>>20773617.{home. wswet hoae]
The thing they call Champion has finally arrived back home, its children singing its arrival with a cacophony of squeaks and screeches. The Hardcore Championship trails behind it, dirt and filth staining the strap and front plate both, a reminder of the places it has been... literally.
A small plastic bag in its hand, the Cactus removes some items from its shopping trip: a small compass, a few bundles of packing tape... and a stapler. With a brief exhale, the compass begins to dig pieces of wood from its arm and chest and cheek. Kendo stick. Table. A matted clump of hair is pulled off outright, the agitated skin bubbling with pinpricks of blood. A stop sign. A fingernail is removed. Just one, this time.
As the larger cuts flow more freely, Cactus bites down hard on a broken wooden slat and pinches the skin together with one hand. Without hesitated, the stapler is put to use. It's messy, but it works, and once the stapler is empty, the Cactus' jaw releases the wood which clatters to the floor, echoing through the empty warehouse. The scar is taped up and there is silence.
Then an exhale. More staples patch up her shirt. The compass carves a single line into a nearby shelf; there are three of them there now. The thing they call Cactus is home. Still Champion. Unstoppable. Unbeatable. Unkillable.
