addressing or giving a promo, simply speaking aloud, but as the view shifts, a flatscreen TV is across the room. Currently playing are matches from the pair’s past in Stardom. Ruthless kicks and brutal punches and slams were the normal course of events. For all the mocking of the diminutive stature of Joshi wrestlers there was one irrefutable truth that anyone who took the time to watch the matches quickly learned…

Joshis beat the living shit out of each other.

Compared to the wars that Hayter had been through in Japan that were ‘simple exhibitions’?

AEW had been easy.

 Fuckin’ buyout bullshite.

Now, she was in WLCW, with the sawed off and sod off cunts from that Joshi world whom if she wasn’t careful? Could get that one lucky kick and cave her skull in.

Gotta end the bitch. Cut off the fuckin’ head and the rest of ‘em will wither or take their midget arses back to Japan…

Yes. Even if it will severely put her at a greater disadvantage at the Queen of the Mountain Match?

Jamie Hayter knows one thing.

Momo Watanabe must be taken out on a stretcher.

Crippled, broken, or better yet?

Just fucking dead.

 Fuckin’ cunt.

She grumbles as the *PING* of the elevator door opens and she hobbles in, leaning against the reflective brass walls. As the conveyance whirrs and begins its descent, she closes her eyes, debating whether to shut out the pain, or focus on it and make it fuel her.

 Fuckin’ mid-20s, what will my 30s be like?

She asks aloud before she opens her eyes, looking at her tired, beaten reflection. What comes back at her is just a smirk.

 Doesn’t fuckin’ matter. Tomorrow me’s problem.

As the ping occurs once more, the doors part ways and she shambles out, making her way to the main lobby. A whirring sound fills the air as rolling up in a motorized wheelchair, his neck still in a brace, an arm in a cast, and now a leg as well, is Drake Maverick.

 Miss Jamie! Did ya see the awful things that bastard Sonny Onoo and that tart Momo Watanable said?!

Jamie just stares at the man with a look of pure annoyance.

The fuck is that?

…what?

 *motions to the whole setup*

That.

Ah! Nice eh? This ‘ere is a Shoprider Streamer Sport! Cost me $2,000. But it’s…

Drake goes into clearly what’s a well-rehearsed marketing spiel…

 A mid-size power wheelchair, which has a 10-mile travel range on a single battery charge, blends style and comfort. It features a 19-inch captain’s seat, plus 3-inch ground clearance that makes it easy to maneuver the terrain almost anywhere you go. The short wheelbase helps you navigate small spaces both indoors and outdoors as well. There are lots of ways to adjust the chair for maximum comfort!

The pint-sized Brit then gets a Cheshire grin on his face.

 AND a top speed of 5 miles per hour! This is luxury living!

 Fuckin’ daffy wanker.

Jamie just walks by with an eyeroll as Drake gasps and works to rapidly spin the chair 180 degrees on its axis and follow.

 It’s on me personal credit card! I didn’t use our business expenses! Just please don’t tell Renee!

Hayter’s response is a simple raised middle finger as she keeps hobbling toward the parking garage.

 But let’s focus on what was on WWN! Sonny said Western women have a ‘hard candy shell like many secure little girls.’ And ‘Daddy issues’! Are you gonna stand for that?!

 Ya think I really give a flyin’ fuck what some old, shriveled midget, whose glory days where when I were an infant, has to say? Oh no! Cheap knockoff kung fu grandpa said something mean about me!

Jamie rolls her eyes as she reaches their rental car, pressing the button on the trunk as it recognizes the signal from the fob in the pocket of her hoodie. As the lid pops enough, Jamie’s hand reaches and lifts it. The pain is moderate but tolerable.

However, when she lifts her suitcase, her body is on fire as she hisses in anger. Yet she powers through and tosses the item in and slams the lid down in fury as she turns, clutching Drake by the shirt as he cries out in pain.

 The only fuckin’ thing that matters, I bury Momo Watanabe six fuckin’ feet under! That bitch wants to talk shite about breaking my shell and finding out what’s underneath? She better fuckin’ be worried about what I reveal to the fuckin’ world! She thinks I fuckin’ forgot that happy bright little shit she was in Stardom? That this fuckin’ emo edgelord bullshit of hers can mask she’s a weak little fuckin’ cunt who’d never would have fuckin’ made it without Io, Hazuki, Utami or me girl Bea? Hell, she’d have been nothin’ without fuckin’ Tall Saya!

The pure hate and vitriol is rising as her fingers clench tighter on Drake’s shirt as she brings him closer… until she smells his breath and releases him with a sneer.

 I don’t care what shite they have to pump into me to kill the pain, or if I gotta fuckin’ just plow through it on my own. I’m gonna cave that cunt’s fuckin’ skull in. Fuck the title match, fuck your stupid bein’ more marketable cocksnot, fuck Mick fuckin’ Foley and his ‘big meaty women’ shite.

 It’s Big Meaty Slappy—

Drake cuts off as Jamie’s glare looks like she’s about to rip his heart from his chest if he continues.

 The bitch ain’t walkin’ out o' that ring.

Getting in the car, Jamie starts it and it nearly runs Drake over as she backs it up and peels out of the garage.

 *blinks*

Miss Jamie! You forgot me!

Drake desperately tries to get his whopping 5 MPH wheelchair to give chase…

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