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> CAT RILEY vs KATE STEELE, Submission Match
Christian Underwood
Posted: September 02, 2018 05:53 pm


TAFKATPF aka The Artist Formerly Known As The Pink Flamingo
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“To err is human - but it feels divine.”
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Cat Riley
Posted: September 08, 2018 08:09 pm


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“I don’t have any options, at least none that I can see”. Her words carry the somber reflection of her gaze, empty and defeated. For more than an hour after having learned of her opponent for the annual Violent Conduct pay per view super card Cat Riley has combed her mind, separating the strands of competing impulses and straightening her thoughts into a singular focus; how to deal with the inherent advantage of her opponent Kate Steele with her husband Todd in her corner. “I just don’t know,” she mutters, waving her hands in exasperation before allowing them to fall and slap her jean layered thighs. “I’ve never wrestled anyone who actively utilized a manager to her advantage the way she does. I’ve been wracking my brain for a solid hour and I still don’t have any ideas”.

“You need a second in your corner to counter him, that’s all”. The voice, throaty and gruff belongs to Scott Schreiner, the husband and significant other of the SCW co-owner Christian Underwood. Seated on his ‘throne’ a black leather recliner that stands out in direct contrast to the vintage Victorian décor. He stares blankly at the television screen as the daily baseball scores scroll by at the bottom of the screen, his attention distracted by Cat’s wailing over her predicament. “Just ask one of your friends”, he suggests, hoping to put the issue to rest and get back to his sports.

“What makes you think I haven’t tried that already”? She counters with a hint of sarcasm underlying. “That’s the first thing I did and frankly it was easy because I only have one friend and Viviana is out of town competing in a tournament and she happens to be my only friend and I’m not about to ask you after what happened last time.., bloody sidewalks in this country are filthy”, she mutters in a subtle jab at the man who evicted her slightly over a month again an event she is not yet ready to let recede.

“Cat,” Scott groans in annoyance. “I can only apologize so many times. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, ok? What more can I do? I apologized a thousand times; I gave you flowers..,

“Flowers that I am allergic to,” she interrupts.

“Hey, I was trying, and besides, it’s the thought that’s supposed to count isn’t it”?

“Forget it”, she replies, releasing him from the hook in favor of bigger fish. “I’ve got more important things to worry about, just watch your scores while I try to figure this out”.

“Chrissy should be home from the groomer in a little while, I’m sure he can help”. The big man offers, picking up his trusty ‘shooting iron’ to browse the other channels.

“I wish he would hurry his arse up”, Cat adds. “He always seems to have the answer and I could sure use some of his wisdom right now because I’m about to my wit’s end”.

“You’re not gonna get anywhere by beating yourself up”, Scott advises. “Take a seat and watch some baseball with me, give your mind a break. The Dodgers and the Nats are about to start”.

“You’re right,” Cat sighs and plods over to the Victorian style sofa adjacent to Scott’s recliner, “surprisingly”. She offers a curt smile before dropping onto the well-appointed padding, kicking off her sneakers and stretching out to watch the game.



“Home run”!

“You dumb broad that was a foul ball”!

“I wasn’t referring to your silly game Scott” Christian huffs while slamming the door closed. He sets two bags of groceries down and releases Genie, the 12 pound long haired Persian onto the floor who promptly waddles into the kitchen in search of her bowl. “I mean I hit a home run. I managed to get Genie’s fur groomed; her claws trimmed and do your grocery shopping for the week in one fell swoop”.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever”, Scott mutters waving his catcher’s mitt of a hand dismissively. “Now put that junk away and be quiet about it, I don’t want to miss anything”.

“The game is tied at zero in the bottom of the ninth,” Cat chimes in through a suppressed yawn. “Nothing has happened and both pitchers are working on a perfect game. I don’t think anything will ever happen”.

“Oh yeah”, Scott thunders in a challenging roar; “What about in the fourth when that fan caught that foul ball”?

“Oh silly me, “Cat sneers derisively while climbing out of the sofa. “How could I forget, my heart was beating like a jackhammer”. She plods across the floor, her bare feet squeaking against the freshly polished wood to the doorway and picks up a bag of groceries. “I’ll help you with the groceries”, she offers. “I want to talk to you any way”.

“You can help, but you will not set foot in my kitchen missy”, Christian growls, jutting his thumb to the faux ivory counter top. “Just empty the bags onto the breakfast bar and I will put everything away”.

“Fine, whatever”, she groans in annoyed acquiescence while starting to unload the bags one item at a time. “Any way”, she begins with her train of thought finally arriving at the intended station, “about my match at Violent Conduct.., “ she pauses briefly to ensure Christian’s attention which is confirmed via glancing eye contact and goes on. “I need a way to counter Kate Steele’s manager at ringside. I’ve seen some video on her and he seems to get involved in every match she has”.

“That’s true”, he nods in agreement. “I’ve noticed the same thing myself, but what do you want me to do”?

“I was thinking, given your experience in the business, that you may be able to help me find a manager to counter her husband, manager or whatever he is..,” he gaze goes blank, losing itself in the jumble of fine print on the label of a tin can of tomato soup while her mind takes flight to the squared circle. She sees herself in the ring with Kate Steele, a woman who is every bit as determined and skillful as she is. The match is hard fought with give and take from both sides. She can smell the noxious fumes of cigar and cigarette smoke. Her eyes flutter rapidly, desperately trying to adjust to the intense assault of the overhead lights and sweat pours from her brow but she manages to gain the upper hand and secures a calf slicer compression hold. Her grip is tight and unyielding as Kate flails away helplessly but her manager has a trick up his sleeve and manages to distract the referee while surreptitiously handing off an unknown object to his wife. Taking the object into her free hand Kate sprays a burning substance into Cat’s face, blinding the Briton and freeing herself from the hold. She is quick to take advantage and locks in neck crank. Unable to see and barely able to breathe, Cat is forced to concede. Triumphant, Kate is joined in the ring by her second and parades about to the chagrin of the fans who respond with a ringing chorus of jeers, tossing soda cups and other debris into the ring as the official tends to Cat. Kneeling over the wounded warrior and asking if she is alright.

“Cat..,” her reverie is broken by the sharpness of Christian’s voice piping up to gain her attention. “Are you ok”?

“Huh? Oh.., yeah, sorry. I was just day dreaming”.

“You can always borrow Scotty”, he offers while grabbing two loaves of bread. “I’m sure he won’t mind and he can certainly handle Todd”.

“Be serious”, she moans. “You and I both know he’s about as useless as I am at six o’clock in the morning”.

“Fair enough”, he concedes with a chuckle. “But I’ll give you a point for owning up to it”.

Returning to her labors Cat pulls out six more cans of food, stacking them neatly and in order of contents. Vegetables are stacked to the right, with soup to the left, frozen goods in the middle, breads in the front, spice and other various condiments beside the beads and meats in the back. She steps back, taking in the scene; the two foot by six foot breakfast counter is completely covered with food. The canned goods are stockpiled three rows high and the bags are barely half empty. “I don’t believe it”, she mutters in amazement. “H – How did you manage to get all of this into two plastic shopping bags”?

“Honey, unlike those kids at Frys, I know how to pack a grocery bag”.

“But I’ve been unpacking them for half an hour and the bags are still half full. My own mum can’t pack like this”!

“I can teach her,” he offers, returning to the cabinets. “But let’s get back to your problem; you need someone to look after you at ringside, somebody with your best interests in mind”.

“Yes”.

He pauses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, I think I may have just the right man for the job”. Grabbing a small white can of Fancy feast he tosses it to Cat. “Be a dear and drop that into Genie’s bowl please”.

Popping the pull tab to open the lid, Cat kneels down to onto the white tiled floor and scoops the meaty pate from the can into a small, plastic bowl. Hearing an ominous growl emanating from behind she turns to find the white furred cat sitting on its haunch, its leg muscles tensed as a coil, ready to spring. Genie eyes Cat menacingly, her blue orbs icily following the young woman’s every move. Recognizing the posture of a pending strike Cat freezes in place, carefully calculating her next move, wary of antagonizing her nemesis further.

“Are you seriously going to start this up again”? She asks while maintaining eye contact with the 12 pound ball of fur. “Don’t you remember when I came back? You jumped into my arms purring and nuzzling my face. You let me pet you and you even kissed me. Now you want to try to kill me again”? Genie twitches her tail from side to side in apparent response. “You couldn’t beat me then and you still can’t beat me, so why not just forget about it and we can be friends”? The answer comes in a blinding white furious flash of fur and claws as the Persian nightmare leaps onto her prey.

“So any way, as I was saying”, Christian goes on. “I’m going to introduce you to the man who managed mine and Scott’s careers. He’s about the best in the business; managed more champions than I can count and made a fortune for himself and his clients. Believe me Cat, this man can do wonders for your career, and if you want to make money..,” he pauses to let loose an incredulous whistle, “he will have you rolling on it. He’s the man who got my acting career off the ground.., he owns a production studio; can you believe that”?

Throughout the course of his rambling Christian remains blissfully unaware of the chaos taking place on the kitchen floor; single mindedly focused on stories of his career as a wrestler under the guidance of his manager while further organizing the already scrupulously standardized pantry into a coordinated grouping worthy of the library of congress. The ruckus is also lost on Scott, still seated nearby in the living room, his attention fixated on his baseball game, now in the 18th inning and still tied at zero but given the intensity of his glare one would be led to believe that a riot was in progress.

“Oh my God, help! She’s killing me”!

“So one of his best wrestlers was a woman by the name of Monica Stark..,” Shaking his head with a chuckle Christian drones on. “Man alive the shit she and I would get into, talk about crazy; 24 hour shopping excursions.., heh, excursions, more like rampages; pranks on the cashiers, heckling poetry readings, tormenting pantomimes.., talk about some wild times”.

“Hey! I’m dehydrating over here”! The voice pierces through the cacophony of the kitchen like the roar of jet fighter taking off in a cemetery. Despite his trip through the tunnel of memory lane Christian cannot help but to be shaken from his reminiscence and exhales a grievous sigh while opening the refrigerator door. Reaching inside he pulls out a cold can of Budweiser but pauses..,

“Hmm, I’d better make it two so he’ll leave us alone for a while”, he mumbles to himself and grabs a second can. “Cat, would you mind bringing Scotty his beer”?

In a quivering heap Cat lies on the floor, her skin pockmarked with small puncture and slash wounds as she cradles her knee, using a hand knitted napkin to try and stem the flow of blood. “I’m bleeding”! She cries.

“Rub some dirt on it you dumb blonde and bring me my beer”!

Slowly rising to her blood soaked feet Cat glares venomously in the direction of Scott’s voice. “What the hell did he just call me”? Pausing to cast a wary glance at her household antagonist who busies herself with her dinner bowl, purring in content she leans over to whisper a warning, “You’ll get yours, don’t worry. But first thing’s first”. Rising up fully she extends her hands towards Christian, “Hand me the bloody beer”, she snaps, to which Christian dutifully complies and Cat starts towards the entrance to the living room, giving both cans a good shaking but stops mid – stride and turns back to her employer, “I don’t suppose, by some odd, off the wall chance, that you have a centrifuge anywhere in the house”? She asks.

“Sure”, he replies with a casual shrug. “I bought one to mix Genie’s baby formula and when she outgrew it I put it in the guest room next to yours. Her bottles of formula fit inside perfectly and they’re about the same size as.., your..,”

“Thanks”, she says before turning back towards the living room.

“Cat, wait”. Being a master prankster in his own right Christian is quick to recognize her intentions and can’t resist the temptation to help. With a gleam in his eye he reaches into a drawer beneath the counter top and removes a roll of duct tape and a pair of scissors which he hands to her, licking his lips in gleeful anticipation. “You’re going to need this. It’s a little old and has seen a lot of use, so you may need this to keep the lid shut”.

Taking the tape and scissors into her arms she darts through the room and up the stair well towards the guest room offering a pseudo explanation to Scotty who looks on expectantly, “Just a moment Scott, I’m giving you a special treat that will make it nice and fizzy for you”.

“Oh good, I like a good head on my beer, but make it quick. I think I just lost a quarter ounce of water weight to dehydration”.

Turning back to the task at hand Cat shakes her head in disbelief, mumbling under her breath as she reaches the top of the stairs and turns to the indicated guest room, “Does this muscle headed, hairless orangutan even realize that beer causes dehydration”?

Christian listens intently to the goings on upstairs as the door slams shut with a thud, now completely torn away from putting up the last of the groceries. His mouth creases to a malicious smirk as the muffled sound of the whirring centrifuge reverberates through the halls of the Victorian manor. Feeling a sudden heft atop his feet he glances down to see Genie taking a seat. Having finished her meal the cat now rests atop her master’s polished black leather loafers, cleaning her face with her fore paws. He leans down and lifts the bloated feline, cradling her in his arms and whispers softly,

“You don’t wanna miss this baby; this is going to be good”.

Setting his beloved pet down on the counter the SCW co-owner rummages through the cabinet underneath the sink, pulling out two pairs of goggles, one normal sized and the other a miniature version of the first. Taking the first pair he carefully adjusts the nylon strap secured to the transparent rubber face before attaching it to Genie’s muzzle and then follows suit with the other pair for himself. Moments later the whirring stops and the squeaking of un-oiled door hinge is followed by footsteps muffled by the hall carpeting which alerts him to Cat’s impending return. Trudging down the steps she gives the now bulbous cans an extra shaking for good measure before entering the living room. Approaching Scott still seated in his recliner she slams the beers down on the coffee table with a resounding thud and hastily exits as he reaches for the first. Holding the bulging can in his ham hock he eyes it curiously but Cat, anticipating his questioning offers an excuse on her way into the kitchen where she takes shelter on the other side of the breakfast bar.

“I brought you the keg shaped cans”, she offers, trying to suppress a snicker without much success. “They hold a few extra ounces”.

“I don’t care about that”, he bellows. “I just need you to open the damned things. Can’t you see I’m busy”?

“Not a chance in hell”, she calls out in response. “I’m a dumb blonde, remember? I don’t even know how to open them”.

“Damn, you really are stupid”, he mutters while bringing the can to his face. “There’s a tab on the top, just pull it up and..,”

The blast rattles the living room with a piercing pop followed by a muddled boom and sprays beer and foam throughout, soaking the carpet, the drapes and the furniture; the force of which knocks Scotty backwards in his lounger, over turning it and sending him to the floor with a heavy thud. Christian collapses to the floor in the kitchen with an echoing thud accompanied by peals of laughter.

“What the hell?” With his entire body soaked in suds Scott groans and slowly returns to his feet after freeing them from under the over turned coffee table, which is now missing a leg after being kicked in his impatience to return to the baseball game “Chrissy, you dumb bitch,” he thunders in agonized discord. “Don’t you ever buy the keg shaped cans again”!

“Hey Scott”, Cat calls out in between spats of giggling. “Are you still dehydrated”? Looking over at her teary eyed partner in crime who gives her a high five she turns to him and wonders aloud, “I can’t imagine he’d be stubborn enough to open the second one”.

“Don’t bet against it”, he warns, taking cover behind the counter.

Following the brief thumping of the recliner being sat back up and as if on cue a second blast rocks the house that brings both Cat and Christian to the floor with a whump in the throes of hysterical laughter. Unable to suppress his convulsing Christian reaches out with a trembling hand; grabbing Cat by the sleeve and drawing her in tightly holding on.

“You.., you completely destroyed.., my living room again but.., but it was so totally worth it”! He says in between tear choked sobs.

“I.., I’m sorry..,” Cat apologizes while trying to fight back her own tears which stream freely down her beet red face.

“Fuck.., fuck the cost”, he chortles. “That was utterly priceless”.

Still snickering the pair, along with Genie peeks out from behind the counter to find Scott lying prone on his back amidst a pool of beer and foam, the victim of two consecutive blasts to the face; enough to render him unconscious. The 70 inch LCD flat screen television screen has gone black, shorted by the spraying of ale and sporting lengthwise concussive cracks.

“He’s gonna be so pissed,” Christian mumbles attempting to regain his composure and using the protruding ledge of the counter to himself back to a vertical base. “His TV is broken and he’s going to miss the rest of the game”.

“I’ll read him the box score”, Cat offers, also pulling her body upright and drying her eyes on the sleeve of her white tee shirt. “It was tied at zero in the 27th inning, no hits, no runs, and no errors for either team.., “ Suddenly she breaks down into another giggling fit. “Game called to inclement weather”.

“Pfffftt!” Christian once more joins her in another round of tittering. Finally, after several more minutes of cachinnation Christian and Cat manage to regain their composure. Instinctively he grabs a rag and a bottle of Pine Sol but stops in his tracks upon entering the living room. His eyes scan the place in its entirety, while compiling a mental checklist of the damage done; drapes soaked, wallpaper covered, throw rugs soggy and the furniture sodden. The television has lost its lease on life, along with the lamp; knocked over and broken by Scott’s 285 pound body tumbling over it and the coffee table missing a leg. With a snicker of a sigh he returns to the kitchen and drops the cleaning supplies onto the dining room table. “Forget it”, he says. “I’m not touching this mess. I’ll just hire a cleaning crew in the morning”.

“So what do we do in the meantime”? Cat asks, subconsciously stroking the purring Genie’s fur.

“Get cleaned up and get some rest”, he replies. “We have to go shopping first thing, and then I need to introduce you to my old manager”.

“Oh yeah, you were talking about that while we were putting up the groceries, but I didn’t catch all of it because I was busy fighting for my life”. Glancing down at Genie seated comfortably between her propped arms on the breakfast bar Cat rears her head back, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Wait a minute.., a few minutes ago she was trying to kill me. Now she’s half asleep between my arms and letting me pet her. What the bloody hell is wrong with this cat”?

“Game respects game”, Christian replies succinctly. “All that stuff she does is a game to her, albeit a violent one but still a game nonetheless. She can see how good you are, especially after the cat nip bit you pulled on her. Simply put, she likes you and respects you. You’re not the first she’s done that to. Hell, she used to give my manager nightmares”.

“Do you think your manager will agree to help me with Kate Steele and her wanker husband at Violent Conduct”?

“I don’t know”, he shrugs. “But you bring a lot to the table and I should be able to make one hell of a sales pitch. I think he’ll probably jump on it”. Stretching his arms upward and behind his back Christian yawns deeply and loudly. “Oh man, another crazy night, but it’s time we get ourselves cleaned up and hit the sack. Tomorrow’s gonna be a busy day”.

“Alright”, Cat agrees, stifling a yawn into the palm of her hand. Rising up, she leans over, looking Genie square into the eyes, bringing them nose to nose to utter a soft spoken word of warning, “now that I know the score with you, you can bet your furry arse there will be a round two. I hope you’re ready”.

Genie licks the tip of Cat’s nose playfully, offering a soft meow and a gentle love bite in reply.

The pair exits the kitchen with Cat following Christian and Genie and steps through the living room past Scott’s decumbent body and glancing back at the benumbed ‘man of the house’ she pauses. “What do we do about Scott”? She asks, looking up to the actual man of the house who has reached the top of the stair case.

“Just leave him there”, he says indifferently. “He’ll be asleep for hours, and with all of that beer hitting him in the face he has to be drunker than a nine eyed redneck. Hell, I don’t even think he’ll remember a thing in the morning. Now get your butt cleaned up and go to bed, set your alarm for six o’clock”.

“Didn’t I already tell you how I’m useless at six AM?”

“Ok, fine”, he relents. “Set it for 6:15”.



12:33 PM

The chirping of the alarm clock rousts Cat from her slumber, prompting her to roll over with a drowsy moan, slapping the top of it with her hand and silencing the shrill annoyance once more and through bleary eyes she sneaks a peek at the time, hoping to steal a few more minutes but the sudden realization strikes as a thunderbolt. Springing clumsily from the comfort of her bed she throws on a pair of cut off blue jeans, an oversized white tee shirt and a pair of fuzzy white bedroom slippers. Stepping over the threshold and into the hall, she reaches up with her right hand to stifle an oncoming yawn, but this one proves to be a force of nature and will not be stifled; the sheer force of which demands her to relent and allow it to reverberate through the hallway uncontested. She stumbles lazily down the stairs, past the work crew busily re-arranging and repairing the living room under Christian’s watchful eye, and into the kitchen.

“Bloody mornings..,” she mumbles, opening the refrigerator door and peering inside. “If I could get my hands around the throat of the wanker who thought it a good idea to start the days off this early I would..,”

“Hold it right there”! The voice, commanding and angry, belongs to Christian who stares at her, hands on hips; his face a mask of perturbation. “One more move and I cut your hands off at the shoulder”.

Exercising discretion, Cat slowly shuts the door and spins around, eyeing the master of the house through a pair of stuttering blue slits. “I’m sorry”, she begins apologetically. “I overslept”.

“Psh, I don’t care about that”, he says, waving off her comment dismissively. “Hell, I knew you’d sleep in regardless”.

“So why have me set my alarm then”?

“I just wanted to mess with you”, he replies with a shrug. “But this..,” he says sternly, pointing to the refrigerator. “This is something I will have absolutely no part of in my home”.

“What? But.., I’m hungry”, she whines. “I just wanted to make a sandwich”.

“Like hell”, he answers authoritatively. “Back away from the fridge, and keep your hands where I can see them”.

“Isn’t this a bit much? I was just going to make a sandwich with the food I bought the other day”.

“No you’re not missy, I am not about to have untrained hands frolicking about in my kitchen. Now, you just sit your little butt down at the table”.

“I don’t want to go hungry”, she says in a simpering inflection.

“You won’t”, he says softly while grabbing a skillet and digging through the drawers for utensils. “Just sit tight and I’ll handle everything. I can’t have you cooking in my kitchen. As destructive as you are you would most likely burn down the whole block any way”.

As Christian busies himself with the stove and a collection of pots and pans Cat looks over her should into the living room where the work crew continues unabated. Having replaced the wall paper and removed the furniture, they now toil away at cleaning and polishing the floorboards. Furrowing her brow upon noticing the lack of furniture having expected it to be set aside for its impending return she starts to ask on its whereabouts but stops herself short; recalling the condition of several of the pieces last night.

“Wait, you’re replacing the entire living room set instead of just those few pieces”? She asks, turning her gaze back to Christian who is whisking a bowl of some unusual mixture she does not recognize. He nods in reply with a grunt, his focus trained solely on the task at hand and leaving Cat to turn her eye back into the living room. Also conspicuous by his absence she notes, is Scott Schreiner, who had been left on the floor as the pair went to bed late last night. “Umm.., where’s Scott”?

“He woke up a couple of hours ago”, he answers while pouring the mixture into a sauce pan. “He took a couple of alka seltzer and went to bed”.

“So you were right”, she observes. “He was drunk”.

“As a Russian on Pyotr Smirnoff’s birthday”, he adds with a chuckle. “He didn’t even remember the game; just said something about a massive headache, grabbed the alka seltzer and went upstairs”.
With a snicker of her own Cat looks up, her expression abruptly taking on a more serious note, “Out of morbid curiosity”, she begins. “What is all of this costing”?

“The final tally came out to $9,785.13”, he answers without a trace of concern. The same however, cannot be said for Cat who winces audibly at the unexpectedly high number. Noting her concern, Christian is quick to reassure her and adds, “Don’t sweat it. Like I said, last night was totally worth it”, while shaking his head with a chuckle. “That was so epic. Just.., don’t plan on any encores any time soon, alright”?

“I’ll try, but Genie doesn’t make it easy for me”.

“And you wonder why she’s so protective of the sock”, he adds while stirring some unknown yellowish concoction in the non-stick frying pan. “How do you think we cover her expenses”?

“Alright..,” she starts but her voice quickly trails off as her mind is drowned in a tidal wave of questions washing over the shoal of her thoughts. “Why put my money in a sock then”? She casts a side-eyed glance to the corner where Genie, who is tucked into a plush, pink velvet pet bed, snoozes peacefully; curled into a furry, white and presently inactive wrecking ball. “I get that the security system is pretty good.., better than most actually, but still.., and that’s not to mention how the whole sock thing got started any way. I mean, it is a bit odd”.

“I felt similarly the first time I took note of it myself”, he says while loading an elaborately ornate ceramic plate with steaming mounds of food giving off a rich, invigorating aroma which mercilessly torments the palette. “Scott had been using a sock to store his money ever since we first started dating. I tried to get him to use a bank but that was one battle I couldn’t win. As time went on Genie took to protecting the sock as if it were the ark of the covenant and even I found myself giving tidings every now and again. As for you and your sock..,” he pauses with a knowing smirk, “I’ve seen how you manage your money young lady and if it kills me, I’m going to teach you how to be responsible with it”. Setting the plate before Cat he looks on with his hands resting on slender hips, subtly rubbing the grease from his fingertips onto the Grumpy Cat apron tied around his waist. “Now.., dig in”.

“Holy..,” her eyes go wide in disbelief as she scans over the contents of the plate. Two eggs, sunny side up sitting atop a stack of pancakes and topped with Hollandaise sauce with bacon and sausage links, corned beef hash, buttered toast and heated syrup with a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice round out the lip smacking smorgasbord. “I was going to settle for a bologna sandwich but this.., this is a feast for the Gods”. Taking a small bite she suddenly rears her head back, savoring the delectable pampering of her taste buds. “This is incredible,” she mumbles while shoveling another forkful into her mouth. “You can cook, do hair, decorate, pack grocery bags, run a wrestling promotion.., is there anything you can’t do”?

“Talking sense into Scotty seems to give me problems”. He answers. Untying the apron he sets it on the counter adjacent to the stove and excuses himself, heading into the living room. “You go ahead and enjoy that food; I’m going to finish up in the living room. They’re just about done. And when you’re done go put your clothes on so I can take to meet my friend”.

“You don’t want me to help with the dishes”? She asks.

“No way no how”, he replies curtly. “You’ll be happy with a spit shine and we don’t do things that way around here. “Just eat up and get your clothes on when you’re done so we can go take care of your Kate Steele problem”.



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Cat Riley
Posted: September 14, 2018 06:49 pm


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Joined: April 09, 2018




“As much as I appreciate it you didn’t have to do my hair for me”, Cat says softly, mostly to herself while admiring the exquisitely styled ‘coif by Christian’ in the passenger seat vanity mirror of her stylist’s ZL1 Camaro muscle car; “Though I must say it looks absolutely delightful”.

“Thanks”, he mumbles in reply, “but it was kind of a ploy on my part. My friend has a severe weakness for attractive women, so I figure if I got you dolled up it would give you a bit of an advantage”. Ignoring the road in front of him and the cries of the construction workers leaping over barricade railings and ducking behind various pieces of heavy equipment he keeps his eyes trained on the rear view mirror. “Besides”, he shrugs, “I kind of enjoy doing hair, it relaxes me”.

“Shouldn’t you be watching the road?” she asks, noting his eyes still fixated on the mirror.

“I am”, he replies; “Just the other side its new billboard day and I’m trying to see which direction has the best ones”.

“Why not read this side on the way there and the other side on the way back”?

“Too much trouble, I’d rather read them all now in case I discover a new shortcut or something”.

“Fair enough”, she recedes from the questioning and slumps deeper into the race inspired black recaro leather seats. “How much longer, do I have time for a Cat nap”?

“I’m curious”, he says, glancing at his passenger. “You were scared stiff of my driving, but now you want to take a nap”?

“I guess I’m getting used to it, especially after our trip home from Reno. Besides, you get to your destination faster than anyone else I’ve ridden with. How much longer any way”?

“Heh, that was a bit of an adventure. His training facility is on the east side of town against Sunrise Mountain, like ten to 12 miles away. We’ll be there in five minutes”.

“Oh goody a cat nap”.

“You do sleep like a cat, despite the 13 hours you got last night”.

Four Minutes and 27 seconds later…

Their arrival is heralded by the loud squealing of tires and the acrid odor of burning rubber as the red and white Chevy careens into the sparsely populated parking lot and screeches to a halt near the entrance to the golden hued two story training facility edged with neatly trimmed shrubbery, meticulously clean sidewalks and parking lights. Exiting the vehicle, Christian and Cat both circle the car looking for signs of damage and spy a folded piece of a stop sign lodged beneath the rear bumper. With a sigh, Christian grabs hold of the heavy aluminum sign and – with a little effort – manages to wrangle it loose, dropping it onto the asphalt.

“Bloody stupid signs, always wanting to slow us down”, Cat grumbles and follows her would be mentor to the tinted glass double doors. She pauses at the doorway taking in the enormity of the building, noting its two stories and massive footprint which sprawls nearly half an acre. “This place is huge”, she gasps. “It’s like a warehouse”.

“Wait until you see the inside”, Christian counters with a smirk, holding the door open.

The extra wide hallway seems to stretch for nearly half a kilometer by Cat’s less than educated guess and is covered by multi-hued carpeting which smells of fresh shampoo. Lining the flesh toned walls which sport a collection of memorabilia from years gone by behind glass cases securely fixed in place and illuminated by individual display lamps; which in tango with the music “Shakedown” by Equal with Seja filtering in through the ceiling speakers accentuates the subdued oppulance and prompts Cat to slow her gait to better take it all in. To the left are rows of life-sized photographs depicting wrestlers in various poses; each one bearing a championship belt. She pauses, thoughtfully looking on at a display featuring a tall, slender brunette clad in a white singlet and teasing the crowd playfully from between the ropes.

“That’s my shopping buddy Monica, who I told you about”, Christian offers. “She’s a manager herself now; a girl from Beijing named Jennifer Yu, an amazing talent. Monica went all the way to Japan to recruit her”.

The opposing wall bears a long line of championship accolades including title belts, trophies, press clippings and ring worn paraphernalia.

“Jesus”, she sighs while taking in the sight. “How many champions has he managed”?

“I can’t say with any degree of certainty”, her boss offers. “But it’s literally in the hundreds, Scott and me being among them”.

“Wow”.

“Now there’s a sight for sore thighs”!

The couple spins about face on their heels to find Goldenboy Gene Banton standing at the end of the hallway bearing a wide grin. He trots up to the pair grabbing Christian by the hand and pulling him into a brief embrace.

“That’s my line asshole”, Christian says with lightness of heart and tone prompting a chuckle from his friend and former manager. “Geno,” he begins, drawing slightly off and gesturing to his partner in crime, “This is the youngster I told you about, Cat Riley. Cat, this is Geno”.

“Hello,” Cat says softly extending her hand which is engulfed by the former wrestler’s beefy paw. “It’s nice to finally make your acquaintance”.

“The pleasure is all mine”, he reciprocates amicably and casts a long glance at Cat’s elaborately styled blonde locks which draw a smirk. “Christian did your hair for this didn’t he”?

“How did you know”?

“He knows me well”. He answers, “But he sometimes forgets that I know him just as well”.

“Hey it was worth a shot”, Christian shrugs.

“Forget about that,” gesturing for the pair to follow Gene breaks into stride. “The office is just around the corner, Cassie and junior are there waiting”.

“Why bring them into this”? Christian asks. “They’re not managers”

“Who are Cassie and junior any way”?

“My kinetic kids, the most tempestuous tandem you’ll ever meet”.

“To put it mildly”, The SCW co-founder ads.

Keeping a step behind the two friends who catch up on old times, Cat studies the hulking frame of the wrestler turned manager; a pair of wide ‘boulder shoulders’ stretches the man’s plain red tee shirt widely underneath a thickly muscled neck, tapering down as a ‘V’ to a trim, beltless torso which is supported by a pair of thick thighs bulging beneath the denim fabric of Levis jeans and are carried along by a pair of black and white Adidas high top sneakers. Taken aback by the sheer bulk of the long maned blonde man, Cat estimates him to be at least 118 kilos; an estimate seemingly confirmed by the muffled thud of his feet trudging along the carpet as they reach the end of the hall and round the corner. Her eyes widen in surprise at the sight of a trio of wrestling rings which take center stage of the spacious main training room. Segregated off from the rings by nylon roping and to the right is a weight training area replete with free weights, nautilus equipment, elliptical and cardio machines, smith machines and more. In the far back and sectioned off by yellow caution tape on the neoprene rubber floor matting lies another section dedicated to functional fitness with battle ropes, tractor tires, sandbags, versa climbers, sledgehammer hitting stations, kettlebells and more. To the far left of the room sits two enclosed octagon cages with additional amenities including speed bags, heavy bags, jump ropes and double end bags tethered to the floor and stretching to the top of the brightly lit foot ceiling. A running track surrounds the training zones, grouping them into a shared purpose. Taking it all in Cat breaths a flabbergasted sigh and whistles incredulously,

“This place is bat shit crazy”, she says.

“We also have two kitchens, a shower area, a video room and sleeping quarters”, Gene adds, “But no junk food”. Stopping at a door sporting a bronzed plate bearing his name he gestures the duo inside through the partially opened door. “This is my office, come on in”.

The office is an expansive 20 by 20 foot room lined with a plush, silk strand carpeting in chestnut and featuring a deep foam base beneath the twisted yarns that offers a lush reprieve to weary feet. The color coordinated wood finished walls are attentively lined with fine art including a canvas painting depicting a serene moonscape illuminating the treetops blanketing a sleepy forest below, and an abstract canvas in a creamy blend of splatters of mahogany, copper, beige and saffron yellow. The back wall features a prominent length-wise book case in a rich auburn finish with two sets of shelving on either side; all five rows of which are loaded for bear with information in the form of books, dvds and a handful of trinkets with a pair of snake plants standing vigilantly in the corners. They are separated by a padded leather beige center providing a backdrop to the 65 inch flat screen television. In front of the book case sits a seven foot wide varnished maple desk with a swivel, high back padded executive chair. The desk is populated with little fanfare, sporting the usual amenities including a desktop computer screen, telephone, lamp, calendar and a smattering of paperwork. Opposite the desk against the far wall is a plushy cushioned burnt orange leather sofa with a pair of nightstands on the sides that are flanked by two additional matching recliners. A ceiling fan whirs quietly overhead, its finely finished oak blades keeping the air moving and lightening the load on the softly humming air conditioning system.

Taking his seat behind the desk, Gene gestures Cat and Christian to the recliners as the sofa is occupied by the siblings Cassie and Gene junior. Cat eyes the pair curiously as Gene makes the introductions.

“These two hellions are my children”, he says while gesturing first to his red haired daughter Cassie. “This is Cassie,” and next to the young man sporting curly blonde locks and stretched out indifferently beside his sister. “This is my son Gene junior. Believe it or not they are twins.., well, fraternal twins to be more precise, born 18 minutes apart”.

“Hello”, Cat offers softly, taking Cassie’s outstretched hand into her own. She follows suit by extending her hand to junior who ignores it leaving Cat to turn her attention back to Cassie. “I must say, yours is about the reddest hair I have ever seen”, she says with a weak smile.

“She was born horribly disfigured”, junior offers, “with mutant cells rampaging through her entire gene pool. It’s a scientific anomaly and frankly a miracle that she survived past puberty with so much fucked up about her”.

“Shouldn’t you be jerking off with that Wonder Woman Barbie doll”? Cassie retaliates with a stinging surge of venom. “Or did you ruin it already”?

“They’ve been going at each other like this for 19 years now”, their father offers. “Don’t expect for it to stop any time soon”.

“I have no idea”, cat shrugs. “I’m an only child”.

“You’re lucky”, Cassie and her brother chime in unison, followed by a snicker.

“Let’s get down to business, shall we”? Gene says while clasping his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair looking at Christian. “You were saying on the phone that Cat needs a manager, somebody to guide her career”.

Christian nods. “That’s right; she has a match this weekend against Kate Steele who is managed by her husband Todd. Cat has been concerned about Todd being the difference maker in the match and is looking for a counter. I figured we could kill two birds with one stone by finding her that counter and somebody to guide her career at the same time. Naturally your name was the first that popped into my mind”.

“Mmhmm”, Gene nods. “I’ve seen footage of Kate Steele and you’re absolutely right about her husband. He does have an overbearing propensity for getting involved in her matches and a good manager could certainly help level the playing field but there’s a problem..,”

“Of course there’s a problem, there’s always a problem,” Cat mutters dejectedly, mentally preparing herself for the expected letdown.

“Kitty Cat shush”, Christian admonishes.

“No, she’s right”, Gene says butting in. “There is always a problem. That’s what life is about, challenges in the form of problems and this is no different. You see, I don’t actively manage anymore; haven’t done so for a couple years”.

“I knew it”! Cat says while rising to her feet. “You drag me all the way over here just to say you can’t help me".

“That’s not what I said..,”

“But it’s alright”, she continues unabated; her emotions rising to a crest and beginning to froth over through anxiously stammering lips. “I’m used to having to do everything the hard way”. Turning to Christian she rambles forward with her diatribe. “Christian, I appreciate you trying, I really do but maybe it’s time I just said fuck all and do things my own way”. Turning once more to Gene; her face awash in a simmering shade of crimson she seethes, “And you, Mr. I have more bleeding money than the fucking Pope, God, Jesus Christ and Pat Robertson combined.., thanks for nothing, go show off your wealth to someone else”. Reaching for the door and grasping the polished brass handle the teary eyed blonde is suddenly stopped in her tracks by a thundery command,

“Catherine Riley, sit your ass back down!

Jolted by the booming mandate Cat turns her head to see Gene Senior, having risen from his seat glaring at her through icy blue sheets, “and let me finish please”.

Feeling the burning sensation of every eyeball in the room trained onto her Cat quietly returns to her seat but her visage remains a mask of defiance as she eyes the former manager returning to his own chair. “Alright” she says bitingly, “go ahead”.

“I don’t actively manage anymore because..,” he allows the last word to hang momentarily thus ensuring her attention, “I have a group of people managing for me. I don’t have the time to actively manage at ringside nowadays,” he shakes his head in affirmation of the dilemma as presented. “I’m due in Egypt in three days to look at a pair of prospects, and I have to pick Brandi Constantino up at the airport to bring her with me to help evaluate one from Palestine if you can believe that. The following week I have to be in Russia to look at a tag team so yeah, I’m stretched pretty thin which is why I stepped away from ringside. But rather than curtail my workload I instead expanded my operations by hiring and training a group of managers to handle ringside while I focus on finances and other avenues of opportunity for them and the talent. Point blank Cat, there are options”.

Captured by his reasoning Cat relaxes her guard and sits back on the sofa, leaning against the well-padded back, her eyes attentively trained on the man behind the desk, listening carefully as he continues.

“I can find you a manager easily enough”, he says. “They can handle your ringside affairs and free me up to scout opportunities for you”.

“Christian said you owned a production company, as in movies and stuff”? She asks with a hint of hope in her eye.

“Damn, you are ambitious”, he chuckles. “Yes, I do have a production company and am quite frequently involved in such projects but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The way I see it, I don’t need to sell myself to you; you have to sell yourself to me, so let me hear your sales pitch”.

“Geno”, this kid doesn’t need a tryout if my word means anything to you”, Christian interjects. “Cat is a bonafide ripper. She’s broken bones in six people since joining SCW”.

“A ripper..? Chris your word holds more weight with me than 99.9 percent of the population, but calling such a young kid a ripper is a rather hefty endorsement”.

“What the hell are you idiots talking about” junior chimes into the conversation, propping his feet into the arm rest of the sofa near Christian and kicking his shoes off for added effect. “Since when was Jack the ripper ever a wrestler”?

“A ripper”, Cat begins in mild annoyance over her catch wrestling legitimacy being called into question, “is a term from the early days of wrestling, back when it was a staple of traveling carnivals”. Rising to her feet she clasps her hands behind her back and begins to slowly pace about the office. “But, since it is now incumbent upon me to educate you all on catch wrestling I expect you to pay attention”. Pausing to throw a glance to Gene who looks on with interest she continues, “Now, as with any Ivy League professor I expect to be compensated handsomely – have you seen their houses? - Although for now I shall fulfill my part of the bargain. When professional wrestling was in its infancy in the late 19th and early 20th centuries there were four levels of competitors starting with the journeyman. The journeyman was typically an athletic young man with a bit of a sporting background but his wrestling knowledge wasn’t particularly great. It didn’t need to be. His job was to perform, plain and simple. He would match up with other journeymen in card filler matches which were most often staged, meant strictly to keep the crowd entertained until it was time for the marquee matches. They were athletic actors, sports entertainers, if you will, whose sole responsibility was to put on a show”.

Stopping mid-stride she aggressively kicks junior’s feet off of the arm of the sofa and then resumes her unexpected lecture. “The next level just above the journeyman is the shooter. A shooter is a wrestler with a more advanced knowledge of hooks and traps and is a legitimately tough guy who can hold his own with anyone in a street fight. The shooters’ primary job was to keep the journeymen in line; every now and then a journeyman would develop a large ego; demand to be pushed or some other special privilege and would need to be taken down a peg or two. It was the shooters who typically got the call for this sort of thing”.

“The third level, one step above the shooter is the hooker..,”

“Now we’re talking”! Junior exclaims. “If there’s one thing wrestling needs a lot of its hookers. Blondes, brunettes, hell, maybe even a redhead; I wouldn’t mind pimping Cassie out for the right price”.

Snatching a hardback compendium of wrestling promotions worldwide Cat takes the book and uses it to thump the young man atop the head. Glancing at his sister with a smirk she hands the heavy tome to her who uses it to deliver a successive series of follow up blows and allowing Cat to resume.

“A hooker, you dunce, is a wrestling term to describe the shooters with the most advanced knowledge and ability. Karl Gotch..,” she adds with a pride and satisfaction, “who also comes from the snake pit and was trained by my grandfather described hooking like this; he said to think of fishing. When you have a fish on the end of a hook, it wiggles and squirms and can't get free. You've hooked it and that's where the term comes from. You hook a guy when you have a submission hold on him and he can't do anything to escape. But, like in fishing, once you have your opponent hooked, you still have to reel him in. My uncle Ernie always said, 'take up the slack.' Once you take up the slack, you position the core and apply the leverage. And the big thing about it is that the bulls get killed on the floor. Submission is not something you want to try standing up. It’s possible, mind you, but not advisable. It’s so much easier to do it on the ground and to attempt it standing up can get you into trouble”. Stopping in her summary she glances about the room; Christian looks on with interest, as does Cassie and Gene senior. Junior on the other hand, appears to be having trouble paying attention as he busily rubs his sore noggin which prompts her to retrieve an eraser from his father’s desk and throw it at him, hitting the young man upside the head and bringing his attention back onto her. “Now, it was typically left to the hookers to keep the shooters in line, in case a shooter decided to jump ship to another promotion or break with protocol or some unwritten rules but they had other responsibilities as well; when there was a grievance between two territories, for example, they would tend to settle it by calling on their best hooker to face the other promotor’s best man, winner takes all”.

“Finally we reach the top of the ladder, the rippers”. Taking the now worn book from Cassie, having left her brother rubbing the top of his head she turns and replaces it on the shelf. “Sorry about the damage to your book, but your daughter needed a weapon”. Gene smiles and waves her off allowing her to re-board her train of oration. “In boxing you have the knockout artist. He knows the same punches as the others, but he's rougher and tougher than the rest and does whatever it takes to put his foe out for the count. Catch wrestling's equivalent of a knockout artist is called a "ripper." This is the highest form of praise that a wrestler can receive from their peers. A "ripper" doesn't only work for a pin fall or a submission. His goal is to also maul you. If you leave the ring beaten to a bloody pulp, then he considers it good day”.

Returning to her seat on the left side of the brained young man she plops down into it forcing the padded recliner to bear the brunt of her full heft, which is does with barely a whistle from the cushion given her slender frame.

“This lesson is now concluded but don’t forget your homework; I want a written dissertation on the contributions of Farmer Burns and you will be quizzed”! Glaring at Gene behind the desk through flickering blue lenses she sarcastically demands, “Does that satisfy you, or shall I break someone’s arm”?

“That’s quite alright”, he hastily replies; thrusting his hands up and outward indicating that he has heard enough. “That was an absolute encyclopedic rundown, very well done”.

“Of course it was”, she nods in a cocky affirmation, “I grew up around this stuff, but you already knew what Christian told you to be true didn’t you? You’ve seen film on me and you’ve checked out my background so riddle me this daddy war bucks, why bother to challenge him in the first place”?

“Psychology kiddo”, he answers with a self-assured smirk. “I wanted to see how you’d react. If you were lacking self-confidence you would have protested.., loudly. But you did not; you went straight into it with barely any hesitation and that tells me a great deal about your knowledge and your ability. Hell, you even had fun with it. I’m impressed”.

“Well I’m happy that I managed to impress you Mr. Rothschild. I can give you an A to Z oral history of the sport from the Pankration days in ancient Greece complete with names, numbers, addresses and personal references but we still haven’t discussed my problem, which is what brought me here in the first place. You’re not going to have me try out because you’ve seen the film on me and would have asked that I bring my ring gear. You know my family history because it is an open book; easily found on the internet and a man such as yourself is keen on doing his homework so let’s forget the head games and get down to brass tacks; will you or won’t you help me”? The inflection of her husky voice carries a challenging waft which is reflected in her icy glare.

Under normal circumstances Cat would have no problems playing along and enjoying the moment, but these circumstances come loaded with the weight of her career teetering on the decision of one man, a man she does not know which pushes her anxiety through the gaping chasm of her mouth. She ignores Christian’s nudging and subtle hints in favor of directness and leans forward pressing him into an answer; it is an answer that catches her totally by surprise.., head rearing laughter.

His guttural rolling reverberates off of the office walls providing a vessel for the contagion to spread among the others who react with a subconscious smile, a snicker or some other expression of mirth. Cat herself even draws a light smile lending credence to the old adage that laughter is contagious. Reaching into the top right drawer of his desk Gene pulls a tissue from a box and uses the soft pink paper to dab at the corner of his eyes before speaking up and putting an end to merriment.

“I like you Cat”, he says cheerily. “You have everything it takes to make it in this business; self-confidence, ability, knowledge and intelligence. Best of all, you don’t put up with any bullshit like what I just put you through and that’s important. In wrestling you will find a lot of BS at every turn; cliques forming every other day until one gets a push and they kick the rest to the curb, talent sleeping with higher level talent in hopes of making that all important connection, unwritten backstage politics, gossip, head games and bullying of all forms”, Clasping his hand in front of him while propping his elbows on the desk he adds with a smile, “You’re a fun loving sort Professor Cat but you refuse to subsidize any bullshit and I commend you for that”.

“So I take that as a yes”? She queries, feeling the hope rising within.

“Absolutely”, he exclaims, putting an end to any more guessing on Cat’s part. “However, as I said before I don’t have the time to actively manage at ringside so I am going to offer you a two for one deal”.

“Oh boy”, Christian groans. “Here we go”.

“Wait, what”? The alarm sounds in her suddenly panic stricken mind alerted of impending trouble by her landlord’s words and prompting her to turn to him, her face a fractured puzzle of bewilderment and prematurely interrupted elation. “What do you mean by that”? She demands apprehensively. “Tell me”!

“It means”, Gene interjects, “that Cassie and her brother junior will actively manage you at ringside”.

Jumping to his feet junior gleefully cracks his knuckles “First thing’s first”, he begins. “I need to perform a physical examination of your body to ensure that you are up to the challenges which lie ahead; on your feet”.

“You’re not even wearing gloves”, she observes, noting that they are indeed bare but he shrugs it off saying,

“Meh, it feels better without gloves”.

With Cat steadfastly remaining seated, and glaring contemptuously at her new manager Cassie rises to her own feet and quietly begins to rummage through her father’s desk, pulling out a single, white latex glove which she then fills with a bottle of Dasani water kept in the drawer just below. Twisting the cap off of the clear plastic bottle she wraps the lip of the glove around the mouth of the bottle and fills it with water, tying it shut with a rubber band. While junior engages in a playful standoff with his client the young man’s sister shoves the bloated glove into the rear of his black nylon track pants and serves up a hot smack on the derriere and dousing the heat of his moment.

“Agh”! With the water free flowing down his legs and onto the floor junior steps back aghast. “I can’t believe it”, he cries out. Abruptly he turns to the door but pauses for a moment to deliver a word of warning to his sister, “This is war”, he grumbles and before exiting to seek a change of clothes leaving the rest of the group snickering in his wake.

“Hey..,” Cassie offers to Cat with a leer, “you asked for gloves so I gave him one”.

“That was funny, “I’ll give you that but..,” Cat acknowledges as her short lived grin turns to an expression of puzzlement, “you two are younger than me. Do you have the experience to manage somebody”?

“Their job”, the doting dad interrupts, “is to accompany you to ringside, to watch your back and maybe help out if need be. Between the two of them Kate Steele and her husband will be no problem, I guarantee it, and I’ll handle all the paperwork; the contracts, appearances, scheduling and so forth”.

“But what about your own schedule”? She asks. “You just said you have to take a trip to Alpha Centauri next week”.

“I can do everything on the plane”, he states as a matter of pride. “That jet has the setup from hell; it’s the next best thing to Air Force One. In the meantime”, he gestures to his daughter. “Cassie, why don’t you give Cat a tour of the grounds while Christian and I catch up”?

“Sure dad”, the redhead agrees while taking Cat by the arm and leading her to the door.

“Welcome to the family Cat”.



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