The Dasher Challenge : Part 4 - A Vagrant Story

Well...the referee certainly thought that was rather rude. She was only doing her appointed job in making it known to Tam that a  tap-out submission on the outskirts of the ring would only amount to a moral victory, and not an actual victory. Instead she got flipped the bird for her troubles. The peeved ref opting to continue her counting-out of both competitors instead, now broaching "Seven!" out of the typical twenty second time limit of Japanese wrestling matches. Thousands among thousands siding with Tam's disregard of the rules and cheered on the Viet tomboy's attempt at either breaking the spine of the jacked muscle head...or breaking his manly pride by having him acknowledge defeat at the hands of what he deemed was the inferior grappling gender. His hand intermittently raising upward to do just that before he promptly began biting on the index finger of that hand to discipline himself from even thinking of tapping out.

"AGHHhhhhh!!!" Dasher bellowed out with his eyes squinting shut from the searing inflammation bearing down on his lower spine, his muscled and sweat-smeared torso practically being aligned straight up given the high angling of the torturous Lion Tamer. At times wobbling his head around in desperate refusal of what Tam snarled down at him, but what many deemed to be an inevitably. Especially with no ropes to scramble to or pupil of his to provide a well-timed distraction. But while Tam's five years of experience tossing men around and/or over barge ships was an impressive track record...Dasher's veritable lifetime of experience grappling with equally burly cutthroats meant that this was not his first time he was being locked into a Lion Tamer. Or his first time escaping one. The bowl-cut bruiser slamming both fists into the canvas and gnashing his pearly whites to start shifting forward and upward. Giving him a few inches off the matted floor and enough maneuvering space to put his powerful brawn to work flexing his legs and shooting Tam forward into some ill-placed steel steps.

“Shut up! Take it like a man!”

Tam’s mood wasn’t improving in the slightest it seemed. Whether blissfully unaware that she was about to be disqualified or acting in stubborn defiance as she worked harder towards her goal, it was up to the interpretation of numerous wrestling blogs around the world writing typing away at a maddening pace to figure out as they watched what could possibly be the biggest upset in Tension history. The day had to come that Dasher Inoba would finally meet his match. Too much talent float through AFW on too regular a basis for the cards to eventually stack against him.

But some nameless Friction girl? On her first match? Someone who looked like half his body weight? That was an upset of cataclysmic proportions, enough to shift the perceptions of both brands.

Tam didn’t care at all. She was just going to get what she was looking for one way or another. The scales continued to tip in direct relation to the pressure on Dasher’s back, Tam leaned further and further, trying to invoke the worst of the pain she could manage from the liontamer. For a moment, it seemed like the Japanese heavyweight was about to list. The agony climaxing as the world slowed to a crawl.

And then everything went wrong. Tam’s eyebrow quirked slightly at the sudden pulse of power she felt surging through the body beneath her. Little by little, Dasher granted himself some small but necessary breathing room. One powerful buck from his legs sent the Viet tomboy shooting off the ground and towards the ring corner behind her. Her back hit the steel steps first, sending a sending a sharp dagger of pain through her ribs and up her spine as a spear punched the air from her lungs. She rolled off onto the floor, punching one hand to the floor and using the other to soothe her back. She kept on all fours, slamming her forehead to the ground with bared teeth as the crowd shouted her disapproval for her.

Ask Dasher afterwards at a post-match press conference, and he'll be blustering like a boasting braggadocio about how he never once contemplated submitting to the seemingly agonizing Lion-tamer contorting his spine until an inferno of searing white pain was lighting up his back. And that his raised hand quivering in the air was merely due to the freezing temperatures being circulated from the arena's clearly malfunctioning air conditioners. Dasher's honed expertise at spinning scenarios in his favor always making the scribbling Japanese journalist's shrug their shoulders and accept his words as the gospel truth due to their respectful, yet submissive culture when it comes to questioning the validity of those who were seen as being on a higher pedestal than them. Except for this occasion, Dasher was going to have to spin his most winding and weaving tapestry of bold-faced lies so the burly chauvinist can save his massive-chinned face.

"...tch...Kuso yarō..." Dasher snarled and seethed as he rolled like a lumbering log over towards the ring, one hand massaging his inflamed spine with his free hand pawing at the ring apron. Tam's application of the Lion-tamer was picture perfect, but their were times when a size difference was simply an insurmountable advantage that trumped technique. Dasher being over two-hundred of brawny beef and chiseled muscles. Not an easy cow to corral, even by male wrestlers his own size whom he's grappled before. Tam simply not having the musculature to keep the chauvinist locked down, and it was an advantage Dasher exploited to prevent him from submitting to the rage-fueled Vietnamese. The Dash eventually summoning the strength to climb up the ring apron and roll his bowl-cutted mass back inside the ring. Hobbled and on his knees in grimacing discomfort, he leaned heavily against the ropes while still soothing his lumbar as he started aggressively twirling his other hand around as if that would actually make the referee count Tam out faster.

"Fifteen!!!..."

Tam was still laid out on the pile of chairs as Dasher made his way back into the ring. She wasn’t all that hurt, barely even felt much beyond the crash. She’d taken worse spills before onto piles a lot less pleasant than hacks of steel. Part and parcel of training in a dojo was learning how to take falls, whether you wanted to or not.

The embarrassment was a bit less pleasant to soak in. The tomboy kept her eyes open as she stared up at the heavy lights, listening to the official slowly count her out with a furrowed brow and wondering if it was worth the effort to get back up. She felt slightly drained now that most of the adrenaline had tampered away. Her breathing was slower, her muscles felt heavier. Even so, she’d more or less made her point. She’d hurt Dasher better than most probably would have and gave him a run for his money. Winning this way would be pretty low and a lot of people wouldn’t be happy, casting a lot of doubt on this particular victory of his. It would be a smudge on that long and proud career of his he’d have a hard time wiping away.

But a smudge wasn’t what she was after, was it?

The Vietnamese girl clicked her tongue and sprung to her feet at the eighteen count. A second later, she’d stomped her way to the corner of the ring and managed to slide her way underneath the bottom rope just shy of a disqualification. She locked eyes with the bowlcut bruiser, staring straight fire that hadn’t dulled a flicker as she stood tall. Tam punched one fist into her palm, cracking her knuckles with a dark glare from the other side of the Tension logo as she spit to one side.

“This ends. Right fucking now.”

Spinning a count-out victory in Dasher's favor would take no small degree of whirl-winding words of obfuscation and grappling jargon, but Dasher thought himself up to the task when he would eventually be seated at the typical press junkets he attends. Utilizing his encyclopedic knowledge of the rules of his trade and demonstrating to the world his technical wrestling prowess by obtaining victory in such a an unconventional way, all came to mind as his spinning hand compelled the referee to get this count-out victory on the road. Perhaps even claiming that this seemingly cowardly retreat was merely an act of noble chivalry on his part to forego perpetrating further unnecessary violence to his clearly inept and exasperated lady challenger. But all of his reasons would end up being reserved for another time as the Vietnamese martial artist scampered underneath the bottom ring rope to Dasher's head rolling irritation.

Dasher bending one of his knee before pushing himself off of it to sluggishly arise once more, seething somewhat from the burning pangs of electrified needles felt in his spine thanks to this accursed women's submission. He briefly passed his hand through his flawlessly symmetrical bowl-cut before mentally steeling himself for the final stretch of this marathon run. The hulking, bowl-cut brute with his bulbous, sweat-sheened sculpted muscles centering his competitive glare straight back across the ring, his head tilted far back as if looking down on Tam while up-turning his nose at her at the same time. Clearly in some manner of "wrestling zone" that only legends of the ring can attest to experiencing, at one point cracking his neck to one side and than the other before stomping his boot into the canvas to a thundering vibration. "COME ON!!!!!!!" Enraged adrenaline kicking off what was assuredly the final stretch of this match, Dasher beckoning Tam to come at him by rapidly curling his fingers in his direction.

Tam didn’t have to be here right now. She could have let this all go and let some other poor soul suffer in her place. As much as she despised every word from this man’s mouth, every perfectly combed hair on his head, every...unfortunate scent that now permeated her nostrils, she couldn’t deny he was a tough bastard to break. A mountain of muscle that knew how to use it all for maximum effect; faster than you’d expect from someone his size too. It was a steep challenge and one she didn’t have any duty to but her nose into. Rumors said there was plenty of talent around this place. Maybe someone just as capable could be in this ring. Maybe they’d make some decent headway against Dasher Inoba. Better than her even.

But all those thoughts and doubts didn’t even elicit a single synapse in the vast, electrified network covering the Vietnamese tomboy’s adrenaline-soaked brain, carrying her forward, throwing every punch, ushering forth every scream. There was a sight in front of her now she wouldn’t miss for the world: Dasher hurting; sweating, just keeping to his feet, making a final stand like his joke of a career was dangling on a thread. It was faint, but it was all there. A bit of panic and desperation. The fear of losing.

And he had the balls the challenge her.

His shout boomed and brought a strong thump to her heart. Her hazed vision cleared. With a stomp seemingly echoing the force of Dasher’s own, Tam dropped into a solid stance and clenched her fists tightly, chambering her power that accentuated every contour of her well-defined arms. Her eyes manifested honed steel intent that could practically cut the pompous brute challenging her to bits. She was running just short of the animosity she’d need for that to happen, though.

But she knew what she could do. She screamed out with every wrinkle of skin upon her face, every muscle that could bend dedicated itself to a headfirst charge straight at Dasher. The noise from the crowd disappeared into the wind current that engulfed her stride. It couldn’t have been more than five steps, but it passed faster than anyone could have thought. Her right arm drew back as she stepped into the last stride. A tiger’s roar followed beside her straight fist, flying like a rocket straight towards the bowl cut bruiser's barreled chest. Then another. And another. Drilling a hole all the way to his center.

Never one to acknowledge that he was on his last wavering legs or admit to any cognizant notion of weakness on his part in general, Dasher valiantly stood his ground and retained his machismo-laden pride by not wavering one iota when looking the devil square in the eye. The delusional interpretation of him being the righteous hero in this story being accelerated by the galvanizing combination of his own chauvinistic psyche and the inebriating testosterone coursing throughout his veins. Summoning forth a bellowing war-cry that was duly reciprocated from the Vietnamese vagrant was as affirmative and cordial an acknowledgment they could share that this would all be settled in the impending exchange of tussling grapples and/or brutal fisticuffs.  Those amongst the captivated masses instinctually recognizing that this gladiatorial-esque bout was reaching it's apexing crescendo and glued their eyes to the brawling action inside as a result.  

Teetering close to the limits of what he as capable of enduring had, ever so briefly, imparted upon Dasher the slightest inkling of a thought that he may have chauvinistic reign be usurped this day...which all but sparked his adrenalized holler in outraged denial of that propable outcome. On that seemed even moreso as Dasher staggered and wobbled with every strike pounded into his thick-muscled pectorals, each one shaking his massive frame to a jolting hop that gradually ushering him backwards with every successful wallop. The unsteady Dash panting laboriously and grunting painfully as he tanked through the onslaught, sweat splattering about until the impossible seemed to possible...and Dasher began angling himself backward at an uneven keel that denoted the bowl-cutted brute was beginning to timber. The announcer's at ringside spewing their catchphrases in shock and awe for what they deemed to be the night the muscled titan is slain......were it not for one of his legs shooting backwards to turn his plummet into a frantic backpedaling into the ropes, the bouncing momentum directing forward but with his own stampeding, bull-dozing charge for a Dynamite Dasher out of nowhere!!!

The first blow to Dasher’s robust pectoral rang out like a gunshot in the momentary silence that had engulfed the arena inches before the inevitable clash at its center. The fists that followed carried with them an upswell of rancorous cheers and applause like rolling thunder. Energy imbued in each strike made itself known in sprays of sweat from the bowl cut brawler’s massive frame, carrying forth shockwaves across his skin as the smaller competitor forced him to retreat.

The Viet tomboy followed suit, stepping forward one foot after the other as her arms swung away in an endless torrent of swinging fists dedicated solely to ripping apart his guard. For once in this match, Tam finally felt like she was getting somewhere. Sweat dripped from her bare body, every muscular bulge along her back and across her arms, every cut ridge of her honed abdomen soaked their strength into this moment. She’d nearly had him on the ropes. Only a few more paces and his posture would break. Then this long and painful night would come to an end, and she could get her gi and leave bowlcut to stew on the last eight or so decades of waste.

Her cheek met his burly shoulder first. Those solid muscles snapped her head to the side with a splash of power that fluttered her lips and clacked her jaw. One second her gaze was simply averted in a stubborn attempt to fight an unstoppable force, the next she was off her feet and sailing through the air in a spiral. She flew in a slight daze, unable to register anything beyond the dazzling myriad of lights from countless cameras and heavy stage lights high above that flashed by her vision in her wide arc. The top of her head met the middle turnbuckle first. A rare, sharp cry left her lips in the same moment the shock seized her body that fell flat to the floor. An occasional twitch from her fingers was indicative of her attempts to stand up, but the glassy look in her eyes and her mouth slightly agape painted a far more morbid picture.

Once the seemingly immovable object began showing signs of wobbling instability against the unstoppable force ruthlessly raining down pummeling strikes against his rippling pecs, even the most ardent of Dasher loyalists began having their beliefs questioned as they started witnessing all the telltale signs of an impending knockout. A punch-drunk inebriation to Dasher's huddled posture. An inability to mount a decent defensive stance. And a burgeoning swell of momentous support from the cheering fandom rallying behind the clear underdog in this fight. Even towering redwood trees are susceptible to gravity's pull once enough chops have been levied against it, and Dasher has been known to proudly exemplify all of their traits, in particular sharing their general I.Q. But on pure grappling instinct alone, once he felt the scrapping elasticity of the ropes bounce him forward, Dasher went on automatic and bulldozed whatever was in front of him at the time.

All to the wide-eyed astonishment watching Tam garner a decent five feet of distance, Dasher himself flopping onto his face himself upon sending the Viet tomboy sailing into the turnbuckle. The lumbering bowl-cut brawler arising soon afterward with a wobbly uncertainty to his movements, squinting his eyes and whipping his head about to a blubbering blabber of his lips to try and get his wits back about him. Just than noticing Tam off in the corner, and at the same time noticing opportunity when it was screaming at him. He lurched towards her and dragged her back to the center of the ring by her ankles, flipping her over and emphatically stomping his black boot upon her spine with a bellowing proclamation to announce what everyone already knew was coming. "Inobaaaaa.....Cluuuuuuuutch!!!" The flexing cave-man than settling his sweat-smeared musculature upon her lower spine, hanging her arms over his thighs, and interlocked his meaty fingers across her face. Mercilessly cranking in the humbling submission to a strained flexing of her defined back muscles, and the still hopeful cheers of those rooting for a comeback of any kind.

Hm. So this was an out-of-body experience, huh?

Tam had participated in martial arts competitions all across her home country. She’d knocked out more people than she could count before her brain started to slog and never so much as kissed the mat herself. She’d been beaten with board and pipes all across her crummy youth and precarious professional career. She couldn’t quite recall an incident where she’d been forced to lose consciousness. She had nothing to compare this sense of weightlessness to, this void that she only let her see faint outlines and scraps of reality. It was like she could see herself but couldn’t control the body she was seeing. Couldn’t even register the notion of moving beyond the faint sights and sounds like static permeating her eyes and ears.

All of her senses came flooding back at once with a swell of overbearing light. A few stunted blinks were all she could manage. Her body felt heavy and bent at odd angles as if she’d been crucified. How did she get here? What was going on? Did she lose? Did she die? Why couldn’t she-

“NNGGGGHHHHH!” Tam was inside a trash compactor. That was what it seemed like at least. Her body shot back with an ungodly force pulling her by the neck. Millions of pounds of pressure crunched down on her spine all at once. The whites of her eyes bulged from her sockets. The veins on her neck and forehead pronounced themselves under the stress. Through grit teeth and heavily vented breaths, the tomboy tried to desperately force her chin back down against the tide to no avail. She kicked the mat and slapped his legs as her body threw itself into a fit, desperate for escape.

Every second passed was another pound of pressure on her neck. It was subtle at first, but slowly and surely her breaths were growing smaller and smaller.