The candlelight did not flicker. It stood still, almost as if the flame was as artificial as her opponent. On Anarchy.

The flame finally leaned away from Jenny as she adjusted the napkin rings for the seventh time. Everything in the dining room was high-gloss perfection, like her.

The silverware caught the natural but felt like artificial light, and the heavy velvet curtains choked out the sounds other than the ticking of a grandfather clock in the hall.

Across from her sat 'Summer'.

Or, more accurately, across from her sat something. It was roughly five-foot-four, draped in a silk slip dress that cost more than most people’s rent, topped with a wig of spun-gold synthetic hair.

The face was a featureless expose. Smooth. Indifferent.

It sat expressionless across from her, as if the excuse was already canned (and SPOILED, probably). "Its just my resting bitch face. It's normal."

Jenny was too busy pouring a 1945 Bordeaux into a glass that she knew would never be touched.

"You're quiet tonight, Summer, but then again, you never really had much to say. It’s your best quality, really. You're a pick-me. A sponge for attention, for light, for space."

She picked up a heavy, silver-handled steak knife and began to run her thumb along the edge.

"I made your favorite,"Jenny said, gesturing to the center of the table. "Though I suppose favorites are a bit fluid for someone like you. You tend to like whatever the room tells you to like."

Jenny didn't reach for any food. She was watching her figure, after all, and didn't want to look fat on the B show she was doing the company a favor by even being on (they have Robbie Bourbon for that, who is, apparently and disgracefully, back). With a sudden, violent grace, she plunged the tip of the knife into the polished mahogany surface.

Jenny didn't flinch. She began to draw the blade through the wood with focused intensity despite her voracious ADD. But as the wood peeled back, the table began to bleed like the first cut into a rare filet mignon. Red liquid began to well up, pooling around the base of the salt shakers that also sat unused and running onto the floor that shined a little too much.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

"You thought this was a celebration of your arrival," Jenny whispered, carving out a thick, rectangular slab of  table meat. "You thought the invitation was about your presence. But you’ve never actually been 'present,' have you? You’re a placeholder. A decorative edge. A beautiful piece of cabinetry that people rest their drinks on."

She lifted the slab of mahogany-flesh with the flat of her blade and slid it onto Summer’s plate. The red liquid smeared across the white porcelain.

"Eat up, darling."

Jenny began to work faster now. She carved out "ribs" from the table's edge, tossing the splintered, blood-slick table meat toward the mannequin across from her.

"People like you think you’re the lead in the play. You think the world is built around you. But you’re just the upholstery. You’re the filler. When you didn't show up tonight after my well-crafted and perfectly worded invitation, I wasn't upset. I am used to people not wanting to share a table with me I have always had to force them to sit or make a table myself."

She runs her hands across the envelope, the invitation marked "Return to Sender" that Summer clearly never opened.

Bitch.

In a sudden move that would make Jackie Chan jealous, she hacked a jagged hole into the center of the table, even giving a "HI-YA" under her breath, for dramatic effect. The table began to sag, and the nametag that read "SPOILED" across the breasts began to sag, too.

Jenny found this humorous.

The candles tipped when she made her move, wax dripping into the open wounds of the 'wood'.

"You’re so afraid of being used, Summer. You’re so afraid of being 'discarded.' But you don't realize the fundamental law of the room."

Jenny stood up, her dress splattered with the dark liquid like a scene from a horror movie that Summer thought she was too good to watch. 

She walked around the table, the floorboards creaking under her weight, until she stood directly behind the mannequin. She leaned down, pressing her lips against the cold, plastic ear of the doll.

"A guest is a temporary intruder," Jenny hissed. "But a table? A table is a permanent fixture anywhere.....until it isn't. It stays in one spot, sometimes wobbly, until something comes along and gives it that little....push. It bears the weight of everything else until its legs snap."

Jenny grabbed the edge of the table and heaved.

She looked at the mannequin, the "Summer" she had created. The wig had slipped, revealing the industrial seam of the plastic skull.

"You always did want to be the center of attention," Jenny said, wiping her blood-stained hands on the white silk of the mannequin’s dress. "You wanted everyone to gather around you. You wanted to be the thing that held the meal together."

Jenny picked up the carving knife one last time. She didn't look at the fake summer. She looked at the table, or what was left of it.

"The TRUTH is, I AM that table, as much as they hate to admit it."

She wondered, for a brief second, what prompted them to book a tables match. Did they not realize her moniker was "Your Highness of Violence?" She was about to damn near kill a woman on live television, tripling the premiums on XWF's most likely cut-rate insurance.

Should have went with All-State™ and be better protected from mayhem, like her.

Jenny leaned over the table, her face inches from the featureless plastic mask of her stolen from JCPENNY's 'friend'. The candles flickered one last time and died off like the dinosaurs.

She had finger painted on fake lips. Fitting.

"You don’t flip tables, Summer… you get served on them."

5x

FORMER, 1x AND LONGEST REIGNING (101 Days)

FOREVER, AND ALWAYS

3X

2x XWF Bombshell Champion

Sex, Metal, Barbie, CHAOS