AV 20 Death Bunny vs. Margaux Lefeuvre

Upon delivering the metallic cross straight to the French Maiden's heavenly visage, one may have noticed the referee beginning to realign the earpiece feeding her instructions from backstage officials. Personnel who were now becoming squeamish at the unfolding brutality and, of utmost importance, the potential firestorm of public backlash and sponsorships deals at risk should EMT's end up swathing one of the competitors in a white cloak before the night was complete. Death remained uncaring of anything transpiring outside of this sacred sanctum of bloodletting purity, breathing the fire out of her lungs as she straightened herself back up to a jingled collapse of the steel chain to the matted flooring beneath her. Sparse blood droplets from her lax hand showcasing the degree of feral ferocity with which she bore the linked weaponry and was therefore bludgeoned against the posh mob-boss' facials.

A degree of spirituality occasionally came into play whenever fighters were brought to the brink of their own consciousness, as Death can attest to from a few minutes back actually. Those of her ilk claiming to find religion when presented with that precipice. The faintest whisper of an inkling making her wonder as to what Margaux's subconscious was presenting her with as she appeared lifeless to the degree where one could seamlessly imagine a chalk outline drawn all around her. Death hocking one spit to the side in an appropriate visual metaphor for what she thought about this highbrow mobster before beginning to make plodding steps toward her after catching her breath. Intending to reach down and take one handful of her twin-colored locks and the back-waist of her trunks. A yanking fulcrum to haul Margaux back inside the ring with the Murder Rabbit right behind her, intent on trussing her up with her leg in the air and laid across her for a pin attempt.

Death Bunny may as well have been hauling a bundled cadaver. The only resistance Margaux could offer against the Reaper was her deadweight mutually compelling them to become one with the filth and cold at their feet. The image of her serenely bloodied countenance was momentarily shaded by Death's shadow before she was thrown into the ring and left flat on her back.

It was admittedly tempting to remain. Accepting of her fate that the Grim Hopper had ruthlessly bestowed upon her. Even in her subconscious, she could still taste the metal and feel the chain that had bashed into her flesh. There was a time when she would be in no rush to meet its sting once again. When the thought of dying a brutal death made her bones shudder and forced her frail, human legs to tremble. Yes, once upon a time.

“One!”

“Two!”

Margaux threw herself up from the floor in the next instant, breaking the count a full second before the final call. Her elbow shot up as she did, knocking the phantom across the chops in an upward arc. The Frenchwoman's wild, seemingly desperate attempt for a reprieve would give her a window to the flip positions. If she made her shot, she would shove her shoulder into Death Bunny's jaw and try for an elbow shot. Then another and another, assaulting her adversary with ground-and-pound strikes to prevent her from slowly rising from the floor. As high as she could go.

Lingering vestiges of professionalism aided in subduing Death's savage bloodlust at this particular moment. Hence the abrupt shift towards directing the action back inside the ring instead of the barren and blood-letting lawlessness of its outskirts. A referee stoppage due to the valid concerns for one competitor's health and probable life was an outcome scarcely as satisfying for D.B. as planting her boot treads atop the decimated French-woman's visage after a legitimate victory on her part. An ideal envisioning undone by Margaux countering Death by bringing herself back to Life with one pin count left to spare. Accompanied by a stiff thwack to Death's jaw that jerked her head to the side and a tackling drive that effectively switched their positions in the blink of an eye.

Death justifiably lamented being once again mounted upon by Margaux since what came next was a barrage of strikes that had her body spasm involuntarily from each connection that further warbled her sensibilities. A makeshift guard being half-heartedly adopted to shield herself and absorb some of the latter pummels, although it was only when Margaux ceased altogether that Death could breathe some sighs of relief. Haggard and lethargic though they were as she started shifting herself over on to her side. Appearing and feeling like dead-weight as she sluggishly flipped over with her colored forehead mashed against the ring canvas. Her hands determinedly pushed up against the floor and attempting to ascend herself, albeit with the aided assistance of nearby ropes and in no small manner of fatigued pain herself.

The Frenchwoman knew that it would feel absolutely sublime. Beating the imitated life out of this undead scourge upon her young life from this position, having her pinned underneath her own weight. Margaux put away the pain dulling her strikes and the fatigue slowing her down. This moment was so unfairly fleeting. Her sharpened grin refused to waver as beads of sweat sprayed into the air as jewels with each impact.

But oh, Death was so quick to ruin it for her. Margaux fell back onto one knee as her adversary forced herself free. But the Queen of Paris was in no rush to take her advantage back. She soaked in the moment, rising slowly in a pace that matched her opponent’s sluggish recovery on the ropes. There was purpose in her steps as she walked towards Death Bunny. She wobbled her and there, still effectively rattled by the Reaper’s heavy blows, but her grace remained. She resembled a broken human marionette, twitching erratically in such a way that brought an untold horror to her serenity. All before she suddenly stopped at Death Bunny’s side and roughly grabbed her hair, tilting her head back and forcing their eyes to meet.

A glint of silver flashed across her fingers. The betraying smile on Margaux’s lips was the sole portent for the smashing cross that she would deliver to Death Bunny’s face. The sound that would echo out would not resemble flesh crashing against flesh, but bone crunching and bruising. The Frenchwoman would draw back her fist, openly revealing the brass knuckles that were suddenly clenched tight around her fingers. A souvenir she’d brought back from their trip to the ring floor and was eager to show off.

Happily she would so upon the Phantom Hopper’s stoic countenance, over and over, grasping her purple locks with one hand and beating the monster senseless with the other.

What's long been established by this point in the preceding yet perpetuated brutality is that sinful immorality, blasé sociopathy, and prim sophistication, were but a paltry summation of the delightful idiosyncrasies Margaux brings to the table. Somewhere within the depths of her depravity lurked that demon from which she fostered her underworld namesake. Apparently relinquishing the mobwoman of her limbic system in unchained ferality whenever brought to the brink of peering into the abyss. Or perhaps she maintains some modicum of control during these spiritual possessions of hers, seeing her actions through hollowed out lenses with just enough cognitive awareness to be knowledgeable of what was transpiring and revel in the frenzied bloodletting. Fascinating queries though these were, Death possessed one specific inquiry she deemed far more pivotal and relevant than the other provocative thoughts in regards to Margaux's underlying psyche. Which was...who the hell cares?

Not Death, at least not at the moment. Not when she could sense the demon encroaching with one poised step after another. The Reaper was shaken and rattled from the flurry of strikes that came out of nowhere but was conveniently positioned near the ropes. As reliable an aid in steadying her punch drunken equilibrium as any, except it became unnecessary thanks to the searing torque applied to her scalp once Margaux got her bloodied mitts in it. A grimace of pain washed over Death's face for a fleeting glimpse into Margaux's madness with a hand clasped onto Mag's wrist before one silver flashed strike mushed into the side of D.B. visage made her legs flaccidly limp beneath her. Veritable church bells ringing in her ears with each merciless pummel, breathing haggard breathes with blood drops splattered against the floor until she'd thrust herself backward by sacrificing whatever locks of purple hair Margaux now had in her hand. Death crawling to the corner with the intent to ascend there after buying herself whatever time she could.

They were usually begging by now.

Margaux could replay moments like this over and over in the back of her mind. The feeling of softening her knuckles on the rugged faces of the defiant and stupid was intimately familiar. Strong men and women broke fast beneath the awe-inspiring power that was her magnificence. Not this one. Death Bunny was a hollow vessel of humanity, hollow and uncaring with all the vigor of beating on a corpse. Margaux could laugh at the pity, at the suffering, if only her rival would look at her with submission. It was irritating and brought her to strike with even more force and even less compassion.

Surprisingly, the rabbit tore itself away. The Frenchwoman nearly stumbled when she found nothing but a fistful of lavender locks in her clutches. Her eyes grew with fleeting amazement until her lips curled into an amused smile. Margaux inhaled the smell of the clump between her fingers. Surprisingly clean and fragrant for someone that used to wade knee-deep in dead bodies and drifted through the smoke of burning bridges. The Frenchwoman sneered and stepped forward, coming close behind the Grim Reaper as she attempted to crawl towards the corner. As the woman reached for the bottom rope, Margaux would happily ‘assist’ her.

The Frenchwoman would raise her boot and slam the heel down into the back of Death Bunny’s knee. If she was successful in that, there would be nothing to stop the Frenchwoman from grinding her heel deeper into the joint. Crunch, crunch, until it was nothing but dust.

Whatsoever bedside tales were told about the Cadaverous Cottontail's personality, few rightfully captured her prideful side with any semblance of realism. It was a facet to her persona that was instrumental in willing her onward even in the face of her own consciousnesses fading and was intent on denying Margaux the satisfaction. The satisfaction of even a word of suffering or hint of genuine fear in her eyes, although this edict would start becoming unsustainable as she sank further into the abyss at Mag's refined hand. Pitiable enough though it already was to be knelt against the Frenchwoman and beginning to slip into unconsciousness with each ruthless bludgeoning. A few strands of purple hair were absolutely a small price to pay for an emergency exit out of this predicament.

Death snarled from the needled twangs in her scalp before her soldiered crawl towards the adjacent ropes, uncharacteristically retreating as perspiration dribbled to the canvas beneath her. Appreciative of whatever psychopathic inclinations Margaux may have been overcome with considering it afforded Death more time to formulate an adequate reprisal to the Frenchwoman cold-cocking her from out of nowhere with a goddamn pair of brass knuckles. The Downtrodden Reaper noticing the shivering eclipse that came with Margaux's shadow, signaling to Death her raised leg and the opportune moment to strike. Death ferociously roaring out and pivoting in her dainty foe's direction for what would be a savage uppercut to her ladyhood. A strike that defies boundaries and brings sheer agony to prince and pauper alike.

Margaux thought herself more fitting of the title of Death Incarnate. She quite fancied the image of herself wielding a scythe and dressed in the color of endless night. Margaux had destroyed more lives and broken apart more families than any famine, disaster, or bunny-eared phantom in the whole of France. Just the thought made her smile stretch ever further. It would be fitting now as the pinkette loomed over her fallen foe, prepared to reap the soul clean from her broken body. First, she would break her leg. Then, she would force the screams from her body.

Then, a flash of violet.

The Frenchwoman felt the life punched out of her with a single strike from below the instant Death Bunny’s knuckles crunched the delicate spot between her legs. The uppercut sent a torrent upward through her as Margaux’s gut sank low. All at once as her eyes rolled back towards the ceiling and brought her numbed gaze, for the faintest moment, to see the stage lights above. Their sudden, intense gleam nearly blinded her, and yet she couldn’t help but feel lightened by a rapturous pull as she rose to meet them.

It was then that Margaux registered that her feet had left the floor. Her body fell away from the Grim Hopper in a magnificent arc that sent her flying several feet backward before her robust body hit the canvas. Moist droplets of saliva that streamed through the air from her open mouth fell moments after her, speckling the pristine white of her wrestling garb and dotting her face. Margaux curled on the spot, rolling onto her side and caressing her aching nethers to little avail.

Duplicitous techniques and unscrupulous tactics were scarcely a foreign concept considering the barbaric depravity of the cage-rattling fight pits from which Death's urban myth arose. Biding her time until an opening was offered was more akin to a coiled serpent or cornered beast bereft of other options. A state of vulnerability Margaux could have perhaps felt pride in hammering Death into, even though at the moment she was perhaps feeling what could only be the antithesis of that. Sympathy shared amongst the audience for an individual whose seldom earned the right to be as D.B. remained unflinchingly knelt with her tightened fist in the air as if she were a statuesque monument to rebellious defiance. The mobster's ring-thwacking plummet against the ring canvas signaled for the Dead Woman to sluggishly start arising with an unbalanced wobble to her legs once vertical. One may forgive Death for her disorienting vertigo considering the brass knuckled rainstorm she was just showered with.

Death pinched her nose as she scrunched her facials, focusing on regaining her sensibilities with her other arm slung flaccidly over the top rope. Eyelids peeking open to acknowledge her vision becoming less warbled and the Frenchwoman unsurprisingly languishing off in the distance. Beastial ferality instantly circumventing whatever rational thoughts she may have once pondered in the fleeting seconds before a shadowed coldness could be felt veiled upon Margaux. Clawed hands digging into her dual colored locks in a strained fulcrum intent on hauling the mobwoman off the canvas. A quick second spent to disarm and swipe off Margaux's brass knuckles before cornering her back first against the turnbuckle. A swelled uptick to their smushed busts from how emphatically Death had them pinned together, emblazoned hellfire sparked in her grimacing visage before savagely biting into her forehead with snarling ferocity. Hardcore though the rules were, the referee was compelled to intercede after several seconds of the inhuman display.

Though she was being moved, the Frenchwoman would not be remotely aware of it or anything else that would happen for the next few moments. Her limp body simply allowed itself to be manipulated in the rough care of her monstrous adversary. Right until the moment her hair was taken by two beastly mitts and forced her upright. Margaux was a lady of class and sophistication. That couldn’t be any less apparent in the manner with which her gelatin legs fumbled to keep in step with the Reaper hauling her away to an early grave that appeared conspicuously similar to a set of turnbuckles. Margaux’s back hit the corner hard, forcing a fresh breath from her lungs. The feeling was almost remedied by a sudden supple, overbearing warmth as her opponent pushed up against her.

Fleeting as it was.

Crunch. A lukewarm sensation on her forehead roused her from sleep, and the Thin trails of blood ran down one side of her face and between her eyelashes, staining half of her vision scarlet as Death Bunny’s mandibles pierced another layer of skin. She was being eaten alive. Surely that couldn't have been right, but even now she could scarcely remember what her opponent looked like. Her vision was a blur, her thoughts a daze. This had to end.

Margaux's throat evoked a blood-curdling scream, trembling their bodies as it resonated far beyond the ring. Her body roused to life all at once. Desperately her hand reached out for something close. It found a tangled clump of brown hair that belonged to the referee, who'd unwisely approached the savage pair in an attempt to break them away. She barely had a chance to scream before Margaux wrenched her forward and slammed her skull against Death Bunny's temple. If that was enough to stop her, the Frenchwoman would shove her adversary away before falling back promptly and resting against the turnbuckles.