Post by Deleted on Feb 3, 2017 15:09:37 GMT -5
Missy’s cowboy boots rest atop each other atop the teacher’s desk. No, this isn’t a flashback. It’s present time and Missy, believe it or not, is the substitute teacher for a classroom full of 10 year olds. Of course she is ill equipped to do this job, but her older sister, looking similar to her though not an exact twin, had landed the gig but got sick. Being the good little sister that she is, Missy volunteered to do it. Wearing dark shades to hide her swollen and drunk-recovering eyes, Sippy leans back in the chair still, asleep like she’s been doing since roll call.
Girl: Teacher? Miss Teacher lady?
The whiny voice wakes Missy up from the dream she was having of beating the shit out of Susie Price, the new girl that jumped her from behind off air on Primetime a few weeks ago. Wiping off the sleep drool from her mouth, Missy looks across the classroom.
Missy: Which one of you little shit stains just woke me?
The little girl raises her hand, announcing herself as Amelia.
Amelia: Just wondering if you were going to quiz us like Mrs. Wilson does? We love quizzes and have a thirst for knowledge. Today should be a math quiz I think, maybe trigonometry?
Missy cocks her head to the side like a confused puppy. Most of the other kids try to shush Amelia, they definitely aren't as thirsty for education as she is. The snobbish little girl smiles, but it’s more of a smirk.
Missy: I don’t know nothin’ about no triga-whatever-the-fuck, so no quiz on that. How bout this as as a quiz: tell me how many minutes I sleep and how many snores I make? Sound good class?
Missy leans back to sleep again.
Amelia: But.. uh… Miss Teacher? We need to learn. We are the future of America. How about a science quiz? Maybe about evolution?
Missy bolts to a stand and yanks off her shades, tossing them angrily across the desk. It’s only now that the children see her Pro-Trump tee-shirt that has a picture of a pussy cat and Trump’s smirking face behind it, with the words “GRAB EM” written at the bottom. A gasp rumbles through the classroom.
Missy: Listen here you little blight on common sense, I just wanted to do my eight and hit the gate. But naw, you had to bother me. Now you went and done ruffled my feathers with your fancy evil-lution speak. Ain’t no evil-lution bout it little girl. The good Lord above, God himself created all this. We ain’t come from no monkeys, except maybe that fat bitch-clit Digitz that’s gonna be in that Battle Royal I’m in, but other than that ain’t nobody else come from them. Got it, squirt?
Amelia’s eyes narrow and she sneers at the grown woman whom she can’t believe is so stupid. To emphasise her claims, Missy holds up the Holy Bible she found in the normal teacher’s drawer earlier, and waves it around like a preacher giving a sermon.
Amelia: Mrs. Wilson is NOT allowed to have that oppressive piece of fiction literature, and I will personally see to it that Principal Harlow knows she has it.
Missy matches her stare and sneers right back.
Missy: Snitches get stitches. Passing grade to the first one who punches Amelia in the face.
The boy seated in front of Amelia ROCKETS out of his desk, spins, and drills her right in the nose. Something tells Missy the kid had been wanting to do it for a long time. The girl wails in agony but amazingly doesn’t bleed. Missy promptly motions toward the door.
Missy: Well get to goin’ girl. Go tattle tell.
Amelia cries loudly and speeds toward the door. Once she opens it, Missy yells “Don’t forget the evidence” as she Nolan Ryan fast balls the Bible at her, smacking her full force in the face. Amelia goes tumbling out the door and can be heard bawling bloody murder all the way down the hallway.
The entire classroom erupts into applause and Missy procures a nice cold Mountain Dew from her cooler, tossing it to the puncher. Spinning on her heels, Sippy takes the chalk to the board and draws a pile of shit, then points.
Missy: Ok, who all in here is a wrasslin’ fan? More specifically Ground Zero Wrestling Alliance fans?
Most raise their hands, garnering a proud nod from Missy Sippy.
Missy: Good. Quiz time then. Who is this?
She keeps her finger pointed at the drawing.
Boy in back of classroom: "Didgitz?"
Missy smiles really big, impressed.
Missy: Holy shit on a stick. First time go. Good job, guy.
She tosses him a Mountain Dew also.
Missy: Dayum right, kiddo. It’s Didgitz. Now I’m sure ya’ll figured out who I was soon as a yanked off those big ass shades, but for those of ya’ll still in the dark I’m Missy Sippy, pro wrassler ex-stroid-nare for GZWA. And that Didgitz beech is one of my opponents on Primetime in that there Battle Royale. Now lemme tell you’ins somethin’ bout this here cunt. She got raped as a kid, apparently enjoyed it too or fell into Stockholm Syndrome, because she’s spent the rest of her life on her back not only in the ring but in the bedroom as well. Porn star. High quantity, low quality. She’s gotten so good at spreadin’ them legs that when she does spread em’, one foot dips into the ocean on the West Coast, the other into the ocean on the East Coast. People such as the Slammer and others always feel bad for her and deep down seem conflicted about harming Didgitz because of her past. That ain’t me though. Naw, ya’ll. I hate bitches that try to play the passive sympathy card. I also hate bitches that have banging bodies but ape faces. She supposed to be some “thugette” but she let Vi straight up diss her in the Renias tourney. Vi flipped her off right in the face then dropped her on her cum filled dome piece for the 1-2-3. What kind of thug ass bitch gets dissed like that and just lets it happen?
She pauses, expecting an answer from one of the kids, but gets silence instead.
Missy: A pussy ass fake bitch, that’s who. Calls herself the Boss Bitch, right? Tha fuck? I ain’t no rocket surgeon, but I’m pretty sure that ragamuffin is missing a comma somewhere in her nick name. Shouldn’t it be “Boss, Bitch” or the “Bitches Boss”, or the “Boss of Bitches” something like that? When she ain’t butcherin’ the fuck out of her own nick name, she is butcherin’ the fuck out of her secondary nickname too. The Thugette? Ain’t no such thing. You’re either a thug or you ain’t about that life, right kids? Thugette sounds like she tried to put some kind of feminism into her roughness. Dunno why. I like her style. She is like me: unpredictable, unruly, chaotic, and all things not predictable.
Little Billy raises his hand, she throws him a head nod.
Billy: “But it’s a battle royal with other people in it, doesn’t that mean you and Didgitz are like, I dunno, like the favorites? Since those matches are crazy unpredictable?”
Missy football spirals him a Mountain Dew for his keen observation.
Missy: Well no shit, Sherlock. Me and ole Didgitz gonna be the final two in there. She might be a fishy fake skanky ass trash heap bitch who has a rancid, dank smell coming from that crater between her legs and her flapping dick holster on her face, but she knows how to throw down. She knew she couldn’t use her brawling and high flying style against the calm and calculating Slammer last Primetime, so she went the submission route and won. She knows how to adapt on the fly, like me, and has no set pattern, like me. Hell, if she was half as good in the ring as she is at indiscriminately fucking every Tom, Dick, Harry, Jane, and Jill she’d be undefeated with every belt to her name. But at the end of the day, kiddos, I’m going to hurl her out of the battle royal quicker than her mom hurled her out of her daughter’s life.
The students belt out a few giggles at Missy’s animated, giddy, twitchy demeanor as she erases the board and takes the chalk to it again, this time drawing the number 50. Taking the kids to task once more, she sweeps a hand gesture across the room.
Missy: This is a little bit harder. Aside from the obvious number fifty here, what say you class? What does it represent? Here’s a clue ya’ll, it has to do with another one of my rivals in the Battle Royal.
Girl in front of classroom: “OH! Is it something about Marsye? Like, maybe, I dunno…. Umm… number of boyfriends she’s had?”
Missy cocks her head back and guffaws.
Missy: Ohhhhhhh so close. It’s about Maryse, but not what you said. She’s way too stuck up to be foolin’ around with 50 dicks.
Boy in middle of classroom: “Number of STDS she has?”
Missy face palms herself.
Missy: Did you not just hear what I said? That bitch is too arrogant to mess around enough for that stuff. Then again word through the grapevine is she’s gettin’ plowed by Samuel, and he ain’t nothin’ but a ruttin’ dog... so I dunno. But naw, this here number is her IQ score. Not her academic one, I’m sure that one’s through the moon. This is her wrasslin’ IQ score. See, if she had any damned sense in that tomb of hot air between her ears, she’d be focusing on me instead of Zora Grayson. Does she? Naw. Instead she’s all about scouting out Zora, a woman whom I beat the brakes off of and broke down like a shotgun last week. She’s preoccupied on which latte to order and hung up on the Bellas show to know what the fuck is going on around here. I doubt she’ll even have the attention span or directional sense to hop in the Battle Royal. Hell, the dayum blonde tart is a black belt in martial arts but doesn’t know which one, so I can only assume it’s the style that teaches her how to get her plastic enhanced ass kicked, because a good, vigorous ass kickin’ is zackly what she’s gonna get when we wind up throwing blows in the royal. I’m-ah gonna flip her over the ropes faster than she flips those houses on the side. You can bet your lunch money on that, boys and girls.
Missy puffs out her generously sized bewbs and makes a matter-of-fact “hmmp!” noise through her sniffer, all proud and cocky. The kiddies roar with approval, not for just the Mountain Dew and brash trash talk from the southern wild child, but also for the fact it was fun to be rid of boring school work for a day.
Missy: Yip. Ole Missy here is gonna break her like all those gold-grabbin’ promises she made going into the Reiner Tournament or whatever the hell that thing was. Miss Omelette tried every shortcut in the book and still got ousted in the first round just like I did. She ain’t no better than any of us in that royal. And I’m pretty sure none of us like that kind of dainty ass bitch being in there, so if I don’t get her out of there with a quickness, one of the other dames will. She’s screwed just like her modeling career.
Missy turns back toward the board and confronts it again, wiping it clean then drawing a picture of a snowball melting over a fiery pit. Twirling back to the children, Sippy snags her cowgirl hat and places it on her head and retrieves another Mountain Dew from the cooler. Smiling, she tosses it back and forth in her hands.
Missy: Well? Super easy one. Somebody better guess this shit quick or I’m gonna flip my lid in here.
Boy in corner of classroom: “Snowball’s chance in hell?
Zora???”
Everyone agrees and applauds him.
Missy: Hot diggity dayum on a ham sammich… good job boy. A snowball has a better chance of surviving in hell than Zora Boreson does winning the battle royal.
She tosses the Dew to him and motions for them to simmer down now. They obey, somewhat captivated by the oddity of a woman.
Missy: Ya’ll who watch Primetime saw it. I bent that bitch over and shoved my awesomeness up her prune chute. I flat out beat the snot out of her. Didn’t break a sweat. I don’t even think she landed a move on me. Maybe not even a punch. Match wasn’t even close.
The children look to one another with brows raised, knowing full well the match was extremely close and Missy Sippy almost lost. Nobody dares object to her version though, as she paces back and forth, gesturing her hands and arms hectically as she explains everything.
Missy: And now? Hahah BAAHAHAH! Gawd! She’s gotta get passed two other bitches who can dismantle her with the same ease I did. Well, with the exception of Maryse; I’m still iffy on whether she’ll find her way to the ring. But me and Didgitz, yeah, ain’t no way Zora’s gonna come out on top. I might even hit Didgitz up for some double team action on Zora just for shits and giggles. I will say though, ya’ll should give Zora some credit. She spoke some truth when addressing Nikki Bella recently; Zora truly is not worth knowing much about or even trying to know. She even admitted it. And now she’s gonna bring that and her other self depreciating thoughts and talk up in a battle royal against people who are confident as fuck with killer instinct, especially me. It’s gonna look like a group of bears mauling a rabbit in there. I have half the mind to urge you kiddies not to watch that match, but then I’m like naw I want y'all to watch a real bad bitch in action. I know how to beat Zora, been there done that. I even heard she was dreaming about me; that sounds about right and it’s the only way she’ll ever beat me.However, get this children, there is one thing I will do differently in regards to her this time. She has some stank breath, like shit and sulfur 8, so I’m gonna bring some toothpaste in there, spread it across my knuckles, and then bust her in the fuckin’ teeth with it. Rules don’t say I can’t do it, so I’m going to. I might bring other shit in there too. Like maybe a clue, and wallop that idiot Maryse upside the head with it. The options are endless, kids. It gonna be like America under the Trump presidency… It’s gonna be GREAT… so full of WIN!
Missy claps her hands together and rubs them almost greedily, just thinking about all the face wrecking and body tossing she’s gonna do at the War Memorial venue in the village of idiots known as Shitcuse, New Yawk.
Random boy in the back: “Missy, I heard you got beated up backstage by some Susie lady? If it’s twue, what if she tries to do something mean to you and try to make you lose and stuff?”
Without warning, Missy crosses the expanse of the room with terrifying quickness, sending kids scurrying from their desks. The boy is far too slow to escape her red faced wrath. Grabbing him by the buttoned up shirt, she yanks him up and bullies him against the wall. Eyes shooting out from their sockets, she hisses. Steam all put pours from her ears.
Missy: That little tinker toy sneak attacked me. She blindsided me from behind. She didn’t “beated” nobody’s ass, especially not this one *she smacks herself on the ass* .. and I tell ya what, if she shows her little ass up in my business, I’ll beat the Vanilla Bean Latte out of her ass. And-
Suddenly, the classroom door opens with a fury, and in walks school resources police officer Sergeant Kinson and Principal Harlow. Not wasting a moment, the burly officer shouts directives at Missy and plods forward with purpose. Missy fakes a surrender and when he reaches for her, she does some nifty NFL style running back “juke moves”. It’s just enough to get him off balance and she blows passed him. Principal Harlow, a middle age woman with no fight in her, tries to block her with her body.
And gets a Superwoman Punch to the face for it.
A foot chase ensues, but Missy has been running cross country for years and frequently runs the mountains in her backyard, so needless to say the officer gets left in the dust. She survives to fight another day, but maybe only long enough to win the Battle Royal. [/b]
Girl: Teacher? Miss Teacher lady?
The whiny voice wakes Missy up from the dream she was having of beating the shit out of Susie Price, the new girl that jumped her from behind off air on Primetime a few weeks ago. Wiping off the sleep drool from her mouth, Missy looks across the classroom.
Missy: Which one of you little shit stains just woke me?
The little girl raises her hand, announcing herself as Amelia.
Amelia: Just wondering if you were going to quiz us like Mrs. Wilson does? We love quizzes and have a thirst for knowledge. Today should be a math quiz I think, maybe trigonometry?
Missy cocks her head to the side like a confused puppy. Most of the other kids try to shush Amelia, they definitely aren't as thirsty for education as she is. The snobbish little girl smiles, but it’s more of a smirk.
Missy: I don’t know nothin’ about no triga-whatever-the-fuck, so no quiz on that. How bout this as as a quiz: tell me how many minutes I sleep and how many snores I make? Sound good class?
Missy leans back to sleep again.
Amelia: But.. uh… Miss Teacher? We need to learn. We are the future of America. How about a science quiz? Maybe about evolution?
Missy bolts to a stand and yanks off her shades, tossing them angrily across the desk. It’s only now that the children see her Pro-Trump tee-shirt that has a picture of a pussy cat and Trump’s smirking face behind it, with the words “GRAB EM” written at the bottom. A gasp rumbles through the classroom.
Missy: Listen here you little blight on common sense, I just wanted to do my eight and hit the gate. But naw, you had to bother me. Now you went and done ruffled my feathers with your fancy evil-lution speak. Ain’t no evil-lution bout it little girl. The good Lord above, God himself created all this. We ain’t come from no monkeys, except maybe that fat bitch-clit Digitz that’s gonna be in that Battle Royal I’m in, but other than that ain’t nobody else come from them. Got it, squirt?
Amelia’s eyes narrow and she sneers at the grown woman whom she can’t believe is so stupid. To emphasise her claims, Missy holds up the Holy Bible she found in the normal teacher’s drawer earlier, and waves it around like a preacher giving a sermon.
Amelia: Mrs. Wilson is NOT allowed to have that oppressive piece of fiction literature, and I will personally see to it that Principal Harlow knows she has it.
Missy matches her stare and sneers right back.
Missy: Snitches get stitches. Passing grade to the first one who punches Amelia in the face.
The boy seated in front of Amelia ROCKETS out of his desk, spins, and drills her right in the nose. Something tells Missy the kid had been wanting to do it for a long time. The girl wails in agony but amazingly doesn’t bleed. Missy promptly motions toward the door.
Missy: Well get to goin’ girl. Go tattle tell.
Amelia cries loudly and speeds toward the door. Once she opens it, Missy yells “Don’t forget the evidence” as she Nolan Ryan fast balls the Bible at her, smacking her full force in the face. Amelia goes tumbling out the door and can be heard bawling bloody murder all the way down the hallway.
The entire classroom erupts into applause and Missy procures a nice cold Mountain Dew from her cooler, tossing it to the puncher. Spinning on her heels, Sippy takes the chalk to the board and draws a pile of shit, then points.
Missy: Ok, who all in here is a wrasslin’ fan? More specifically Ground Zero Wrestling Alliance fans?
Most raise their hands, garnering a proud nod from Missy Sippy.
Missy: Good. Quiz time then. Who is this?
She keeps her finger pointed at the drawing.
Boy in back of classroom: "Didgitz?"
Missy smiles really big, impressed.
Missy: Holy shit on a stick. First time go. Good job, guy.
She tosses him a Mountain Dew also.
Missy: Dayum right, kiddo. It’s Didgitz. Now I’m sure ya’ll figured out who I was soon as a yanked off those big ass shades, but for those of ya’ll still in the dark I’m Missy Sippy, pro wrassler ex-stroid-nare for GZWA. And that Didgitz beech is one of my opponents on Primetime in that there Battle Royale. Now lemme tell you’ins somethin’ bout this here cunt. She got raped as a kid, apparently enjoyed it too or fell into Stockholm Syndrome, because she’s spent the rest of her life on her back not only in the ring but in the bedroom as well. Porn star. High quantity, low quality. She’s gotten so good at spreadin’ them legs that when she does spread em’, one foot dips into the ocean on the West Coast, the other into the ocean on the East Coast. People such as the Slammer and others always feel bad for her and deep down seem conflicted about harming Didgitz because of her past. That ain’t me though. Naw, ya’ll. I hate bitches that try to play the passive sympathy card. I also hate bitches that have banging bodies but ape faces. She supposed to be some “thugette” but she let Vi straight up diss her in the Renias tourney. Vi flipped her off right in the face then dropped her on her cum filled dome piece for the 1-2-3. What kind of thug ass bitch gets dissed like that and just lets it happen?
She pauses, expecting an answer from one of the kids, but gets silence instead.
Missy: A pussy ass fake bitch, that’s who. Calls herself the Boss Bitch, right? Tha fuck? I ain’t no rocket surgeon, but I’m pretty sure that ragamuffin is missing a comma somewhere in her nick name. Shouldn’t it be “Boss, Bitch” or the “Bitches Boss”, or the “Boss of Bitches” something like that? When she ain’t butcherin’ the fuck out of her own nick name, she is butcherin’ the fuck out of her secondary nickname too. The Thugette? Ain’t no such thing. You’re either a thug or you ain’t about that life, right kids? Thugette sounds like she tried to put some kind of feminism into her roughness. Dunno why. I like her style. She is like me: unpredictable, unruly, chaotic, and all things not predictable.
Little Billy raises his hand, she throws him a head nod.
Billy: “But it’s a battle royal with other people in it, doesn’t that mean you and Didgitz are like, I dunno, like the favorites? Since those matches are crazy unpredictable?”
Missy football spirals him a Mountain Dew for his keen observation.
Missy: Well no shit, Sherlock. Me and ole Didgitz gonna be the final two in there. She might be a fishy fake skanky ass trash heap bitch who has a rancid, dank smell coming from that crater between her legs and her flapping dick holster on her face, but she knows how to throw down. She knew she couldn’t use her brawling and high flying style against the calm and calculating Slammer last Primetime, so she went the submission route and won. She knows how to adapt on the fly, like me, and has no set pattern, like me. Hell, if she was half as good in the ring as she is at indiscriminately fucking every Tom, Dick, Harry, Jane, and Jill she’d be undefeated with every belt to her name. But at the end of the day, kiddos, I’m going to hurl her out of the battle royal quicker than her mom hurled her out of her daughter’s life.
The students belt out a few giggles at Missy’s animated, giddy, twitchy demeanor as she erases the board and takes the chalk to it again, this time drawing the number 50. Taking the kids to task once more, she sweeps a hand gesture across the room.
Missy: This is a little bit harder. Aside from the obvious number fifty here, what say you class? What does it represent? Here’s a clue ya’ll, it has to do with another one of my rivals in the Battle Royal.
Girl in front of classroom: “OH! Is it something about Marsye? Like, maybe, I dunno…. Umm… number of boyfriends she’s had?”
Missy cocks her head back and guffaws.
Missy: Ohhhhhhh so close. It’s about Maryse, but not what you said. She’s way too stuck up to be foolin’ around with 50 dicks.
Boy in middle of classroom: “Number of STDS she has?”
Missy face palms herself.
Missy: Did you not just hear what I said? That bitch is too arrogant to mess around enough for that stuff. Then again word through the grapevine is she’s gettin’ plowed by Samuel, and he ain’t nothin’ but a ruttin’ dog... so I dunno. But naw, this here number is her IQ score. Not her academic one, I’m sure that one’s through the moon. This is her wrasslin’ IQ score. See, if she had any damned sense in that tomb of hot air between her ears, she’d be focusing on me instead of Zora Grayson. Does she? Naw. Instead she’s all about scouting out Zora, a woman whom I beat the brakes off of and broke down like a shotgun last week. She’s preoccupied on which latte to order and hung up on the Bellas show to know what the fuck is going on around here. I doubt she’ll even have the attention span or directional sense to hop in the Battle Royal. Hell, the dayum blonde tart is a black belt in martial arts but doesn’t know which one, so I can only assume it’s the style that teaches her how to get her plastic enhanced ass kicked, because a good, vigorous ass kickin’ is zackly what she’s gonna get when we wind up throwing blows in the royal. I’m-ah gonna flip her over the ropes faster than she flips those houses on the side. You can bet your lunch money on that, boys and girls.
Missy puffs out her generously sized bewbs and makes a matter-of-fact “hmmp!” noise through her sniffer, all proud and cocky. The kiddies roar with approval, not for just the Mountain Dew and brash trash talk from the southern wild child, but also for the fact it was fun to be rid of boring school work for a day.
Missy: Yip. Ole Missy here is gonna break her like all those gold-grabbin’ promises she made going into the Reiner Tournament or whatever the hell that thing was. Miss Omelette tried every shortcut in the book and still got ousted in the first round just like I did. She ain’t no better than any of us in that royal. And I’m pretty sure none of us like that kind of dainty ass bitch being in there, so if I don’t get her out of there with a quickness, one of the other dames will. She’s screwed just like her modeling career.
Missy turns back toward the board and confronts it again, wiping it clean then drawing a picture of a snowball melting over a fiery pit. Twirling back to the children, Sippy snags her cowgirl hat and places it on her head and retrieves another Mountain Dew from the cooler. Smiling, she tosses it back and forth in her hands.
Missy: Well? Super easy one. Somebody better guess this shit quick or I’m gonna flip my lid in here.
Boy in corner of classroom: “Snowball’s chance in hell?
Zora???” Everyone agrees and applauds him.
Missy: Hot diggity dayum on a ham sammich… good job boy. A snowball has a better chance of surviving in hell than Zora Boreson does winning the battle royal.
She tosses the Dew to him and motions for them to simmer down now. They obey, somewhat captivated by the oddity of a woman.
Missy: Ya’ll who watch Primetime saw it. I bent that bitch over and shoved my awesomeness up her prune chute. I flat out beat the snot out of her. Didn’t break a sweat. I don’t even think she landed a move on me. Maybe not even a punch. Match wasn’t even close.
The children look to one another with brows raised, knowing full well the match was extremely close and Missy Sippy almost lost. Nobody dares object to her version though, as she paces back and forth, gesturing her hands and arms hectically as she explains everything.
Missy: And now? Hahah BAAHAHAH! Gawd! She’s gotta get passed two other bitches who can dismantle her with the same ease I did. Well, with the exception of Maryse; I’m still iffy on whether she’ll find her way to the ring. But me and Didgitz, yeah, ain’t no way Zora’s gonna come out on top. I might even hit Didgitz up for some double team action on Zora just for shits and giggles. I will say though, ya’ll should give Zora some credit. She spoke some truth when addressing Nikki Bella recently; Zora truly is not worth knowing much about or even trying to know. She even admitted it. And now she’s gonna bring that and her other self depreciating thoughts and talk up in a battle royal against people who are confident as fuck with killer instinct, especially me. It’s gonna look like a group of bears mauling a rabbit in there. I have half the mind to urge you kiddies not to watch that match, but then I’m like naw I want y'all to watch a real bad bitch in action. I know how to beat Zora, been there done that. I even heard she was dreaming about me; that sounds about right and it’s the only way she’ll ever beat me.However, get this children, there is one thing I will do differently in regards to her this time. She has some stank breath, like shit and sulfur 8, so I’m gonna bring some toothpaste in there, spread it across my knuckles, and then bust her in the fuckin’ teeth with it. Rules don’t say I can’t do it, so I’m going to. I might bring other shit in there too. Like maybe a clue, and wallop that idiot Maryse upside the head with it. The options are endless, kids. It gonna be like America under the Trump presidency… It’s gonna be GREAT… so full of WIN!
Missy claps her hands together and rubs them almost greedily, just thinking about all the face wrecking and body tossing she’s gonna do at the War Memorial venue in the village of idiots known as Shitcuse, New Yawk.
Random boy in the back: “Missy, I heard you got beated up backstage by some Susie lady? If it’s twue, what if she tries to do something mean to you and try to make you lose and stuff?”
Without warning, Missy crosses the expanse of the room with terrifying quickness, sending kids scurrying from their desks. The boy is far too slow to escape her red faced wrath. Grabbing him by the buttoned up shirt, she yanks him up and bullies him against the wall. Eyes shooting out from their sockets, she hisses. Steam all put pours from her ears.
Missy: That little tinker toy sneak attacked me. She blindsided me from behind. She didn’t “beated” nobody’s ass, especially not this one *she smacks herself on the ass* .. and I tell ya what, if she shows her little ass up in my business, I’ll beat the Vanilla Bean Latte out of her ass. And-
Suddenly, the classroom door opens with a fury, and in walks school resources police officer Sergeant Kinson and Principal Harlow. Not wasting a moment, the burly officer shouts directives at Missy and plods forward with purpose. Missy fakes a surrender and when he reaches for her, she does some nifty NFL style running back “juke moves”. It’s just enough to get him off balance and she blows passed him. Principal Harlow, a middle age woman with no fight in her, tries to block her with her body.
And gets a Superwoman Punch to the face for it.
A foot chase ensues, but Missy has been running cross country for years and frequently runs the mountains in her backyard, so needless to say the officer gets left in the dust. She survives to fight another day, but maybe only long enough to win the Battle Royal. [/b]