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Not a Good Time; -=Owen=-
Topic Started: Apr 17 2008, 01:28 AM (42 Views)
Willie
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-=Badd Breed=-
[ *  *  *  * ]
When our scene fades in, we find the full-figured form of one Rebecca Hunter. She's looking off-screen with quite a bit of interest, and a seductive curl of her eyebrow suggests that she's scoping out some nice man-flesh for her eyes to rove all over. The particular hunk of man-flesh she's put her sights on happens to be the Irish Wolfhound, Owen McConnaigh, clad in nothing but black shorts, a pair of basketball shoes and a grim look staining his Irish features, his body tilted at a 90 degree angle with his legs curled around the bars of an angled slope situp machine as he pops off a grueling set of modified situps, a heavy-looking medicine ball clutched around his middle.

As he strains and works, Rebecca paces back and forth, observing her prey as it were, her outfit of a black pleated skirt, a black low-cut Ozzy Osbourne baby tee and black fishnet gloves and stockings with black combat boots not seeming to catch the eye of the as-yet winless submission artist. Finally, Owen pops off the final medicine ball situp, dropping the ball on the ground and unhooking his legs from the bar. He rolls backward, standing up directly in front of Rebecca, suprising them both a little bit as Rebecca looks into Owen's sharp blue eyes. Rebecca speaks now after looking Owen up and down one more time.

Rebecca: "So, Owen, what are you racking that gorgeous body for? I know you haven't gotten a win yet here in FIW, but considering your opponent this week, you probably should get used to the idea. You've got Pac-Bull, that monstrous freak who thinks he's in a video game. Even though his manager, Jericho, is a total sweetheart--"

Owen shakes his head, interrupting Rebecca as well with a finger pointed straight at her ample chest.

Owen: "Ah, come off it, Rebecca, 'as Jericho got you that snowed, then? Jericho is FAR FROM the "sweet'eart" you've described. He treats 'is Hellcat Champion like 'e owns the bloody girl. Pushin' 'er around, puttin' words and ideas in 'er head so she'll dance the way he works da' puppet strings, I'm sick of Jericho, Rebecca. And aye, I've got 'is beast in the ring with me, the other half of this Fountains of Jericho team he's put together. Trust me, Rebecca, if Jericho thinks he's punishin' Pac-Bull NOW, for what he did to Lara Toni a couple of weeks ago, just you flippin' wait until I get my mitts on dat' monster."

Rebecca: "Owen, I don't know if you've noticed, but, Pac-Bull is 459 pounds. His strength has got to be...well...boundless! AND he's angry at you to boot! You're gonna' probably get eaten alive in there, literally!"

Owen can only respond with a devilish smile, his light blue eyes glittering with a mad glee as he nods and responds to Rebecca verbally now.

Owen: "I'm not afraid of Pac-Bull, Rebecca. Da' lad can be as mad at me as he wants, he can kick a hole in a wall, rip a door off it's hinges, smash his fist through a window...The difference between me and all of those things is a door, a wall and a window don't fight back. A McConnaigh does. I'm not someone that Pac-Bull will be able to, now or ever, push around and impose his will. He may be big, he may be 459 pounds, and I have no doubt that he's going to use that weight and his power ta' smash me and toss me around. But Pac-Bull ain't gonna beat me like that. It's because he's never faced a man quite like Owen McConnaigh. You see, Rebecca, I haven't even faced the big palooka yet, an' I already know what to expect. Not only do I expect the fearsome power he'll bring, I expect that wee weasel Jericho to get involved an' stick his nose where it doesn't belong. I wouldn't put it past slime like dat' to help his boy win unfairly, Rebecca, and I swear to you and swear before God that if Jericho tries it, I'll knock da' man out. Plain and simple."

Rebecca: "So you have no fear of repercussions, even if you put your hands on Pac-Bull's manager?"

Rebecca smiles seductively, running her long, soft fingers across Owen's chest, as his ice-blue eyes follow her slow gait making a circle around Owen. She then leans up and whispers into her ear.

Rebecca: "You're really turning me on, Owen.."

Bad move. In a flash, Owen whips around and has Rebecca pressed against the wall, though not in the way she would like Owen to pin her to the wall for sure. Mainly because he's got the bone of his forearm pressed to her collarbone pinning her there.

Owen: "You listen clear, ya' little witch~! NOBODY gets in the mind of Owen McConnaigh. I ain't here to make you quiver, my lass, I ain't here for us to play tonsil hockey or whatever ideas ya' may have in that twisted little brain of yours. I'm angry, I'm hungry because I have not gotten my first victory yet here in FIW, I have failed to prove myself to my brothers and my father THREE TIMES IN A ROW now! Enough is enough, I say! Tonight, my losing streak ends! Tonight I make that great bully Pac-Bull tap out and send a message to da' whole wrestling world, that if you attack those smaller than you, if you assault those weaker than you....the Irish Wolfhound WILL hunt you. He will never sleep, he will NEVER STOP until he has set EVERY. WRONG. RIGHT. And tonight I set this wrong right. Faugh an Beallach!"

Finally, after the Saints' phrase he releases his grip on Rebecca, storming out of the shot as Rebecca watches him go. Whether she's hurt or even more turned on by the rage the Irish Wolfhound just showed, we're not sure, and we probably never will be since it fades to black.
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