Daryl Prichard vs Lisa Seldon

[Alex Smiley]

Reminder:

- Word limit for Group Stage matches is 1500.
- 1 RP per wrestler per match.
- Deadline: December 30, 2018, at 11:59PM Pacific.

[Lisa]

Wrestling is an odd sport. If you were a boxer, you'd feel there's an element of safety in what you're doing. Sure, you and the other guy are knocking the shit out of each other for a good part of your night, but then it ends. You go home, maybe you go to hospital, you get patched and sent on your way.

Nobody hits you with a chair. That just doesn't happen. And if it does there are consequences. Manny Pacquiao can't just roll up on Floyd Mayweather and go off on him with a chair because he's still mad at him. People would get upset. There would be fines. He would not be given a chance to fight him again in a cage.

That's not even the worst of it. When I'm in a ring, there's usually me and a guy at 14 foot tall who trains by pulling cars in half and eating them. Between us is a tiny man in a striped shirt who makes me look like a fucking linebacker. If this fight doesn't go my way and the guy at the opposite end of the ring decides he wants more than a tapout in recompense for the horrible things I implied he does to his mother, it's in the hands of this tiny nerd - who has had no authority up until this point - to make him stop it.

There are no repercussions for this. At worst some of the people watching will boo him, while the rest buy his shirt.

Wrestling is a wild sport. You would have to be batshit to do this.

"I speak to you today from the top of the table, maximum points on the board, a mere two minutes and twenty two seconds on the clock. I have earned the right to be confident, and thus I have a question. Who the fuck is Daryl Prichard and why should anyone watching this give a shit?"

Another shitty hotel room is our backdrop for the evening. Just hours ago I was touching down in New York from a flight out of Japan. I spent the night at an awards do, picking up a few accolades for my troubles. After this it's back to England for Union Battle, then Toronto again to clean up the second round. According to this trophy I'm holding, I'm the hardest working wrestler of the year.

I can't hope to hold that over everyone, but right now at least, it feels well earned.

"I went out and did my research, because I'm a professional. I didn't find anything good. Daryl Prichard is a big name in the Extreme Measures Federation, a place you've never heard of. Probably because it's so terrible they couldn't even put the right fucking name on the bio pic of their 2017 superstar of the year.

Daryl spent the year racking up wins for the company, taking on the likes of Zach Ryder, Roman Sionos and Kenny Omegrape. Which I hope is meant to be pronounced grape."

A little shiver ripples through me.

"He was a star for them. A big player. Sure he peaked with the second highest belt they could offer him, but he also went undefeated for 8 months, winning 38 matches, which sounds really good but evidently means nothing in practice.

The Harlem Globetrotters also have a terrific win loss record, but they've always been surprisingly quiet in the NBA Finals."

A few hours ago I was all snared up in my finery, hobnobbing with the best of my peers. Somewhere the part was still going. I was spending my night alone, playing to a handycam on a tripod.

A shrug and it's gone.

"History looks nice on wikipedia. It means nothing if you can't back it up. This was his chance to step away from all that nonsense and prove himself. To go out into the wider world of professional wrestling and silence everyone like me; who thinks anyone who could be described as a military black belt double badass who went to prison for a crime he didn't commit is almost definitely an awful, odious cunt with no redeeming value.

He was going to change all that. Make his name off this. Daryl was stepping up his game and we were all going to see what this man could do. In that he said nothing and promptly got choked out in under four minutes. Such a poor showing was it in fact, that if you catch the right camera shot you can see him mouthing the words just kill me now like you've killed my career.

Daryl wanted a chance to show the world what he could do. He got it. It didn't go well."

I stoop to shake my head for him, while once carefully coiffed locks begin to spill out of place. I can just about put myself together for a fist fight. It takes a team of experts working tirelessly through the night to make this look important.

"Daryl didn't just lose that night, he embarrassed himself. He got blown out by the saddest man in the world. It took him longer just getting to the ring. Meanwhile I was scooping Rayne Young's brains into an envelope and mailing them back to his grieving widow. I promised big and delivered my part. Unmake the man. Carry on triumphant. I came to make an impression and I left the world wanting more.

Lisa Seldon came out of week two as a name to watch. Just be sure not to blink or you'll miss your chance."

I take a second to breath, hunkering down, elbows on to knees and clacking my tongue.

"Daryl wanted a chance to spread his wings. Now they've been clipped and he's spiraling to the ground. I came to crack skulls and claim names and now they're just throwing them at me. I'm not a betting woman, but if you're putting money on this piece of shit then you clearly don't need it.

And yes, I'm aware this is a special magical sport where anyone at all can win out at any level on any given night; but how far are we willing to stretch the narrative before we just accept that some people are predators and some people are just prey."

Another shrug, every word carefully slathered with loathing.

"Daryl came to town with a mess of accolades that sound good until you start picking through them and not much else besides. He offered nothing and was exposed for it. He had the same opportunity, the same standing as the rest of us. We all arrived in this tournament with nothing but our names and our word.

We all came down from the top and started from zero, yet somehow he's managing to work backwards.

Daryl doesn't get to walk away from that with his dignity. He doesn't get to slide back under the rock he crawled out from, content in his heart that he'd tried his best. Daryl, if he walks away from this at all, goes as a broken man. Weathered, weary and utterly destroyed.

I will make sure of it and I will march on triumphant again."

I decide to leave it there and with a crude little wink I lean forward and turn out the world. The scene falls. Back in the room I settle, let out a long and well-earned sigh as I stretch out all consuming in the chair where you'd left me.

There's barely a moment's grace before I'm off again.