The faint hum of current casually streaming through a delta of equipment is accentuated by the harried ruffling of papers on this typical autumn day at the Aria resort in Las Vegas, a five-star destination boasting a bevy of amenities for weary travelers ranging from a private spa to Forbes Michelin rated dining establishments, a host of heated outdoor pools, balcony suites and of course numerous luxury appointments. The pretentious features including fully automated lighting, entertainment centers and music are ignored by the occupants, a pair of mid -thirties men casually clad in blue jeans and matching black and red “WrestleTalk” tee shirts. Instead, they ripple about the brown and tan checkered carpeting of the 1050 square foot room, papers in hand sifting through a pile of dog-eared wrestling periodicals, underneath a shoe box sized ink jet connected to an open laptop and a tablet. Eventually a pen, spiral notepad and a small, handheld recorder are retrieved from the makeshift office leaving the duo to search for their scribbled notes taken from a phone conversation just days prior.

Seated in a carpet matching lounge chair facing the far-right wall, Cat Riley extends a tattooed hand to stifle a yawn, her listless blue eyes peering through the sliding glass balcony door into the cloudless, mid-afternoon sky. Shifting her half-exposed legs, courtesy of a violently ripped pair of stone washed jeans, she studies the gleaming Cosmopolitan hotel across the way, her eyes squinting under the mid-day barrage of rays, hoping to catch a glimpse of people actually doing something, anything. She is quickly rousted from her reverie by a high-pitched voice exclaiming in a distinct British accent,

“I think we’re ready”, he announces taking a seat, crumpled notes in hand, on the matching sofa set against plain, beige wall across a polished glass coffee table from her. Oliver ‘Ollie’ Davis, the senior producer of the WrestleTalk YouTube program settles onto the sofa with a slight groan. He is joined by a bald, pale skinned man sporting a bright orange beard, Luke Owens, a tenured associate producer who regards Cat with a curt nod. Ollie begins to thumb through the notepad as his partner sets the small, handheld recorder on the table with a hollow thud. “Okay,” he begins, pausing to run an osseous hand through a thin patch of grey sprinkled brown hair bearing the hallmark of onsetting male pattern baldness and retrieves a pen from behind his ear. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces for the recording device, “I am Ollie Davis, and I am joined by Luke Owens where today we have the distinct pleasure of a sit-down interview with Cat Riley! Cat, it is such a pleasure to have you with us today.”

“Sure,” she murmers succinctly. “My pleasure”.

“Cat, last week marked your surprise return to SCW after a prolonged absence so I have to ask, what have you been doing for so long away from home?”

“Oh, I haven’t exactly been zonked,” she deadpans “I went back home to see family and friends, filmed a couple commercials and vegged out a bit. Mostly however, I’ve been in Japan.”

“Japan?” Luke asks, jumping into the verbal fray. “I’ve never pictured you competing in Japan. What brought that about?

“Talent exchange of sorts I suppose” she replies in a husky, disinterested tone. “A friend of Gene’s has a training academy there, and they wanted to study catch wrestling. Sure, there are horses for courses but as you are likely aware, Karl Gotch was huge in Japan and is credited with bringing catch wrestling to the country. Obviously Gotch has long since passed but something you may not be aware of is that Gotch himself was trained by my grandfather, Billy Riley and he practiced the same style I do. They wanted to more closely study his style, so it only made sense to reach out to my family.”

“I can see that,” Davis interjects, “but isn’t your cousin Fox a trainer?”

“She is,” Cat acknowledges with a muted bob of her blonde mane. “But she is a bloody lunatic…” a pause ensues allowing for Cat to shuffle her thoughts into a more coherent dissertation. “Listen,” she resumes, planting her hands on her knees. “Fox is very good at teaching people but she’s a very off the wall sort of personality, even I have difficulty with her sometimes, she’s so barmy, and Japan is a very rigid society. They don’t play games as she often does and they’re quite intolerant of behavior they don’t understand. I think Christian summed it up best when he said, ‘If you send Fox, you may as well declare war on them. “A subdued chuckle ensues. “I love my cousin, but she is most certainly not cut out for a country like Japan.”

“How long were you in the land of the rising sun?” Luke asks.

“Almost a year,” she shrugs with visions of delicately prepared entrees floating through her path of thought. “I would have stayed longer but I terribly missed Christian’s cooking.”

“So, it was his cheeseburger meatloaf that brought you back to America?” Ollie asks, recalling a tweet from him that had tagged her.

“Partially,” she corrects him with a wry grin, her fingers strumming the thickly padded armrests of the seat. “Aside from the nosh I also need to take care of some personal business.”

“What business could that be, so long after you left?” Luke asks, casting a sidelong glance at his colleague who leans forward, his bushy brow arcing with interest.

The chair lands with a heavy thud atop the golden coiffed dome of Chloe Benton sending her harshly to the gelid concrete of the backstage floor. Her 110-pound body lands phlegmatically in a draggy clump of lusterless corporeity.

“I’ve never seen him with his knickers in such a twist before.”

“Excuse me, seen who so mad?” Oliie asks, subconsciously translating the slang term.

She stared blankly at a 15-inch laptop screen, watching the scene unfold while listening to the venomous narration of Christian Underwood through the phone. Helplessly he stood back behind the paramedics while they attended to the fallen youngster, a barely 18-year-old girl whom he had been trying to help. He relayed the similarities between himself and Chloe breaking into the wrestling business, how he saw himself whenever he looked at her. His verbiage slowly warps into an angry hiss while rattling off numerous four-letter words in a poisonous diatribe.

She watched in stunned silence with her friend’s eyes narrowing into viper-like slits, his once tanned skin flushing with rage as he paced back and forth like a caged tiger anticipating a meal only to be thwarted by an unseen barrier. A single toxic glare proves more than enough to ward off the buxom blonde backstage reporter recognized as Pussy Willow while Chloe’s unmoving body is loaded onto a stretcher. A phone call is tersely answered with a scathing ‘Go to hell!’ before the device is thrown against the wall, shattering it. He follows anxiously as the medics wheel her to the open doors of a waiting ambulance, looking on in simmering reticence as they are slammed shut allowing the vehicle to drive off. A camera approaches from behind as he turns from the departing medical transport growling, “Get that God damned thing out of here or I’ll force feed it to you”. The video goes blank.

“Nothing,” she replies absently. “Never mind.”

“Does this have to do with your personal business?” Ollie presses, intent on whittling further details from Cat’s ligneous reply.

“Look,” Cat leans towards them, her expression staked to a wooden determination, her blue eyes taking on a wintry tinge. “What I muttered was personal and I prefer it stay that way. I will, however, say this… I utterly detest and abhor bullies.”

The pair exchange bewildered glances, their slacked expressions indicating a mutual surprise. Clearing his throat Davis stammers, his thoughts tripping over a gravelly landscape of loosely connected questions,

“I – I’m sorry… I’m afraid we don’t understand.”

Drawing a breath, she rears her head allowing her thoughts and emotions to combine into an undercurrent of verbs and adjectives. They begin to swirl about the pool of her psyche gaining momentum with each memory trickling down until threatening to drown her in a teeming riptide of interred rage. Her breathing goes shallow and rapid, her face flushes against the overwhelming current, desperately trying to tread water before being struck by the calming flotsam of Luke and Ollies voices.

“Calm down Cat, calm down,” Luke says in a gentle, reassuring tone. “We can skip the question if you prefer.”

Grabbing hold of the unexpected flotation device she rides the steady inflection to the placidity of the surface. Exhaling heavily, she nods at the pair and resumes her oration in between deep, calming breaths.

“My kerfuffle notwithstanding, when I first started in SCW she had already earned a reputation as a flake. She would shamelessly beat up and injure aspiring young women and try to convince…” she reaches into the sea drift of words and terms in search of a suitable phrase but ultimately settles for none. “… I don’t know, maybe herself that it was their fault. She would go on camera constantly, whining about a title match or lack thereof, displaying a sense of entitlement I have never seen, bumping, pushing and shoving her way to the front of the line, mitigating circumstances be damned. She would constantly change allegiances to the point where even the announce team needed a bloody scorecard to further her agenda.” Withdrawing for a brief pause she shakes her head in quiet astonishment. “She’s shown more faces than the Rogues’ gallery in London.”

The three Britons snicker mutually at the expression recognizing the city of nearly 10 million inhabitants would certainly hold its share of mugshots. Loosening a curt whistle Cat leans back into the chair, corralling her observations into a pen of concentration.

“It didn’t matter if you were young or old, rich or poor, strong or weak, family or friend, she would gleefully tread on you to advance her own position. Case in point, I suffered a loss to her early in my career, a loss that sent me into an emotional spiral. Once the word got out about my condition, I received an outpouring of support; cards, flowers and letters from everyone around me… except for one. She made light of my situation, going so far as to mock it and me publicly. Mind you, this was a long time ago but if memory serves, she earned a title match for her efforts. They say that cream rises to the top, but she failed and like so much sediment, settled on the bottom where she belonged. Shortly afterward rumors began to swirl of her wife being granted a title shot and like the hydra she is, she showed still another face and assaulted the woman she married in hopes of taking it for herself.”

“I see…” Luke chimes in, his sprinting mind finally catching up to Cat’s train of thought. “You’re speaking of…”

“That blue haired psychotic bitch!” She interrupts, slamming her open palm against the thick glass of the coffee table for emphasis. “Yes, I am referring to Crystal Hilton, the most self-absorbed waste of excrement in existence.” Throwing her right foot over her left knee she draws another breath and continues, “While I was in Japan the thought had occurred to me that perhaps she had changed for the better. I know her wife Seleana, a lovely woman to be certain, and I figured she would have a positive influence on Crystal – I have really come to detest speaking that woman’s name – but I was wrong. Instead of being open and honest she cheated on poor Seleana with another woman and had the audacity to enter into a polygamous and unashamedly public relationship; Seleana’s thoughts and feelings be damned! The last I heard was them supposedly moving to Utah or something.” She shrugs. “I don’t know, the whole thing is so convoluted it gives me a headache. What I do know however,” she says, dropping a steely gaze onto the fixed orbs of her compatriots, “is that she hasn’t changed one bleeding bit. For the final nail in this bitches’ coffin, she violently assaulted little Chloe Benton, who had dared to show concern. I mean,” dropped her foot back to the floor with a muffled thud she rubs her forehead in a symbolic attempt to knead some comprehension into the described actions. “How the hell do you deliberately injure somebody expressing concern, somebody who genuinely has your best interest at heart? Crystal’s act is a load of tosh.”

“I think Chloe has everybody’s best interest at heart,” Ollie quips dryly. His anecdote falls on deaf ears with Cat ignoring his reply.

“I understand that she had just lost a match to her wife,” she interjects. “I forget which one, and I’m sure that some sort of title shot was on the line…” she sighs wistfully. “Why can’t she have a match with a divorce stipulation instead, or even better, a death penalty? At any rate, she hasn’t changed at all and remains a cancerous cyst on the over used cervix of hope for fans of this sport. Unlike Hilton, I care for this sport and its fans and it’s about time for something to be done. I’m going to take her into my operating room and remove that cyst from the sport once and for all.”

“This sounds personal.” Luke observes keenly, recalling her previous near outburst.

“It is,” she confesses, ejecting the proverbial cat entirely from the bag. “Now you know, so go ahead and report it I guess.” Wading in a skimpy splash of capitulation she sighs, “I really don’t care any road. The only thing that interests me now is getting my hands on her once more and finishing the job I should have finished long ago, for the benefit of everyone.”

“Have you given any thought to potential fallout?” Oliver asks, hastily scribbling something down on his blue cardboard back 3 by 5-inch spiral jotter.

“Like what?” Cat demands, singing him with an annoyed glance. “It’s not like she’s popular or anything. Bloody hell, the whole world will rejoice.”

“They probably will,” Ollie chuckles uneasily, feeling her tight gaze. “But I’m talking about Seleana. She is a friend, isn’t she? I can’t really imagine her being too happy with you if you manage to accomplish what you seem rather intent on doing.”

“In honesty, I haven’t thought about that,” she admits hesitantly. “Maybe I’ll talk to her, give her a bell or something. Maybe I’ll just take the lumps of losing a friend. Like I said, I am well past caring anymore. This is something I need to do not just for me, but for SCW, its’ fans and wrestling as a whole and if I lose one friend, it’s worth it.”

“In your own words,” Luke begins, picking up on the underlying intentions in her response. “Tell us how you see this match playing out, do you have anything particular in mind?”

“I’ve spent my entire life learning how to break bones, tear tendons and destroy the human body,” the response is pointed, her British cadence sharpening to an ominous portent. Glaring at both men through frosted blue lenses the famed graduate of the notorious Snake Pit licks her thin, downward turned lips, tasting the glossy, flesh toned surface of bad intentions. “I’ve separated shoulders, dislocated limbs, broken backs, necks and legs. I have studied neuroscience, osteology, and sports psychology for years. I can name every bone in the human body and tell you how to break it. I was trained to hurt people… badly. But all of that…” a pregnant pause ensues, adding weight to her gestating sentence… “…pain and suffering I’ve inflicted over the course of my career…” another interval occurs between contractions before finally delivering the injurious offspring of malevolent musings. “That is child’s play compared to what I have in store for Crystal Hilton. It is time people are reminded that catch wrestling is not just about submissions, it is about the utter ruination of the human body, and I intend to fully illustrate this fact against that beryl coated, brain damaged psychotic at High Stakes. If you are at all squeamish, don’t watch because I guarantee you it will be brass monkeys what I do to her.”



“Could you do it again, please, with my friend?” The voice, small and squeaky, belongs to a short chestnut topped fan having caught up to Cat as she exited the guest elevators, passing by the blue blazer wearing security officer acting as a key checker. A photo was requested and politely, Cat smiled and obliged, offering one of her popular goofy faced poses. She acquiesces to the solicitation with a weary nod.

“One more,” she says softly. “But then I really have to be going.”

Her equally diminutive ginger friend presses against the veteran of the squared circle, smiling widely and pointing a finger to her heroine while her friend readies the built-in camera of her Android. The pair’s smiles light up the periwinkle carpeted aisle leading past an expansive lounge appropriately named Lift bar as the picture is happily snapped. Caught up in their own gratification afforded by the chance meeting, they remain blissfully ignorant of the woman’s underlying hostility and anger. Two hours had been spent with a pair of wrestling journalists, but rather than conducting a wide-ranging interview as expected, the time was instead spent discussing a single, nauseating subject, Crystal Hilton, the woman she had come to dislike early in her career. Much like the rumbling in her stomach her dislike towards Hilton had grown over the course of the afternoon from simple animosity to an insatiable appetite for destruction, whetted by a nonstop single-minded inquiry and despite a high regard for her fans she wanted nothing more than to ingest a suitable sparring partner in preparation for the coming feast of carnage. Sensing a degree of urgency in her anxiously twitching body movements, the satisfied fans step aside, allowing her to briskly take her leave of them.

“Thank you, Cat!” The redhead calls out into her quickly widening wake. “Good luck against Crystal, we hope you beat her.”

“I’m going to do a lot more than just beat her,” the reply is barely audible but still picked up by the beaming besties looking on as the disappearing figure rapidly types into her own cell phone. “I’m going to inflict unimaginable suffering on that bitch.”

 “Oh wah, wah, wah! I work and I slave, and this is the appreciation you show me”? Jesus, bitch, you sound more like a woman than Cat”! With a feigned vitriol Scott Schreiner mocks Christian who stands by with his hands planted firmly on his hips at the entrance to the kitchen with a decided lack of enthusiasm borne on his tensed face. Failing to notice the disdain of his partner however Scott continues; egged on by Cat who stands beside him rolling in laughter. “If you want some damned appreciation get your ass in the kitchen and bake us a cake”!

“And don’t forget the ice cream”, she adds. “That’s worth bonus points”. She turns to face Scott who offers her a high five while turning away from Christian, his mind switching gears to other matters.

“And be quick about it sister! Me and Cat can’t watch the hot dog eating contest on an empty stomach”!

The pair turn to depart the gleaming white tile of the kitchen floor, their feet stomping in unison over the wood grained flooring into the living room and leaving Christian to simmer quietly. With both feline and Neanderthal being prodigious eaters he had long ago adjusted his routine to accommodate their frequent meals, up to seven times a day. The kitchen with its gas burning stove, and oven serving as his second office he often found himself working harder after hours than during business hours. With a grunt he picks up a well-used pair of oven mitts and starts to apply them but pauses, staring at them in contemplation. His mind rolls over numerous images of the meals he had spent hours toiling away over in the hot kitchen, often without the simple courtesy of a ‘thank you’, and now once more he finds himself in a familiar predicament. Letting loose a forceful sigh he slaps the mitts down on the countertop and rolls up the light blue sleeves of his work shirt, which he hadn’t even the time to change out of before being bombed with more chores. His eye glaze over in shimmering determination as he departs the kitchen mutter under his tongue,

“Like dad used to say, ‘if you can’t listen you can feel’.

Twenty minutes have passed and the televised hotdog eating contest has ended with some rail thin Asian man taking the crown after downing 64 hotdogs in one minute. With her body strewn along the sofa Cat yawns unimpressed.

“64 hotdogs”, she utters in apparent disdain. “That’s barely an appetizer…, rank amateurs”.

“Yeah”, Scott snorts, bobbing his massive head in agreement. “And speaking of amateurs…,” Tilting his head up his bass laden voice booms through the house as he cries out, “Bitch! The hotdog eating contest is over! Why aren’t you finished”?

“We’re wasting away while you play with yourself in there”, Cat adds with a twisted grin.

“What the hell are you making, Pheasant under glass? You dumb broad, we don’t want chicken, we want cake”!

“With ice cream”!

The rapid thumping of footsteps against the steps of the staircase reverberate loudly alerting the pair to an arrival from the second floor. Shifting their position, they look on to see Christian, having changed into a simple pair of black and white nylon sweats standing by, glaring angrily at them with a duffel bag draped over one shoulder and his beloved pet Genie cradled in the other. Exchanging a bemused expression Cat and Scott shrug their shoulders in apathy with a smirk slithering across the vascular platinum blond behemoth’s face,

“It’s just like a woman to spend 45 minutes packing for a trip to the drive through”, he mutters with a suppressed chuckle.  Turning his gaze back onto his significant other he adds, “You burned the cake, didn’t you”?

Rolling his hazel lenses towards the alabaster ceiling Christian snarls through tightly pursed lips, “I don’t burn food you twit, I’m just tired of living a life of indentured servitude to you two; cook this, clean that, wash these, buy those…, I’ve had enough so I have decided to take some personal time, effective immediately”.

With a chortle Scott and Cat turn to face each other and chime in unison, “He burned it”!

Groaning Christian turns towards the foyer, his sneakers squeaking in haste as he strides briskly across the hatch pattern wood finish of the floor. Reaching for a set of keys hanging on the wall beside the main door he pauses thoughtfully, gripping the cold metal in his determined palm.

“The fridge is fully stocked”, he offers. “There’s plenty of beer, pastries, cold cuts, soda pop and everything else. There’s a collection of coupons pinned to the freezer door, all of the bills are paid, and the sprinkler system is on a timer”. Reaching for the door he opens it with a twist of the brass knob and pauses once more, turning back to the pair who have resumed their binge watching of the television. “Oh, by the way Cat, you’re booked in Phoenix against Amy Santino, so you’re going to have to make your own twinkie milk shakes for your pre-match diet”.

Setting a foot over the threshold he pauses as a wave of uncertainty washes over the bow of conviction which leaves him grasping at the helm while being pelted with thoughts of reversing course. Scott is basically helpless without him, he reasons. The man can’t cook, is too lazy to pick up after himself and lacks the technological expertise to even change the channel without the remote. For years he has taken care of him; feeding him, clothing him and keeping the batteries fresh in the remote control. Thanks to his willingness to indulge Scott’s lethargy he had inadvertently created a monster. A monster that doesn’t do anything but a monster, nonetheless. Cat on the other hand had been self-sufficient at the beginning. She had no problem trying to cook for herself, usually with disastrous results, but at least she was willing to try. But thanks to his insistence of manning the kitchen he had unintentionally broken her of that habit, especially during her recent bout with depression. He loves her and won’t deny the fact but perhaps he loves her a bit too much as she has taken cues from Scotty, eventually becoming nearly as helpless as he. The predicament reminds him of an expression his mother had always admonished him with after making mistakes as a child, ‘you made your bed’, she wound tell him sternly. ‘Now you have to lie in it’. Hesitantly he turns back towards the interior of the house which reverberates with the aggravated rasp of Stephan A. Smith complaining about the Lakers trade for Anthony Davis, a rasp that is drowned out by the thunderclap of Scott’s booming exclamation,

“Hey bitch”, he cries. “Grab us a couple Frosties when you go to Wendy’s. And be quick about it, me and Cat are dying”!

“And a couple baconators”!

And with a single sentence his resolve is renewed. Christian quickly steps back through the doorway, slamming the heavy Oak hatch behind and disappears into the bright, Las Vegas evening leaving Cat and Scott on the sofa, blissfully unaware of the true extent of events having unfolded; their minds wrapped up on the pixelated blanket of the ‘idiot box’ as Cat often refers to the TV set.

Bringing herself upright Cat tucks her feet beneath her torso and leans back against the embroidered pillow protecting her back from the ornately carved armrest of the sofa. Turning her attention to Scott she asks,

“Hey Scotty, which one is Amy Santino, is she the punk rock bird with all the shite on her face”?

“Uh huh”, he nods. “But she’s been around a long time”, he advises while surfing through a row of channels in search of a program more to his liking. “And she knows all of the tricks, so you better have your game face on”.

“Yeah, I know that stuff, I just wanted to make sure I was cutting promos about the right person the other day”, she giggles. “Hey, didn’t she use to go by the name Amy Marshal”?

“Yeah, but she got married and changed it”, he replies gruffly while settling on a UFC broadcast. “But she’s still a veteran”, he warns her. “Hey, why don’t you watch this UFC fight with me, see if you can pick up an idea or two”?

” Sure”, she responds, bobbing her head in agreement. “Who’s fighting any way”?

“Umm…, not sure”, he mutters hesitantly. Studying the octagon as the participants enter, he spies a lithe young brunette, slim and muscular, with a Columbian flag draped over her sinewy shoulders. Entering the cage, she bounds across the canvass throwing a quick succession of shadow punches. She is trailed by an older, slightly heavyset man wearing a warmup jacket which matches the blue and yellow colors of the fighter’s ensemble and bearing a name strewn across the back which Cat reads aloud, her voice rising to an astonished pitch.

“Viviana Fuentes, holy shite”! she cries, reaching over and shaking Scott excitedly by his boulder-like shoulder. “That’s Viv”! She exclaims. “That’s my buddy! Oh my God I don’t believe it. I hardly recognize her with her hair braided up like that”.

“Yeah, they do that, so their opponent don’t have nothing to grab hold of”. Scott offers, drawing a patronizing glance from his viewing mate. “I remember her now, you told me and Chrissy about her, you said she’s the best in the world or something”.

“The best striker”, she corrects him softly. “I’ve been training with her to help square up her ground game, she’s alright so far, but still has a way to go. But for stand up? Oh, forget about it, she’s a monster at that; fast, accurate and strong…, ridiculously fast”.

His interested piqued Scott leans forward closer to the set while setting his black, plastic ‘shooting iron’ down on the coffee table as her opponent enters the cage. A beefy woman with a porcelain complexion decked out in a simple black and white martial arts ‘Gi’.  Also trailed by her team the woman shadow boxes briefly and bounces up and down impatiently as the announcements begin. Already known to Scott and Cat Viviana raises her right arm in acknowledgement as her name is broadcast over the public address system. The other woman announced as hailing from Ireland is called ‘The Belfast bruiser’ and heralded as Brittany O’Malley.

With the festivities out of the way, the respective coaches and teammates of the two combatants exit the cage as the fighters are called to the center by the referee who proceeds to briefly review his pre-fight instructions as the scene cuts to a commercial.

The SCW logo splashes over the screen and quickly fades to a black and white image depicting two vertically opposed men gesturing into a seemingly endless stairwell announcing the promotion’s upcoming super card ‘Into the void 8’. The faces of Cat Riley and Amy Santino mean mugging are displayed prominently as a polished voice actor announces their upcoming clash in Phoenix. Footage of the two are juxtaposed displaying the in-ring prowess of both wrestlers while hyping the highly anticipated contest.  Amy Marshal easily identified by the one of a kind surgical style mask used during her entrances and featuring a Cheshire cat grin flies about the six-sided ring showcasing a dazzling array of high risk moves supplemented with various brawling tactics. A vignette highlighting Cat follows in quick order as she displays an arsenal of submission holds against hapless opponents with a high energy musical background. Then, just as quickly as it began the screen once more displays the previous photo of the women mean mugging as ticket information scrolls across the bottom and fades out to a rolling laughter by Scott which brings a confused countenance from Cat who glares at him.

“What’s so funny”? She demands.

“You”, he replies curtly, albeit with a snicker. “Our kitty cat trying to mean mug”.

“Hey! I can mean mug”, she insists.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever”, the titan of testosterone replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Forget about it kitty cat. Let’s see what your friend has up her sleeve for this fight”.

“But I can mean mug”, she pouts while sulking for a moment until the UFC event returns. As the fighters are in their respective corners taking last minute instructions from their coaches the camera zoom in on Viviana, who swings her arms about to keep her body warm. “Did you know Geno hired Viviana to work with Fox on her boxing”?

“Really”? Scott replies throwing a darting glance to Cat. “Hunh, I was wondering what he was cooking up with her all that time”.



A shrill chirping reverberates through the sterile, white walls of the kitchen alerting Fox Riley to an incoming call on her cell phone. Wiping her fingers against the plain white apron strapped over her torso she reaches across the polished ivory coated counter top she reaches into her handbag settled beside a bag of flour to retrieve her silver iPhone XS and cradles the thin device in her hand, pressing it against her face.

“Hello”? She answers while grabbing a mixing bowl and whisking the batter inside. “Oh, Hi Christian, what’s up”?

Propping the phone against a tin of black pepper she activates the speaker thereby freeing her hands to attend other tasks.

“Not much on my end”, he replies as the whir of the road races by in the background. “What are you up to”?

“Oh, not much”, she answers, leaning over to clear ingredients off a portion of the countertop. Lifting a lid, she reveals a gas stove top tucked away within the fixture. “I’m just messing around, experimenting with different dishes for Mow Mow…, have you seen Geno’s kitchen”? She gasps as Christian chuckles on the other end. “This place is insane! Three microwaves that talk to you built into the wall with flush storage cupboards above, a four-door fridge that keeps a shopping list, a freaking gas stove built into the counter with two smart ovens…, it’s like…, holy bejeezus! It’s a chef’s wet dream”!

“Haha”, he laughs. “Trust me, I know. I go there sometimes to create new dishes myself. Which, by the way, is the reason for me calling you”.

“Oh”?

“Listen, Cat and Scotty have driven me to the end of my rope, and I need to recharge so I’m taking a few days of ‘me’ time with Genie which means they’ll be alone”.

“You want me to cook for them”? She asks, checking the oven.

“Hell no!” His voice is sharp, and tone pointed and catches Fox by surprise causing her brows to arc in curiosity as he goes on to explain. “I left the fridge fully stocked and a couple dozen Wendy’s coupons pinned to the door, but you and I both know that neither one of them can cook and I’m betting that they’re both too damned lazy and cheap to order take out and that’s exactly how I want it”.

“But why”?

“Like I said, they’ve been driving me crazy and show ZERO appreciation for what I do for them so, to paraphrase dear old dad, ‘if they can’t listen, they can feel’. But eventually Cat is going to remember that you can also cook and they’re probably going to try and butter you up…,”

“I get it”, Fox interrupts in laughter. “I like it, that’s good but, how long will you be gone, a week”?

“Oh God no! I can’t do that to them! Just two or three days”, he iterates. “Long enough for them to develop a sense of appreciation, that’s all. But…,” his tone hangs on his last word, an indicator of a caveat lying ahead. “But, while I’m gone and under no circumstances do I want you cooking or cleaning or anything for them, ok”?

“Hmm...,” Her eyes brighten as she pulls a steaming meatloaf from the oven as a smell resembling heated dogfood pricks the tip of her nostrils; the emanation subtly reminding her that this meal is intended for an animal. Setting it down on the counter to cool a wry grin slithers across her face. “I’ll do it on one condition”.

“Shoot”.

“I owe Scotty some payback”, she begins. “The last time he pinched my cheeks they were sore for three days. So, when they start to come on to me like a bunch of strays…,”

“Say no more”, he snorts loudly. “Go for it, take it out of his musclebound hide”!

“In that case, it’s a deal”!

“Great! I’ll call you to check up on everything tomorrow evening. Bye”!

“Bye”.

Ending the call with a tap on the screen Fox returns the cell phone to her black leather bag, shoving it into the gaping mouth lined by a layer of hungry tassels and returns to her cooking, adding a pinch of seasoning to the meal fit for a king of the jungle. Namely, a 900 plus pound tiger curled up on the frosted marble flooring in the far corner snoozing peacefully. Tilting her head upwards, suddenly in the mood for something to accent her endeavors she speaks aloud in a clear but slightly husky voice,

“Main kitchen TV channel five”, she says, commanding the automated home to turn on an ultra-high definition flat screen set hanging on the wall opposite the prep station where she continues to toil away. With a flicker the screen comes to life bringing the image of her cousin Cat Riley into view and heralding the return of her smirk. “Well, speak of the devil…,”

Standing by an unnamed reporter the blonde haired, blue-eyed devil stares back at Fox, her lips pursed tightly as she is flanked by her management team of Cassie and Gene Banton Jr. The duo silently stands by with their hands clasped in front as their charge glares at the camera, her brow twitching in agitation. Finally, with a raspy clearing of her throat Cat speaks,

“It doesn’t matter to me if she’s been in SCW for 40 years”, she snaps. “Once I get Amy Santino on that mat and in a suitable position she is going to submit. It’s an inescapable fact of life; like death, taxes, robocalls and Trump’s idiocy”. Pausing to swipe at a stray hair she continues, “Let me paint a little picture for you, Amy is an animal trainer with many years of experience. I am the new tigress added to the zoo’s collection. At first thought you figure that it’s no big deal, right? She’s done this sort of thing hundreds of times and always gets the job done. But this time is different…,” her tone lowers in inflection, followed by a downward glance. “You see…,” Rearing her head back up her façade has taken on a stern visage of warning.  “This tigress is insatiable. She has been pacing her enclosure ever since she arrived, and no amount of food thrown into her pen by the zookeeper is able to satisfy her. She’s a perfect engine, an eating machine that wants more, she’s still hungry”. Casting a sidelong glance to the reporter Cat follows up with a question of her own, “Now, you tell me, would you want to enter the cage of a perpetually hungry tigress”?



“Bloody hell, I’m starving! When is Christian getting back”?

Cat paces about the living room anxiously with her stomach growling in discontent. Most original programs have long since ended as the hours slowly crept by, bringing them to the pre-dawn hour of 3 AM. Peeking at the clock for the fourth time within the last minute she rolls her eyes while Scott’s stomach joins in the symphony of discord. Following her lead he ambles his hulking frame from the dirty brown duct taped recliner with small tufts of cotton peeking out through newly worn holes in the upholstery which cedes to his wishes with a piercing squeak.

“Man, this is bullshit”! he churns while pacing his own road course. “He said he was going to Wendy’s…, that’s only three blocks away”!

“I don’t really know what he was saying with all that pissing he was doing”, Cat confesses. “All I remember is him saying something stupid about coupons on the fridge and plenty… of… food…”

Her voice trails off as she is struck by a sudden bolt of realization which stops her in her tracks. Scott, also hit by the lightning bolt stops as well and the pair look at one another wide-eyed while processing the information. Suddenly they bolt from the living room, their feet thudding madly as they race across the floor and into the kitchen. Grabbing the chrome handle of the modern refrigerator simultaneously the pair swings it open wildly. Their combined power, well, mostly Scott’s proves forceful enough to tear the heavy door from the hinges and they jump back in surprise allowing it to crash onto the tile of the floor. Leaning over the debris they peer inside through gawking lenses taking inventory of its contents. Several packs of deli meat, loaves of bread, two cases of Scott’s protein shakes and an additional case of Budweiser, a head of lettuce, a bag of peas, raw chicken, packages of yogurt and many other kinds of food are bulging against the side, anxiously greeting their famished faces.

“What the hell”? Scott mutters in dismay. “None of this crap is even edible”.

“I think you’re supposed to cook it”, Cat offers.

”Ain’t nobody got time for that junk”! He shrieks in a sonorous pitch. “We’re hungry right now”!

“Maybe there’s some food hidden underneath”?

Acting on Cat’s implication both sets of hands are thrust into the cooler, grabbing hold of various items such as chicken breast, eggs, milk and flinging it carelessly to the floor while they rifle through the trove in search of processed treasure. Several minutes fly by, escorted by a not so gentle shoving of their hands with the cache being discarded to the floor. Some of the packages burst upon impact spreading peas and carrots about their feet while the milk jug, a full gallon spills out as heavy packages of uncooked beef are jettisoned on top of it. Piece by piece the fridge is emptied out leaving the floor beneath them a soupy mess until nothing is left. Scott continues to scan the interior in search of some lost package or a hidden compartment while Cat withdraws her head with a sulking frown.

“I don’t believe it”, she whines. “Not a single piece of actual food! I thought he said it was fully stocked”?

“Yeah”, Scotty snorts angrily. “With building materials! Wait a minute…,” he pauses to stroke his goatee thoughtfully. “What about the cupboards”? he asks. “There’s usually something we can eat in those, like cupcakes and stuff”.

“Good idea”! Cat beams excitedly, nodding in agreement. “I’ll check, just let me climb up onto the counter…,”

“Get on my shoulders”, the barking behemoth insists. “We ain’t got time for you to climb Mount Everest, we gotta eat damn it”.

Hopping onto his broad shoulders Cat is lifted to eye level with the counters and hurriedly opens the chestnut doors which smack loudly against the adjacent doors and peers into a sea of canned goods. Wave after wave of soup, splashes her against her face as she looks on in frustration.

“Start pulling everything out”, Scott says gruffly. “Throw it on the floor until you find something that we can actually eat without having to jump through flaming hoops”.

Doing as instructed Cat begins jettisoning the cupboards, sending the can free falling to the floor with a metallic thump, followed by numerous small spice containers, a bag of crackers, more protein shakes – some of which burst open on hard contact with the floor, and other, various forms of cooking ingredients. She continues to the next cupboard and the one after, tossing spices, cans of cat food, bags of croutons and more to the wayside.

“I don’t get it”, she pauses in review. “This is supposed to be dry storage, right? So, where are the cupcakes, Twinkie and Chocodiles? Oh, that’s right, I ate them all”.

“Shut up and keep looking! I’m dying here”!

Reaching the final cabinet, she spies a collection of cereal boxes. The bright colors of Golden Grahams, Raisin Bran, Lucky Charms and more of General Mills finest greet her with a glowing welcome.

“Jackpot”!

“What”? Scott demands. “What is it”?

“Cereals”, she answers. “Tons of it”.

“Well pull it out, hurry! I’ll get the bowls”.

In his rush Scott inadvertently drops Cat, who lands with a thud against the countertop before rolling onto the floor but having held her grip she manages to bring a pair of cereal boxes crashing down with her. Rubbing her head while gingerly rising to her feet she shouts,

“You bloody oaf! That hurt”!

“Ah quit your whining and get the damned milk”, he snaps. “We got some eating to do”.

“Umm…, little problem here…,” she stammers as her eyes rove over the mess left on the floor, particularly in front of the refrigerator.

“What the hell is wrong this time”?

“The milk is on the floor”, she replies, pointing to the white swamp spread out over the tiling and encroaching the dining room threshold.

Following her finger Scott quickly surveys the scene and his mouth drops into a cavernous gape. “Oh fuck”, he mutters. “We can’t eat cereal without the milk”.

“So umm, what do we do now”? Cat asks, her hands slapping helplessly against her thighs.



The wind blows briskly from the southeast, sending Cat’s long silken tresses fluttering in the breeze as she leans against a shoulder high concrete wall separating public from private property. Gail Westrup, a sports reporter for Fox Sports holds a microphone to her face. Average in height but with a decidedly unathletic build the brunette, decked out in a red, knee length dress reaches down to adjust the hem line of her outfit while her target gathers her thoughts. Behind the camera, a lanky young man, a solid foot taller than the two women clad in faded blue jeans and a tattered burgundy tee shirt bearing the logo of the Washington Redskins Waits patiently for the signal from the reporter. Clearing her throat Cat absently tugs at her plain white tank top and adjusts the visor of a mis-matched blue ballcap and nods to the other woman who flashes the signal to her cameraman in the form of a thumbs up.

“This is Gail Westrup”, she begins in a polished tone. “I am standing here outside the DNB gym with SCW Bombshell Cat Riley who has graciously granted us a few moments to speak with her ahead of her Into the Void showdown with The Punk Princess Amy Santino in Phoenix”. Looking over the Briton’s lean, glistening figure she observes that it is coated in perspiration, despite the relatively ‘cool’ temperature of a mere 92F. “Cat, you look as if you’ve been hard at work preparing for your bout with Amy. Could you share with our viewers your typical routine when getting ready for a match”?

“Well”, she stammers slightly while considering her words. “Let me just start by saying that I am not your typical wrestler. I don’t need to spend six hours a day in the gym. Nor do I need to watch what I eat. I suppose you can say that I am genetically blessed with high stamina and a metabolism that Geno says runs on nitro methane”.

“The fuel used to power top fuel dragsters”, the reporter clarifies.

“Yes. So, I tend to get lots of sleep. I usually sleep until around noon or so and then I’ll have breakfast which generally consists of ice cream, cupcakes, sugary cereals or something else deemed unhealthy. My body can burn anything, so I don’t particularly care. Once fed I get cleaned up and I may review film with my manager, or I may get my training out of the way early”.

“And what type of training do you do”?

“I have a functional fitness routine that doesn’t require weights or a treadmill or any other gadget aside from a playing cards, which is why you’ll always find me with a deck of cards on my person”.

“Can you explain how the routine works with the cards”?

“It’s simple really”. She begins, reaching into the back pocket of her torn denims to pull out a well-worn pack of blue playing cards. “Each suit, Hearts, spades and so on has their own particular exercise like pushups, for example. And each card has a value with the ten, face cards and jokers being worth ten reps of their assigned exercise. An eight equals eight reps and so on. You can change up the exercises from day to day so long as it’s effective. Like, for example let’s say that diamonds are pushups, hearts are jumping jacks, spades are burpees and clubs are squat jumps…,” pausing in her dissertation she starts to shuffle the deck, taking care to ensure that the faces are down. “I like to have the faces of the deck down so as not to give my body any sort of preparation”, she says while turning over the first card to reveal a four of clubs. “The first card is a four of clubs which means you do four squat jumps”. Turning over a second card she reveals a seven of hearts. “A seven of hearts is seven jumping jacks”, she adds. “I will continue on until I have gone through the entire deck. It usually takes me a little over an hour”.

“That sounds very physically demanding, do you rest between cards”?

“When you first start this routine, you have to”, Cat answers. “But you keep practicing until your body doesn’t require any sort of rest. Now, for the fans at home; forget about my diet and forget about my sleep habits. If you want to get in wrestling shape, give this a try. If you stick it through, I guarantee that you will never get tired in a match”.

“Much has been said about your cardiovascular conditioning”, Gail notes. “What’s the longest you’ve ever wrestled”?

“Six and a half hours”, Cat states flatly drawing a look of astonishment from the reporter. “It was back home, and I was sparring with another Snake Pit student. My uncle insisted that we keep going until we had a clear winner”.

“Did you win”?

“Yes”, she chuckles. “My opponent got tired out and couldn’t move his arms and I was finally able to submit him”.

“You said him”?

With a nod Cat goes on to explain further, “There weren’t any girls training at the Snake Pit when I was there, so I didn’t have a choice but to spar with the boys. Believe me, it toughens a girl up which is why I can say with conviction that Amy Santino has no bleeding clue what she’s in for when we tango in Phoenix”.

“You certainly sound ready, do you have any finals thoughts on Into the Void”?

Peering directly into the lens Cat’s blue eyes shrink to enflamed slits as she speaks in a slow, ominous inflection,

“Amy Santino sits on a wall
Proclaiming to be the roughest and toughest of all.
But now Cat Riley has answered the call
And Amy Santino will take a great fall.

And in the bitterest of bitter ends
All of Mark Ward’s Horses,
And Christian Underwood’s men
Will not be able to put Amy Santino back together again”.


The screen fades to black as Christian Underwood powers it off and tosses the remote onto the 13-inch pillow topped mattress. Reaching over he offers a gentle scratch behind the ear of his Persian cat Genie, who briefly acknowledges with a flick of her puffy tail before curling back up against a gold velour body pillow with black fringe. With a yawn and a sigh, he stretches and kicks off his black Puma brand sneakers, a gift from Cat following her endorsement deal with the apparel maker and lies down, propping his left arm beneath his head while taking his cellphone into the right. He blinks to allow his eyes to adjust to the brightly lit screen and begins to scroll through his most recent text messages. He immediately recognizes the bulk of the messages as being from Cat and Scott and starts to read them only to forcefully tear himself from them, setting the phone face down on the king-sized bed. In the span of six hours they have accumulated 17 messages, including voicemail which alerts him to the apparent trouble they are experiencing in his absence.

Leaning onto his side he turns the nightlamp off engulfing the room in darkness, determined to stay the course. All he wanted was for them to show some appreciation, to express even a modicum of gratitude for the efforts he puts in on a daily basis to make their lives easier, but every inch of rope he offers is taken to the rodeo leaving him with no choice. Although recognizing his responsibility of breathing life into the monster with which he now contends he also is aware of the need to remain steadfast in his resolve. The pair have grown helpless because of his previous apathy, unable to cook or clean for themselves without looking to him for guidance but at the same time they remain adults, despite their penchant for child-like behavior and somewhere buried deep inside both Cat and Scotty is the ability for self-reliance and by hook or by crook he would unearth that latent talent in both of them.

Jettisoning his tee shirt to the floor he grabs the blanket and starts to pull it over but stops mid-way, his mind deluged in doubt. What if it’s too deeply buried and they can’t? Is he starving them? Is he neglecting them? With a groan he snags a Grumpy Cat sleep mask from the nightstand and applies it before rolling onto his side. He wouldn’t allow the doubts to creep into the tangled web of resolution and faltering confidence and forces the second thoughts out with a jaw straining yawn as he nestles his head against the pillow.

“Good night you two, whatever you’re doing”.

 The United States capitol building, a neoclassical construction encompassing the style of Federal and Greek revival architecture popular during the late 18th and early 19th centuries stands stoically atop the appropriately named ‘capitol hill’. Eight concrete ionic columns line the entrances like cylindrical fangs leading into the mouth of a 175,000 square foot monolith ready to consume visitors with a lavish dowsing of art, history, and of course bureaucracy. A softly lit hall takes one through the bloated belly of the beast, underneath numerous chandeliers, past sculpted busts of historical members nestled into indentations, cordoned off by velvet rope and accentuated by burgundy drapes. The flooring, made of multi-patterned tile and marble gleams brightly, courtesy of a rigid daily cleaning regimen. Lamp stands are spaced at even intervals throughout, flanked by neoclassical benches as it takes you to an opening sporting numerous sets of burnished chestnut doors leading into the chamber of congress.

Reporters mill about the reception hall, checking their equipment, speaking into microphones, and trying to get a quote from one of its 535 suited members. Dark suited secret service agents stand by, studying the crowd through a scrutinizing glare with their hands clasped in front across their waist and listening to an earpiece tucked into their collar. The buzz is palpable with spectators openly chatting amongst themselves, speculating on the events about to take place while reporters doggedly pursue representatives who briskly traverse the hall, trying not to give out any information through practiced responses.  A digital countdown timer posted above the doors alerts the anxious assemblage that it is almost time to begin. The spectators are checked and summarily herded inside by armed and uniformed Capitol Police officers while the reporters are ushered into a separate area designated for members of the press where they proceed to check their microphones, cameras and connections to their respective stations.

Behind them the public are led to their seats with more and more filing in one after another until the upper balcony more resembles a bamboo forest of gawking humanoids wanting to be a part of the political process. Words are exchanged, pictures are snapped of some of the politicians walking down the red carpeted aisle with some of them pausing to sign an autograph or two, all under the watchful eye of the Capitol Police and secret service.

At the front of the assemblage sits a would be stage consisting of three rows of elevated seats behind a bench style desk, reserved for senior members of the administration who casually takes their places with the highest chair in the top center reserved for the speaker of the house; a middle aged woman sporting dusty blonde hair, not quite shoulder length, straight and evenly trimmed sporting a burgundy pant suit topped off by a pair of gold plated wire-framed glasses. Taking her own seat, the speaker picks up a gavel from the desk, gripping it tightly with an eye on the timer which indicates ten seconds remaining. A cursory glance into the packed auditorium reveals that most onlookers have taken their owns eats and wait with bated breath for the proceedings to begin, which she signals with a rapid hammering of the gavel against the podium top as the timer reaches zero.

“Ladies and gentlemen”, she begins with a momentary pause to adjust the level of the microphone. “Today begins the beginning of an historic era in the history of our country. Never has a citizen of another nation been elected to run our nation as its chief executive, but the American people have spoken. Their voices were loud and clear across not only the United States, but the entire world. Change was demanded and as your public servants, we heeded your call. Now, as we arrive at this new path in our collective history it gives me great pleasure to introduce to you, the 46th President of the United States, Cat Riley”!

The public address system speakers blare to life, crackling softly, but rather than the expected rendition of ‘Hail to the chief’, the time honored song used to herald the arrival of previous presidents, the music has been replaced with a heavy bass rhythm coupled with gruff lyrics…,

“Aye yo Fuck ya’ll Russians,
Man, fuck you too.
Aye yo Fuck ya’ll Russians,
Man, fuck you too.
It’s the Cat baby, I get down like what,
See I’m the President, I don’t fuck with much.
Bloodline is, where my kittens at,
They off the President, Yeah it’s Cat!

Flanked by numerous dark suited secret service men the President-elect emerges from the back to a collective gasp from the audience upon noticing her attire. Rather than the traditional suit or other formal wear she strides out clad in a pair of ripped and faded blue jeans, a clashing pair of metallic gold Adidas JS Wings high top sneakers with a torn and mud-stained white crop top, a spiked, black leather choker, blue tinted Ray Bans and a silver and black Las Vegas Raiders baseball cap spun backwards atop her sunny blonde mane. But then, Cat Riley has never been much for fashion, consistently eschewing current trends in favor of more rugged rigging. She pauses for a photo op next to the hastily erected speaking podium while the new Presidential music continues to play.

Aww man,
there are some things I can’t stand
When Kim Jung holla, wanna shake my left hand
When Putin follow cuz he actin’ like my man
Merkel might as well swallow cuz she actin like a fan.

The rap finally tapers off with Cat approaching the podium. She taps gently on the head of the mic, testing it for reverberation and satisfied reaches into the hip pocket of her snug fitting jeans to retrieve a crumpled wad of paper which is quietly unraveled before the murmuring crowd. Laying the paper out in front Cat clears her throat, ready to begin.

“My fellow Americans, even though I’m not American, I’m British but that’s beside the point since you elected me as your President. Anyway, my fellow Americans today marks the beginning of a new chapter in your history…, I say your history because I’m British and all that…,” a quick pause for an expected chuckle brings instead a dead silence prompting a bemused glare outlined with an arced brow. “Hmm, tough crowd. Anyway, we are assembled here today in tribute to your ruler. Your lands, your lives, your very possessions will gladly be given in tribute to me, General Zod…, Err, wait…,” Quickly she fishes into her pockets for a sharpie pen which is used to blot out certain passages which are explained with a wry smirk. “Sorry about that”, she continues unabated. “I was watching Superman just before coming out here. Great movie by the way, you should definitely go see it. So, where was I?” Her voice trails off, chasing a fleeting thought into the back of her mind in hopes of bringing it back. “Oh yeah, four score and seven years ago our daddies brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and justice for all…, bloody hell”! she cries in exacerbation, slapping the paper on the podium. “Why did I write my speech on Despy’s scratch pad? His handwriting is exactly like mine and it’s confusing me”.

An aide quietly approaches the President-elect, gesturing towards a teleprompter screen in front of her which draws a perplexed frown as her blue eyes lock onto the television-like device with a steady stream of words scrolling down from the top.

“That’s what it’s for? I thought we were going to watch Avengers Endgame”!

The aide, a young woman in her early 20s, likely an intern smartly dressed in a soft blue pantsuit with long, dark hair cascading past her shoulders explains the purpose of the teleprompter in further detail as Cat’s frown pulls further down her face into a pout as the young woman scurries off.


“I wanted to watch a movie”! she whines. With a sigh of capitulation, she dons a pair of reading glasses and leans forward against the pulpit to read from the teleprompter. “America is such a special place. When I first arrived on your shores, I took a deep breath stepping off the plane and coughed my bleeding lungs up! Seriously, you yanks need to work on your ozone layer. Still, this is the place where Häagen-Dazs is made so I guess that’s ok.  I really think we should create a national ice cream day, don’t you? I mean, it’s so creamy and delicious, just imagine a holiday devoted exclusively to the best dessert in the world”. Her thoughts wander off into a fluffy world of soft serve hills, velvety valleys with rivers of refined vanilla, clouds of chocolate and a strawberry sky while her aides off to the sides gesture desperately, trying to pull her attention from the captivating confection. Their efforts prove to be as effective as a tug of war with a sugar-coated shooting star with her mind flying deeper into its delectable daydream. “I want some ice cream”, she mumbles under her breath.

A figure emerges from the crowd, casually dressed in black slacks, matching leather loafers and a white button down with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His long, sandy hair flutters behind as he strides briskly towards the podium approaching President Riley. Quietly he studies the Catmander in chief and then pulls away with a hint of a smirk crossing his pursed lips. Reaching into his right-side pocket the 40 something man with a shimmering bronze complexion fishes out a small tin of ice cream flavored mints. Popping the lid, he picks out a single oblong piece and stuffs it between her lips. Her eyes flutter as the tiny pill tantalizes her taste buds, bringing her back to the conscious world. Looking at the man she regards him in a bemused recognition.

“Christian”, she stammers while her mind plays catch up. “What are you doing here”?

“You need to go clean your room”, he states flatly.

“What”? She cries out in consternation. “In case you haven’t realized Mr. Underwood, I don’t have to do that anymore”, she gestures out into the crowd, towards the secret service agents, to a row of American flags and finally to the television cameras. “I am the President of the United States! I don’t have to do anything for anyone”!

“Ahh kitty cat”, he grins while reaching out to stroke the sides of her long blonde mane. “If you don’t scurry your little butt upstairs right now, I’m not going to bake that molten chocolate lava cake you’ve been screaming for”.

“But…,” through quivering lips she responds meekly. “But I’m the President”.

“You can go play President some more after you clean your room”, he says. “But a messy room distracts me, and I can’t cook a molten chocolate lava cake while I’m distracted, ok”?

“Oh, alright” jutting her bottom lip forward the young President takes the microphone in hand and addresses to congregation in a slow, sullen pout. “Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that my state of the union address is now cancelled because I have to go clean my room”.

As she turns to leave, she is followed by a trailing, raucous laughter, and guided by a stinging swat on the behind by Christian.



The Oval office, so named because of its’ shape when it was initially opened in 1909 is the working space of the American President. It features three large south-facing windows behind the President’s desk, and a fireplace at the north end. It boasts four doors; with the east door leading directly into the rose garden, where the President will often address the media, the west door leads to a private study and dining room; the northwest door opens to the main corridor of the west wing, and the northeast door opens to the office of the President’s actual secretary. Presidents typically decorate the oval office to suit their own individual tastes and Cat Riley is no different. The walls are emblazoned with posters of heavy metal bands such as Judas Priest, Motorhead, Metallica and Iron Maiden. The artwork normally on display has been replaced by photographs of her friends and family with a smattering of autographed frames of famous rock stars including Rob Halford, Bruce Dickenson and others. A large, pink teddy bear sporting an M-16 automatic rifle stands guard by the northwest door and a slip n slide is stretched out across the floor. Five wooden, Victorian styled chairs line around the front of the expansive executive desk in a semi-circle; each of them occupied by Cat’s advisors. Gene Banton Senior sits to the far left. He is flanked by his son Junior, his daughter Cassie, Scott Schreiner and a 12-pound Persian cat, Genie.

“So, what’s on the agenda today”? Cat asks while absently spinning a small globe of the Earth.

“We need to get you ready for your summit with the Russian President”, Gene Senior replies, shuffling a stack of paperwork in his lap. “It’s this Sunday so we have a lot to do and a short time to do it”.

“I don’t care about Putin”! she cries in agitation. “Forget about him, let’s go see Godzilla”.

“Godzilla doesn’t hit the theatres until the 31st”, Cassie answers. “And by the way, Vladimir Putin is not the Russian President anymore”.

“He’s not”?

“Nope”, she shakes her head. “He was beaten in a landslide. Sam Marlowe is the new Russian President”.

“Marlowe? What the bloody…, she’s American! How did she become the President of Russia”?

“The same way you did”, Junior chimes in with his trademark smirk. “She took advantage of the new women’s empowerment program put into effect by President Trump”.

“Wait, what? Trump did that? I thought it was…,” leaning back into the cushy black recliner she lets loose an incredulous sigh while allowing her eyes to scan the ceiling above. “This is surreal”.

“The summit is being held in Reno, Nevada”, Junior offers. “At the Reno events center, but it’s a non-title summit and the usual rules will remain in effect. Essentially it's a glorified chat session. They even serve booze, Vodka I'm sure".

She regards him quizzically, her expression mired in confusion. “What? You make it sound like a wrestling match but call it a summit, why does a summit need a referee anyway, and aren’t summits where two leaders get together to talk about doing stuff that they have no intention of following through with, like the Paris climate accord? Since when did they need referees”?

“That happened when SCW took control of the United Nations”, Gene Senior offers. “One of the first things they set out to do was to re-write the rules of international summits. Mark Ward managed to slip it in as an amendment to the UN constitution, greased a few palms and got it passed during a special midnight session at the pub”.

“So, I have to wrestle Sam Marlowe”?

The big man frowns. “Not exactly, while they may call it a summit, it still looks like a wrestling match and will even will be held in the ring with a referee, the rules have been altered to reflect the political climate. No moves or holds will be allowed under international law".

“Hunh, a wrestling match with a ref but no moves...," adjusting her position in the plush chair, bringing her feet underneath her torso, Cat nods in a muted acceptance. “Will it be a nuclear summit”?

“No, Mr. President”, Cassie replies chiming back in. “It will be a standard summit with Sam Marlowe although we are still trying to negotiate a loser must disarm clause, but Mr. Ward at the UN is a bit hesitant about adding that stipulation”.

“What about Christian”? Cat asks, her voice rising hopefully. “He’s the head booker not Ward, surely he can add the stipulation to the match, err, summit”?

“He’s on maternity leave”. Junior offers. “He won’t be back until mid-2020”.

“What? But he’s a man, right”? Scratching her head in bewilderment she eyeballs her secretary of stupidity warily, suspecting another of his incessant pranks to be incoming, but he shakes his head indicating a negative response. “How can a man get…, pregnant”?

“You’ll have to ask Scotty about that”, Gene senior advises. “I still don’t know how he did it, but I guess he’s the secretary of fertility for a reason”.


“Alright”, the President acquiesces with a huff, spinning around in her chair. “Let’s forget about the Twilight Zone and focus on my summit with Sam Marlowe. How do you propose we approach this match, err…, this summit”?

“We need a mutual point of negotiation”, Gene senior says casting a downward glare to the cream-colored carpeting. “But the UN secretary General Mark ward still hasn’t said anything about our proposed disarmament stipulation, so we should plan as if he is going to decline”. Leaning forward he raises his glare to meet Cat’s and continues, “Mr. President, how would you feel if we could negotiate a roulette clause”?

The President shrugs her shoulders apprehensively, her blue eyes darting aimlessly from point to point about the office, clearly not following the Secretary of the Treasury’s line of thinking. “Umm…, ok, I guess. I mean…, what is it”?

“A roulette clause”, he begins, “is where the UN places certain conditions onto a roulette wheel; conditions like a bikini summit – which I’m very fond of, by the way – or blindfold summit, or even an evening gown summit. There are other conditions obviously but I’m sure you get the idea”.

“Wait…,” Cat thrusts her palms outward requesting a moment of silence while her mind finishes an impromptu trip on a mystified merry-go-round. “Samantha Marlowe is the Russian President, yes”?

Everyone nods.

“Have any of you ever heard of Russian Roulette”?

Silence reigns as the members of the cabinet exchange blank glances upon delving into an empty pool of thought. One by one each member, save for the platinum furred Secretary of naps, who snoozes through the meeting peacefully, shakes their head in declination.

“Ugh”! Following a hoarse groan Cat clears her throat and speaks up. “Russian roulette”, she begins with a hint of derision directed towards her cabinet, “is where some prat places a single bullet into a six-barrel revolver, spins the barrel and…, you know what? Forget it! I’m not doing any bloody roulette summit”, she states flatly. “Especially not against the Russian President, so scratch that idea. Come up with another idea”.

“How about a pudding summit”? Junior offers. “Intelligence says she’s real big on that”.

“You’re kidding, right”? Cat scoffs while rolling her eyes. “You expect me to put on a bikini and wallow in a tub of pudding with Sam Marlowe while discussing nuclear treaties, climate change, trade deficits, and international governance”? She spits. “Intelligence my arse! If intelligence were petrol the CIA wouldn’t have enough to propel a flea’s motorcycle around a raindrop”! Cat pauses with a dismissive wave of her hand while the gears begin to grind once more. Chewing up the pudding summit she moves on in search of other ideas, only to cast them almost as soon as they appear – from a suit and tie scaffold summit to a blindfold pinata summit and more. Shaking her head dejectedly she lowers her head, softly banging it against the desk. “Look…,” she continues in between headbutts. “Let’s just forget about the match stipulations and focus on how I can beat her, alright”?

“I’m afraid we can’t do that Mr. President”, Cassie pipes in with a nervous timbre.

“And why not”? Cat demands casting an angry glare at the redhead secretary of mutant affairs. “No, wait,” she butts in sarcastically before Cassie can answer. “Let me guess, it needs to be ratified by the UN”?

“No, Mr. President”, she replies shakily. “It has already been ratified. We can’t do it because if you beat her, you’ll go to jail for assault and battery. We don’t wrestle anymore, ever since SCW absorbed the UN. Matches, which are now called summits can only be won through negotiation and we have nothing to negotiate with Samantha and the Russian Federation”.

“So, what do they expect me to do, talk her to death”?

“No, that would be manslaughter and international jail time”.

“Bloody hell”! Pulling at her long, blonde strands Cat cries in dismay. “What kind of nitwit nation am I running”? Leaning forward she reaches for a red button on the desk and presses it, activating an intercom where a young voice answer cheerily,

“Thank you for choosing the White Waffle House, may I take your order”?

“Send in the secretary of saturated fats and cholesterol”, Cat replies. “I’m in the mood for something greasy, fattening and all around bad for you; a meatloaf made in bacon grease sounds good”.

Shutting off the intercom the President spins around in circles in the executive swivel chair, closing her eyes while tilting her head towards the ceiling. The rapid rotation of her body induces a sense of dizziness but the commander in chief continues while her cabinet reviews their options for the upcoming summit Sam Marlowe. While unsure of the new Russian President’s prowess at the negotiating table, Cat reasons that she will be backed up by a team of professionals – unlike herself – who are undoubtedly pushing her through a rigorous preparation process at this very moment. With her own lineup of lunacy seeming to insist that she has no negotiating points leaving her chances of success at the summit very much in doubt. And when in doubt Cat reverts to her time-honored tradition when confronted by unforeseen adversity; she simply gives in to the mindless whims circling about her head. Abruptly she plants her sneakers into the carpet bringing the spinning chair to a violent stop and gazes absently at the gold chandelier hanging above the center of the rapidly rotating office. A door creaks open followed by thudding footsteps which propels the distracted, would-be dictator to lower her gaze to identify the figure, but the world continues to wobble around her dizzy blonde head, and she is unable to distinguish the figure from the foggy landscape.

“Hang on”, she says groggily. “Give my head a minute to clear up, everything is spinning like crazy”.

“Maybe my voice can clue you in”? The guest suggests in more of a husky statement than question, assured in her familiarity with it. “You know who I am kitty cat”.

“Christian”? Her eyes flutter in recognition of the voice and she starts to slap the sides of her head to waylay the whirling world. “Just a second, I think I’m coming around”.

“Honey, I’ve got all day”. He replies breaking out a nail file and tending to a cuticle on one of his manicured fingernails as Cat picks away at the cobwebs.

Finally, the world, while still spinning, has slowed enough to allow the President to distinguish her cabinet and the well-groomed blond man sporting a basketball sized baby bump tucked away behind a maternity shirt bearing an ‘RIP Grumpy Cat’ logo. Shaking her head for good measure she studies the unusual visage briefly before allowing her jaw to go slack in astonishment.

“You’re already showing”? She gasps. “But…, last night…, when you made me clean my room in the middle of my state of the union address, you looked normal”!

“What can I say”? he grins, placing a hand protectively over his belly. “Scotty works fast. The doctor says at the rate the baby is growing I should be giving birth this weekend”.

“I don’t want to know where it’s gonna come out of”, Junior quips, drawing a snickering response from the other cabinet members.

“We’re looking at a C-section, dumbass”, Christian fires back.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever”, Cat interjects hastily. “We’re in the middle of preparing for my match with Sam Marlowe…,”

“You mean summit”, Cassie corrects.

“Whatever, what are you doing here Christian”?

“Since I need to work to be able to pay Scotty’s beer bill, I took a job as the secretary of agriculture, which means that, during this time of budget cuts I’ll also be working as the white house chef. I came in here to tell you that I would love to cook up a bacon fat meatloaf smothered in country gravy for you, but I can’t”.

“And why not”?

“Because you haven’t cleaned Genie’s litter box. If you want to eat you need to clean the litter box”.

“What? Do you know who you are talking to”? She demands, her voice rising to a sharpened edge. “That rubbish may have worked during the state of the union address but not anymore. I am the President of the United States and I will eat whatever I bloody well want whenever I want”!

“I was also planning on making five gallons of Once a year cheesecake ice cream”.

“But…, I’m the president…,”

“With hot fudge topping”.

“I need fudge…,” her voice shrinks upon realizing that she is over the proverbial barrel. “Still, I’m the President”, she mews helplessly in a last-ditch effort to escape the task set before her.

“With whipped cream”.

“Meeting adjourned”, she snaps, bolting to her feet. “You tossers are useless anyway, and I have to go clean the litter box”.



The situation room, officially known as the John F. Kennedy conference room is a 5,525 square foot conference room that doubles as an intelligence management center. Situated in the basement underneath the west wing of the white house the “sit room” as it is referred to by key personnel features long, maple conference table lined by a dozen reclining executive chairs with one at the head of the table reserved for the President. In addition to advanced encrypted communications technology allowing the commander in chief to maintain contact with the armed forces during times of crises the room, effectively shut off from the rest of the world with access rigidly controlled also features numerous television monitors, a wall mounted ‘war map’ and a battery of sophisticated computers and even a small bedroom and kitchen tucked in behind adjacent doors.

Following her morning chores of taking out the garbage – which was broadcast live by CNN as she had trekked through the press accessed rose garden – President Cat Riley enjoyed a leisurely breakfast of ice cream and Oreo cookies on her way to the sit room, determined to find a ‘point of negotiation’ her cabinet had previously informed her did not exist. She strides into the room with a half-eaten tub of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream tucked under one arm and a bag of Oreo cookies in the other where she is greeted by the smiling faces of Kristjan Baltasarsson, the newly appointed secretary of war, Ty West, the chief of staff, and an assortment of highly decorated, and uniformed Generals and Admirals. Nodding her head in greeting she gestures her ‘war council’ to take their seats while she elects to remain standing. Setting the ice cream and cookies down on the table, swiping a handful from the bag before leaning against the edge.

“I’ve called you all in today because my cabinet members are a bunch of bleeding idiots”, she says, scanning the breadth of the table, locking eyes with everyone briefly before continuing. “They say that I need a point of negotiation in order to whip the Russian President’s arse”! Taking a bite of a cookie, she reaches down to swipe a few crumbs from the grossly oversized tee shirt covering her torso and half of her bare legs. “I strongly disagree with their assessment. I want to go to Reno, and whip Sam Marlowe’s commie arse, and I don’t want a point of negotiation”! She slams her small hand against the top of the table for emphasis. “I want a one on one match, no treaties, no negotiation shite, no disarmament talk and no summits. Just figure out a way for me to get into that ring, tie up that bloody ginger like a pretzel and make her tap out like her citizen’s reasons for hope. Now, plug in your brains and get to work”.

On the final note Cat finally takes her seat, leaning back in the chair while cradling the tub of ice cream and propping her Pikachu slipper-clad feet atop the glossy finish. Digging into the chocolate tub with a tablespoon she looks on as her team slips into discussion, tackling the situation at hand. Cat’s mind slides down the sugary slope of Mt. Moo-phoria whisking her away from the moment and she rides the crest of caramel into a sweetened swell of cookie dough, marshmallows and brownies which threatens to drown her in a delirium of decadence. A sob sobbing also rides the surge, wafting over the waves and splashing her ears with intermittent sniffling which abruptly carries her back to the conference in progress.

“Alright”, she demands in perturbance, setting the tub down and grabbing another cookie. “Who’s crying”?

As if on cue all eyes slowly gravitate across the table and settle on the muscular, though quivering secretary of war, Fenris, who dabs at the corner of his eyes with a tissue.

“I – I’m sorry”, he chokes. “It’s just that…, that I don’t understand why we have to resort to violence”. Finishing with the tissue, now sopping wet, he discards it into a nearby waste basket and pulls another from the box. “It’s so distressing I mean, why can’t we all just love one another”?

“Who the hell made you secretary of war”?

“Y – you did Mr. President”.

“Ugh, I really need to do a better job of evaluating people for these jobs”.

“Why do you want to inflict bodily harm on Sam Marlowe”? he asks, his voice quivering. “She’s a fellow human being, not an enemy to be destroyed”!

“That’s it”! She shouts bolting from her chair. “I’m demoting you to secretary of sissyfication”! Thrusting a finger towards the door she resumes her diatribe. “You don’t belong in my war room, so get out! Go hug a tree in the rose garden, you gutless wonder”!

Fenris demurely obliges, taking the Kleenex with him as he departs the room leaving Cat and her would be war party to their work. Angrily she scans over the remaining occupants, her blue lasers burning a hole into each member who fidget nervously in their seats.

“Is there anyone else”? She asks pointedly. “Are there any more damned peace mongers in my war room”? An uneasy silence permeates the atmosphere, enveloping it in a thick, palpable haze of timidity. Satisfied she retakes her seat, as well as the tub of ice cream. “Good, now let’s figure out a way to bypass this negotiation nonsense so I can’t beat the bloody hell out of Marlowe when I get to Reno”.

The discussion resumes while the President returns to her tub, digging away at the slowly melting confection. Dani Weston, the secretary of love appears to have hit upon an idea which she begins to debate with her colleagues. Objections are raised and countered, one bite at a time until all objections have been devoured leaving nothing more than an empty calm, and tub.

“Why don’t we just …,”

“Bloody hell”!

“What? I haven’t even told you the idea yet”.

“I’m out”, Cat snarls and leans forward to pick up a phone, depressing a flashing red button which happens to be a hotline to the secretary of agriculture/white house chef. “Christian”, she speaks hastily. “I’m out of ice cream in the situation room, bring me another gallon”. Without waiting for a response, she hangs up the receiver and casts a curious look to Dani. “What is your idea”?

“I was going to suggest that we simply declare war with Russia”, Dani replies. “If we’re in a state of war you won’t have to negotiate, just whip Samantha’s ass like you want to do any way”.

“I like it”, Cat says as a smile creeps across her face. “But what are the legalities involved? We can’t just start a war for war’s sake, we need a reason or Congress will want to impeach me”.

“That’s easy enough to do Mr. President”, the voice comes from the far end of the table and belongs to the secretary of yodeling Griffen Hawkins. Leaning forward he sets down an electric guitar with a wry smirk and explains, “Russia is a Christian nation”, he says. “And Congress is Wiccan. So, if we tell them that the CIA has discovered Sam Marlowe going to Church on Sunday…,”

“They will demand we retaliate”, Cat mutters, finishing his sentence for him. “That’s brilliant”! She cries excitedly, her voice rising to a sharp peak. “Let’s do it”! She exclaims. “We’ll go to war with Russia and I won’t have to negotiate with Marlowe in Reno. Hooray for war”!

“Excuse me, but we have a small problem Mr. President”, the voice emanates from the direction of the door drawing all eyes onto an exceptionally pregnant Christian Underwood, who stands at the doorway, a plaid muumuu draped over his formerly lean frame with his right hand resting atop a beach ball sized belly.

“Damn it Christian, I’m trying to plan a war, what do you want”?

“Hey, you called me, remember? Anyway, we’re out of milk”.

“So”?

“I need you to milk the cows”.

“What? We’re in Washington DC”! She snaps in mild irritation. “There are no cows here”.

“We have a herd of cows grazing on the south lawn”, he answers. “I moved them there when you said you wanted homemade ice cream”.

“I’m the President of the United States, you bloody prat! I’m not milking any cows”!

“And I am a true blue, dyed in the wool gay man honey. These hands are touching any kind of tits so you either milk the cows or go without ice cream”.

“I’m the President…,”

“I was going to make red velvet ice cream”.

“Of the United…,”

“With strawberries and whipped cream”.

“I’m trying to start a war…,”

“And cream cheese”.

“So I can beat up Sam Marlowe…,”

“And mix in some cake batter”.

“I hate you”.

“You can play war after you’re done, ok”? He smiles warmly.

“Meeting adjourned”, she announces rising suddenly from the chair and makes for the door, turning into the hall. “I have to milk the cows, and while I’m at it start that war”!



“This is Brooke Baldwin reporting live from the CNN center in Atlanta where it has just been learned that President Cat Riley, with the backing of Congress has issued a declaration of war against the Russian Federation mere days ahead of a highly anticipated summit with Russian President Samantha Marlowe. Little is known of the President’s motivation for issuing this declaration but our sources tell us that it could possibly be related to Marlowe’s insistence on creating separate restrooms for members of the LTBGQIA community in addition to Pansexual, male, female, androgynous and co-ed washrooms bringing the total from two up to 12; a violent upending of former Russian President Vladimir Putin’s long standing adherence to the Bathroom treaty of 1987. Other sources however point to Marlowe’s staunch refusal to dye her hair blonde, which was reportedly in an agreement made between Former President Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev which allowed Russia to change their flag colors to match our own and Reagan reportedly wanted the Russian president to color his hair to match the American leader’s. Still, another source informs us that the former Soviet Union’s embrace of Soccer over American football is most like the cause of dissention between the two superpowers. To hopefully clear this up we take you to the rose garden where our reporter Ms. Priscilla Willow is standing by”.

The golden maned, more socially conscious re-named former backstage reporter for SCW Priscilla Willow is standing by in the rose garden on the mild, sunny Friday flanked by a throng of anxious newshounds having caught the scent of a potential scoop and descending as a pack onto the white house lawn where they check and re-check their equipment before a backdrop of the Presidential podium standing just outside the doors to the oval office, which is concealed by a pair of white satin curtains which have been drawn to a close. Rumors begin to filter through the crowd as to the purpose of the impromptu Presidential address ranging from Christian Underwood’s unexpected pregnancy to President Riley’s declaration of war on the Russian republic with additional seeds being planted by reporters calling into their respective networks. Some even attempt to water the seeds by sowing the misinformation among the gathered civilians. Before long however; the secretary of yodeling Griffen Hawkins shows up on the deck, his trembling arms overloaded with heavy concert speakers which he sets down on each side of the podium. Hastily he connects a series of color-coded wires and power cords before darting back into the confines of the oval office.

Moments later the newly selected Presidential anthem ‘Fuck Y’all’ performed by rap artist DMX blares through the speakers with a guttural growling which perks the ears of everyone in attendance, drawing their attention to the podium. The curtains part and, flanked by the dark, aviator shades wearing secret service agents the President emerges, striding through and stepping up to the political pulpit. Taking a moment to adjust the level of her cutoff jean shorts and tuck in a billowy white ‘Wu-Tang clan’ tee shirt the commander in chief sets down a Carl’s Jr. double bacon cheeseburger atop the prepared script and flips her white ballcap backwards.

“Not that I particularly care”, she begins. “But thank you all for coming”. A pause ensues as her aqua lenses scan the rose garden, looking over the assemblage and eventually settling on a pathetic figure quivering at the trunk of a large cedar tree. “Before we begin, I need somebody to bring out a truckload or two of Kleenex and deliver it to the sissy out there”, she gestures with her right hand, pointing to the former SCW champion and self-styled ‘white wolf’ Fenris who tries to console himself in a piqued wail,

“War”! He cries. “This is horrible”!

“Now…,” she resumes. “You all want to know why we have declared war on Russia and the fact of the matter is, we had no choice. You see, the Russian President Sam Marlowe left us with no alternatives by insisting we go into Reno without pancakes…,” tripping on her words Cat rears her head back to see that a grease stain has run from the soaked burger onto the paper. “No, that’s not right, although I could go for some pancakes right now”, she says, reaching down to wipe the grease off with her index finger and then licking the tip. “It says…,” donning a pair of reading glasses offered by an assistant she leans over the podium trying to make out the smeared word. “Damn it, what does this stupid thing say”? Turning to an assembled group of advisers for an answer she is dismayed by a round of shrugging shoulders. “You people are as useless as tits on a bull”.

Behind her, Christian Underwood, having just given birth, and back in his customary black speedo leans against the sliding glass doors with a bowl of cake batter cradled in his arms. He quietly whips the mixture while watching the proceedings taking place in front.

“Alright fine”, Cat grumbles in annoyance. “If nobody can tell me, I’ll just wing it”. Crumbling the paper into a ball she tosses it towards a nearby waste basket, missing the five-foot shot by roughly the same distance. She pays it no mind and returns her gaze to the people anxiously looking on. “The truth is, I don’t give a damn. You see, I’m scheduled for a match, or a summit, or what have you this Sunday in Reno against Sam Marlowe and I want to beat the bloody hell out of her. It’s really that simple. But this…, idiocracy that I call my cabinet says that I must negotiate with her instead. Fine, whatever”, she exhales grievously, blowing a strand of hair upwards and resumes, “but they insist that I have no negotiation points! Still, they say I have to go and talk to the bloody ginger”. She rolls her eyes in disdain, moving on. “To hell with that”! She cries, her voice rising to a pitch. “I just want to get into the uhh…, negotiation ring or whatever and weave her hair into a rope and then hang her with it. I mean, normally I would just nuke Reno after her plane lands, but then that would ruin my chances of getting my hands around her commie neck”.

His attention turns from the address by his employer fully to the creamy cake batter and Christian begins whisking harder and faster. His actions promote a gentle thumping against the sides of the blue Tupperware bowl.

“After all, who does Mark Ward think he is? He takes over the UN and institutes all of these ridiculous rules and expects everyone to follow them without even being briefed”!

Faster and faster the cake batter is churned, dissolving from a lumpy paste into a smooth texture. The thudding of the whisk against the bowl continues to grow in volume and draws the attention of a scattered few attendees but Cat rambles on.

“And if Sam Marlowe thinks I’m going to talk trade, heh, I’m going to apply a deficit on her bloody head! I’ll take her new bathroom treaty and flush it down the toilet with her riding shotgun. That bird has no idea what she’s in for I’ll tie her limbs into a cobweb and hang it in the Oval office to catch the flies…,”

Finally satisfied Christian stops whipping the mixture and dips the tip of a finger into it for a taste. The velvety concoction tantalizes his tongue with a savory blend of sweetness and zest. Rolling the batter across his palette he carefully uses his taste buds to identify the ingredients while recalling the amounts used. “Hmmm,” he says softly. “Not bad but I think it could use a touch more butterscotch”.

“Bloody hell, can’t you see I’m addressing the nation”? Cat demands, angrily spinning on the heels of her bedroom slippers to face Christian. Immediately recognizing him her expression goes from sour to sorrowful as she hangs her head in anticipation of his next chore. “Show’s over everybody”, she whines into the microphone. “Go home and do stuff, I have to go make butterscotch”.

Abruptly stepping from the podium Cat strides briskly past Christian who shrugs bemusedly, “All I said was…,



“Good morning sleepy head, your breakfast is ready. It’s under the hotplate on the breakfast bar; butterscotch pancakes”.

Christian leaves the bedroom, gently closing the door behind as he departs leaving Cat to flutter her eyes and stretch her limbs. Kicking the bedding to the floor she slowly rises up, stifling a powerful yawn while reaching for one of Scott’s oversized tee shirts to throw on as Christian’s voice rings out once more from the hallway reminding her to get ready to drive to Reno for her match with Sam Marlowe. Sliding the red and gold Powerhouse gym shirt over her underwear Cat slides her feet into a pair of bright yellow Pikachu slippers and starts for the door, pausing to grab a hardback edition of Grumpy Cat memes.

She trots down the carpeted stairway with purpose, the book clutched tightly in her hands as her feet thump rapidly down the steps. Christian is seated in the living room on the sofa perusing the June 1943 edition of Cat fancy magazine while Scott lazily channel surfs from his ragged recliner which groans in protest under his heft. Noticing Cat approaching from the corner of his eye Christian offers a smile and adds,

“Don’t take too long kitty cat, we have to leave in an hour”.

Without acknowledging him Cat slides in behind her boss, peering over his should and raises the 948-page book, slamming it down on top of his head drawing a throaty guffaw from Scott while he rubs his tender dome in confusion.

“Owww! What the hell was that for”?

 Less than two weeks away from SCW’s London Brawling super card Cat Riley finds herself back home in Las Vegas. Despite missing her family and friends she noticed that she had been booked against Apple Coren, a young woman from York of whom she knows nothing of and elected to make the trip to take advantage of her manager’s resources to prepare in earnest for the enigmatic bombshell. While her family possesses a wealth of wrestling knowledge, they could offer little insight into her upcoming opponent other than a few miscellaneous tidbits; she is a brawler with a decent amount of technical skill and favors submissions apparently – a trail of bread crumbs left to scatter in the wind. In the morning she would review Gene’s video library in hopes of finding match footage and try to compare notes with previous opponents in hopes of developing a working game plan.

In the meantime, however there are chores to be done; her bedroom could stand a bit of cleaning, at least according to Christian Underwood, in addition to a few other bits and bobs. Stepping through the doorway she reaches out with her left hand, sliding against the plastered wall searching in the dark for the familiar feel of the plastic light switch. Finding it she flips it upwards and with a faint click the room brightens as the overhead lamp flickers on. Looking across the room she tosses her grey gym bag onto the queen-sized bed where it lands on the rumpled white blankets with a muted thud and scans the 15 by 15-foot room.

Several pairs of discarded cotton leggings lay strewn across the floor, casualties of a mad dash to the airport. A sweater is draped over the lamp atop a chestnut nightstand with a pair of Scott’s oversized tee shirts hanging from the inner door knob and atop a 42” flat screen television. Several mis-matched socks are scattered errantly about the shaggy blue carpet. An alarm clock turned on its face fails to give her the time, although it may help if she were to plug it in. A fan leans against a glass computer desk with a UNLV sport jacket draped over the curved monitor. Stepping towards the desk and kicking aside one of at least five shoes lying about she approaches the high back leather computer chair with a stack of blue ray discs piled on top of it along with a half-eaten bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups. Reaching into the plastic orange and yellow bag she pulls out one of the chocolate candies and unwraps it. Stuffing it into her mouth she drops the wrapper to the floor with a shrug.

“I don’t see what’s wrong with my room”, she muses aloud.

While she continues to look about the ransacked room, she fails to hear the light squeaking of the pet door as it is flung open allowing the family pet of many years Genie, a twelve-pound Persian cat to slink in. With a furrowed brow she studies the bed, her aqua lenses fixated on the gym bag. She steps across the floor to the bed and grabs the bag, inverting it to dump its contents onto the floor and flops down on the vacated pillow topped 13-inch mattress. Genie follows suit, springing from the floor and joining Cat on the bed. She smiles as the furry cat greets her with a ‘kitty bump’ and scratches her behind the ear prompting the feline to purr in content.

“Hey Genie, have you been good while I was gone”? she asks, stroking the cat’s silken white coat. “Maybe you can tell me what’s wrong with this room”?

Rather than respond, Genie simply offers a lick to Cat’s nose before nestling onto the pillow. Sitting up Cat again scans the room; her gaze is curious with an arced brow as she looks about for an unknown object but is unable to discern its whereabouts. With a lightly frustrated groan she rises off the bed and reaches up for the small bronze chain attached to the ceiling fan. With a tug the fan begins to whir, circulating a cool breeze throughout. Unsatisfied however Cat gives it a second tug and the fan spins faster. Plodding back to her bed she is struck in the back of the head by a small, light device which falls to the floor with a muffled clunk. Rubbing the back of her head Cat turns around and looks down at the remote control and smiles,

“There you are”! she exclaims. I thought I had lost you”. Cradling the device in her hand she dives back into bed and depresses the red ‘power’ button at the top to turn the set on and is treated to a flickering of lights muddled by the tee shirt draped over the screen. “Bloody hell”, she grumbles in annoyance while debating internally whether to get out of bed, walk 12 feet across a field of debris and remove the huge blue shirt sporting a ‘Powerhouse Gym’ logo or stay put where it’s safe and warm. Before she can make up her mind though a rapping against the door alerts her to unexpected company. “Come in”, she answers.

“Hey kitty cat”, Scott Schreiner, the massive, self-styled ‘Big Pump’ and spouse of the actual man of the house Christian Underwood opens the door and steps over the threshold. “I got something I need to show you”, he says in a surprisingly soft tone given the booming nature of his voice.

“Sure”, she replies. Recognizing an opportunity, she looks at the vascular behemoth and adds, “Hey, would you mind pulling that tee shirt off the TV please”?

“Yeah sure”, he grunts and steps across the room with one of her plastic doohickeys crunching under his gait. Taking the shirt into his hand he drops it on the floor revealing a rerun of Family Feud and walks back towards the bed where Cat and Genie look on expectantly. “So, any way”, he begins, dropping down on the edge of the bed. His heft depresses the cushy mattress forcing Cat to plant a hand firmly against it to keep from rolling towards him. “I got this text message from Chrissy just a few minutes ago…,”

“And…?” She prods. “What does it say”?

“I’ll just let you read it”, he says, handing her his cell phone.

Cat accepts the phone and props herself up, scooting to the edge of the bed beside the 6’2” 285-pound mammoth. At barely 110 pounds and a standing height of 5’4” the disparity between the blonde and Scotty is almost comical, but her expression instead reflects a sinking feeling as she reads into a message of titanic proportions,

GIVE GENIE A BATH

“Uh oh”, she says swallowing with an audible gulp.

“Yeah”, the big man nods somberly. “Maybe we should go downstairs and figure out how to do this”? He suggests before adding in a hopeful timbre, “and you can nuke me something to eat”?

“Alright, fine”, she assents and rises to her feet. Kicking off her shoes as Scott does likewise, she follows up by ditching her socks, kicking them across the room to land behind the dresser and pulling her pants off leaving on nothing but one of Scott’s vastly ill-fitting shirts. “Let’s go see what we can come up with”.



“I think I have something”, Cassie’s voice rises excitedly from behind the blue glow of the computer screen before her. Leaning against the desk she taps away at the backlit gamer style keyboard, punching in commands to access her father’s digital video library. “Her name is Apple Coren, right”? She asks.

“Yeah”, but is she hot”?

“Fuck all if I know”.

“I don’t wanna fuck all, just her”, Junior yawns while extending his legs along the well-padded chestnut leather sofa, peeling his shoes off. “Assuming she’s hot”. A loud series of thuds reverberate throughout the exquisitely furnished Mediterranean style house accompanied by a guttural growling which he quickly casts off as belong to the ‘family pet’. “Now, hurry up and dig up her nudie pics”, he says, rolling onto his side. “And get me a pair of earplugs”.

A loud roar is followed by a crash and the trailing clatter of shattered glass. Another roar brings with it a chain of thumping. Briskly it echoes down the softly lit hallway, but Cassie shrugs it off and returns to her attention to the monitor in front of her. Scrolling through a series of links provided by her search query she begins clicking on them, starting with the top most link and reading through the results. Not satisfied she backs up to the original results and clicks the second link, and eventually the third and fourth until coming across something which piques her interest. Reading on she dives into the sea of text before her, swimming through waves of words until one of her father’s scouting reports splashes her blue eyes. Cassie wades through the undercurrent of biographical information, paddling past a montage of photos – no nudies – and a drizzle of press releases until finding a fishing hole teeming with a school of details.

“Ok, so she’s a brawler”, Cassie begins.

“And I’m trying to sleep”.

Before she can reply a thunderous cacophony of crashes occur in rapid fire succession followed by another load roar and, surprisingly, a child like ‘whee’ as the thudding and bumping returns to its previous levels. Casting a glance to the doorway but seeing nothing but the opposing cream-colored hallway wall she shrugs and returns to her stream of settlement and casts her line, reading along.

“She’s from an aristocratic family in York England”, she reads aloud for her fidgeting brother. “Her father, a British Lord was often away, and it was the staff who pretty much raised her”. Like a rock across water her eyes skip along stirring additional fry which she offers up. “She was taught to wrestle at a small school in Britain and, this is interesting…,” A pause ensues as she treads further along to ensure the correctness of her thoughts. “Despite a tendency for brawling she has an impressive arsenal of submissions”.

“So”? Junior demands sleepily.

“So, you moronic mackerel, a submission wrestler taught in Britain, what are the chances she learned submission wrestling at The Snake Pit”?

“Slim and none”, he replies, stifling another yawn. “I talked with her dad and uncle when we were in Manchester and they told me that Cat and Fox were the first two women they ever trained and Apple bottom Coren has been around longer than Cat”.

“Son of a…, Damn it”! The voice of their father crying out is quickly succeeded by a string of heavy thudding which grows louder and louder until the elder Gene Banton stomps into the office where the twins are working drawing a look of puzzlement from the pair.

“Hey pops, try to keep it down so I can sleep while Cassie works, alright”?

“Dad…,” Cassie stammers watching her father rummage through an attached walk-in closet. “What’s going on”?

“Nothing that a Burmese Tiger trap wouldn’t fix”, he grumbles.

“What”?

“Ugh”, he groans, casting a few miscellaneous items haphazardly to the side. “Fox gave Mow Mow a bag of catnip”, he says while continuing to dig. “Now she’s riding him around the house while he goes crazy”.

Emerging from the closet with a heavy rope Tiger snare bundled into his arms he heads for the door but pauses at the doorway and turns back to his children with a bit of a smirk.

“Remember when you two fed Mow Mow all that catnip so you could swipe your mom’s credit card”? he asks, shaking the rope in reminiscence of an event which ultimately prompted him to buy the heavy-duty nylon trap.

“Yeah”, Junior snickers at the memory. “God, she was pissed”.

“Good thing she’s out shopping right now”, Cassie adds with a smile.

“No kidding, she wanted to whip my ass for fathering you two”, Gene nods in agreement, turning towards the hall. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a cat to trap”.



The floor is littered with cardboard box traps lying face down, each of them, opened and empty are propped up on one side, held up by a stick taken from the yard. A string tied to the bottom of each twig runs across the deck where they all intersect in the living room at the sofa where Scotty sits, his bare feet propped atop a crochet coaster on an ornately engraved wooden coffee table, television remote in one hand and a beer in the other. With a smirk of satisfaction, he hangs ten, rapidly depressing the channel button with his thumb, surfing through the swell of programming. Behind him a crash resounds as Cat discards another burned out microwave oven onto the floor and steps carefully over the intertwining string to join him on the settee. Carpingly she reaches for an open bottle of Pepsi Max.

“Stupid made in America junk, bloody yanks can’t even make a microwave work properly”.

Yeah, I don’t know what’s wrong with that crap”, he agrees, suppressing a belch. “I keep telling Chrissy to buy Chinese, but the damned broad never listens”. Polishing off the bologna sandwich and chips he begins to tackle the can of Bud light in earnest, taking a healthy swig before looking over at Cat. “Just as soon as I finish this beer we’ll get started”, he says. “Where is she any way”?

“Fine”, Cat acquiesces with a shrug of her slender shoulders, “She’s sleeping on my bed, but I don’t think this is going to work”.

“Why not”?

“Those boxes are too flimsy; she’ll tear right through them”.

“They only have to hold her long enough for one of us to grab her”, he grunts. “Then we can give her that bath. How do you suppose we get her to come down here anyway”?

“We can entice her with dinner”, Cat offers. “We’ll set something out that she really likes and ring her bell”.

“Alright, cool, let’s get started”. Scott rises to his feet, crumpling the empty beer can in a meaty fist and starting towards the kitchen. Stopping in his tracks however he turns and looks to Cat with an arched brow asking,” Uhh, do you know how to work that refrigerator”?

“Open it with your right hand”, she explains rolling her eyes towards the newly reinforced ceiling fan. “Then scan the contents with your eyes and grab what you want with your left. Be careful though”, she advises. “The stuff in there is not a barbell. Once you have what you want, close the door carefully so you don’t destroy it”.

“Cool, thanks”.

She silently watches the gleaming metal blades spin slowly about, circulating air throughout the living room as Scott’s heavy feet clap across the recently polished cross hatch patterned wood floor. An audible click is heard as he flips the switch turning the light on in the kitchen, followed by a confused snarl.

“Hey”, he demands in a bellicose roar. “What the hell is this thingy in the door? Every time I touch it water comes out”!

“It’s a water dispenser”, Cat grouses softly, not wanting to come across too harsh at the alarming display of ignorance. “The one on the left is an ice dispenser”.

“Dumb broad, ain’t he ever heard of a damned faucet”?

“It’s filtered”, she offers, attempting to explain.

“What”?

“Never mind”. Propping herself to a vertical base the barefooted Cat makes her way to the kitchen, carefully navigating the minefield of tripwires, not wanting to trigger one on accident, despite merely being cardboard boxes bearing Amazon Prime logos. “Hold on Scotty, I’m coming”. Although she is more fearful of Scott’s exploding voice, and the damage it could do to her eardrums. “Just a sec, I don’t want to step on any of these strings”.

“They’re tripwires”, he says correcting the mistaken civilian. “And this is the plan; when she comes down here, she’ll trip one of the wires and get trapped under the case…,”

“It’s a box”.

“Shut up. When she gets trapped, you jump on it and grab her, got it”?

“What if she doesn’t trip any of the strings, err, wires, then what”?

Rolling his baby blues General Scotty does not bother to hide his irritation. “Then you grab her when she starts to eat”, he explains. “You are so lucky to have me here to plan this out for you or your little ass would be in a world of trouble”.

“But why do I have to be the one to grab her”? Corporal Cat cries in protest. “You’re the one with the huge muscles and giant hands, why can’t you do it”?

“Because I’m in charge here”, he bellows. “It’s my job to plan this operation”. He hands her an unopened can of sardines and barks his next order,” Figure out to open this damned thing and ring the bell”.

Exhaling a sigh of capitulation while under the glowering glare of the behemoth Cat pulls the tab up and slowly peels the aluminum lid back. Dropping to a bare knee she rattles the can against the side of Genie’s plastic bowl, shaking the contents loose, allowing them to fall inside.

“Good job” Scott offers up Genie’s gold-plated dinner bell having retrieved it from the hook on the wall. “Now ring it and let’s get this over with. I’m missing out on the Ecuadorian curling semifinals”

Cat takes the bell in hand and draws a deep breath. Genie is the darnedest cat she has ever come across, let alone gone rounds with and no matter how many times she has done so, no matter how often she’s changed up her strategy Genie has nearly always managed to thwart her efforts. Many bruises, headaches and repairs to the two-story Victorian manor later she is set to engage the frustrating feline once more. Exhaling slowly, trying to gather her composure she raises the bell and…,

“Give me that thing you little chicken shit”! Snatching the bell from her hand Scotty holds it aloft and rings it vigorously, calling out his pet, “Genie, dinner’s ready”!

A high-pitched meow emanates from upstairs in response and general Schreiner, satisfied, re-posts the bell on its hook and takes station behind Cat, who warily looks outward from the kitchen. The patter of tiny feet strums down the stairs and before the nervous blonde can draw another breath, she feels the familiar softness of long fur rubbing against her bare legs. Looking down she recognizes Genie, having made her way down and appearing none the worse for wear, despite the numerous traps lying about the house indulging in the sardines. Purring in content she eagerly devours the fish, squatting down on her haunches, still sitting between Cat’s now quivering legs.

“Well…?” Scott prods her. “What are you waiting for, grab her”!

Reaching down Cat quickly wraps her hands around the bloated belly of the beast, surprising the Persian mid-meal and hoists her to chest height. Snaking an arm around the fidgeting bundle of fur she grips Genie tightly against her chest.

“Quick, get the pet taxi”! she cries out. But Scotty merely stands there, his normally hardened visage muddle by a bemused brow. “Hurry, I can’t hold her forever”!

“What the hell do I look like, your valet”? He shouts in an authoritarian tonality. “I can’t do everything. Hell, I did more than my fair share already by planning this op. Now, just go get the pet carrier and stuff her in so I can get back to ESPN”.

“Where is it”? she asks, struggling to maintain her hold on the fussy feline.

“It’s out in the garage”, he says. “But it’s locked, so give me a few minutes to find the key”.

“You’re joking? With planning skills like that you should be working for the bloody city”.

“I know, right? I always told Chrissy that…,”

“Owww”!

He is interrupted by a squeal as Genie sinks her talons in the soft skin of her belly and slashes at it. Recoiling instinctively, she drops the cat who takes off like a shot, tearing out of the kitchen towards the living room.

“Quick, after her”! The General barks. “Maybe one of the traps got her”.

“Not bloody likely”, Cat replies under her breath stepping past the breakfast bar to give chase.  Emerging into the spacious living room she notes that, in addition to a handful of family photos having been knocked to the floor all the boxes have been overturned with the sticks lying to the side and the string jumbled into a knot. “I knew that stupid idea wouldn’t work”! She hisses while surveying the scene. “Now what do we do”?

“I’m thinking”.

“Well think faster before she finds a place to hide that we don’t know about”.

Stroking his bleached goatee, Scott ponders his next move. The shattering of a lamp crashing to the floor reverberates in the background. “The damned cat is running like she’s high or something”, he deadpans. His voice trails off as his mind latches onto something. “I got it”! He cries with a loud snap of his fingers. “We’ll break out the catnip,” he begins excitedly. “She won’t be able to resist and will have to come get some and when she does… boom, we grab her again”!

“Sure”, Cat groans, rolling her eyes in disdain. “Like she’s not fast enough already”.

“You go set up one of the box traps in the living room”, he says. “I’ll go get the catnip and set it under the box so when she comes for it you just pull the string and we’re good to go”.

“Yeah, straight to the asylum”. Nonetheless Cat does as she is instructed. As Scott trots up the stairs, she leans over and carefully resets one of the traps, laughing at the flimsy cardboard while weaving the string towards the main sofa in the living room, knowing that General Scott will insist on establishing his command post there. While positioning the flimsy, rain soaked cardboard box, hastily rescued from the recycling bin for another chance at life she resolves to work on her own plan to set into motion once the current one fails. “As usual I’ll have to do it myself”, she mutters.

The heavy-footed boom of Scott’s feet as they traverse back down the carpeted stairway bounces off the walls as he makes his way back down and into the living room. His right hand is cupped to avoid spilling the finely cut herb as he leans over to sprinkle it onto the floor beneath the would be trap. Carefully he spreads his fingers allowing it to sift through, all the while mindful of Genie’s prying eyes, ever vigilant as she watches him curiously from the relative safety provided by the bulging behemoth’s broken-down recliner. The trusty old ‘captain’s chair’ as he prefers to call it shows its age; wrapped in faded, scuffed brown leather and bearing numerous battle scars accumulated over the years watching sports center, all of them doggedly held in place by fraying strips of duct tape. Rising back up he brushes his hands against one another and steps back to join Cat by the sofa. He holds up a single finger in a silent instruction to remain alert as she grips the string in her hands.

“Steady…,” Her muscles tense up in anticipation when Genie cautiously emerges from behind the recliner and into full view. Twitching her tail suspiciously she slowly approaches the pile of cannabis for cats, licking her chops in anticipation. “Steady…, steady…, now”!



“Gotcha”!

The loud cry is promptly followed by a cacophonous crash accentuated by the familiar sounds of a piano having its keys slapped. Looking up from the monitor Cassie casts a smirk to her brother, now sitting upright on the sofa, having abandoned the thought of sleep. He shakes his head pitifully.

“There goes mom’s piano”, he mutters. “Oh well, she never played it any way”.

“Yay! Mow Mow rules and Geno drools catch us if you can”!

“Hey Junior, do you think…”? Stopping herself mid-sentence, Cassie shakes her head as if in answer to the question she was poised to ask. “No, no way”, she says.

“No way what”? Junior insists.

“I was going to ask if maybe that catnip had affected Fox too”.

A series of pained groans echo through the spacious living room of the 21’000 square foot Mediterranean manor as Geno senior reaches up with a trembling hand and grabs hold of a white silk drape, suspended from the 20-foot ceiling where it gently cascades down to the top of the matching fireplace. Gripping the soft fabric, he uses it to pull himself out of the wreckage of the formerly grand piano. Unfortunately for him, the tapestry was never intended to support 270 pounds as evidenced by the shearing sound of the drapery which comes fluttering down to envelope him in a cocoon.  Trying to wrestle free of his confinement he trips over one of a set of twin cream-colored sectionals and falls onto the ornamented glass coffee table separating them reducing it to shards and spilling the dirt of the centerpiece plant onto the cream and tan throw rug.

“You know, all of this chaos is making it really hard to concentrate”, the redhead observes from behind her father’s desk while listening to the discord downstairs. “If this keeps up, we’ll never find anything more out about Apple Coren”.

“Tell me about it”, Junior nods in agreement while stifling an oncoming yawn. “It makes it hard to sleep too”.

Another thunderous roar rips the air followed by heavy sounds of feet galloping through the house and accentuated by Fox’s child-like whooping. Banging her head against the desk in frustration Cassie selects another link on the dimly glowing screen and briefly reads before dismissing the information with a back click.

“Damn it”.

“Alright”, accepting the unissued challenge, Junior rises to the edge of the sofa, finally giving up on the idea of a nap. “What do you have so far”?

“Well…,” she begins, lifting her gaze to meet that of her brother while pushing back in the swivel chair which squeaks lightly in protest. “She favors brawling but also possesses a strong technical style with a subset of submission holds”. Gesturing to the computer she continues, “Going from what I’ve seen she’s not afraid of high spots, which is probably Cat’s biggest weakness, and she seems to be an aggressive wrestler, preferring to dictate the action”.

“I love a take charge kind of girl”, he smirks. “You said she likes to dictate the pace…, what kind of submissions does she favor”?

“Umm…,” caught by the question Cassie backpedals to the computer, burying her face once more into the screen and clicks through a series of links bringing up various clips of the Bombshell in action and applying various holds.

Junior waits patiently for his sister to complete her search, his ears tuning in to the chaos happening elsewhere; his father’s huffing and puffing as the elder man gives chase to the Tiger and Fox run amok, the agitated growling of the big cat and the supplemental ‘whee’ provided by its co-conspirator which brings a soft smile to his face; happy to not be the instigator for a change. His attention returns to Cassie as she clears her throat with an audible gurgle.  

“It looks mostly like new school stuff”, she answers, “a blend of Japanese and European techniques”. Scratching the tip of her nose she looks across the dimly lit room to her brother whose gaze is turned to the floor, reflecting a mind wading deeply into a pool of thought. “She’s also extremely sure of herself”, she adds, “but other than that and everything else I just told you that’s about all I can find on Apple”.

Swimming with the current of her words Junior’s mind paddles along with the accompanying images as he pictures how he would counter such an attack. He reasons that when facing an opponent of extreme self-assurance, he would seek to test the limits of their confidence. Imagining the almost counter intuitive blend of styles of European and Japanese wrestling, like low- and high-density water fronts they don’t blend so much as collide to create the oceanic equivalent of weather or in wrestling, a confliction of means as both styles address the same problems but in different ways. Surely a single style would be more fluid? Before he can answer his own question however he is pulled away by a riptide which thrusts him ashore and washing him in an idea for good measure.

“It could work”!



“Huh,” Scott demands through tightened jaws, looking on through weary, water logged eyes. “What could work”?

She regards his quizzical glare delicately, knowing his notorious lack of patience while images revolve in her mind’s eye, circling around her thoughts as an idea begins to form. The key to getting the stubbornly self-centered big man to play along, as Christian has once shared with her is to make him think the idea is his. Holding up a finger asking for a brief pause buys her time to consider her choice of words while surveying the debris scattered about the living room; the sofa now lies on its back with the black, cloth underbelly facing the television. The coffee table has been shattered and now lays in ruins with bits and pieces strewn about. The ornamental throw rug beneath the coffee table has been shredded by Genie’s claws and the box ‘traps’ have all been trampled flat. Both nightstands flanking the sofa are overturned and the matching bronze leaf and vine Tiffany table lamps – having seen better days – have been cast to the floor, their shades crushed under Scott’s bulk. Catty corner to the sofa, the matching loveseat has seen its cushion torn out and shredded, the feathery stuffing scattered haphazardly with Scott’s ‘command chair’ his ratty old recliner being the only thing seemingly unharmed. It also serves as a temporary shelter for their quarry, unbeknownst to them with Genie tucked underneath watching like a prison escapee, waiting to make her next move.

“We tried my idea”, she begins slowly, still shuffling her intended words. “For that I thank you, but obviously my idea wasn’t very good, so I think we need to try your idea”.

“See”? Scott bellows in agreement. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you before we destroyed the house, it was a stupid idea that only as dumb blonde like you could come up with”.

Biting her tongue, though desperately wanting to tear into him verbally she instead keeps it in check and continues to listen.

“You need a man to plan this shit out, so it only makes sense to use my plan, right”?

Cat remains silent, her tongue still pacing within the confines of her mouth, anxious to break free,

“Now, for the sake of your memory, what was my plan again”?

“Remember that commercial we saw a few minutes ago”? she asks. “The one with the silly jingle and the giant squirt gun”?

Stroking his goatee thoughtfully Scott rewinds back to the commercial sandwich in between the junior varsity hotdog eating championships as the jingle implants itself once more into his head as an earworm,
‘It’s kitty time, kitty time, kitty-kit-kitty time, the sudsy soaker is online it’s time to make the kitty shine’.

“Oh yeah”, he says, recalling the commercial. “The Karrie Mae and Angie Oh so fun Super Sudsy kitty soaker”.

“And Christian’s text to you said to give her a bath”, she adds wryly. “It didn’t say anything about capturing her”.

“Yeah, that’s right”, he lifts his gaze in enlightenment, but abruptly turns it back to Cat in an accusatory glare, “So why did you want to try and capture her dumbass”?

“Because I’m a dumb blonde, remember”? Cat sneers, her tone taking on a sarcastic pitch. “Where do you keep the Karrie Mae and Angie Oh so fun Super Sudsy kitty soaker any way”?

“It’s in the shed out back”, he answers while shuffling to the overturned sofa. Too lazy to flip it over Scott instead plops down on the hard floor and leans against the bottom with his eyes returning to the ‘war map’. “Hurry up and get everything set, I gotta catch up on what I missed. Thank God for DVR”.

“Yes sir, Mr. General sir”. Standing just inside of his peripheral vision Cat snaps into a salute which the big man regards in a nonplussed countenance.

“What the hell are you saluting me for”? he demands in a throaty drum. “Go and get the stuff and set it up. I don’t have all day and I’m tired. All this damned thinking is giving me a headache”.

Thusly dismissed the corporal scampers from the living room through the sliding glass gateway into the back yard. Her bare feet trot over the moist, thick grass as she approaches the burgundy and white wooden shed. She opens the meticulously carved double doors and peers inside at a wall of boxed goods; Karrie Mae and Angie Tender Tushy Potty Paper, the Karrie Mae and Angie Kitty Caboose, Karrie Mae and Angie’s Colossal Kitty Condo, Karrie Mae and Angie’s spring clean air peen, Karrie Mae and Angie’s Fussy Feline Fur Freshener models 1,000 to 7,000 and more. Reaching the floor, she spies the target still tucked away in a long box she estimates to be at least one meter. Picking it up, she cradles the bulging package, wrapping both arms tightly around the surprisingly heavy object and proceeds to waddle back across the yard towards the well-lit patio and sets it down on the park bench style table. Tearing it open and pulling out the instruction manual she begins to read over the instruction manual, marveling at the thickness of the booklet and the amount of information contained within.

“I don’t believe this”, she sputters aloud, lifting her eyes from the plentiful pages. “I’m supposed to be getting ready for my match against Apple Coren, but here I am, outside in the middle of the bloody night trying to give Shere Khan a bath”. Shaking her head in capitulation she resumes reading. “Maybe Apple will go easy on me”.

 The sweat cascaded from a an arced brow, diverted from the corner of the young woman’s squinting eyes and rolling over a pair of puffy cheeks as they expand taking in precious oxygen. Her nostrils flare in sync, helping her depleted lungs replenish the lost fuel. A billowy fog blows from her huffing lips; exhaust being forcibly evacuated to make room for fresh ventilation. For slightly more than an hour she had been engaged in an impromptu roll – combat sports jargon for a sparring match – with a considerably older woman who, despite her age, proved to be exceptionally capable on the mat. Dabbing at her face with the towel offered by her uncle Paul Riley, Fox studies the other woman, a tall, athletically built brunette who engages in a hushed conversation with an impossibly wide man sporting a short cut head of blonde hair parted in the middle who was introduced to her as Gene Banton, the Goldenboy, and manager of her cousin Cat. A man of considerable means who had made the trip from Las Vegas, Nevada to Wigan, England specifically to see her, and a man she knew she had to impress.

Despite her best efforts however, and against an adversary more than double her 19 years of age she simply could not beat her. Doubts begin to creep into her mind as she studies the other woman, carried along the chilly morning breeze through the weathered cracks in the uninsulated plank walls of the wooden shack turned gymnasium. She tries to fumigate the apprehension, reminding her self that it is merely a test, but like many roaches they seem immune to her efforts, resurging almost immediately. The unnamed woman, with long chestnut curls neatly tied into a fish tail tugs at a plain black sports bra, adjusting the garment while gesticulating with the chiseled slab of granite. Her breath finally returning she looks on while the pair continues to talk.  The doubts relentlessly hammer away at the already cracked wall of confidence, chipping at it piece by flaky piece until she surrenders to its inevitable failure, bowing her head with a belated sigh.

“You did fine Fox”, her Uncle Paul whispers into her frigid ear and drapes a reassuring arm over her slumped shoulders. “Trust me; everything is going to be fine”.

Soothing though it may be, his hot breath does little to assuage her fears. With the exception of the occasional male sparring partner Fox Riley had never rolled with anyone she could not beat, until when it mattered most. Then, like a car driving to the most anticipated destination of her life she breaks down stranded in Wigan. A tear emerges between a fissure in the distressed dam, forced through by the palpable pressure and she reaches up to wipe it aside, re-directing her gaze to her other Uncle Ernie, seated against the wall on a bench. Saying nothing he merely smiles, his bespectacled eyes flickering and offering a glimmer of reassurance. With his arm still draped over his niece’s sagging burden bearers Paul offers a gentle shake in an effort to lend the youngster some of his own confidence.


“I tried, Uncle Paul”, she murmurs in quivering capitulation. “I really tried. I just.., I couldn’t beat her”.

“You did better than you think”, he offers with a nod, his blue lenses focused on the object of her attention sharing a laugh with the casually dressed American man.  “I wasn’t going to tell you at first that..,”

“That what?” she hastily demands. “That they were going to laugh at me?”

“No”, he chuckles, rubbing the side of her soaked flaxen follicles. “That you just went a solid hour with a six time world champion”.

“What..?”

“I’ll let him tell you”, with a tap of his finger he directs her attention back onto the pair who have broken from their huddle and move to rejoin them. “Geno,” he raises his voice to the approaching behemoth of a man. “Tell Fox who she just wrestled for an hour against”.

With a hearty chortle Gene reaches out placing a five fingered slab of beef on the British man’s shoulder and locks eyes with a fidgeting Fox Riley, who regards him demurely. “Young lady, you just went an hour with Erika Stark, one of the best wrestlers I’ve ever managed; six time world champion and record holder for the longest unbeaten streak in IWA history at 152 straight wins”.

Blinking rapidly, her round face flushed in confusion the thunderstruck blonde stares open mouthed at the taller brunette who smiles congenially and extends her hand which is apprehensively accepted.

“I’m Erika”, she says gripping her hand firmly and pumping, “and I have to say that I so very much enjoyed our roll today. I had a lot of fun”.

“But..,” She stammers, unable to come to grips with the suddenly slippery realization, wet down by a cloud burst of questions pelting at her thought processes.  Erecting an umbrella of determination to avoid distraction by the competing queries she asks the first question to spring into mind, “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because you would have been nervous you silly bird”, Rising from the creaky bench Ernie plods across the mat which wheezes in protest over the hardship of bearing his heft and joins the group. “You would have gotten nervous and made mistakes. We wanted you at your best, and despite the rubbish you were telling your Uncle Paul, you delivered”.

Shuffling in a comfortable looking pair of fur-lined black loafers Gene tugs gently at the legs of matching, and equally luxurious black knitted cashmere pull on pants. A tightly fit soft cotton true white tee shirt gives way to a multi-pocketed men’s expedition parka now held by a bulging arm. A White cashmere linen Kefiah scarf is loosely wrapped around a tree trunk of a neck providing an extra layer of warmth on another biting Manchester morning. Reaching into one of the side pockets of the jacket his hand emerges with an orange tennis ball which he squeezes tightly a couple of times, forcing the inner rubber shell to collapse onto itself only to retake its original shape upon release and hands it to the youngster.

“You certainly did”, he says in agreement with Ernie’s assessment. “But there’s another test I’d like to ask you to do”, with a pause he hands the ball to Fox who stares at it quizzically,

“I’m not much of a tennis player”, she states with a hint of a frown, and promoting a breezy chorus of laughter from the group surrounding her.

“That makes two of us”, he answers with a grin. “No, what I want you to do is..,” breaking from the group he grabs her hand and leads her to a portion of the wall and facing her to it, “stand right here and bounce the ball off of the wall ten times quickly. Throw it ten times with your right and catch it with your right, then throw it ten more times with your left and catch it with your left and then finally throw it five times with your right but catch it this time with your left and then switch to the other hand, got it”?

She nods numbly, glancing in puzzlement, first to Gene and then to her Uncles and finally to Erika who has reclaimed her Pink nylon warmup jacket, donning and zipping it up and proceeds to perform the prescribed task, completing the first set of ten for each hand with an effortless ease, the muted thud of the hollow ball adding to the acoustics of the room as she begins the second set, accompanied by the low pitched whistle of the wind picking up outside.

“I don’t understand”, she sighs in apparent boredom with the simple actions. “What’s this supposed to tell you? We’re barely a meter from the wall”.

“It’s a simple test of your hand-eye coordination”, he shrugs.

“But why”?

“I’ll explain it when you’re finished”.

The rhythmic cadence of the ball rebounding takes center stage over her ebbing confusion, bouncing it out of her mind and replacing it with the business at hand as she begins the slightly more challenging third set, hurling the ball against the splintering planks with her right hand and catching it with her left and then swapping her catching and throwing arms. Regardless of the added complexity however she completes the trial in short order and then turns to face her would be boss, handing the ball back to him which he waves off.

“Keep it; I have a thousand of them”.

“Perhaps now you can tell me why”? She says flatly, unamused by the simplistic test and jutting a thumb to the wall. “I can do that in my sleep”.

“Sure, “he nods, slipping his jacket back on. “But why don’t we go inside the house where it’s warm first”?

The suggestion draws an obnoxious cackle from Ernie stepping towards the door to lead the way, “You yanks and your thin blood”.

“Hey I live in a desert”, he moans.  “Give me a break”.

Seated at an expansive chestnut dining table the group enjoys a hot chocolate, served in old white ceramic cups. The Riley brothers nurse their drinks, allowing them to sit on matching saucers while casually stirring with a teaspoon to cool the steaming liquid. Erika cradles hers in both hands allowing the steam to warm her face while Gene spoons out a marshmallow to eat separately. The youngest of the group Fox, impatiently blows over the cup pausing to take a sip before renewing her efforts. Behind them Beatrice, Ernie’s wife of more than 40 years tends to the stove, preparing additional mixture. Turning around she claims a can of whipped cream from the off white Formica counter top and reaches between the men, setting the red and white can down with a clunk and addresses them,

“I will be in the living room, there’s more chocolate on the stove, help yourselves”, and then excuses herself from the traditional, albeit bright kitchen, her sneakers squeaking against the white tiled floor.

“Professional wrestling”, Gene begins while lifting his cup from the saucer to sample the temperature, “is a combat sport, much like catch wrestling, but there is one very big difference between the two”, another pause ensues allowing him to set the cup back down, clacking against the dish. “Catch wrestling is but a single style, a fantastically effective style, but still just one discipline. When you face other catch wrestlers you know what you’re going to get, but combat sports are continually evolving and pro wrestling is no different. In Catch wrestling you grapple, period. In wrestling however your opponents will not only grapple with you, they will punch and kick and head butt..,”

“Even throw drop kicks”, Ernie adds in a bellicose laughter recalling Cat’s ill-fated efforts in a recent blindfold match.

“Even throw drop kicks”, Gene nods with a grin while maintaining his gaze on the youthful blonde. “My point is, to be the best you have to be adequate in more than one style, well rounded and that is why I wanted to test your hand-eye coordination, to get an idea on how to supplement your skill set”.

Rising from the table Fox sets her emptied cup down and grabs the brown plastic handle of the aluminum sauce pan filled with chocolate and sets it down on the table atop a red crochet pad. The rich aroma gently wafts before the appreciative noses of the collective as she retakes her seat, pulling the wooden chair back up to the table and refilling the mug with the sturdy black plastic ladle resting in the sweet concoction. Wrapping her hands with a pair of cream colored napkins she brings it to her face and resumes blowing over the drink, her youthful impatience to indulge in the syrupy brew drawing a smile from the two visitors.

“Your hand-eye coordination is very good, excellent in fact”, Gene goes on. “Most people mess up on the third set at least once, but you nailed it”.

“I don’t see what that’s supposed to mean”, she mumbles, dousing her cup with a heaping pile a whipped cream and stirring it in. “Do you want to cross train me to juggle”?

“It means that you have the potential to become a very good striker”, he answers with a muted snicker. “All matches start on the feet and with effective striking you have the opportunity to dictate the pace and parameters of the contest..,”

With Gene diving into a dissertation, his smooth yet deep voice blows through her conscious thoughts while detailing the evolution in combat sports over the last several decades; the winds of change gently collecting Fox and carrying her to times past. In her early school years she had gotten into a fight with a bigger black girl in the hall between classes over an incident she could not recall and the girl had surprised her with a snapping kick to the ribs rather than the expected fist to the face thereby knocking the air from her lungs causing her to double over onto the cold, black marble tiling and placing her at the wildly gesturing classmate’s mercy. Picked up once more she is carried into her junior years. On the playground during recess she had been joking with friends on the swing set when confronted by another classmate, a heavyset girl with a frazzled auburn mop upset that she did not allow the rotund rabble rouser to copy her answers on a written test. The challenge thusly accepted she sprang from the leather seat fastened to the steel swing chain rushing at the heavier challenger, determined to bring her down quickly but found herself once more surprised by a stiff right handed jab that stopped her in her tracks. Trying to close the gap once more she again felt the sting of another well-timed shot to the face and a third attempt is stymied by another hard punch – this time from her left hand – resulting in tears and a trip to the nurse’s office for an ice pack on her black eye.

The object, he explains is to surprise your opponent by attacking in an unexpected manner, a lesson she learned continually throughout her school years. Aloft once more she is brought to a party held by a friend after school had recessed for the summer. An argument had erupted between Fox and another girl over a recent football match between Chelsea and Manchester with the confrontation quickly becoming heated to the point of the two eighth graders tempering their fleshy weapons in the molten moment. Striking first she held the advantage briefly until being surprised by a judo flip; and another unexpected encounter was brought to a familiar conclusion as she landed on the hard wood floor stunned, breathless and staring blankly into the laughing faces of her schoolmates. The American man’s positivity floats in her mind as she re-imagines the events of yester year; seeing herself rather than the other girl doing the unexpected, smiling and laughing as her friends cheer for her with her adversary languishing in the depths of defeat. But her flight of fantasy is met with turbulence; throughout her childhood Fox Riley has never been recognized as a winner. From spelling bees, to art contests, to sports and more; for the duration of 19 tumultuous years she has rarely placed better than second and while her friends displayed trophy cases swollen with gleaming plaques, trophies and ribbons, gaudy testaments to their superiority, she could barely muster enough to decorate a lonely nightstand. She had become convinced that she simply was not as good as her peers, a reflection which now rocks her from her reverie. From failure to triumph and back to failure she listens on, propping her chin dejectedly onto her palms she regards the man through lenses colored in the cool recollection of the past, trying to determine the possibilities of his plan.

She did go for 60 minutes with a woman said to have been a former world champion, she reminds herself. And she did ace a relatively simple test of reflexes and coordination, a test he was keen on informing her that had stymied others before. But how; if the test was so simple to her then surely it would be an easy affair for someone better suited?  Unless of course she was among those better suited to the challenge; a thought which quickly falls to the wayside to be snatched up by an overzealous doubt which tugs at the strings of speculation like an attention starved Pomeranian. Listening to this man however; with decades of experience and hundreds of championships to his credit she begins to feel the glowing warmth of hope as it slowly envelopes her mind and chases off the dogged diffidence back into the shadows of the subconscious.  He speaks of other wrestlers he has guided, telling tales of their successes, as well as failures and speaking of said failures as coveted learning experiences from which to build future success. Eventually he sums it up with a quote by renowned physicist Albert Einstein saying, ‘failure is merely success in progress’. The quote leaps out at her and voraciously grabs her attention, devouring her own introspection and drawing her focus firmly onto his steely blue gaze.

“Failure is not an option if you want to try new things, it is a near certainty”, he goes on in a warm, even tone. “If you show me a person who has never failed, I will show you somebody who has never tried anything new, and there is no such thing as true failure so long as you keep trying”.

He speaks evenly but with an unshakeable sense of self confidence, his shimmering blue eyes never once leaving her gaze. She feels her determination beginning to ascend, step by step climbing the rungs of resolution.  Lifting her face from her palms she listens attentively, replaying each word as she is carried from the understructure of mediocrity to the suite of success where she is greeted by a plush bed of hope. But bedbugs soon spring from the mattress of the moment biting her with doubt,

“But what if I just don’t have the talent?” she asks.

The question, to her seems a reasonable one but the reaction catches her by surprise with the collective erupting into a cascade of cackling. Each of the men rearing their heads back with Erika dropping hers into her hands in an unsuccessful attempt to stymie her laughter. Several moments pass by at an excruciating pace to the perplexed puppy, as she is sometimes referred to by her aunt Rebecca – Cat’s mother – before the wheels of mirth finally begin to slow allowing Erika to speak,

“Sweetie, you and I just rolled for an hour with no winner, and believe me I say that I did not hold anything back and I can beat most of the girls on that roster easily”, she says in a reaffirming inflection. “And you’re half my age”!

Grabbing once more the handle of hope Fox redirects her eyes from the still smiling brunette onto Gene, who takes a sip from his chocolate. “Do you really think I can do it”? She asks.

“Honey..,” he begins, setting his cup back down affixing his eye on her. “I wouldn’t have spent over 35 thousand dollars flying over 5,000 miles if I didn’t think you had what it takes”.

His answer is resolute, his voice firm and his stare unwavering. Leaping into her chest the young woman’s heart pulses with excitement, feeling resurgence in her lungs as they swell with optimism, and drawing a deep breath she discharges it slowly trying to contain the rush of elation washing over her tingling skin and bathing her in a buoyant blend of anticipation and adventure.

“This is it”.  

 With Senior Vinnie playfully teasing the fans the screen fades into a commercial break. The familiar SCW logo, bearing the neon hued Las Vegas skyline momentarily lights up the darkened room and draws a rapid-fire succession of blinks from Cat Riley who lies on her side watching the televised replay of Climax Control.  A steady, authoritative voice bursts through the silence jarring her attention announcing in a well-trained inflection the new lineup of paraphernalia available in the SCW shop with its web address scrolling by at the bottom in a good morning kiss of sunshine yellow. With her curiosity piqued she sits up on the edge of the 13 inch pillow topped mattress and casts aside the burgundy velour blanket which had been offering additional warmth on a surprisingly mild night in the valley. While the forecast had called for rain followed by heavy wind to bring in colder than normal temperatures she found herself instead sweating. An allusion of the warmth to the high humidity accompanying the recent rain she leans over, her bare, pasty white legs dangling over the edge of the bed, not quite long enough to reach the rich, blue carpeting beneath her bare feet and watches with interest the glitzy rainbow package promoting the wares of Sin City Wrestling.

“Introducing the SCW champions collection, featuring all of your Sin City Wrestling favorites including..,”

The first piece of apparel displayed is a simple black tee shirt bearing the image of Dani Weston layered in eye popping color with her name streaming down the right front side in bold, black and white print. A grey tee follows depicting SCW champion Fenris in a smoky backdrop, his stoic façade peering out from within a full moon overlooking a howling white wolf with his name emblazoned along the bottom in an ancient Norse inspired lettering. A soft gasp slithers between tightly creased lips, her eyes bulging in amazement at the artistic impression. Bringing her legs up Cat folds them beneath the red panties adorning her posterior while continuing to gaze longingly at the parade of apparel scrolling by. The familiar deep red coif of Sam Marlowe follows up characterizing the flaming vixen puckering for the viewer on a deep iron oxide scrim with a resolute caption asking ‘Have you seen this girl’.

“Wow”, a whisper piggybacks on the tail of an escaping breath as additional shirts march by in a procession of admiration for the promotion’s art department and peppering her mind with granular images of what her own shirt would look like. Having been with the company for nearly a year and enjoying a good amount of success she reasons that one bearing her likeness can’t be far off. “I hope mine is as awesome as Sam’s”.

Team Eggplant – an odd name she muses – are next with a white base and black sleeved jersey bearing their smirking, leather clad images pronounced with a cursive inspired purple 3-D dedication and are promptly followed by the sandy tinted, curly mop of Saint John Cross casually draped in a light blue button down with matching aviators dangling from the nape of the neck, secured by the top most catch. Skipping a beat she can feel her heart thumping against her breastplate attempting to catch up as the wrestling action resumes but the spectacle no longer commands her interest as the convoy of times past veers onto a different path, a path littered with jagged stones bearing the names of her peers after pelting her with their success. John Cross, Sam Marlowe and Dani Weston defiantly occupy the trail, their stony demeanor sneering at the cold, hard reality of it all; they have made it, they are success stories recognized by the carving of their names into various pieces of memorabilia. It is a feat she has dreamed of since deciding to enter the rough and unpredictable world of pro wrestling; to be recognized for her ability, to have her accomplishments lauded and broadcast for the world to see. Rather than accolades however; she is instead showered in praise directed to others – a misguided pedestrian walking too close to a puddle of water having pooled up during a rainstorm and getting drenched in reality by an ill meaning prankster tucked inside of a rolling testament to their status. Struggling to stem an onrushing tide, she brushes a shivering stray tear aside and turns the television off with the remote and then drops the plastic device to the floor where it lands with a muted thud.

Her mind’s eye harkens back to her visit with Dr. Stark who had diagnosed her with anxiety and depression but despite the newly formed tears she feels no sorrow, and no self-pity, only anger. She has worked as hard as anyone else on the roster and has beaten many of them; surely she is as deserving of recognition as they are? Her right hand trembles in agitation, reaching to the nightstand to collect her laptop she flips open the 17 inch Hewlett Packard and sets the black cased computer onto her lap and turns the machine on. The screen hesitates briefly before slapping the darkened room with a muddled radiance. Her blue orbs flutter in adjustment to the new swath of light before she turns her twitching fingers loose on the well beaten keyboard and opening the web page for Twitter. Her body surging with heated ardor she opens the comment box and gives her fidgety digits free reign over the rocky terrain of friends, enemies and strangers. Collecting them all together with a five pronged broom she finds herself trapped on a single lane path looping into a circle; why she has failed to achieve any recognition for her efforts, what makes them so much better, and what did she do wrong? Armed with an acerbic rancor she prepares to combat anyone and everyone who would defy her right to recognition. Like the undersides of bridges in fairy tales there are sure to be trolls lurking about but this time she is not only ready for a fight, she wants one.

Some comments are supportive, others appear neutral but none appear to be hostile; this can’t be right she muses in silence while furiously scrolling for comments to her post. They appear to die down after only a few minutes leaving her feed void of opportunity and, unsatisfied she feels no desire but to post again. The second post draws a few more replies, but once again none are openly hostile. Regardless, these people couldn’t possibly care about her; they have everything they could possibly want in their own perfect little world – fame, money, notoriety and recognition by way of hot selling merchandise. What is she to them? Nothing, just another in a long line of downtrodden losers cast aside on the road to glory. It has now been fifteen heart thumping minutes without another reply, the comments and posts on unrelated subjects whizzing by on the social interstate leaving Cat cast aside as roadkill by her busy friends commuting along the information super highway. They have no reason to care. One look is all it takes; scanning the exhaust vapor of their posts, each engaged with one another, a blare of the horn here, a tire screech there; each focused on their own lanes to even acknowledge Cat’s pitiful, untagged signal.

“To hell with them”.

If they won’t let her in then she will have to drive more aggressively and shoehorn her way into a lane, etiquette be damned. An unsafe endeavor, aggressive driving is generally chalked up to a ‘type A’ personality, that is, a person lacking in regard for the wellbeing of others often exemplified by the commission of unprovoked attacks. But this does not apply strictly to the automotive domain as such offenses can be carried into other practices, like engaging in social media banter with friends and followers. Although she has very few followers, roughly ten percent that of her peers Cat is nonetheless afforded ample targets, targets simply meandering their own way. Her fingers become jittery blur zig zagging through replies to her posts in search of a suitable target. Finding several, the young woman pushes a foggy apprehension aside, effectively running it off the road and then directs the verbally abusive vehicle towards the objective, an unwitting Fenris who had merely tried to cheer her up with a simple pun. But it is a pun she is in no mood to engage in, other than by way of a full frontal assault. Other replies whisk by but none are quick enough to avoid the wildly swerving road menace who is quick to change lanes; redirecting her anger onto them.

With several sharp retorts cast haphazardly onto the digital asphalt she slows upon recognition of law enforcement bearing the guise of her manager Goldenboy Gene Banton; but he lets the speeding saboteur off with a warning, free to burn rubber through her own ignorance on way to another target. Additional salvos are fired with each of them hitting their objectives leaving her road weary followers choking in the acrid fumes of puzzlement while the hunt continues with a pair of blockings and numerous posts lamenting her frustrations in a seething yet confusing psalm of inner turmoil. The pressure mounts with each scrolling down the suddenly arid avenue of affliction and yielding no new replies to attack save for one,

‘Untag me please’.

Her chest tightens as she re-reads the post from Ty West, and lacking the familiarity with Twitter terms she can only assume it to mean drop him from her friend list. Why? The knot is cinched into a vise-like clamp and followed by a sharp arrow of pain slicing through her left arm. The hair alertly stands at attention and signals the alarm to which she reacts by discarding the wireless mouse to clutch her thumping chest. Breathing becomes laborious, with each gulp of air reluctantly assimilated and quickly expelled. Raising to her feet she tepidly walks across the room as her lungs join the battle, reinforcing her body with fresh oxygen and eventually driving the invaders out. With her mind feverishly spinning she tries to decipher the cryptic tweet. Ty West is a member of the SCW roster who – before today – had been nothing but friendly to her so why would he ask her to unfollow him? The tweet appears to be lacking rationale until another glance at her feed alerts her to a post from Fenris, written in his native dialect of Icelandic. Fenris and Ty are in a relationship and the post followed her attack and subsequent blocking of ‘The White Wolf’. The pressure continues to mount in her chest, pounding away relentlessly at the stubborn barrier separating rationale from twitter rage, but its presence is felt nonetheless. The noose around her heart slackens and allows her to jump back into the verbal fray.

During her years of schooling she had learned to recognize the symptoms of a cardiac episode but other than the tightness in her chest these symptoms vanish as unexpectedly as they had arrived. Shouldn’t heart attack signs last longer or could it be a warning? Unsure she takes the mouse back into her and leans over the desk where a new reply awaits, a second post by her manager informing her of a car being sent for her. Still unfinished with her assault she sarcastically remarks about the car bearing a custom Fenris paint job before closing her Twitter feed to focus on more pressing matters.

Googling heart attack symptoms she stumbles across links associating the symptoms with anxiety attacks; the pain shooting through the left arm, the difficulty breathing and tightness in the chest among others and recalls the words of her therapist advising her that anxiety and depression – when left unchecked – can wreak havoc on the mind and body. Could this be what she meant? Her heart pulsates in a distressed cadence as her mind reels from an unexpected onslaught of unglued perceptions bringing with them a second jolt through her left arm which is punctuated with a new knot forming in her chest. Shutting the instrument of self-destruction off and bolting to her feet Cat rifles through the burnished cedar dresser for a clean set of clothes, constantly reminding herself of her manager’s car being sent to pick her up while the laughing images of Fenris, Dani Weston and Sam Marlowe dominate the immediate landscape. Beads of sweat form in the creases of her brow as she hastily slips on a pair of black cotton leggings and a white Fenris tee shirt rescued from underneath the bed. Goosebumps shoot up and down both arms bringing a tinge of electricity along as she hunts for a pair of shoes amid the chaos littering the floor and leaving her feeling the cold embrace of tributary confusion which effectively puts her plans of getting dressed on ice.

Dropping to her knees the perspiration is joined by tears rolling down the woman’s quivering face. Ignoring the salty excretion and the images once flooding her mind being evicted by the grim hammering of her heart she clutches at her chest and raises a glossy face to a callously indifferent ceiling.

“God..,” a quavering wad of phlegm pools in the back of her throat forcing an audible gulp. “What is wrong with me”?   Collapsing onto the floor and curling into a fetal position as her thoughts retreat in the black, expressionless face of tramping turmoil she wails discordantly against the, tear stained and strife ridden stockade. “Please help me”?

The quartet of LCD flat screen televisions bathes the cream colored waiting room at Sunrise hospital with a gyrating palette of multi-hued tones which flash through the sterile atmosphere with an impassively random occurrence. Looking up from one of several rows of abutting, brown leather cushioned chairs held aloft by like-colored metal piping Cat Riley’s manager Gene Banton catches a glimpse of a religious sermon with a detached gaze. Seated three seats to his left is young mother whom he guesses to be around 23 years of age is doggedly trying to coax her elementary school aged son to sit still, going so far as to try to bribe the energetic young boy with a candy bar purchased from a nearby vending machine. The boy passes on colorfully wrapped serving of empty calories in favor of jumping from one yard sale seat to the next, ignoring the pleas of his mother. On his right is and elderly man sporting a bare dome with strands of white hair neatly combed down along the side who peruses the newspaper left behind by another visitor. Across the room on the far side of the television sets hung from the ceiling and angled for better viewing a young couple engage in an argument; exchanging hushed whispers which render their vocalizations mute to anyone on the opposing side. Extorting a begrudged sigh Gene turns his focus away from the arguing couple and drops his gaze to a clear, glass topped coffee table bearing a large assortment of magazines. Overhead an announcement over the public address system crackles through the aseptic air catches his ears by the lobe as he settles back into his chair with a copy of Sports Illustrated advising Dr. Hutchings of a phone call on line three.

Flipping through the magazine with no more interest than he could muster for a Pro-am golf tournament he eventually settles on a glossy pictorial layout of swimsuit models and realigns his body to the back of the seat to read the accompanying story. Try as he might however; his thoughts – like the others around him - are firmly entrenched on other matters. He had received the call from his driver advising him that his charge, Cat Riley had requested to go to the emergency room having relayed her words of experiencing angina-like symptoms. He promptly ditched his previous plans, driving to the hospital to ensure her wellbeing and making the call to her friend and landlord Christian Underwood who had been out to the park with Scott and Genie. Nearly 30 minutes have passed since his arrival but he has yet to obtain an update on her and leaving a string of unanswered questions which take precedence over Sports Illustrated for contemplation.

“Excuse me.., Mr. Banton”? The voice of the nurse is a high pitched chirp that violently yanks him from his detachment and pulls his eyes from the magazine. Clad in a blue smock which appears to be plastered onto the 30 something woman’s robust frame she regards him thoughtfully from behind a pair of wide lens, brown plastic mounted glasses and offers a halfhearted smile having gained his attention. “Dr. Saab is ready to see you now”.

With a grunt he lifts his vigorous bulk from the chair, dropping the magazine onto the table and follows her lead. The dark haired woman, as evidenced by the loose strands dangling from her light blue bouffant nurse cap leads him past the incessantly ringing phones on the white reception desk and through an open door. She walks with him down a well-lit hallway bearing a blue line painted dead center and past several doors. Some are open allowing his curious glare to peep inside while others are shut but all of them have one thing in common – the name of the patient inside with the physician’s name underneath, both of which are machine printed in slate block letters. A few more steps further and they reach a tan pine door featuring Cat’s name where she stops and turns to face him with a pretentious smile,

“Just wait right here, Dr. Saab will be with you in a moment”, and she waddles off towards the nearby nurse station, a round, ten by ten foot kiosk with a light brown finish and bright white trim to join her colleagues staring blankly at computer screens presumably in another round of gossip .

Although the door is shut he finds himself fighting the temptation to enter the room regardless protocol be damned, but his allurement is derailed by the timely arrival of a middle aged man with neatly combed back obsidian hair with slivers of silver accentuated by a bristle brush mustache who calls him by name, extending his hand which Gene pumps in greeting.

“How is she?” he blurts, “Is she going to be alright”?

The leathery complexion warps into a frown at the question and he reaches for the left breast pocket of the wrinkly frosted, knee length lab coat to retrieve a notepad and a pair of silver, wire-framed reading glasses. Donning the specs he contemplates the chicken scratch and rubs the cleft of his chin thoughtfully.

“We’ve run bloodwork, taken x-rays, ran a CT scan and administered a stress test and she came back fine.., better than fine actually. She has the best stress test score I have ever seen and her bloodwork paints a picture of health. The X-rays and CT scan turned up nothing as well, so on face value she’s as fit as a trout”, he paraphrases the old term substituting trout, which is regarded as a particularly healthy meal and well known for being low in mercury, for horse. With a tactful pause to realign his thoughts to one patient over the extra five or six he scratches his head and locks his chestnut optics onto Gene’s and continues, “However, I did notice that she was recently diagnosed with anxiety and depression so I’ve taken the liberty of notifying her Psychiatrist, who should be here momentarily. In all honesty there is not a damned thing wrong with her body but anxiety has been known to mimic these symptoms under duress which is why I called Dr. Stark”.

Unnoticed by Gene, as he was engaging with the Doctor was the departure of the nurse who announces her return via a painful squeaking of white, closed toe, slip on Crocs against the gleaming wax of the plain alabaster tile floor with Christian Underwood and Scott Schreiner in tow. The former of the two’s face is awash in undulation.  Before he can formally approach Gene and Dr. Saab his voice shaken yet firmly resounds through the hall in a reverberating demand.

“What happened, is she alright? I want to see her”. His eyes, wide and insistent lock onto the attending physician. His normally tanned complexion is flush with concern having had the entire drive from the park in the South West portion of the valley to the hospital in the North East to coagulate. His breath has yet to catch up to his thoughts having run the distance from the parking lot to the ER where he now finds himself huffing for answers. “Tell me”.

“Physically”, the Doctor begins, turning to greet the newcomers, “She’s perfect, I didn’t find a thing wrong with her”. His gaze falls from Christian to his mastadonian partner Scott Schreiner who coolly regards him from behind a pair of dark wrap around shades while cradling the couple’s pet cat Genie and holding onto the red collar and leash; the color indicating the puffy Persian’s designation as an emotional support animal and rendering them – by law – able to bring her into nearly every building desired. “I ran a stress test, did blood work, took X – rays, performed a CT scan and double checked the EKG readings.., and her vitals are off the charts and inside everything is textbook perfect, no arrhythmias, nothing”.

“So.., what then?” he demands, planting his hands on the blue jean pasted to his hips. “You can’t tell me this happened by chance”.

“He called Gwen”, Gene offers deadpan. “She should be here any minute”.

Turning his attention from his friend and back to the Doctor he asks, “You think she had a breakdown”?

Nodding his head Dr. Saab reviews the charts clenched by the metal tab of the plastic clip board assembled since Cat’s arrival and replies calmly, “I noted that she is on medication for anxiety and depression and finding nothing wrong with her physically..,” he pauses to qualify his words, a habit formed by many physician’s in the modern litigious society in hopes of avoiding a potential law suit and resumes his explanation, “It stands to reason that she may have experienced an episode related to her condition. Therefore, in the best interest of the patient I elected to call her psychiatrist for additional diagnosis and..,”

“I’m sorry.., traffic has been a real bear”. The voice, emanating from the rear facing staff exit to the emergency room slices through the doctor’s remaining words and draws all eyes towards the ‘staff only’ sign affixed to the metal door which slams shut with a loud clang as Dr. Gwendolyn Stark bursts through in a slightly paced run. The woman’s black, Adidas branded sneakers wail against the polished protests of the tile floor. Reaching the group she fumbles about the right side pocket of a white lab coat to coax out a pair of black, plastic framed glasses which are promptly parked along the bridge of her short, button- like nose. Taking the chart offered by the Middle Eastern MD her azure eyes rove over the litany of charts, graphs and assorted notations before handing it back to him with an audible exhale. “Ok I need to talk to her”, the specialist begins, casting a glance at Saab. “I take it she’s awake”?

Following the man’s confirming bobbing of his head; she reaches for the hemline of the navy turtleneck sweater, pulling it down and let’s herself into the room, wavering at the door jamb to signal the assemblage of friends to stay put before disappearing inside. Dr. Saab is quick to excuse himself to attend other patients and leaves the trio of Christian, Scott and Gene to assemble the pieces of the puzzle lying at their feet.

“Do you really think anxiety can mimic a heart attack”? Reaching over to his partner Christian relieves him of the 13 pounds of emotional support and takes her into his own arms, cradling her snug against his pink tee shirt covered chest.

“I don’t know”, Gene admits with a perplexed drawl. “But it does make sense when you consider that you’re dealing with the human mind and that it basically controls everything in the body”.

“I suppose”, lowering his head into the comforting warmth of Genie’s fur laden body Christian mumbles while his mind furiously scrolls through ancient memories, trying to rewind through the aged footage of his own episodes in hopes of finding a parallel. “But I never had anything that”.

If the mountain will not come to Muhammad then Muhammad must go to the mountain – a proverbial phrase meaning that if one does not prevail then they must seek an alternative. With his mind in overdrive Gene casts a sidelong glance to Scott and Christian beside him discussing what could have brought about Cat’s most recent episode with each having his own opinion – Scott subscribing to a possible deep rooted, yet unseen emotional rung and Christian taking a surprisingly parental approach insistent on heaping the burden of blame onto his own shoulders, convinced that he could have done more. So where does Muhammad go? In Essays 1625 Francis Bacon used the word ‘hill’ as opposed to the more recent and popular mountain; the latter probably due to the connotation associated with mountain, drawing up images of an imposing rampart defying any would be adventurers.

“But if you remember what Dr. Stark said anxiety brings you to make mountains out of molehills”. Scott’s voice, though calm and even toned still carries with it a baritone rumbling which subtly threatens the subdued ambience. “You of all people should know that Chrissy. Hell, you’re doing it right now”.

Getting around a hill is easy enough, one simply places one foot in front of the other and walks around it. A mountain however – brings an entirely new series of challenges to contend with, obstacles to be overcome, a maze of paths to be navigated or ignored, and the treacherous footing of an ever shifting terrain, dictated by a mind at odds with itself; all in search of the elusive mole hill.

“Damn it Chris, it’s not you”. The rumbling escalates into a pointed peak which teeters on the edge of eruption with Scott doing his best to remain calm while countering the irrational musings of his spouse. “You’ve done everything possible to help the kid, but at the rate you’re going you’ll end up worse than she is, you are focusing on the wrong damned target”.

But in order to acquire the correct target one first needs to eliminate the associated apparitions peppering the jagged mindscape which proves next to impossible for one without proper reference. The mountain with its litany of traps and pitfalls proves to be a near insurmountable trial to even the most seasoned of climbers, especially when enveloped in a beseeming environment which leaves only one option; if Muhammad cannot go to the mountain then the mountain must come to Muhammad.

“Son of a bitch, that’s it”. His words are sharp, slicing through the parley of his friends and bringing them to a pointed regard.

“What are you talking about”, Christian demands somewhat heated over being carved out of his debate with Scott. “What’s it”?

“Don’t you see..?” Gene clasps his long time friends’ shoulders and shakes them in an eager grip engendered by his eureka moment. “It’s not you Chris, and it’s not Cat drudging up old memories..,” a pregnant pause allows Gene to collect and organize the quickly dimming rays of realization before they can fade back into the darkness from whence they came. “It’s the environment”.

In a seeming take of umbrage Christian steps from his friend’s grasp and regards him through a visage of open indignation, his lips curled tightly into a snarl. “Are you saying that Scotty and I are providing a bad home for Cat”?

“Since when did we become her parents”? Scott demands in a bemused bawl. “I never saw you give birth to..,”

“Shut up Scott”. His eyes heated and with laser-like focus are trained directly onto his suddenly fidgeting friend with Scott kowtowing to his acerbic ‘request’. “Speak up Geno; are we making a bad home for Cat”?

Recognizing Christian’s high emotional state he draws an elongated breath hoping to create some distance and afford his friend an extra moment to cool down. At the same time however; he finds himself bombarded from a different angle with rapid-fire questions and answers and he thrusts his palm outward, buying an additional moment while picking through the buckshot of ideas on how to separate the young lady from her current environment. While digging through the lead and with Scott and Christian’s focus squarely on him the group fails to notice the door behind them slowly opening and Dr. Stark’s neatly styled blonde mane emerging from behind the threshold.  Not wanting to interrupt upon observing Gene’s angular jaw clenched firmly with his cobalt eyes drawn downward towards the floor, digging through the sod of speculation she quietly files in behind Scott and Christian, watching the man tapping his temple with the tip of a beefy index finger and nodding in acceptance to a yet to be shared find.

“Chris”, he begins with his head still bowed in cogitation. “Wrestling is what set this off to begin with, the perceived failure to uphold her family legacy, right”?

Rolling his eyes towards the acoustical, mineral fiber white ceiling tile the angst-ridden SCW co-owner replies with his typical trademark sarcasm, “I’d offer you a shovel Geno, but no shit”.

Undeterred by the challenging tone he presses on, “But she lives with you at your home and with you being the co-owner of the fed she performs for it’s impossible to keep her mind off it. She’s surrounded by the same catalyst day in and day out so it’s not a matter of ‘if’ she has another episode, but ‘when’. Do you follow”?

His brow furrowing at the realization of the point he is trying to make Christian strokes the tip of his clean shaven chin, “Alright”, he acquiesces. “You have a point but what do you propose we do? It’s not exactly easy to remove all of the stimuli”.

Finally having collected the nuggets Gene begins to sift through them one by one, his re-energized mind carefully evaluating each tiny fragment with the care of an archaeologist at a dig site; tossing aside those deemed as unacceptable while nurturing others that show even a spec of promise. He runs down his itinerary, gently brushing off the dust obscuring his view and streams it through his mind as a slideshow starting with his planned trip to Brazil to scout a prospect and followed by a meeting with the director of a new film being produced by his studio, a film starring Christian Underwood.

“Christian, you start filming next week, right”? The question draws a subtle nod from him, his wavy locks bobbing up and down in modulation. “I’ve had Cat taking acting classes on and off since I signed her, so how about we slide her into a role alongside you”?

“That’s brilliant”!

Startled by the surprisingly high-pitched interruption emanating from where Christian stands, all eyes gravitate towards the bewildered wrestling boss who returns the gaze with a sheepish grin; opening his mouth to speak he is cut off by Gwen who emerges from behind him, her petite frame fully cloaked by the larger man’s athletic frame, her lips upturned into a gentle smile.

“Sorry”, she offers apologetically. “I didn’t want to interrupt before hearing what Geno had in mind”.

“And what do you think”? He prods.

“I think its genius, provided she doesn’t have to draw on any deep psychological issues; something like that would be perfect for Cat”.

“What would be perfect for me”? Inundated by the brainstorm with Gene guiding them over the waves and Gwen leading them ashore they failed to notice Cat following her Psychiatrist out of the door inadvertently left open. Wearing nothing more than a blue hospital gown the barefoot subject of their odyssey approached from behind Scotty, the hulking mountain of muscle providing an excellent, if unintended shield, and regards them through deep, soulful blue eyes, her expression tenderly wrapped in concern. She shrugs her slight shoulders in response to the optic fray directed at her by the group, “I overheard you guys out here and wanted to see you”.

“That’s perfectly fine kitty cat”, draping his arm protectively over her shoulder Christian pulls her close, sharing the warmth of his body and fills her in, “We were discussing how to help you”.

Feeling the vibration of his iPhone Gene excuses himself from the group, taking a few steps further down the hall to afford a measure of privacy while taking the call. He nods in agreement, mumbles something unintelligible by the rest of his party and bobs his head again while listening. One more nod and he ends the call returning the device back to his front pocket and rejoins the others.

“That was Despy”, he offers with a tinge of confusion. “He said he has a business proposition for me”.

Christian snorts, “A business proposition from Despy?  “He probably wants to start a lemonade stand or something for the ice cream truck but enough of that”. Turning Cat to face him he regards her with a warm, parental smile and rolls onward, “kitty cat, how would you like to be in a movie”?

 “Right after the match, I was on my way to the back walking up the aisle and I’m looking out into the crowd. Some fans were cheering, some were booing. Some were upset and I remember this one guy, a guy who asked me to autograph his chest during a meet and greet before the show, a really good looking guy. Any way he’s holding a sign with my picture on it and he tears it up and then throws the pieces down in front of me. I should’ve kept walking but I recognized him immediately and I wanted to ask why. Then he starts yelling obscenities at me, telling me that I’m worthless, that I’m garbage, a disgrace to my family and have no business here. He’s getting very animated and starts to scream before security comes to throw him out. So I make my way to the back and it’s like..,” she pauses in search of the right words to describe the feeling of being buried alive beneath an avalanche of anguish, suffocating under the icy weight of despair but finding none she elects to make do with the first image that pops into her mind, which is aided by the sound of bubble wrap being popped by Christian as he tidies up out of sight in the living room. “It was like an explosion I suppose, a big pop and I just started crying”.

“I see..,” The voice is calm and level, refusing to give up so much as the slightest hint to the thoughts occurring behind the softly glossed lips which draws Cat’s attention further up to the woman’s eyes. Though the eyes may be a window to the soul, the bespectacled baby blues belonging to Dr. Gwendolyn Stark prove to be every bit as even as her voice. From behind black rimmed glasses she looks on, her gaze never once leaving her subject’s and seldom blinking. A rich blonde mane, meticulously styled falls from her scalp, slinking down the sides of blemish free, smooth skin and pronounced cheekbones and gently cradles a tenderly angled face.  An older woman, whom she estimates to be roughly Christian’s age wearing a neatly pressed black pant suit, offers no clues by way of reaction. Instead the seasoned psychiatrist patiently listens, quietly assimilating the information provided, breaking in every now and then to ask for further detail or pose another question. “What were you thinking of the moment that the ‘explosion’ went off”? She asks, electing to use Cat’s terminology, an old tactic used to keep the subject on track, “Were you thinking of your family”?

“Yes.., yes I was”. Surprised at the connection made to her family she momentarily stumbles, tripping over scattered images of her father, uncle, cousin and others, failing to recall her previous mention of them by the angry fan who had chastised her; an important yet subtle clue to the woman seated at the ornately crafted Gold colored Victorian style dining table. She leans forward, propping her elbow on the polished cedar top with extended scrolled decoration apron closer to the therapist. “I could see their faces”, she confesses.

“Were they angry”?

“They were very angry”, Cat concedes through a downcast whisper. “They were upset with me for ruining the legacy they had built. I was trying to apologize, swearing to do better, to train harder but they were so mad”.

Through further prodding Cat relives the moment in question, struggling to fight back the tears brimming at the corners of her eyes and threatening to overflow into the conscious landscape. She works diligently to distract herself from the impending surge; kicking off her Grumpy Cat house slippers– a Christmas present from Christian who openly preferred that she not walk barefoot over the hardwood floors during the winter - nudging them towards the thick trestle base of the dining room table and propping her feet onto an open, button backed chair similarly crafted to match the relaxing color scheme of the room. A low, guttural growling emanates from beneath the table as Genie, the housecat having detected a change in Cat’s emotional state comes trotting in across the impeccable sheen of the white tiled flooring and bounds into the young woman’s lap, drawing a huff from her and peering over the table at Gwen who regards the arrival with a smile. Tugging absently at a loose thread on a pair white washed Levis cut off shorts Cat resumes her oration and bundles her hands in the red cotton fabric of one of Scott’s oversized tee shirts which she favors for sleeping. Eventually she manages to make through the re-telling of the scene up to the arrival of Christian who had found her near the loading docks on the basement level and allowing the Doctor to scroll further along through a mental checklist of depression symptoms as she quietly begins to stroke Genie’s long, silken coat.

“In the time since then, have you experienced any angry outbursts, irritability or frustration, even over small matters?”

“Almost every day”, Cat offers while rolling her eyes over scrolling images of daily nuisances like slow drivers, indecisive shoppers and that one sock that always seems to go missing from the laundry basket. “I mean, like, other than every day stuff like cashiers who spend more time on the phone than at work but it’s mostly due to wrestling and stuff you know? Other things don’t get me going so much”. Though she fails to understand the meaning behind the query she unknowingly provides precisely the answer Dr. Stark was expecting and glosses over her reply casting it aside without a second thought to the mundane aspects of daily life that would serve to upset almost anybody. “I mean that little stuff I forget about as fast as I notice it”.

“Alright..,” the Doctor pauses while jotting down some notes into a pad, notes relating to her replies to the various questions along with subtle observations in her subject’s replies, demeanor and reactions. Scrolling further down the list she clears her throat to ask the next question, “Have you noticed any loss of interest or pleasure in normal activities; things you might do every day such as sex, hobbies or sports”?

“Umm.., not really”, she responds in an uncertain tone. “I mean, well, as far as sex goes I’ve been focused on my career and frankly I haven’t met the right person”.

While a seemingly innocuous response The Psychiatrist nonetheless picks up on something in the words which prompts another flash of the sturdy, chrome office pen as she writes down a question next to the question posed, ‘bisexual’? And returns her attention to Cat nodding for her to continue,

As for normal activities..;” she allows a brief pause to add emphasis on the last word spoken and resumes, “That seems to sort of come and go. Like, right after the match for the next… three or four days I think I didn’t really feel like doing anything except stay in my room and watch TV or browse the internet. I didn’t do anything for about a week I suppose until Dani hit me up on Twitter wanting to go out”.

“Did you accept”?

“Not at first, I didn’t want to spoil her fun with my sour mood but I went downstairs to get a drink and when I told Christian about it he almost pushed me out of the bloody door insisting that I go, so I did”.

“Where did you go”?

“Dani gave me the choice”, continuing on while gently scratching Genie behind the ear her expression slowly fades from the deadpan merry go round of the question and answer session while her mind harkens back to the night spent with Dani Weston to the faint hint of a smile brought forth by the memory. “I wanted to go to Chuck E Cheese – I can’t help it I’m just a big kid so that’s where we went”.

“What did you do, and did you have a good time”?

“Yeah..,” the sliver of light becomes a beam as the events of the evening begin to crest to the surface. “We both wore onesies; I wore my pizza onesie and Dani wore this pink unicorn outfit and even added pink and blue highlights to her hair to go with it. She was so beautiful! Everybody kept staring at us well, probably mostly at her but we didn’t care..,” a soft chuckle escapes with her breath a parting gift from the famous game zone cum restaurant. “We were so busy trying all of the games and flirting with the mascot that we didn’t even notice until we started getting tired. I had so much fun..,” the reverie offers up another chuckle in grateful respite to the strong under currents of the week which had left her adrift for so long that she had forgotten that simple pleasure.

With a gentle smile of her own Gwen listens attentively, continuing to steadily write down notes on her yellow writing pad while Cat tells the story of Dani playing a man for game tokens on the basketball pop-a-shot game which she won handily, allowing them to play the rest of the evening for free and the car ride home where they stopped by a nearby Cinnabon and gorged on the savory rich and gooey cinnamon rolls. Once finished the smartly dressed therapist resumes her trip down the dimpled roadmap of diagnosis checking off the exits as the questions are answered along with personal notes and observations. She enquires about Cat’s sleeping habits of late, her energy and appetite; feelings of anxiety or restlessness, changes or difficulty in speaking or body movements, concentration, feelings of helplessness, worthlessness or guilt or fixations on past failures or self-blame.  With each answer the pair is brought closer and closer to the desired destination while the engine of psycho analysis hums along with the driver pausing intermittently to point out sites of interest by way of a question or observation until finally downshifting and she settles the assessment into park.  Following a quick scan of her notes the well-groomed woman fills the interim of silence by assimilating the gathered information and reaching into her left breast pocket to retrieve a small 6 by 6 silk polishing cloth which she uses to wipe down the lenses of her spectacles. Realizing it to be nothing more than a simple ploy for time, Cat busies herself petting the protective Persian in her lap, patiently awaiting the Doctor’s thoughts and prognosis.

Coughing softly into a tissue Gwen adjusts her plastic rimmed glasses and studies her notes hastily scribbled down on the pad which brings Cat’s attention back onto the woman in a nervously inquisitive stare.

“Mind you..,” the psychologist begins while exercising care in her word choice over the potential impact they may have, “This is not a full prognosis, it is just a preliminary overview based on what you’ve told me and what I have noticed, but from what I’ve been able to gather you appear to suffer from a mild to moderate form of panic disorder, which is a form of anxiety”.

“Anxiety,” Cat frowns in confusion. “I don’t understand, I thought I was depressed”?

“Anxiety and depression are often intertwined”, she explains to the bewildered young Briton. “It’s a complex relationship and often unique to the individual but generally one will lead to the other as in your case. Your fear of disparaging your family’s legacy was brought about by a latent anxiety disorder which compounded into a depressive state”.

“What do you mean by latent”?

“Typically anxiety and depression are caused by certain chemical imbalances in the brain. These chemicals are naturally occurring transmitters called neurotransmitters and send information to and from the brain. There are four of these chemicals associated with anxiety and depression..,” with a brief pause she licks her thin, loosely pursed lips while recalling the subject matter of psychology 102 and continues once the lesson plan is retrieved. “First is Serotonin which is primarily associated with mood, appetite, and other regulatory functions in the body and tends to be the culprit more often than not. Next is Dopamine which influences attention, energy levels, rewards and movement. It is not as likely to trigger anxiety as Serotonin but it can lead to symptoms. After that you have Norepinephrine; it is related to anxiety as it involves the fight or flight response or how a person may react to stress. Finally you have Gamma-amino butyric acid – we just call it GABA – it plays a role in balancing excitement or agitation and feelings of calm and relaxation”.

“Ugh”, Cat groans, burying her face in the soft furry coat of her self-appointed protector. “All of these chemical names have my head spinning, I feel like my brain is drunk”.

Gwen nods in understanding with a weak smile. “Alright, let me simplify it for you; sometimes the human brain does not produce enough of these chemicals which generally regulate mood..,” she begins with the patience of a veteran grade school teacher. “When that happens the extreme side of the specific functions the chemical in arrears is responsible for regulating tends to show up more often. Now, you asked what I meant by ‘latent’. Sometimes in one’s youth the brain produces enough to effectively manage your mood and feelings but as you grow older that production drops off which is why you may seem fine during childhood but as an adult you suddenly begin to experience these things”.

“Sort of like a late bloomer”, Cat observes, lifting her face from Genie’s side.

“Not quite how I would put it but essentially correct. As for your particular case, I am going to write you a prescription for Sertraline which is the generic form of Zoloft. I want you to take one pill every morning when you wake up – without fail”! She emphasizes. “This is a relatively slow working drug and missed doses will only set back your recovery. It usually takes three to four weeks to start seeing improvement. We’ll start with a fairly high dosage to build up your system and then gradually taper it off until we find the right amount for you”. With her hand gripping the wide bodied pen she hastily scribbles onto a prescription pad, a soft shade of blue with white letterhead,  accents and a discernable watermark in the center. “Let’s see.., we will start with 150 milligrams”, her voice is soft yet sure as she tears the page off of the pad and reaches across the table handing it to her patient.

Taking a curious whiff of the paper Genie plops her head back down to resume her nap as Cat takes the paper into her hands and studies it. The cursive handwriting in blue ink is surprisingly neat with proper use of capitalization and punctuation that denotes her name, sex and age in addition to the drug being called for along with dosage and refills allowed with the Doctor’s signature in the bottom right corner. With an arced brow Cat frowns.

“You’re not a Doctor”, she mutters with a shaking of her head, “No way”.

“What..? “Gwen responds in genuine confusion, her normally smooth features muddled in perplexity. “What makes you say that”?

“I can read your handwriting”, the young woman states flatly gesturing to the physician with the paper in hand. “I’ve seen a lot of prescriptions but this is the first I have ever been able to read, let alone understand”.

“Oh”! Rearing her head back Gwen finally ditches the aura of professionalism with a hearty chuckle brought forth by an age old question. Still, as a matter of pride and perhaps ego she can’t help but to defend her title as many doctors feel compelled to do. “Cat, I spent eight years in school, plus another year as an intern followed by a year of research for my doctoral thesis and then two more years working on my Ph.D. I assure you I am a doctor, but if it sets your mind at ease, most doctors have sloppy handwriting because they’re overloaded with patients and that means volumes of paperwork and they just don’t have the time. For you however; I made a house call and have plenty of time to do it right. But if it makes you feel better I can write it sloppy”. Her words taper into a warm and sincere smile, which Cat is quick to trust by shoving the paper into her pocket.

She shakes her head “I was just kidding”, she offers, looking to shrug it off. “But I am curious, what did you write about for your Ph.D.? those are usually pretty heavy”.

“Oh I wrote about panopticism in the digital age”, she says passingly while loading her belongings into an embroidered black leather satchel which she then closes with the muffled snap of a gold buckle. “It’s basically a form of behavior modification practiced on prison inmates”.



“So, did you shrink her head? That must have been quite a job”. Standing at the foyer bearing Gwen’s coat folded over his arm Christian regards the short, stylish blonde with a smirk, a smirk she refuses to return in kind, instead opting for a narrow eyed glare of annoyance which catches him off guard.

“Ugh, Christian you know I hate that word, that term and everything associated with it”. The term ‘head shrinker’ , a phrase originating from South American tribal witch doctors and the practice of shrinking heads as a means to harness the spirit of an enemy and compel them to serve the shrinker. Later it was adapted as an affront to Psychologists and Psychiatrists by wary folk of the 1900s, distrusting in the fledgling science. “Please don’t use that around me”.

“I’m sorry”, he mopes and bows his head in atonement. “I was being facetious. What did you learn about Cat”?

“Panic disorder” Gwen huffs accepting the full length beige winter jacket. Setting the satchel on the marble floor beside her she dons the asymmetrical Bouclé Walker Coat and starts to fish in the right front pocket for the familiar feel of a plastic key fob which is pulled out, clutched between the manicured fingers of her right hand. “I set her up for 150 milligrams of sertraline and a review after 45 days, but I did want to ask you about your own observations”, she continues, cradling the black key fob bearing the familiar silver arrow logo of Mercedes Benz. “Living with her you are in the best position to note changes in her daily activities”.

Hoisting the heavy satchel off of the floor Christian patiently holds onto it as Gwen adjusts her jacket and wraps her bare neck in a black chiffon scarf. His mind quickly rewinds over the days following the incident accessing his recollections of the daily routine favored by his house guest and compares the images provided with images taken from better times.

“Well”, beginning in a somber tone he speaks slowly allowing his mind to retain the images a few moments longer before shuffling them away. “Cat has always been a happy sort; curious and more interested in a good time than in the mundane trivialities of daily life. One of her favorite activities was rough housing with Genie – those two have a unique relationship”, he observes with a hint of a smile over the recollection of various shenanigans wrought by the unlikely pair. “They would practically destroy the house trying to beat the other; over the last nine months my insurance claims have totaled over $20,000. But since then she hasn’t seemed the least bit interested”.

“Have you noticed any improvements since the first week”? Taking the satchel offered by the long should strap she drapes it over the opposing shoulder and allows it to fall against her left hip.

“Oh yeah, for sure”, he nods his head in confirmation. “She’s regained most of her appetite, though I think all of those chocolate cakes and pies I whipped up for her had something to do with it. She’s more active around the house and even ruined my fourth microwave. Slowly but surely she’s coming around again, I think. Are you sure this isn’t some sort of one off episode”? He asks hopefully.

“No”, she shakes her in a stern dashing. “There is no such thing as a one off episode. The thing about anxiety and depression is that it ebbs and flows as you have experienced yourself. All it takes is one incident to set it off again so until the sertraline takes hold you want to keep her away from what set it off to begin with”.

“Wrestling”, he mutters and bobs his curled sandy mane in agreement. “I’ll do it, I just want her destroying my house again.., I don’t care how much it costs, send the bill directly to me”.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that”, she says reaching for the gleaming brass doorknob and giving it a twist, pulling the four panel solid timber door with heavy, bolection molding and polished chrome ironmongery open allowing a crisp breeze to filter in through the foyer.

“What..? Why the hell not”?

She offers a brief smile and explains, “Geno beat you to it”.

“Damn his ass.., I mean, bless his heart”, he groans in mock disappointment inwardly grateful for the unrequested assistance before locking his pleading hazel orbs onto the physician’s own blue lenses. “Gwen please.., whatever it takes, I want my kitty cat back”.

 Never having been a morning person Goldenboy Gene Banton stifles a yawn while rummaging through the pocket of his red track suit for the key to the double doors leading into his expansive training facility. The sky above is overcast with ominous grey clouds lumbering overhead, carried by a brisk wind bringing a chill throughout the entire Las Vegas valley which propels him to forget the keys and zip the matching nylon jacket up higher. Upon his arrival he had noted the presence of a rental car indicating guests though looking across the empty, shaded parking lot and across the lush greens he did not see anybody milling about. With his thoughts turning from the chill in the air to checking the footage of his security cameras he absently reaches for the door, having forgotten about the key and draws back with a pause upon realizing that it is unlocked. Stepping inside and onto the white and gold roughage patterned marble floor he follows along a rubber tire track left behind by his daughter Cassie’s motorcycle which she has taken to parking inside. He didn’t mind having done far worse in his younger years and merely shrugged it off as leaving a challenge for the weekly cleaning crew. Looking ahead past the rows of plaques, posters, and framed championship belts with various other memorabilia accumulated over the course of a thirty plus year career he recognizes a pair of figures grappling with one another on one of the exercise mats in the center of the main room. A few steps further and the images begin to take the form of a man and a woman. He soon recognizes the woman as being his newest charge Cat Riley which sets his mind at ease over the identity of at least one of his guests; but the other, a man and considerably larger than Cat remains a mystery.

“Well son of a bitch”, he stops and mutters softly under his tongue in cognizance with the figure’s identity becoming clear. He had met Paul Riley over 20 years ago while attending a tournament in Brazil, a tournament won by Riley. Following the championship ceremony he had approached the lean, muscular competitor from England about the prospect of signing him but the man declined Gene’s sales pitch, despite the money and perks offered, preferring to continue to do his own thing. Approaching the end of the hall he leans against the edge and watches in silence as the pair trade moves and counter moves with the elder of the two offering instruction and advice during the exchanges. Shaking his head in amazement over the coincidence he smiles as the blonde man positions Cat into a side twister and carefully transitions into a leg lock; a submission hold rarely seen in combat sports due to its complexity in application and one Gene himself had only seen perhaps three times during the course of his career with the first time being performed by the same man applying it to his daughter now 20 years ago in Brazil. Once more he shakes his head in dismay; though he had remembered the man’s name he failed to make the connection to Cat. “I must be getting old”, he mutters as a smile wrinkles his face and he begins to sing his arrival, “It’s a small world after all..,”

On the mat Paul Riley looks up startled, releasing the hold in his daughter with both pairs of matching blue eyes being trained towards the hallway and the man in charge, leaning against the side of the wall with his thick arms folded across his chest. Paul immediately bolts to his feet, his eyes wide but with a smile of recognition as he starts towards him with Cat trailing behind, rubbing her right knee.

“I’ll be damned”, he says extending his right hand which is gripped by Gene. “You’re the Geno Cat has been telling me about”?

“The one and only” he laughs. “Small world isn’t it”?

“She talks about you all of the time but somehow I failed to make the connection”.

“That makes two of us, I thought I was getting old but maybe it’s both of us”.

The two men share a laugh as Cat joins them glaring at them questioningly.

“You know each other”? She asks with a bushy arched brow.

“We sure do”, he father affirms happily while snatching the towel from her hands and using it to wipe his brow. “He had approached me in Brazil about 20 years ago wanting to manage my career”.

“And you shot me down like all of those Brazilian women”, Gene smiles. “So what brings you here”?

“My wife and I are in the states visiting the kitty cat and after seeing her last match against Crystal Zdunich I wanted to go over a few things with her”.

“Like breaking my leg, chewing me out, making me perform a hundred dropkicks..,”

“With you missing over 90 percent of them,” he adds.

“Well damn, maybe I should get you to train her”, Gene quips. “It sounds like you’re more of a disciplinarian than I ever was”.

“She doesn’t need training, just an occasional reminder, but what did you think of her last match if I might ask”?

Gene shifts his weight, leaning back against the wall, his beefy torso stretching the fabric of his jacket tightly across his thick chest. He shakes his head with a sigh, “Well, being a blindfold match I expected it to be somewhat clumsy but it turned out far more clownish than even I thought. I was mostly mad at myself to be honest for not anticipating one of those ridiculous stipulations generally attached to the Roulette championship but I slipped up figuring that since the title was not up for grabs it would be a more traditional affair. That was my fuck up; I should have never allowed Cat to compete in such a contest. On the other hand Cat forgot one of the most basic things about momentum in wrestling..,”

“And what is that”? She challenges, folding her own arms across her chest. Having been run through the ringer all morning long by her father she finds herself in no mood to be re-washed so to speak but here is her manager ready to add fabric softener to the load she has been washing since dawn. “Please enlighten me”, she rolls her eyes in disdain. “I’m dying to hear for the millionth time today how big a screw up I am”.

“Alright fine”, Gene acquiesces. “You allowed your opponent to gain the momentum and tried to play her own game instead of doing what you should have done and breaking that momentum by just tying her up. That’s all you had to do”, he shrugs. “Just tie her up. You are damned lucky Sam Marlowe knew what she was doing because you were going to lose doing what you were doing”.

“Oh come on! I was..,”

“You were behaving like a bloody baboon”, he father interrupts in a scorching vociferation. “Gene is absolutely right – you were going to cost your team the match - and you have no room to argue. Now apologize to the man”.

“Forget about it”, Gene waves him off. “My kids are a hundred times worse. I don’t mind it at all and besides, Junior won’t let her hear the end of it”.

“Junior..,” Paul’s voice trails off as his mind plays match the name to the face. He had heard the name numerous times mentioned during Cat’s matches and it quickly dawns on him that Junior is one half of his daughter’s co-managers meaning that the redhead, his sister would be Gene’s own daughter Cassie. Having put two and two together he re-engages the conversation. “What will he be doing during the next match with Crystal’s kid Brittany handcuffed to Cassie”? He asks.

“Probably flirting with the women at ringside I imagine” he shrugs. “That reminds me, I need to read him the riot act next time I see him about keeping a closer eye on what’s happening inside the ring”.

“That won’t make any difference”, Cat interjects in a decidedly more mellow inflection. “He doesn’t like my arse, he thinks it isn’t round enough”.

“Let me worry about him”, He scoffs with a dismissive twitch of his head. “I have an idea”.

“Let him run amok and hope he knocks himself out”? Cat’s impromptu suggestion elicits a snicker from her father, who chimes in,

“That lad’s reputation precedes him”.

“And his mother will recede his reputation”, tapping his temple with his index finger Gene’s face wrinkles into a wry grin. “Believe me when I tell you, that woman can put the fear of God into a great white shark, Junior doesn’t stand a chance”.

“I suppose we’ll have to take your word for it”. Paul murmurs, completely unfamiliar with the woman to whom he is referring. “I’m afraid I don’t know her”.

“I’m sorry; I’ll have to introduce you to her. She’s from Ireland and she is a classic Celt, I’m talking old school, no bullshit boil your head in castor oil for looking at her the wrong way with the temper to match. That’s why I let her discipline the kids, she’s much better at it than I am. Have no fear; Junior will walk any line she tells him to”.

“Alright, alright”, Paul can’t help but to laugh, being all too familiar with the tempers and no nonsense attitude of Celtic women with her country being adjacent to his own. He himself has run across many Irish women with the same spirit being described and had dated one prior to meeting Cat’s eventual mother Rebecca. “I believe you, but what about Cassie, can she handle being handcuffed to Brittany Williams”?

“Oh I guarantee it”, Gene pipes in with a quick reply, his mind wading through floating images of his daughter exhibiting her own temper, usually at the direct expense of her brother. “Cassie has her mother’s temper, no questions and to sweeten the pot she holds a black belt in kick boxing – certified by world champion Brandi Constantino - in addition to being trained by me. If Brittany tries anything stupid Cassie will kick her head into the nosebleed section”.

“I’ll be damned”, Paul sighs while shaking his head in amazement. “You said it was a small world and it’s growing smaller by the minute. My nephew Will, Cat’s cousin, wrestles in Japan and he has been training stand up with Brandi lately to supplement his wrestling. His father and I have been toying with the idea of adding some standup techniques to our curriculum”.

“Oh?” Gene arches his brow regarding the man curiously. “When we first met you said you wanted to continue to focus on your school, how is it doing”?

“Not too bad, we have 27 students at the moment so it’s not very big but it keeps our bellies full”.

“Have you ever considered opening a Snake Pit here in the US”? He asks, sensing an opportunity.

“I’m afraid we don’t have the resources or any qualified instructors”.

“Money is not a problem, and you can always certify instructors back home in England”.

“Are you suggesting a business relationship”? Paul inquires, his curiosity piqued. Cat had told him several times about the man’s connections and resources and he and his brother had openly lamented over their inability to expand the Snake Pit. But now fate is staring right back at him from behind a pair of deep blue lenses underscored with a radiating self-assurance. “I’m curious, what do you have in mind”?

Gesturing towards a closed plain, soft beige wooden door behind the wall he had been leaning against Gene opens it, flipping the light switch on and invites him in saying “Step into my office, I’ll lay it out for you”.

Paul starts to follow suit behind the man but stops just short of the threshold and turns to Cat while tossing her the towel, “Kitty cat, why don’t you work on your cardio while Gene and I talk? And remember, max elevation and no bloody dropkicks”!

With a frown she nods in agreement, turning away as the door is shut behind her with a heavy clunk. She had wanted to be privy to their conversation, inwardly anxious to see how a self-made Daddy Warbucks conducted business but by decree of her father it sadly is not to be so she plods lazily across the padded rolling mats of the sparring section to her right where a set of six treadmills are lined against the far wall, flanked on either side by a set of stair climbers and ski machines. She selects a black and purple treadmill a Life fitness branded monster that looked to weigh several hundred pounds and steps onto the 27 inch wide rubber canvass. She fiddles with the digital interface which lights up with a large yellow LED display and selects the maximum elevation as her father instructed although she had already intended to do so as it best mimicked training in the mountains and is scientifically proven to be more effective at conditioning the heart than simply running on a flat surface. Setting the speed she depresses the green start button on the lower right of the interface and with a subtle electronic chirp followed by a soft hum the machine comes to life raising itself to the desired incline setting.  Waiting for the track to begin rolling she glances up to a row of flat screen televisions secured to the iron rafters and tuned to different stations. She glances past a Mexican soap opera where two alluring young women are engaged in a catfight, past CNN coverage of the stock market, past ESPN’s coverage of the Nathan’s hot dog eating ‘world’ championships which promotes a grimace to mar her soft features. Since when were competitive eaters considered athletes? Since when did stuffing 50 or 60 hot dogs down your throat in 30 seconds qualify as a sport? Only in America, she groans as her eyes settle onto a televised repeat of SCW’s Climax Control. Onscreen she recognizes her friend Dani Weston flanked by Brooke Saxon and facing off with her future opponent at Inception 3 Alicia Lukas in a contract signing ceremony. Although there is no sound from the television and it is too far away for her to be able to read the close captioning she vividly recalls the events as they unfold once more before her. Alicia starts off with a round of trash talk before being torn into by a thoroughly annoyed Dani who, despite the obvious tension between them, especially following Lukas’ unwarranted assault which left her badly bruised diligently fights the temptation to escalate matters for the sake of decorum and allows her lips to do the talking instead. A smile creases over her face as she is impressed by her friend’s self-control. Picturing herself in the same situation she knows she would be unable to restrain her inclinations which have a tendency to pull at her like a 2,000 pound shark against 20 pound test line.

“I could learn a thing or two from you Dani”, she huffs as the show breaks into a commercial. Her mind, uninterested in the unintelligible babblings of overly excited hucksters pitching breakthrough re-imaginings of products that were never broken wanders off instead down its own road of unintelligible musings twisting and turning at every flash of competing thoughts and impulses. A glance down at the digital display informs Cat that she has now been active for ten minutes and wrapping her palms around the cold chrome heart rate sensor imbedded into the rubber padded handle she sees her heart holding steady at 112 beats per minute, not enough for effective weight loss with 70 percent of your maximum rate as established by subtracting her age from 220 being the scientifically established minimum, but still good for conditioning, especially given the already impressive cardiovascular fitness of the youngster.

Cardio training on a treadmill can be a lonely endeavor with no way to occupy the mind aside from the television with its endless itinerary of mind numbingly boring – and silent - reality shows or music to distract it from the ever churning whirlpool of disconnected images splashing about. With an imaginary foot striking her on the behind Cat quietly laments leaving her phone and headset in the rental car and forcing her to contend with a tidal wave of competing thoughts; what if dad and Gene are having a fight? If I have to watch Kim Kardashian having her nails done one more time.., why are beautiful Mexican actresses always fighting on TV? Does Kobayashi even bother with condiments? Why people who have never even played sports are being paid so much to talk about them and most importantly, did I leave my underwear hanging on the shower rack again? Finally, and not a moment too soon but perhaps several moments too late the interminable litany of fragrance products, get rich tomorrow schemes and the usual running stream of ambulance chasers trying to whet people’s appetites for litigation comes to an end as Climax Control resumes. Her bushy brows tighten into a frown upon noticing that the show has jumped ahead by a good 30 minutes where she recognizes herself along with SCW Roulette champion Sam Marlowe getting set to face off against Crystal Zdunich and Mercedes Lewis. This marks Cat’s first time revisiting the match so much on her father’s mind and looking on with interest and having already forgotten her recent train of thought she settles onto the track to determine for herself if the final destination is indeed worthy of dad’s wrath. With the blindfolds being secured over the eyes of all four women the bell rings allowing the match to begin in earnest. But within seconds a grimace darkens her expression as she misses a drop kick which was not even close to her intended target and she is covered for a near fall. Closing her eyes as if ashamed she relives the incident being displayed onscreen, opening them just as she inadvertently rolls up the referee which elicits a raspy groan from the sweating blonde.  Another few embarrassing moments pass as she and Crystal continue to mix it up and while both women are visibly disoriented by the blindfolds as evidenced by the pair nearly taking each other out with a single cross body block it becomes painfully obvious as they each tag in their opposing partners. Closing her eyes with another grunt, unable to watch any more Cat heaves in a deep breath of air and exhales audibly,

“Dad is right; I have no business trying dropkicks and other high spots”.

“Or perhaps you simply require proper tutelage”.

The voice, young and energetic startles Cat, spurring her to turn her head around to the source, a short man, no taller than herself, with one hand tucked behind his back, decked out in a black with red full body luchador ensemble including a matching mask bearing angled eye openings with a tuft of dark hair, nearly shoulder length protruding from beneath the hem at the base of his neck. Reaching up she depresses a large red ‘stop’ button which brings the treadmill to in instant halt and spins about while bringing the towel to her face, brushing off the steady flow of perspiration. Peering closely at the curious stranger she takes note of his fair complexion, a pasty white tone with glimmering brown eyes, wide nose and behind his back a tuft of fur..?

“Despy, is that you, how did you get in here?”

“I’m afraid you have me mixed up with someone else”, the mysterious masked man replies and returns his hand front and center allowing Cat to see a teddy bear dressed similarly but with opposing accents of red with black. “I am El Maestro de la lucha libre” he announces in a hurriedly practiced heroic resonance.

“What”?

“Master of wrestling.., I think”, he translates with his voice slipping back into a child-like high pitched tone. “I am here to educate you in the art..,” he resumes, his voice reverting back to the somewhat heroic timbre, “The art of high spots. Together with the assistance of my tag team partner El Difuso we will teach you to become a master of jumping off of things”.

Seeing relief from the doldrums of her cardio training Cat bobs her glistening head energetically. “How much”? She asks and while still unsure of how or why he was even here with her she finds herself grateful for the respite, especially from the fiasco of a match on television.

“As we are world renowned aerial technicians our services do not come cheap but we believe them to commensurate with our ability to bring out the best in our students.  Our fee, while somewhat lofty, is still quite the bargain. We will need to charge you two dollars”.

Cutting herself short of speak Cat rears her head back, glaring at the young man and his teddy bear in a mixture of confusion and amazement. He continues to exhibit an uncanny knack for being in the right place at the right time and offering the most useful services for the situation at hand, but at the same time, charging the exact same fee forcing her to wonder what exactly it is with Despayre and the sum of two dollars. Regardless his presence is a most welcome distraction from the tedium of cardio and she eagerly hops off of the treadmill and darts to where her scratchy brown leather purse lies in contradistinction to the mirrored wall. She reaches inside and pulls out a crisp two dollar bill handing it to her would be mentor who regards it in specie.

“This isn’t two dollars”, he whines with his voice reverting once more to its normal pitch. “I need two one dollar bills”.

“But it is..,” she cuts herself off electing not to argue and pulls out two one dollar bills, handing them to him and extending her own hand to reclaim the two dollar note, but the masked man clutches it to his chest.

“Uhh.., can I keep this since its worthless?”

With a shrug of her glistening shoulders Cat nods in agreement. “Yeah, sure”, she says. “I have a couple more”. Her face lights up in anticipation of a rousing fun time with Despayre; someone with whom she has come to like and seemingly always up for some sort of shenanigans. “So what do I have to do to learn this stuff”?

“We will begin by educating you in the history of aerial wrestling”, he begins, his voice once more taking a heroic-like tonality. “Aerial wrestling began in December of 1903 when the tag team of Orville and Wilbur Wright were involved in a tag team match against a duo known as Kitty hawk, consisting of Kitty and Hawk who were also known as the Legion of Doom. They had made several unsuccessful attempts to wrest the championship away from Kitty and Hawk prior to their fateful meeting on the 17th of December in North Carolina and although their previous attempts at aerial wrestling had failed they continued to work on their craft and on that day they managed to successfully land four drop kicks finally succeeding in taking the belts from the feared team of Kitty and Hawk”.

“Umm, it sounds like you’re narrating the history of flight”, she muses softly, not wanting to upset her sensei but unable to help herself but to point out the obvious, “with a couple of twists of course. Still I’m pretty sure that was the first flight”.

“Indeed it was and that is what aerial wrestling is, flight. You are proving to be an apt student”.

“I don’t have to have wings, do I”? She asks, hoping he replies negatively with the muffled throbbing of her left side providing a constant reminder of earlier failed attempts, “Or a ladder”.

“A cape will do”, he offers. “I have some for sale if you are interested”.

Still clutching her purse Cat fishes inside the velour lining in search of two more one dollar bills, not bothering to ask the cost and hands them to him. He snatches the George Washington’s from her hands and quickly shoves them down his pants before turning away towards the locker room area with his voice trailing behind,

“I have them in the dressing room; I’ll go and get yours now”.

Alone with her thoughts Cat smiles, a toothy grin stretching nearly from ear to ear, grateful for the unexpected yet timely arrival of a playmate. Although she has never displayed any sort of aptitude for high spots or any form of aerial styled wrestling to which the forming bruises on the side of her body will attest she nonetheless finds herself anticipating just what the self-styled ‘master of wrestling’ has in store. Her father’s voice abruptly appears in ideation with another stern admonition of ‘No bloody drop kicks’, but she pushes it aside in favor of something decidedly more entertaining while he is safely out of sight discussing business with her manager. Casting a side glance towards one of three wrestling rings to the far right against the opposing wall she revisits the blindfold match against the team of Crystal Zdunich and Mercedes Lewis and while her performance was admittedly atrocious she cannot help but to wonder of Despayre would pick up on something she did not. And while she makes no pretentions of actually trying to learn the aerial style, she does allow her mind to take a flight of fancy, envisioning herself against Crystal at Inception 3 and shocking everyone at the Gold Coast with a repository of drop kicks, moonsaults, hurricanranas , 360 splashes and more which twists her thin lips into a grin.

“What are you smiling at, this is a good cape”.

Breaking from the reverie Cat glances at El Maestro de la lucha libre who is clutching a thin vinyl shroud of sorts and sporting a black geometric pattern on a semi-transparent frosted base with a series of holes lining the top with a handful of plastic loops and soap stains splattered about. He hands it to Cat who regards it critically, feeling the slippery remnants of the previous night’s soap and hearing the crisp ruffling sound emitted as she turns the cold plastic-like mackinaw over in her hands. Opening her mouth to speak Cat quickly steps on her own tongue squashing the idea of telling him what it really is and instead electing to play along.

“It’s uhh.., fantastic.., I suppose”.

“Good”, he beams while handing her a roll of masking tape. “Now tape your new cape to yourself and follow me to the ring, we have much to do”.

“Tape..,” she mumbles apprehensively, fiddling with the roll whilst breaking into stride behind him. “How.., clever I guess”.

The duo, or threesome should you be inclined to include El Maestro’s tag team Partner El Difuso approaches the ring with Despy climbing in first and dragging his ‘partner’ behind. Cat clutches at the bottom rope; a blue rubber encased steel cable and timorously uses it to pull her body onto the wooden planks topped with a thin foam padding and canvass cover which serves as the ring apron. Eyeing him warily through rapidly blinking blue lenses she clears her throat and asks nervously,

“Do I have to jump around in here”?

“Well duh”, he fires back with an eye roll. “This is aerial wrestling, remember”?

“Sure but..,” reaching out she slaps the less than forgiving base with her hand resulting in a muffled whump resonating through the gym. “This thing is kind of hard, and my dad did tell me not to do any drop kicks”.

“Is your dad a master of high flying techniques”?

She answers through kinesics, lifting and bunching her shoulders tightly before allowing them to drop and adding, “No, not really”.

“Well I am the premier acrobat of the fabled squared circle and if you pay attention and follow my instructions you will become one too. Just do what I do and jump off of things, it’s easy and fun”.

“Are you sure”? She hesitates while rising to her feet, tapping the toe of her right sneaker against the canvass and feeling the adamantine thump. “This thing feels like it was made out of bricks”.



“Obviously we will have to go the brick and mortar route as this is not a product you will find on Amazon”. Gesturing to a real estate investment spread sheet lying atop the burnished mahogany top Gene leans forward against the desk, the tip of his index finger drawing the attention of Paul Riley to a listing of land tracts with acreage, location and asking prices. “The problem is that it generally means leasing as there are many real estate investment companies and developers swallowing up as much land as they can get their hands on. It gives them a near monopoly and with so much land divided between only a handful of companies they can get together and effectively set their own prices. To give you an idea..,” he leans back into the luxuriously padded executive’s swivel chair clasping his hands behind his head and continues, oblivious to the muffled thumps occurring outside of his office. “A few years ago a friend of mine wanted to open a car lot. He located a patch of land commercially zoned; it was a small patch, not even a quarter of an acre but it suited his needs. So he goes to find out the terms of a potential lease and the company that owned the land said they wanted $16,000 a month”! He pauses to give added weight to his words which draws a slithering whistle of amazement from Paul Riley who continues to listen intently. “To see another example all you have to do is look around outside at the various strip malls and shopping centers and note how many are closed or being..,” flashing his fingers to pantomime quotation marks he presses on, “Re-developed”.

“That makes sense” the Englishman muses oblivious to the thumping taking place just outside behind the walls; his attention focused squarely on the man in front of him and the discussion at hand. “I see it all of the time and not just here, but back home as well”.

“Capitalism”, Gene quips with a raspy hint of annoyance. “Buy everything in sight and set your own price. The idiots are so blinded by the quick buck, the instant gratification that they can’t see the long term effects”.

“Small businesses going broke because they can’t afford such exorbitant rates, but somehow I get the impression that you have a way around it”?

Nodding with a wry grin the former wrestler turned businessman gestures to the charcoal gray Cisco Ethernet video phone. “When I first decided to start working for myself I made it a point to network with every player in this city one at a time. It was tough going at first but I toughed it out and ten years and ten thousand phone calls later I have managed to do it.  This phone has a rolodex with more than 2,500 numbers including doctors, lawyers, a couple of sheriffs, judges, politicians and various businessmen including..,” he allows his voice to trail off and points to his guest to finish the sentence.

“Real estate developers”, Paul answers obligingly.

“Bingo! In fact the particular developer I have in mind is actually the father of a wrestler I used to manage, Monica Stark. He’s based out of state but has developed a number of big projects here and knows pretty much everybody. If Cat thinks I’m ridiculously rich this guy would blow her mind with the amount of money he throws..,” Another succession of whumps and heavy thumps resonates from behind the crème colored brick walls, this time loud enough to catch the attention of both men and prevent Gene from finishing his sentence.

“… The bloody hell is going on”? Paul Riley wonders aloud craning his neck in the direction of the disturbance but unable to see through the soft copper tasseled waterfall valance tie up shades. “Please tell me it’s not Cat again. That girl has an alarming knack for breaking things”.

“Hmm..,” Rubbing his chin thoughtfully for a moment, the bulky man in charge shrugs and turns his gaze upon his desk calendar noting that he had circled today’s date and wrote in a message. “I don’t think so. I just remembered that I hired a construction crew to come in today to build an oxygen bar, it’s probably them”.

“That’s good to hear”, Paul mutters softly and adjusts his position in his chair to resume the business at hand. “Alright, I like your idea, it is something my brother and I have discussed in the past and your financing options are among the most agreeable I have ever seen but please understand that this is a very large step for us..,” he drops his gaze fixing it on the senior Goldenboy who nods in acknowledgement. “So we can’t be hasty and rush into this. I will need to go over everything with my brother who is also my partner and he can be quite meticulous”.

“That’s fine”, he nods, reaching into the top right drawer of his desk and pulling out a handful of business cards. Placing them into Paul’s outstretched hand he adds, “These cards have my home, cell, office and training center numbers as well as my email address. Feel free to call me at any time should you have any questions and reverse the charges of you need to, I don’t mind”.

With a nod of his head Paul deposits the tripled layered laminated luxe cards sporting raised print into the right side pockets of his track pants and is startled by another succession of burdensome pounding, this time even more emphatic but a glance back to the desk shows his host shrugging it off and he elects to follow suit.

“I would like to ask you a question”, he says, turning his attention from the heightened noise outside back to the nodding man in front of him. “Give me your honest impression of Cat’s work in the ring”.

“Honestly? I think she’s dynamite”, he replies. “And I’m not just saying that because you’re her father. Like you I have been in this game a long time and being a manager I’ve seen many talented wrestlers grace that ring over the years; wrestlers of all styles from Luchadore to brawler, to spot monkey, to kickboxer and of course submission wrestling. What I like about Cat is that she keeps a cool head and tends to work well under pressure. She’s patient and not inclined to take unnecessary risks. I don’t need to teach her anything really, she already has the tools and her technique is text book. I just have to offer her some guidance from time to time”.

“Like the blindfold match”, her father observes trying to ignore the ongoing cacophony outside and focus on the discussion in front of him.

“Yeah, like the blindfold match”, Gene repeats with an uneasy laugh. “Again, I take the blame for that, I should never have let it happen but I failed to read the stipulations more closely and well, hell came home to roost. I can assure you that it will not happen at Inception 3”.

“On the bright side of the matter you won’t need to offer her any guidance leading into this next match with Crystal as that is precisely what I was doing with her when you arrived”.

Drumming his fingers along the desk the elder Goldenboy listens intently while trying to envision what exactly the construction crew is doing having noted the rapidly escalating thunder taking place outside of his office. Unable to envision anything that does not involve the use of a large hammer he reaches down to a metallic brown portable refrigerator plugged into the wall behind the desk. Reaching inside he pulls out two bottles of Dasani water, handing one to his guest and twisting off the blue cap to take a swig.

“Between you and me”, he continues, setting the bottle down with a muted thump against the desk calendar. “I think she’s going to be fine in her next outing. This match we have lined up for her is a basic, no frills encounter against someone she has already shown that she can beat. It’s right up her alley so to speak, a standard match against an opponent she doesn’t particularly care for and has already beaten. I mean, if you’ll pardon the vernacular all Cat has to do really is just arrive and drive”.

“Hopefully we won’t see any more of those ridiculous drop kicks and other tom foolery”, Paul adds in an even tone inwardly confident in his ability to get through to his daughter.  “I’ve given her a good dressing down”.

Picking up his bottle Gene extends his arms with a smile offering a toast which Paul accepts as the two briefly bounce the hardened bottoms against one another. “Here’s to fatherly advice”.

The toast however is cut short by a deafening crash accompanied by the whistling of ropes, the weighty clang of steel docking harshly on concrete, the sharp crack of breaking glass and the snapping of wood and is followed by an unmistakable and agonized groan. The two men bolt to their feet exchanging bewildered glances and start to the door. Reaching for the knob Paul opines, “Whatever that was it sounded expensive”.

Stepping over the threshold expecting to see a construction crew perhaps attempting to correct a rather calamitous mistake; they are unprepared for the site which greets them instead. There are no signs of a construction crew. However the middle of three wrestling rings has collapsed under the force of a substantial impact. The four eight inch steel posts have fallen to the wayside and lie horizontally on the concrete floor, their weight digging an indentation. The ropes having broken free of their bonds have whipped away with one landing in the adjacent ring on the right and another now hanging from  an overhead rafter after knocking off a flat screen television which has disintegrated upon landing. The plywood layered canvass has fallen and sits folded on the floor with a torn piece of turnbuckle padding and the prone, grousing body of Cat Riley lying atop the rubble with a plastic shower curtain fastened around her neck via masking tape. To the left a shadowy figure scurries from the scene, quickly disappearing from sight leaving nothing more than the rapid succession of footsteps subdued by the carpeting lining the hallway.  Speechless the two men gawk at the off kilter scene with their mouths agape and exchanging a perplexed gander.  Following several addled moments the men are shaken from their daze by another bruised groan and step forward through the debris to help Cat to her feet. Unable to stand however she merely collapses back to the floor until her father cradles the misbegotten young woman in his arms and carries her to a nearby table lined up against the wall.

Shaking his flummoxed head Paul tends to Cat, gently running his hand over her scalp for signs of bleeding or blunt force trauma. He exhales a relieved sigh upon finding none and proceeds to check her limbs which also pass visual and he straightens his body stammering,

“I.., I.., Gene, words fail me”.

“I may need to rethink Cat’s chances at Inception this weekend”, the owner of the center responds in a muddled modulation. “Did you happen to catch that guy in the dark outfit running out through the hall”?

“I did, but he was gone too quickly for me to make out, who was that masked man”?

“Unnnnghh..,”

 The subdued lighting of the small room gives off a lazy, relaxing ambience which propels Cat Riley to kick off her multi-colored Adidas brand high top sneakers and prop her feet atop the glass topped coffee table stationed in front of the plush, brown leather sectional on which she is seated. Across from her sit two men, representatives of a popular professional wrestling magazine. One, an older man sporting short dark hair neatly combed down and making no attempt to cover his male pattern baldness checks over an old fashioned tape recorder; a rather quaint black and silver device bearing the faded emblem of Sony. The other whom Cat imagines to be in his mid-forties with a thick coif of sandy blonde curls with black framed eye glasses and a long, sharply pointed beak rifles through a weathered tan leather satchel, his hands emerging with a pair of notepads, pens and pencils along with a camera. A heavy set fellow he huffs laboriously as he shifts his bulk in his chair. The leather backed executive chairs squeaks in protest of the burden placed upon it while he sets his satchel off to the side and begins to fuss with a black Nikon camera, inserting a roll of film into the back of the device. Clipping it shut he sets it down on the table in front of her white socked feet and picks up a notepad which he opens to refresh his memory of the questions  he intends to pose. Cat sighs indifferently while waiting on the pair and picks up a bottle of Dasani water, unscrewing the plastic blue cap and taking a swig. Despite having sat for several minutes while waiting on her companions the bottle remains cold to the touch of her soft hands as she replaces the cap and sets it down between her white washed jean clad legs.

“Just another moment and we’ll be ready”, the older man says while adjusting a red and white spotted tie. He stands up to remove his black suit jacket to reveal a thin, wiry build and drapes it over the back of his own executive chair which offers only a light squeak as opposed to the pained creaking emitted by his partner’s chair. “I apologize for the lack of organization”.

The man is very thin Cat muses with a shrug and she doubts he weighs much more than she does, maybe 65 kilos give or take. Leaning back on the sofa she reaches into her own satchel, a black, faux leather Louis Vuitton knockoff and retrieves her iPhone to bide her time browsing the internet while they prepare. She scrolls through a listing of google search results relating to wrestling news, her blue eyes scanning the links for her promotion Sin City Wrestling in particular. But after several moments of scanning the most she can find is random articles related to the SCW championship picture which fails to draw her interest. She closes the web page and opens the Twitter app looking for new notifications with the only one being from her friend Dani Weston posting an update on her status following her recent concussion. It is nothing particular news worthy, but in such a case she reasons that no news is good news given that she remains active on Twitter. The thread is populated with additional tweets from the SCW heavyweight champion Kristjan Baltasarsson, Ty West and Kristjan’s younger brother Aron sprinkled in with her own. She tweets a question asking if she’s feeling any better along with a reminder to keep her posted. With that she closes the screen and sets the phone aside casting a glance to the men across from her. The older man catches her glance and smiles,

“We’re ready to begin”, he says.

“You may fire when ready Gridley”, she answers borrowing a famous quote from American history and kicks back clasping her hands behind her head.

Leaning forward in his chair towards Cat the elder of the two men plugs a hand held microphone into the antique cassette deck. “This is Bill Apter for Pro Wrestling illustrated magazine your go to source for all thing pro wrestling alongside my colleague Dan Schott for this month’s edition of PWI Crossfire. We are here with one of the hottest young talents on the Indy scene, the undefeated SCW Bombshell ‘Cardiac’ Cat Riley who is set to team up with the reigning Bombshell roulette champion Sam Marlowe to take on the duo of Crystal Hilton/Zdunich and her friend/enforcer Mercedes Lewis at the Sparks Livestock event center in Reno; Cat, thank you for joining us.

Cat bobs her head indifferently, “My pleasure”.

“I’d like to start things off today by asking you about having a possible match against Brittany Williams, the daughter of Crystal thwarted by the co-owner of SCW Mark Ward due to – in his words – a contractual snafu in what was supposed to be a highly anticipated grudge match following the unwarranted attack on you by Brittany and Crystal during which you suffered humiliation at their hands by being forced to tap out. I can’t imagine you were very happy”.

“Well, first of all, let me clarify something for you”, she begins. “Tapping out is not humiliating in the slightest. I’ve said it before but I think it bears repeating; anyone who is serious about catch or submission wrestling has been forced to tap out hundreds and even thousands of times during the course of their training. It is an integral part of the learning process to be able to understand what you are putting your opponent through and how the hold you are applying truly works. It is important to be able to see the holds from both perspectives for a variety of reasons, such as possible escapes, how to inflict the most damage or pain and to know just how much pressure to apply. If you’ve never tapped or submitted then you’ve never done catch wrestling on a high level”.

A brief pause ensues with Cat taking a swig from the water bottle next to her.  Replacing the cap she smacks her lips with a sigh and resumes her oration.

“As for the contractual snafu as you put it, I’ve spoken with Mr. Ward about that and it just happens to be that Brittany Williams is not currently under contract to SCW which means they cannot legally book that particular match. My management team is currently exploring other options for facing Brittany. In the meantime I am booked in the tag team match you mentioned with Sam Marlowe as my partner against Crystal and her bodyguard..,” she snickers prompting a curious glance from the interviewers. “I can’t be the only one who finds it humorous that a so-called professional wrestler would require the services of a bodyguard. I mean, wrestlers are supposed to be able to take care of themselves; it’s a combat sport, right? So what would such a person need a bodyguard for”?

“I believe Mercedes Lewis is Crystal’s enforcer”, Dan Schott offers.

“Enforcer, bodyguard, it’s all the same to me because no matter how you slice it she is sending the message that she can’t get the job done and needs help and to be perfectly honest I am not surprised”.

“Alright”, Schott bows his head in a reluctant acceptance only to rear it back up in retort, “But what makes you so certain that you are so far ahead of Crystal and Mercedes Lewis in skill? Crystal is a hall of famer and has held numerous championships where you have none to your name. One could make the argument that you are leaning on your partner Sam Marlowe to do the heavy lifting”.

The concept of PWI magazine’s long running crossfire interview segment has always been to present questions to the stars of the wrestling world from the traditional heel and baby face perspectives and, depending on the perceived alignment of the interview subject thrust them into the aptly named cross fire. Bill Apter, the senior of the two writers as well as being editor in chief for the magazine is widely recognized as being more sympathetic to the favorites and traditionally leads off the interview with the younger and heavier Dan Schott serving as the would be antagonist, his goal being to present an opposing view, often contrary to the one expressed by the subject. Cat however is not your typical subject as she had been exhaustively briefed prior to accepting the invitation by her management team and made keenly aware of the format as well as Mr. Schott’s agenda. Rather than becoming visibly agitated at the suggestion as he had hoped she merely rears her head back and laughs which promotes a puzzled expression on the younger man’s fleshy face.

“I fail to see what you find so funny about the predicament you’re in”, he observes dryly.

“You are what I find funny”, she offers reaching for the bottle of water.  “Let me explain the difference between myself and Crystal Hilton”. Gathering her thoughts while taking another swell of water she sets the uncapped bottle down on the coffee table and leans forward making direct eye contact with the rotund writer. “Crystal Hilton was born with a silver spoon in her mouth and doesn’t even know what she wants to be when she grows up! She’s trying to act, she’s trying to run a studio of some kind, and she wants to be a musician.., oh look; now she’s a wrestler. Make up your bloody mind! To invest yourself into so many different endeavors at the same time only serves to distract you. That’s all it is, a distraction! There is no way she can become truly great at any of them without giving something up. I on the other hand have only one interest, wrestling. I have been training since I was 13 years old and it is the only thing I do. While she is vacationing in the Bahamas, I am wrestling. While she is shooting another B flick, I am training. While she is in the recording studio, I am training..,”

“Her record speaks for itself”, he interrupts.

“And so does mine! I haven’t lost since entering SCW and I’ve already beaten her equally frazzled daughter Brittany – another one who doesn’t know what she wants to be when she grows up – so say what you will about her supposed experience because it does not matter in the end. I will beat her, that’s all there is to it”.

“You sound very sure of yourself”, the editor in chief interjects.

“I’m not globe-hopping trying to be some sort of fashion plate. I’m not trying to make movies or record songs, alright? You don’t see me trying to get myself booked on Dancing with the stars or paying somebody to ghostwrite my memoirs. When I get up in the morning I don’t have to decide what I want to do, it’s already carved out for me!”

“Jack of all trades master of none”, Bill Apter offers in observation.

“Oh come on!” Schott scoffs. “I don’t buy that for a minute. Crystal Zdunich is in the SCW hall of fame! She’s held multiple championships and has been active for years. She has a decided edge in experience and a wealth of knowledge. All of your talk about her being distracted falls flat when you look at her accomplishments”.

Drawing a breath Cat holds it in while pondering the man’s words. His point is a good one she concedes silently while her mind combs through the outburst word by word in search of a point she can launch a counter attack. But it is not an easy task; to earn a place in the hall of fame and win multiple championships while juggling so many other outside projects simultaneously is a feat anyone could be proud of. However; she remains convinced deep down in the recesses of her heart and mind that she is far more capable than either of her opponents be it Crystal or her friend Mercedes Lewis but the question remains, how can she convince an openly skeptic antagonist? He mentioned Crystal’s supposed edge in experience, activity and knowledge; all things she has under her belt as well following more than ten years of training at the Snake Pit under the rigid and watchful eye of her father, uncle and cousin, all of whom are noted catch wrestlers. Between the three of them she was given open access to more than 60 years of catch wrestling experience and accumulated knowledge. Her cousin William is the reigning Japanese triple crown champion, her father Paul is a multiple time world champion and her uncle Ernie is widely regarded as the best trainer of submission wrestling in the world and is himself a former world champion and her grandfather William “Bill” Riley is one of the most celebrated figures in wrestling history, often referred to as the “father of catch wrestling”. Surely with such an incredible history behind her family legacy would lay an advantage? Finally one of the kernels from the kettle of memories pops and she leans forward to offer an answer to the challenge posed.

“There are 206 bones in the human body”, she begins in a soft tone, not wanting to give Mr. Schott the satisfaction of knowing he had agitated her.  “In addition there are 360 joints and approximately 100 billion nerve cells, each of them capable of registering pain, and pain is the crucial component of effective catch wrestling”. Feeling her confidence growing she lapses for a moment, allowing her words to hang while treating herself to another sip of water and scans the reflections of her targeted audience, noting their silence as they cling to the branch she has led them up to. With a slight smirk she replaces the cap on the bottle and sets it down to resume. “Did you know that at the Snake Pit its students are required to study human anatomy?” Both men shake their heads. “It’s true; my family routinely quizzed me on it during the course of my training.  If you want to have any hope of graduating from the Snake Pit you have to be able to name every bone in the axial and appendicular skeleton as well as the names and locations of the fibrous joints, cartilaginous joints and the synovial joints. Would you like to know why”?

Both men nod their heads in quiet acquiescence with Dan Schott, still playing the antagonist wondering aloud, “I don’t understand how this relates to the question at hand but please explain”.

“It’s really quite simple”, she explains with a small gleam of satisfaction twinkling from her sparkling blue lenses. “The more you know about the human body and its workings the more effectively you can exploit its faults. Case in point; the spine is made up of 33 vertebrae and between each bone is a thin disk of cartilage that provides flexibility. The spine is encased in muscle for support and as a whole is fairly durable but due to the spongy nature of the cartilage, which gives the spine its mobility as I said, the bones can be shifted out of position more easily than they can be broken. You just need to learn how to cause such a shifting”. Relaxed once more Cat shifts on the sofa, sliding deeper into the billowy cushions and pulling one of the arm pillows to her side and wrapping her arm around the plush ornament and continues, “That’s just one example. For another, the collar bone can only withstand about nine pounds of pressure before breaking; a simple elbow strike can do the job nicely since it is mostly ligaments, whereas the femur, which is the strongest bone in the body can typically withstand up to 4,000 newtons or about 900 pounds of pressure before breaking”.

“No”, she laughs. “I am not going to try to break her femur bone. That would be ridiculous, especially when there is already an abundance of soft targets on her body”.

“You say her”, Dan interjects sensing a change in momentum and looking to shift gears. “Obviously referring to Crystal; are you looking past Mercedes Lewis”?

“Not at all, Mercedes is a bit of an intangible in this match since we know little about her. She’s a brawler who likes to strike and has a penchant for bending the rules. Other than that I have nothing else to go on, but I can assure you that my knowledge of human anatomy applies equally well to her as it does Crystal and I have had ample training on dealing with strikers”.

“But having the knowledge and applying it to an unwilling target are two entirely different things”, the big man huffs, not willing to concede to Cat’s argument and fully intent on promoting his own agenda regardless. “It’s not like she’s going to lay there and simply allow you to target a specific area. Crystal is a veteran and will have her prepared. By the time the match rolls around they will have you well scouted and know your preferences”.

“I don’t need to soften up anything on their bodies”, Cat contends. She draws a deep breath and exhales slowly as she had learned in an effort to maintain her composure. This man obviously favors the other team and is doing his best to throw her off of her mental game before hand and give Crystal and Mercedes a psychological edge, an edge  that she is not about to allow them to hold.  “Let me give you an idea as to the depth of my knowledge and tell me how they can prepare for it based on film of ten matches”, she resumes calmly. “At the Snake Pit we used to play a game..,”

“I’m sure a nice rousing game of twister is more than enough to get you ready”, Mr. Schott mutters sarcastically.

“The game is called bone picker”, she continues unperturbed.  “My father invented it about 30 years ago. Now, as I said there are 206 bones in the human body and 360 joints. During sparring sessions the lead trainer, usually my uncle would call out a bone by name; for example he might say ‘scapula’ which is the shoulder blade and our task was to attack that specific bone in a manner to either force a submission or break it and I can assure you plenty of bones have been broken during the course of training in the Snake Pit. If successful we would move on to another bone. If not we would continue until we got it right. We would take turns being the aggressor and the defender. The defender’s job during all of this was to try and stop you and since they can hear the calls too they already had an advantage. Needless to say it was a lot of work that resulted in many hours on the mat and a great deal of pain”.  

A moment of respite ensues with Cat collecting her thoughts and continuing her trek down memory lane. The years wind back with a young teenaged Cat Riley finding herself on the dusty floor of the ragged shack behind her uncles’ home in Lancashire rolling with a mustachioed dark haired man ten years her senior and more than a hundred pounds heavier, desperately trying to decipher his impeccable technique and finesse around his demonstrable strength advantage. Her cousin William ‘Will’ Riley, named after her grandfather was already a legend within the Japanese submission wrestling community and often served as her assistant coach and training partner during his trips back home. Typically he would act as the defender to her aggression and not utilize his power to overwhelm her. He understood the purpose of his being on the mat with her and was more than willing to help his younger cousin learn the game. Regardless, she would still complain about matching with him to be unfair given the size disparity to which her uncle would only offer a simple shrug of his shoulders along with the callous reminder that life isn’t fair. So she would continue on the point of collapsing from exhaustion. Eventually she would find techniques that worked but developed a habit of dipping into the proverbial well too often and would be reprimanded by her eagle-eyed uncle. She would have no choice but to continually try to seek out new ways to mount her attack.

“Furthermore I was taught to not..,” she pauses for emphasis, “put emphasis on any particular body part because when one does that they develop a tendency over time to telegraph their attacks and become predictable.  Instead we focus on defending first and going after the first opportunity that presents itself, no matter how big or small; be it a bone or a joint I was taught to quickly identify and implement an attack and let me tell you, my training partner was a lot bigger, stronger and tougher than Crystal or Mercedes”.

Bill Apter, the senior editor of the magazine conducting the interview can only rear his head back and sigh in amazement at the depth of his subject’s training and preparation. Over the course of a 30 plus year career he has seen and heard many tales of the extreme lengths some wrestler have gone to in learning their craft, but the yarn being spun by today’s subject strikes him as the most thorough and meticulous pilgrimage he has ever heard before. He cannot help but to be impressed and despite his own leanings in favoring the favorites of the fans he feels a surge of confidence in having backed the right horse. His colleague however remains unconvinced.

“What you have described to us would take years to learn”, he scoffs.

“A little more than ten years”, Cat offers with a subtle creasing of her pursed lips. “I have been learning this since I turned 13 years old”.  She feels a smile beginning to emerge as the crows’ feet slowly take shape at the corner of her eyes; the tide is finally turning.  “By my count there are 566 bones and joints combined in the human body, and that makes for a lot of potential targets”.

“Alright, but you have yet to address the other question heading into this weekend’s match.., your tag team partner Sam Marlowe”.

A hearty laugh ensues with Cat tilting her head upwards and bellowing atonally, there is just no quit in the man! Still she finds herself in admiration of his dogged determination. He has found a bone and refuses to release it. The rolling laughter subsides to a giggle as she lowers her gaze back down and nods.

“You sound as if you’re hoping she turns on me, but I see what you are getting at so fair enough, I don’t know her very well to be perfectly honest”, she says in a conciliatory inflection. “Bloody hell I don’t know her at all aside from what I’ve seen but I can tell you this; Sam Marlowe is perhaps the perfect complement to me  style wise. She is a bit of a dare devil, a risk taker who likes to jumps off of high things with some good technical skills sprinkled in. I, on the other hand, am more grounded. That’s my office; it’s where I prefer to conduct my business. Sam and I are polar opposites in the ring so every time we tag in and out our opponents will be forced to mentally adjust to the differences in style and when things get hot and heavy and we’re tagging in and out quickly it can easily throw Crystal or Mercedes off, especially if we can act quickly before they can adjust.”.

“That falls under synergy”, Schott observes flatly. “That’s something that takes years to develop”.

“How long has Mercedes been out of wrestling?” She demands. “When was the last time she teamed with Crystal? How long have they been teaming up? They are not much different from Sam and I at this stage and I think it bears mentioning that while Mercedes Lewis claims to be friends with Crystal, she is still being paid by Crystal to do a job, now maybe in your world this is normal but where I come from a friend doesn't need to be paid. A genuine friend comes free of charge”.  Having had her fill of Dan Schott Cat elects to go in with both barrels looking to derail his evening of contention and fluster another potential  exchange adding, “So I don’t buy the friendship argument you’re considering”.

Sensing the growing animosity the editor in chief Bill Apter steps in by rising to his feet and waving off his glowering companion off and infusing his voice between the dueling sets of pipes. "That's all of the time we have for issue's edition of PWI Crossfire but be sure to tune in to Sin City Wrestling's Climax Control this weekend where our guest 'Cardiac' Cat Riley will be teaming up with the Bombshell Roulette champion Sam Marlowe to take on the team of the returning Mercedes Lewis and her employer, the hall of famer Crystal Zdunich! Cat thank you for joining us today".

"It was my pleasure", she replies cordially before grabbing her sneakers and thrusting them onto her feet. With a huff she stands up, reaching over to grab her satchel and jacket and offers a handshake to Bill Apter before turning her back to Dan Schott and striding through the door into the well lit hallway.  

A long, drawn out sigh bursts through her tightly pursed lips as a whistle while her footsteps, muffled by the plush sand colored carpeting to a dull thud carry her along past rows of framed magazine covers used over the years. She pays them little mind until reaching the end just before the polished glass double doors where she spots the image of Fenris, the white wolf and reigning SCW champion featured prominently. Gazing thoughtfully at the image depicting the SCW champion and acquaintance she quietly ponders whether she will ever make the cover of the prestigious periodical. She smiles reaching for the doors, feeling a surge of pride swelling within her for having managed to keep her emotions in check during the contentious interview, something she has long had problems with, but not today. This is a new day for the improved Cat Riley.

"Some day".

 Immediately recognizing her Christian breaks into a trot, bounding down the hallway and up to the bike propped up by a kickstand with a helmet sitting on the elevated tail of the leather seat matching the red and white color of the fiberglass side fairings. Reaching the bike Christian stops in front of the weeping young woman and places a gentle hand on her back, rubbing in a reassuring matter while he leans in to ask,

“Cat, what’s wrong honey”?

“I.., I don’t want to talk about it”, she stammers in between broken sobs. “All you’ll do is say I told you so”.

His brow tightly groomed brow furrows as the others arrive and file in behind him, looking on with concern. Putting two and two together he realizes that his fears have come to fruition as Cat has apparently purchased a car despite his efforts to get her to exercise patience. While a part of him, the vindicated villain of his younger years wants to do as she suggests, it is overruled by his veteran mind and he merely sighs and rubs the back of her neck in a reassuring manner.

“Cat, sweety, none of that matters now”, he softly explains. “The only thing I want to do now is help you”. Placing his hand on her head he strokes her long, silken blonde tresses; his hands working their way to her cheeks which he then cradles tenderly, and turns her head allowing their eyes to meet. “Tell me what happened kitty cat”, he says in a soothing, fatherly tone while reaching out with his thumbs to wipe the corners of her eyes. “Let us help you, please”.

“I went to buy a car”, she confesses. “I was going to surprise you and drive it to Tucson for High Stakes but..,” her voice trails off, her train of thought derailed by another emotional tide rushing in. “It.., broke down on.., on the freeway..,” she continues, shakily steering her thoughts back into the proper lane. “I was stuck there.., for almost an hour until a policeman gave me a ride off of it and I caught a cab here”.

“Who sold it to you?” Christian demands, his tone abruptly switching from tender and caring to aggressive and angry. “Cat, tell me who sold you that car”, he says sternly, holding her chin in his grasp to ensure unbroken eye contact. “Oh you’re going to give me a name young lady, who sold it to you?”

“With a pair of fresh tracks streaming down her face she blinks rapidly, forcing out another set of tears and replies, “His.., his name is Fernando; some old fat guy”.

“So let me get this straight”, Gene interjects behind Christian, drawing his and Cat’s attention. “This guy sells you a car which breaks down and leaves you stranded mere minutes later, is that right”?

Cat nods quietly.

“How much did he charge you”? Christians asks, his rage subsiding just as abruptly.

“I gave him ten thousand dollars down and he financed the rest for 36 months at 250 a month”.

“Jesus, that’s $19,000 bucks”, Cassie observes, having quickly done the match in her head.

“Guaranteed to the curb”, Christian adds mockingly, using an old euphemism to describe the so-called warranties at used car dealerships. “Well, fat boy Fernando is going to deal with me now”.

“All of us”, Gene corrects him and turns to his daughter. “Cassie, bring the dually around front please, and make sure the chain is in the back”.

Cassie nods in acceptance and quickly darts back down the hallway towards her father’s office. Retrieving the keys she circles back around, her sneakered feet thudding against the carpeting as she bounds past them and through the front door.

“What’s the name of the place?” Scott asks.

“Reliable used cars.., err.., imports, it’s a small lot in North Las Vegas”.

“Hah!” Christian snorts. “That’s the textbook definition of oxymoron”.

Hearing the throaty, lumpy idle of a diesel engine as his daughter arrives with his truck, Gene gestures the group towards the door, which he holds open, allowing everyone, including Genie, who follows Cat closely. Stepping into the sunlight he motions them to get into the truck as Cassie exits from the driver’s seat, releasing it to him and which he takes in silence, buckling himself in and adjusting the rearview mirror while waiting for everyone to buckle themselves in. Finally, with the group fully strapped in; he shifts the steering column mounted transmission lever into drive mode and glances to Cat seated in the back seat between Cassie and Scott with Genie seated protectively in her lap.

“Where is your car?” he asks.

“It’s in the northbound lane of the 15”, she answers, “in the left breakdown lane between Sahara and Spring Mountain”.

“Alright”, he directs a quick glance to the dash mounted digital clock which reads 1:18 PM while guiding the white with tan under tones Ford F 350 dually onto the street towards the highway. “We’ll probably catch the tail end of the lunch hour rush so we’ll need to be careful”.

“I’m surprised the freeway service patrol didn’t help out”, Scott observes, looking out of the window watching the sidewalk and people rushing by. “That’s what they’re there for isn’t it?”

“Oh please”, Christian scoffs. “Those clowns are as useless as tits on a bull. They only do it to rape people in a jam”.

“Yeah”, Cat chimes in agreement. “They did stop by but wanted to charge me $400 to call a tow truck plus another $100 per mile. I told them I couldn’t afford it and the bastards left me high and dry in the middle of the freeway. I was starting to walk back, looking for a break in traffic to run across to the other side when a police officer spotted me and gave me a ride to where I could call a cab”.

“Fuckers should all be shot”, Christian mutters between clenched teeth. “Step on it Geno, I can’t wait to get my hands around this fat bastard’s neck”.

The driver obliges, throttling down on the gas promoting a roar from the beefy 7.3 liter industrial diesel engine as the fuel is compressed and detonated in the firing chambers. The scenery quickly changes from manicured lawns and lush, rolling greenery to fractured asphalt lined with dilapidated brick and mortars lining the roadside as the king cab truck is guided through the streets and around slower moving traffic towards the interstate 95 north bound on-ramp.  The brown leather appointed cabin is quiet as they stop at a traffic light. With his hands on the padded brown steering wheel Gene looks on as a group of teenaged stragglers meander across the intersection, mildly surprised that the scruffy looking youngsters are actually obeying the law by waiting for the light to change. To his left in the passenger seat however, Christian fidgets anxiously, his steely eyes shooting bullets into each of them as they pause and break into a lively cackle; convinced that the light will change while the group ‘jerks each other off’ in the crosswalk and forcing a delay. He tries to settle into his seat, picturing the anticipated meeting with the scum lord used car salesman and wrapping his digits around the shyster’s corpulent neck. Alas, he is unable to reign in his anxiety, a condition he has suffered from since childhood. Although he has managed to bring it under control for the most part with the help of prescribed medication he nonetheless finds himself at times being forced to deal with the beast within. Shaking his head with a frustrated groan, he pictures himself jumping from the truck and moving the kids along in his own way but instead turns to the driver with his face warped into a scowl of annoyance,

“For chrissakes Geno, run them over, let’s go”!

Understanding his friend’s frame of mind, and aware of his struggles with anxiety Gene simply ignores the hastily formulated suggestion and continues to watch the lights. The group finally resumes their trek across the street with the light turning to a timely green once they set foot on the opposing sidewalk allowing them to get back into motion and roar up the ramp and onto the highway. They quickly accelerate up to and past the freeway speed limit of 65 mph, weaving in and out of lanes, passing by the slower moving vehicles and quickly merging into traffic. The group settles into an idle chit chat ranging a variety of topics from killing with impunity to proper disposal techniques of human bodies until Cat pipes up with a question,

“With everything going on all of a sudden, how am I going to get to Tucson”? She asks.

“Why, are you in a hurry to get your hands on Seleana?” Christian replies.

“Surprisingly enough, she is the one member of that clan who I don’t really have a problem with. I would much rather have Kate Steele, Brittany Williams and Crystal Hilton than Seleana Zdunich, but no; to answer your question, I don’t want to take the bus any more”.

“I don’t blame you for that”, he replies with a shaking of his head, his wavy hair bouncing along his chiseled shoulder blades. “Don’t worry Cat, you’ll ride with me. I’ll even let you drive part of the way; it’ll be fun terrorizing the streets with my co-pilot again”.

“Thank you, but I have to ask you something..,”

“What is it”?

“You’re the co-owner of SCW and the head booker, so why didn’t you just overrule Kate’s bull shite match and give her to me like you originally planned”?

He shrugs. It is a fair question and he could have easily fulfilled it, but as the co-owner of a federation in which several of his friends compete he has learned that fair has to extend to all sides, not just those he favors. He sighs and runs his hand through his thick mane.

“You’re right”, he agrees. “I could easily replace Kate’s opponent with you and I damned near did but the trouble is that I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place here, a catch 22. If I show any signs of favoritism I run the risk of alienating others in addition to setting a very dangerous precedent. They could easily cry bias on my part and drive potential new talent away and also run the risk of seeing us sued out of existence. You have no idea how close I came to putting you in there against Steele. Crystal Hilton pissed me off to no end and I wanted to screw her over but.., I have to play fair sadly”.

“But not entirely”, Gene quips from behind the wheel”. “Given that you booked Cat against Crystal’s would be wife. You’re a real devil, Mr. Underwood, you know Cat is a killer between those ropes”.

“Ok, Ok, I confess”! He laughs. “I was hoping at the time I booked it that Cat would rip Seleana’s arm off and beat Hilton with it”.

“I’ll do it for you”, Cat offers. “You’re always helping me”.

“No, that’s not necessary kitty cat. I’ve had time to cool off a bit and to be honest, Seleana is probably the least deserving of your wrath of the whole bunch but don’t worry, I’ll get the rest of them for you, just have a little patience”.

“Treat it as a sort of a qualifier match”, Gene advises, looking at his protégé through the mirror, “With Kate Steele and the Hilton clan being the reward for winning”.

“It’s a bit of a tough spot for me”, she deadpans. “I don’t really want to hurt Seleana in all honesty, but at the same time I want to retire Steele, Hilton and Williams, you know”?

“Just remember, Seleana knows what’s at stake here”, the veteran manager and businessman advises. “She’s well aware of everything that went down between her fiancé, you and Christian, as well as your relationship with him and that you believe Crystal moved to block you from Kate. She is probably certain that Christian sent you against her as his hit man so to speak and she is going to fight like a badger on behalf of her partner, like your father would for your mother. What I’m saying is don’t go in there expecting to shake hands and have a friendly match. It’s going to be a nasty, gritty affair, I promise you, so be ready for the worst”.

“He’s right”, Christian nods in agreement. “He has more experience than any of us so be sure to listen. His words carry a lot of weight”.

“Yeah, about 270 pounds worth”, he quips.

“Or..,” Scott interrupts flexing his bicep. “You can listen to me and take words with 285 pounds of weight behind them”.

“I dunno uncle pump”, Cassie joins in feeling his baseball sized bicep. “It feels like you’ve been slacking lately”.

“Hey! That’s not funny!”

Regardless the group shares a laugh at the ‘Big Pump’s expense while the dually is guided in and out of lanes, weaving between slower moving vehicles until an opening presents itself allowing him to throttle down. The big truck picks up speed while its passengers turn their respective gazes upon the roadside and traffic around them as Cat keeps her eyes peeled for her car. She spots a faint, burgundy silhouette up ahead and taps the driver on the shoulder advising him,

“That’s it up ahead, in the left breakdown lane”.

With a nod Gene slows the truck down as the vehicle comes into view as Cat notices the rear end bottomed out nearly scraping the pavement. “Did my car get a flat too”? She asks as the dually pulls off to the left side in front of the car and shifts into reverse, slowly backing up to it. Looking on Christian recognizes the vehicle as a 1998 Lincoln Mark VIII, sporting an oxidized burgundy coat with chrome aftermarket wheels and tinted windows. He shakes his head,

“No”, he replies. “Ford luxury cars use an air ride suspension system. Basically it has tough rubber air bags in place of the shocks. The bags are prone to leaking in older cars like yours which drops the rear end”.

With the truck coming to a stop all four doors near simultaneously open allowing for the occupants to depart. All eyes are trained on the idle Lincoln sitting with its engine off in the breakdown lane while Gene reaches into the bed of the truck and retrieves a double hook steel chain. He fastens one end around the tow hitch of his dually as Christian, Scott, Cassie, Genie and Cat all gather around the bittersweet lemon. Christian opens the driver’s side door and reaches under the dash board to pull the hood latch which releases with a clunk and then walks back around to the front to open the hood to inspect the engine bay. He sighs upon releasing the hood, expecting it to stay up only to have it fall back down. Fortunately he is able to catch it and gestures for Cassie to hold it up while he takes a closer look. His attention starts with the fluids, noting the blackened brake fluid and water like viscosity. Shaking his head he twists open the radiator cap to check the coolant level as Gene lies on the asphalt, reaching under the car and securing the chain to the center most rigid point of the frame he can find. Rising up be brushes himself off as Christian replaces the radiator cap and turns to the air cleaner. Unlatching four aluminum clasps which secure the top portion of the black plastic air cleaner assembly he pops off the bulbous top and removes a well blackened rectangular air filter. He laughs, running his finger along the edges as they emerge with oil stained tips.

“Oil in the air cleaner”, he sighs. “Water in the brake fluid, cracked hoses and belts, corrosion on the battery cables and God knows what else. Gee, let’s see what’s behind curtain number two”.

“A leaking rear main seal, frayed bushings, loose idler arm assembly and about 200 pounds of grime”, Gene answers while walking to the rear of the vehicle. “Cat, toss me the keys”.

She quietly obliges, throwing him the jingling set of keys which he catches and turns to the trunk. He inserts the main key into the latch and twists it open with a metallic click while up front Christian pulls the dip stick, checking the oil and noting tiny wood colored granules mixed in with the matte black lubricant.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me”! The words ring out in unison as both men find themselves surprised and lean over gazing at each other along the driver’s side of the car with a smirk.

“What do you have”? Gene asks.

“Sawdust in the oil”, he mutters. “You know what that means.., “He pauses allowing Gene a moment to catch on and for both men to exclaim in tandem once more, “A broken rod”!  “What about you Geno”?

“It’s the damnedest thing, these assholes hotwired a small, electric air pump to keep the suspension up”.

“You’re shitting me”?

“I wouldn’t shit you, you’re my favorite turd”.

Christian trots to the rear of the car and peers into the trunk to a small, blue and white portable air compressor used to reflate flat tires in case of emergency. Only this one has a thin wire spliced into the power cord which runs along the edge of the trunk and disappears through a small hole drilled into the sheet metal. He drops to the ground and reacquires his target which is zip tied to various points of the sub frame leading from the rear of the car to the starter engine. Shaking his head in disbelief he dusts himself off and clamors back to his feet.

“I’ll be damned, that’s the first time I’ve ever seen that”.

Cat, Scott and Cassie take turns exchanging bewildered glares, unsure exactly what the two men’s ‘car speak’ translates into while Genie casually cleans her face with her paw settled under  Cat’s feet.  They listen in abject confusion as the pair throw around terms like ‘spit shine’ while going through the interior and brake booster bell crank pivot, spongey pedal, and branded title while combing through the engine bay to catalytic converter, u joint, and differential while peering underneath. Finally, with Cat and the gang thoroughly bewildered the would-be mechanics get back up with Christian closing the hood and Gene shutting the trunk lid. He hands the keys to his daughter and announces in an authoritarian aura,

“Alright, here’s what we’re going to do..,”

“You mean aside from me tearing out his intestine and hanging him from the Stratosphere tower”, Christian interrupts his tone rumbling as an underlying rage threatens to break loose.

“Yeah, besides your scheduled death match.., we’re going to flat tow it back to where you got it from,” he continues while looking directly at Cat. “Cassie will drive your car while I tow it with my truck. We’re going to get it off the freeway as quickly as possible since traffic is still a bit heavy, but that means we’ll have to accelerate like a bat out of hell..,”

“Excuse me..,” Cat interjects. “But why can’t I drive? I mean it is my car after all”.

“Do you know how to flat tow with a chain”? Gene demands pointedly. The question prompts Cat into shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head. “Then Cassie drives because she does know how to flat tow. Now, once we get there, Christian, Scott and I will do all of the talking”. He turns to his flaming haired offspring and rambles on, “Cassie, you will keep her occupied while we handle the asshole, play a rousing game of scrabble or something, I don’t care but we do the talking, got it”? Cassie nods in acceptance and gestures Cat and her furry feline guardian into the passenger seat while she takes the wheel and her father, Christian and Scott file into the dually. Gene rolls the window down and sticks his head out shouting to Cassie and Cat once secured inside. Cassie turns the ignition switch into the ‘on’ position and activates the hazard lights. She waits patiently while the hotwired air compressor in the trunk draws juice from the battery and slowly pumps air into the suspension and finally flashing him a thumb up. “Alright, here we go”!

The big white, 4 x 4 dually slowly creeps forward as the chain follows, rattling on the ground until the slack is taken up and confirmed by a light tug on the rag tag Lincoln. “Hold on to your ass”, Cassie says with a grin as a break in traffic presents them with an opportunity. With a bellowing roar the truck ravenously launches forward ingesting the pavement as if it were a buffet, jerking the vermilion vehicle in behind it. Gripping the steering wheel firmly Cassie holds the car steady, tapping on the brakes every so often to ensure that the chain remains taut. Cat clutches onto the edge of her seat, her eyes wide with apprehension upon noticing how closely behind the big Ford they are.

“How long is that chain”? She asks.

“It’s a 20 foot chain”, Cassie pans, sensing her passenger’s anxiety. “But about two feet of it are taken up in securing it to both cars so there’s about 18 feet of space between us, or about one car length”.

“We’re doing 80 miles per hour”, she exclaims, glancing at the analog speedometer which registers even with the engine off.

“That’s part of the reason why the chain is so tight”.

“What’s the other reason”?

“If I let the chain slack and then it suddenly cinches up again it could flip us over. So yeah, I have to concentrate here”.

“Yes, please concentrate. I’ll keep my bloody mouth shut”.

Watching the truck ahead and glancing periodically through the rear and side mirrors Cassie steers the car, which lacks its usual power assist by virtue of the engine being off, into the next lane over to the right, following the truck to which they are linked. A silver Nissan Versa tries to beat them into the lane with a decidedly dangerous three space lane change but is cut off and forced into a brake check with his brakes squealing madly and the ripping sound of tires shredding against the pavement followed by the acrid smell of burnt rubber and the accompanying white smoke along with the angry pilot’s blaring horn. With the windows being down and the cabin filled with the noise of the rampaging Nissan and other traffic the two women are surprised to hear Scott’s booming voice resounding over all of it and daring the jerk to follow them to the next light which draws a healthy chuckle from the pair.

“Uncle Pump”, the redhead snickers as the Nissan roars past them, the driver unwilling to accept the wrestler’s challenge. Her focus returns to the road and the truck to which they are linked as her father extends an arm from the window, holding it down as a signal to her that they are preparing to slow down and exit the freeway. ”We’re getting off the highway Cat”, she says to her passenger hoping to ease her anxiety.

“Thank God”, she says breathing a sigh of relief. “Nothing against your driving, I’m sure you do fine work, but this scares the hell out of me”.

“Yeah, it can be pretty nerve wracking on the freeway”, she agrees. “But on the streets it’s easy as pie. Well, except for turning”.

“What about turning”?

“No power steering”, she answers, tapping the brakes to keep the chain tight as they begin to slow down on the off ramp and approach a red light. “And that means I get a workout even if I don’t want it, not to mention a lot more braking, and with no power brakes I also get an extra leg workout, but that’s easier than steering a 3500 pound car”.

Sure enough as the car is pulled off of the interstate and onto Sahara Avenue she can readily see the tension in Cassie’s arms as she twists the wheel directing the dilapidated lemon to follow suit and once again as they veer off and onto a less populated side street with the redhead grunting under the strain but holding the car perfectly steady nonetheless. Cat retreats into her thoughts leaving her friend and co-manager to worry about the car; looking out from the passenger side window, watching people milling about the sidewalk on the 85 degree day - in November! A flock of pigeons take wing, startled by a siren nearby while a work crew is stationed behind a row of pylon cones, busily digging up the street. She found it funny that every time she came across a road work crew she could never actually see anything tangible from them. Instead it was the same sight time and again, a vacated back hoe sitting idle in front of a gaping chasm in what appears to be a perfectly good road with a group of neon orange vested, white hard hats standing around doing nothing. She shakes her head concluding that it is no surprise the streets are seemingly always run down; nobody does anything except take breaks in the sun.

“The union life”, Cassie mutters passing them by sharing Cat’s sentiment.

The scenery changes as they enter the township of North las Vegas which, despite the designation is an entirely different city with its own government and police force apart from the more famous Las Vegas. They travel down Las Vegas Boulevard past the Silver Nugget Casino to the right and a Smith’s grocery store to the left and further along past the newly built North Las Vegas city hall, a ten story building designed to house the various municipal agencies under the same roof in a central location. Further down, just past the intersection with Civic Center drive they pass by the also newly built North Las Vegas justice center which serves as a primary base for the city’s legal operations including the police department. They make a soft right onto Carey Avenue which takes them past rows of older houses, built in the 70’s and 80’s. The local fire department station stands next door to a boys club which is well shaded by a group of trees which still green foliage. Finally, after a few more non-descript blocks of travel they stop at a four way intersection before making a right onto Belmont. Recognizing the neighborhood with its rows of duplexes Cat fidgets in her seat and announces nervously,

“We’re almost there, just a few more blocks on the right, just in front of the light up ahead”.

In short order they approach the light which serves to regulate traffic between Belmont and Lake Mead Boulevard and the truck slows to an eventual stop just ahead of the Belmont entrance to Reliable Used Cars as Cassie, sensing an opportunity pumps the brakes bringing the Lincoln to a full stop effectively blocking the entrance.  A heavy set Hispanic man of roughly 35 clad in oil stained dark blue cover all’s approaches them, his thick mustache bristling before a fiery gaze behind brown lenses as he shouts at them something unintelligible before being quickly intercepted by Christian who angrily shoves the wrench wielding man back.

“Get that fat ass Fernando out here right now”! He demands.

Despite clutching what could serve as an effective weapon the man, wearing a stitched on name badge which bears the name of ‘Miguel’ thinks twice upon noticing two additional occupants in the truck as well as the two women in the car behind it and retreats inside of the building ostensibly following orders. Meanwhile Gene glances at Scott with a wicked grin,

“Scotty, help me grab the car”.

“Why”?

“We’re going to flip the bastard over”, he answers after removing the chain and tossing it into the back and then gesturing for Scott to take up position alongside him. Together the two hulking powerhouses squat down, reaching under the car and gripping it along the edge of the frame. “Ready..? One.., two.., three”! On queue the men grunt and strain, their limbs tensing and legs quivering under the 3600 pounds of weight but slowly they manage to lift the side off of the ground. Loud grunts echo through the lot as they lift it higher and higher, drawing looks of surprise from potential clients milling about the small 60 by 60 foot lot. Fernando emerges from inside of the office with Miguel in tow and cries out but is intercepted by Christian who corners him against a red Nissan Titan pickup and allowing Gene and Scott to finish the job. With one final heave the car lands on its side and is given another pushes which sends the teetering transport onto its roof accentuated by the crumbling sound of metal scraping against the black top.

“Hey!” Fernando cries, “What the hell are you doing”?

“No, fucktard”, Christian sneers, leaning against the rotund racketeer, “The question is what are you going to do”?

“I don’t understand”.

“You sold that scrap heap to my friend”, he seethes, pointing the overturned Mark VIII. “Now you’re going to make things right or I will do something very wrong to you”.

Fernando squirms in Christian’s grasp as he is joined by Scott, Gene, Cassie and Cat along with Genie who walks in behind and sinks her claws into his fleshy legs and drawing a high pitched squeal as she rakes them across the back of his calf. Shimmying into the conversation Cat taps Christian on the shoulder,

“What can I do to help?” She asks.

“Nothing”, he says curtly. “Go back to the truck and sit down; this asshole is my problem now”.

Grabbing her friend by the arm Cassie leads her back to the truck which they lean against to watch the events as they unfold while Scott spies the pair of shocked shoppers perusing the selection and makes a bee line for them. With a beefy thumb jutted towards the sidewalk he growls,

“You might want to buy a car somewhere else, because this place ain’t gonna be open much longer”.

Heeding the advice of the mammoth the couple, a young man and woman quickly navigate through the parked cars and back to the sidewalk, not bothering to look back as they leave the dealership in their wake.

“Hey,” Fernando exclaims. “You’re running off my customers”!

“I’m about to run my foot up your ass”. He points to Cat who is leaning against the big F-350 looking on. “You’re going to refund her money and tear up that contract you made her sign”.

“I .., I can’t do that”, he stammers, squirming in Christian’s surprisingly powerful grasp.  Noticing a small gathering on the sidewalk watching the commotion Fernando, in between heaping breaths attempts to regain his composure and hopefully score some points with the potential customer base looking on. “Your friend signed the contract so that car is hers, and it was sold ‘as is’ and all sales are final. Now you’re going to leave and take that bucket with you or I’m calling the police”.

Cat gasps, “Oh no, that’s serious”.

“It’s nothing”, Cassie replies as her thin lips crease into a knowing smirk. “One of dad’s closest friends is a judge, judge Brenner, they have lunch twice a month. Not to mention he donates to the police union every year, they won’t touch him”. She bobs her head back towards Christian who grips the fat man tightly by the collar, turning it into a sort of noose and drags the gasping man over to the upside down car. “Besides, Uncle Christian will probably kill him before they even arrive”. She snorts and folds her arms propping her foot up against the sidewall of a rear tire. “Don’t worry about it Cat, these guys are like Allstate.., you’re in good hands”.

“Go ahead and call the police fat boy”, he sneers pressing the dealer’s sweat stained torso against the car and pushing his face into a grimy oil deposit blanketing the under carriage. “And while you’re at it, make sure you tell them how you sold this kid a car with a thrown rod, water in the brake cylinder, a bad air suspension system with a portable pump hotwired to the starter, an air filter with more oil than Exxon, shot bushings, a leaking rear main seal and oh, while you’re at it how about you tell them how you charged this kid $20,000 for a car that doesn’t even blue book for a thousand”. He pauses to reach into his right hip pocket and retrieve his cell phone. “You want to call the police, here, use my phone”.

Scott and Gene stand a step back looking on in silent amazement as Christian manhandles the dirty dealer, reading him the riot act with several onlookers beginning to cheer him on. They shout out signs of support for Christian to the dismay of Fernando and the suddenly demure mechanic Miguel. Scott shakes his head glancing over to Gene with a twisted grin,

“Man, it’s been years since I’ve seen Chrissy like this. Hell, I didn’t think he even had it in him”.

“I’m half tempted to grab a pair of pom poms and cheer him on my damned self”.

“How many other cars like this do you have on this lot? You get your boy Miguel to spit polish them and try to push them onto young kids like Cat who don’t know any better. Well I got news for you asshole, you can’t polish a turd!” Allowing the now profusely sweating Fernando back to his feet, Christian maintains his grip and accentuates his point with a swift kick on his ample posterior which draws a rousing chorus of cheers from the swelling crowd of onlookers. “You’re like a bottom feeding, scum sucking leech, preying on the misfortune of others, taking advantage of people in a bad situation and making it worse just so you can make an extra dollar. “You’re what’s wrong with this damned country”! He cries, offering up another boot to the bottom.  “How about I give you a kick for every dollar you’ve swindled out of people like Cat porky?”

Sweaty and teary eyed the man looks up at Christian, his jowls bouncing in sync with the movement of his head as he pitifully tries to warn him off, “I’m going to sue you”, he whimpers, “for assault and bodily harm”.

Unexpectedly the SCW co-owner rears his head and cackles obnoxiously. “Oh that’s funny” he cries. “Go ahead and sue me shit head, and watch as I file a class action counter suit on behalf of my friend and every other person you’ve ripped off over the years for fraud and willful misrepresentation in addition to conspiracy to commit fraud, violating the clean air act with those fake smog tickets and for being an all-around piece of garbage. So sue me, please, I’m fucking begging you”.

Having lowered the tail gate to her father’s truck Cassie and Cat sit on the edge watching the proceedings with a degree of amusement, at least for the redhead who knew beforehand what to expect. Cat in contrast, still appears to be concerned for her friends as well as a proper resolution. Cassie sighs and wraps her arm around Cat’s shoulder, a subtle message for her not to worry.

“God I could go for some popcorn right about now”.

“I saw one of those Mexican food carts around the corner”, Cat offers. “I’m sure they have something”.

“Oh yeah”, the redhead scoffs. “Flies mostly, but even if it’s clean I never get popcorn from them”.

“Why not”?

“They sell that spicy Mexican popcorn and that stuff will burn your little white taste buds to a crisp. Don’t mess with it that stuff is not meant for gringa consumption”.

Sensing a challenge Cat drops from the lowered tail gate and onto her feet. “I’ll have you know that I can eat anything”, she says picking up the gauntlet. “Do you want me to prove it to you”?

“If you were my brother I would insist that you prove it to me”, Cassie answers with a warped grin. “But being that you are not I will instead try to warn you away from it. Don’t eat it Cat, trust me”.

“Psh, nobody tells me what to do, not even me”.

Defiantly Cat strides off along the sidewalk, past the brick fascia of Hahn’s military surplus next door where an olive drab world war two era jeep stands guard flanked by a pair of deactivated howitzers. As she rounds the corner Cassie cries out suggesting that she also buy some milk which her mother had taught her to be the most effective method for toning down the fire of spicy food, but her words fall on deaf ears as Cat approaches the small, aluminum push cart with an umbrella strapped to a broom stick affixed to the side. The man, a small framed older man sporting a five o’clock shadow along with a thick, bushy mustache regards her coolly as she approaches, reaching to adjust his blue and white button down shirt, tucking it into a snug fitting pair of blue jeans.

“What can I get for you”? He asks in a gruff, Spanish accent.

“Spicy Mexican popcorn,” she replies.

“Are you sure lady? That stuff is pretty hot”.

“I’m quite sure, spicy Mexican popcorn, please”.

With a grunt the man nods and reaches into the cart removing a clear plastic bag filled with popcorn, yellowish with flecks of red and orange. Pausing thoughtfully, clacking the heels of his leather cowboy boots together he reaches into the compartment again, this time emerging with a pint of milk.

“Maybe you should drink some milk with it”, he suggests. “It helps”.

“No, thanks”, she replies handing him a crumpled five dollar bill. Taking the change in hand she turns about and walks back towards the truck leaving the man shaking his head and muttering under his breath in Spanish.

“Aye loca chica blanca”.

Arriving back on the scene, parting through the ever burgeoning crowd of curious onlookers Cat reclaims her seat beside Cassie with the popcorn in hand. Unfastening the red twist tie she opens the bag and takes in the zesty aroma of chili and lime before teasing her friend passing the open bag under her nose. Cassie brushes it aside and instead asks,

“Did you get any milk”?

“Real women don’t drink milk”, she replies reaching into the bag for a handful and bringing to her mouth as the redhead rolls her eyes.

“You sound like my brother, and much like Fernando over there, it’s your funeral”.



Shoving the sweaty, panting walrus back with a forceful finger to the chest, Christian continues to tear into him much to the delight of the crowd, some of whom have taken to filming the incident on their cell phones. The man backs up as the wrestler turned businessman shoves him again, leaving him to rub the tender area with his fleshy paws while his ears take the brunt of the assault.

“And furthermore you wasteful wanton cesspool of caloric criminality these kids work hard for their money.., too damned hard to be able to afford flushing their life savings down the drain so you can stuff another taco into those gelatinous jowls”. Another pointed finger drives the man back another step. He attempts to circle to his left and avoid any further finger pokes of doom but Christian follows suit, his tongue lashing out at him as would a cat of nine tails. “She bled, sweated and cried for that money she gave to you pilfering pork fed pouch of opossum piss. The least you could do is to try and do right by her and sell her a car that works, not something that barely survived a demolition derby and looks like a poster child for junkyard wars”! His face red and eyes glassy Fernando holds his palms up attempting to plead with his captor, but the co-owner and head booker of SCW only seems to be warming up. “A huckster like you tried to do the same thing to my father years ago and do you know what happened? He took the car to a crusher and a bat to the con man’s head. How does that sound, do you want me to take a bat to your head, or how about a blow torch to your dick, assuming anyone can find that needle in the haystack of blubber. No, I have a better idea..,” he pauses to accentuate his ongoing displeasure with another finger poke, forceful enough to leave a bruise and knock the simpering manatee back two more steps. “How about I go through your yelp reviews, round up everybody you’ve conned over the years and file a class action lawsuit on their behalf”? The last suggestion draws a raucous round of applause from the gathering assembled on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the over turned Lincoln. “I’ll bet there are plenty of people who would like to bend you over and prick you with a syphilitic dick”.

Cassie looks on in stunned silence, as do Gene and Scott while the crowd, enthusiastically behind Christian soaks in the comeuppance of the crooked crown price of corpulence. Cat meanwhile, with her mouth full of the spicy popcorn seems oblivious to the proceedings as her face quickly turns to a beet red and her eyes begin to water with the mucous draining freely from her nostrils. She breathes through her mouth, gasping for additional air and wipes her nose on an old rag lying in the bed of the truck behind her beside the chain.

“Hotthhh.., too hotthhh…,”

Unable to speak intelligibly Cat fans her open maw with her hands, desperately trying to guide any air she can get into the fiery magma chamber, but the relatively cool autumn air is not enough, even when coupled with a waterfall of saliva pouring into her mouth and nearly turning it into a lagoon. She turns her face away from Cassie, who glances curiously at her, not wanting to concede that she was right about the popcorn but the heat continues to build and she begins sweating profusely. Wiping a swath of perspiration from her forehead with her shirt, and her eyes tearing up the red faced rabble rouser suddenly bolts from the truck, her legs a blur as they propel her across the street and back into the casino where she had had breakfast a few hours ago and leaving Cassie snickering and shaking her head.



“Ok, Ok!” Fernando cries, giving in to Christian’s demands. “I’ll refund her money and tear up the contract. Just, please.., no more”.

“I have the receipt and her copy of the contract in my hands”, he warns as his hazel lenses burn into him, following the hysterical shyster into the office. With the hungry hornswoggle retreating into the undergrowth of underhanded dealing Christian turns to his companions with a wry smirk. “Should I charge him interest”? He asks.

“Gene replies by shaking his head, “Nah, just go through with the class action suit. Use my lawyer, he’s on retainer”.

“It’s a deal”, he laughs.

Fernando waddles out of the office ham fisting an envelope, presumably with the cash given him earlier and a rolled up contract, which he shakily hands over. Taking the envelope Christian dutifully counts out the money, which is in hundreds, rubber banded together in stacks of a thousand and then grabs the contract which he unrolls and pleases it side by side with Cat’s copy for comparison. Gazing over the numbers and the signatures to ensure that everything is in order he nods and hands the paper back to him, his voice lowering into a gravely tone of admonition,

“Alright fatty, you know what to do”.

Still nervous and with his mechanic Miguel looking on Fernando tears the contract in half, and then into quarters and hands the shredded document back over to Christian allowing him to set it on the grown and lite it afire with the butane cigarette lighter kept for emergency pranks. Turning back to his friends he tucks the envelope into his pocket and regards the cheering bystanders with a warm smile and handing out a handful of business cards.

“Not only are you witnesses”, he tells them. “But if you’re a customer or former customer of this asshole, contact me in a couple of weeks to join the class action suit”.

“Wait a minute”, the red faced racketeer blusters and gestures to the upturned car. “Aren’t you going to take the car”?

“You bought it back”, Christian sneers. “It’s your problem now. Maybe Miguel can give it a spit shine”.

Looking over to the truck where Cassie sits on the tail gate next to Genie his brow furrows seeing no sign of Cat. “Where’d she go”? He asks. “Alright Cassie, spit it out, what did you do to Cat”?

“I didn’t do anything”! She exclaims, thrusting her palms out. “She did it on her own accord, I swear”.

“Where did she go”? He sighs and shakes his head in frustration.

Cassie juts a thumb towards the Bighorn casino across the street. “She’s getting a gallon of milk”, the red head giggles.

“Of course”, he says with a sigh breaking into a trot and crossing the street. “After everything I go through to get her out of trouble she goes and gets into more. This is becoming a full time job”.

Opening the tinted double doors his face is blasted with a heavy waft of cold air courtesy of the air conditioning system. The small establishment is subdued with the lights dimmed allowing for the pulsating machines to generate the majority of it accompanied by the all too familiar chirps and whistles of players hard at work keeping the state of Nevada’s tax coffers well fed. He passes by what he supposes is meant to be a stage, although the small wooden platform barely stands a foot above the green, red and white carpeted floor and can’t be any more than a hundred square feet, if that he guesses. Looking ahead, past another short row of machines he notices televisions lining the bar, all of them tuned to a sporting event of some kind and at the bar itself he recognizes Cat, leaning against the brown leather padded counter top. She appears to be arguing with the bartender, a slightly older platinum blond woman sporting long, straight tresses which cascade just beyond her shoulders. To Cat’s left two Hispanic men are seated and sipping on coronas while listening to some sappy mariachi song sung in lyrics he couldn’t understand while casually watching Cat and the bartender from the corners of their eyes. He stops short, the prankster in him wanting to listen in for a moment, hoping for some juicy bit of gossip to hold over her head.

“Milp..,” she says, rapidly licking her lips.

“The bartender leans forward, her expression is a quizzical one. “What”?

“Milp”!

“I don’t understand”.

Frustrated and desperate to soothe her burning palette Cat snatches a burgundy pen and a napkin and begins to scribble her message which she quickly hands to the bartender who reads it aloud,

“You want Milk? Honey in case you haven’t noticed this is a bar”.

Growling, Cat snatches the napkin and scratches an addition to her message.

“Then give it to me in a skull mug or beer bottles just give me some milk”!

Laughing heartily the bartender drops the napkin on the counter and turns to the reach in cooler behind her, removing a jug of milk which she begins to pour into a glass, skull carved mug while the two men share a chuckle muttering under their breath something about gringos delicate taste buds. Christian, now leaning against a slant top keno machine directly behind her watches in mirth and shakes his head as Cat grips the skull mug tightly with both hands and ravenously downs it. With a lip smacking sigh Cat sets the mug down gesturing for a refill. She takes the clear plastic bag of spicy Mexican popcorn and hands it to the men beside her, ditching it in favor of the fresh glass of milk which, like the first, she downs with alacrity. With the mug empty she pays the bartender, after pausing to fan her mouth one more time she heaves a sigh of relief and glances at the two men shoveling the popcorn gratefully into their eager mouths.

“Be careful”, she advises. “That stuff will kill you”.

“Hah hah”, the man next to her laughs in response. “It’s not even that spicy”.

Cat says nothing and instead gestures for a third glass of milk while staring through wide incredulous orbs. Christian steps forward as Cat takes the milk, and drinks, more slowly this time as her flaming maw has lessened to a mere inferno. She regards him with a bright eyed expression, noting the smile on his face.

“Did you get?” she asks hopefully. “How did it go”?

“Of course I got it”, he scoffs. “I told you I would handle it and I did”.

He hands her the plain white envelope stuffed with cash bringing a delighted grin to her face. Peeking inside she squeals happily and leaps onto her boss, wrapping her arms and legs around him in a four limbed bear hug while enthusiastically kissing him on the cheek and forehead bringing a smile to his face.

“Thank you, thank you thank you”! She cries while hugging him tightly. “Oh my God, thank you so much”!

“It was my pleasure kitty cat”, he laughs. “Just.., next time bring me along, ok”?

“I owe you so much I promise! I’ll do anything you want”.

“Well.., what I truly want is not really suitable for someone with your wiring, nor is it suitable for a public place like this so let’s just beat the hell out of Seleana Zdunich and we'll call it good, alright"?

“You got it”, she drops down and says happily while offering one final peck on the cheek before they turn to the exit. “I’ll bury her in the biggest pile of litter you’ve ever seen”!