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”?

 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”.

 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".

 Fall is finally beginning to set in on the Las Vegas valley bringing with it a brisk, biting wind, cooler temperatures with the sky blanketed by the billowy embrace of rolling clouds which kiss the cradle of sin citywith scattered droplets of rain thus bringing about another lazy day at the home of SCW co-owner Christian Underwood. Humming the theme to the Golden Girls softly to himself he toils away in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. He leans over to open the oven door and is met with a blast of hot air followed by the sumptuous aroma of the tuna casserole cooking in an aluminum pan in the center. He peers briefly at the delicately prepared dish checking the gestation of his baking baby and nods in satisfaction, closing the door and turning to other affairs.

Cat Riley, the perpetual houseguest of Christian and his partner Scott Schriener emerges at the threshold leading into the kitchen but is stopped in her tracks by the curly haired blond man’s palm held aloft as a sign.

“I have a problem”, she whines.

“What is today’s problem kitty cat”? He asks, turning to face her. “Though I must say you are overdue, things have been going pretty well lately so it’s about time another catastrophe befell you. What is it”? He demands, leaning against the stove and wiping his hands on the bib of the white Grumpy Cat cooking apron fastened neatly around his muscular torso.

Following her employer and landlord’s hand gesture as she is barred from entering the kitchen Cat shuffles around to the outside of the breakfast bar and plops down onto a stool, propping her elbows atop the Formica counter top and nestling her chin into her hands. “Wow that smells good”, she remarks, taking note of the savory scent emanating from the stove.

“That’s why nobody but me is allowed to work in this kitchen. Now then, what’s today’s issue, are you upset with being matched against Mercedes”?

“Well to be honest I was kind of hoping for an easier opponent but I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge no matter how big and lord knows I have my work cut out for me with her but I have another problem”.

“Go on”, Christian prompts. “You’re among friends so just say whatever is on your mind, unless it’s about my cooking”.

“Ok”, she begins with a snicker. “Like you said, I’ve been doing well lately and you know how bad this city’s public transportation system is, bloody hell it’s a slap in the face that they call that travesty the ‘cat’ bus so I think it’s time for me to buy a car”.

Furrowing his finely trimmed brow Christian asks, “Uhh.., how is that a problem? Just go out and get one”.

“I need a license to drive”.

“Ok fine, take the test, get your permit and then the car, easy peasy”.

“I don’t know how to drive”.

“I see”, he mutters while meandering around to the other side of the breakfast bar taking a seat next to Cat.

“Will you teach me”? She asks, looking up at him through baleful blue eyes, “please”?

“I thought my driving scared you”? He says with a halfcocked smirk.

“It’s funny”, she shrugs her sinewy shoulders over the muse. “I’ve ridden with you so often now that not only have I gotten used to it, I actually like it. I mean, you get around faster than anybody I know and I want to drive like that too”.

“Hah..,” he snorts, dropping his head and erupting into a brief fit of vacillating laughter which brings a veil of dread over Cat’s soft features.

“What’s so funny? She appeals in a choking wail. “This town sucks without a car!”

“Ok, ok”, Christian croaks before regaining his composure. “You’re right, Las Vegas does suck without a car, and I wasn’t laughing at you, I was laughing over this wild turn of fate. I just think it’s funny that with so many people complaining about my driving that I would actually get the chance to teach somebody”.

“So you’ll do it”? She asks, her voice rising with hope. “You’ll teach me to drive”?

“Sure”, he bobs his head in affirmation. “It’ll be fun and when I get done with you kitty cat..,” following a pause he reaches over to pinch Cat’s high perched cheeks and continues, “you’re going to be the ultimate road menace cut from the same mold as me”.

With an excited squeal she leans over clutching Christian in a bear hug. “Thank you! I can’t wait! Thank you so much”!

Breaking from the embrace Christian rises from his leather padded stool, running the back of his hand along her silken blonde mane, “You’re welcome kitty cat. I was planning on playing hooky from work tomorrow and this gives me something fun to do. Now let me finish this meal, Scotty gets cranky when his dinner is late”.

“But he’s always cranky..?”

“Nah, today he’s downright joyful. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him this jovial”.

“Bitch, beer”! The voice booms as a thunderous wave throughout the halls of the custom built Victorian Manor.  And make sure the damned top is open this time. You dumb broad, you know I can’t drink it if it’s unopened”!

“Hunh, so much for my paying attention I guess”, she ponders as Christian snatches a Bud Light from the refrigerator and strides towards the living room and the booming of Scott’s throaty baritone accentuated by Carrie Underwood’s new, not so improved rendition of the Sunday Night Football theme. “Maybe I can help you here”? She asks, not much interested in the so-called battle for Texas between the Dallas Cowboys and Houston Texans preparing to kick off.

“Yeah sure, you can help”, his voice trails his fleeting personage giving an inadvertent rise to her hopes, a rise which he quickly quells. “You can help by staying your little butt out of my kitchen”.



Dusk has given way to the inevitable smile of sunlight which beams over the valley illuminating a random smattering of clouds, and shooing the last vestiges of Hurricane Florence further along. The foliage is finally beginning to turn, after nearly a month of autumn with trees casually dropping a small number of leaves on the cool, grey sidewalks.  Christian emerges through the covered front porch of the ornately detailed home with its pleated mulberry exterior with eggplant edging which frames numerous windows of various shapes and sizes from round, to rectangular, square and even hexagonal on all sides. The sides rise up two stories high leading to a pitched, angular roof with eggplant tiling. To the left an attached gazebo rises from the second floor into a an angled spire with a small square window providing light into one of two attics. Stepping from the porch and onto the steps, Christian cinches up his mauve suede jacket, shivering as he takes the key fob into his trembling hand to unlock the door to his waiting car. Trailing behind decked out in a simple ensemble of non-descript black sneakers with matching leggings and topped off with a white, short sleeved tee shirt sporting an image of a woman’s nude breasts. She shakes her head with a chuckle as her employer hurriedly opens the door and jumps into the driver’s seat.

“What are you laughing at”? He demands, casting a pointed glare at his snickering co-pilot as she settles into the passenger side. “It’s freezing out here”.

“You think this is cold?” she snorts. “This is swimming weather back home”.

Indeed, the electronic thermostat display on the dashboard reads 63 degrees Fahrenheit, merely a mild day at best in her home country of Great Britain but having resided in the valley for years now Christian’s blood has thinned, as the locals say, in adjustment to the incessant heat for the better part of the year, in short he has grown used to it.

“In that case”, he begins gruffly while twisting the key in the ignition and settling back into his seat as the big V8 engine rumbles to life with a throaty burble. “Our first stop will be the public pool. I hope you brought your pool pony”.

“You know I can’t swim you doofus”, she snaps back playfully. “It’s going to take a lot more than a pool pony to get me in the water”.

The pair buckles their seatbelts while sharing a laugh as Christian shifts the automatic transmission into gear. The tires squeal loudly, echoing through the exclusive upscale community as the 3800 pound metallion reverses out of the driveway with a roar, stopping with another screech before being thrown into drive and launched with a trail of tire smoke and accompanied by two lines of fresh rubber being burned into the asphalt.

The pair engages in idle chit chat as Christian weaves the steel laden steed through traffic. He ignores the blaring horn of a Toyota Corolla after cutting it off and forcing the elderly driver onto the sidewalk to avoid a collision and responds to the cries and shouts of fleeing pedestrians with a single finger salute. Stopping at a light the head of SCW keeps the tires warm with a smoky burnout which serves a twofold purpose; to gain traction for the ensuing launch and to serve as a warning to pedestrians to traverse the intersection as quickly as possible.

“Are you nervous about your match this weekend”? He asks, launching the hefty red dragon from the intersections and sending a police officer in the process of issuing a citation to the owner of a Toyota Corolla ducking for cover as the front wheels lift off of the ground and the traction of the rears send it careening down the road with a bellowing roar. “Mercedes is probably the toughest opponent you’ve ever had”.

Stifling an oncoming yawn Cat shifts deeper into her seat, oblivious to the chaos being sewn on the streets around her and props her feet up onto the edge of the black leather bucket seat. “To be honest I am a little nervous”, she admits. “Almost as nervous as I was before my first match, my debut. I mean, having worked with her in that tag team match against Salco and Steele, I got to see what she’s capable of and just how good she really is and she is bloody good. But I wanted to ask, why did you book me against her”?

“Ours is a cyclical business”, he elaborates while ignoring a red light in favor of getting the jump on the cars behind him onto the freeway. “We go through a bit of a down period between the big shows and we needed something that could put butts into the seats, something that maybe wouldn’t be such a pay per view draw but would serve to spike attendance between them. The fans love both of you but even though they wouldn’t necessarily plunk down pay per view money to see you two go at it”.

“Why not”?

“Pay per view is traditionally sold through grudge matches. That’s what the fans want, they want to see blood, they want mayhem, and they want to see scores settled. You and Mercedes have no issues with each other which would make it kind of tough to pitch on a show teeming with grudge matches. On the other hand, you are two of our best competitors and will undoubtedly put on a whale of a show, so why not save that show for the downtime between super cards? It keeps eyeballs on the set, and in the seats which is precisely what we need right now”.

“Ok, I can buy into that”, Cat concedes while staring out of the passenger side window to the hard hat wearing bright orange vested construction workers diving behind the concrete dividers to avoid the rampaging Chevy barreling towards them. “It makes sense from a promotional perspective, but it doesn’t do much to ease my anxiety”.

“Ah don’t worry about the butterflies kitty cat”, he offers a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he guides the pavement pounding projectile towards an off ramp, weaving in and out between cars content on observing the speed limit. “Besides, if I know Geno, and I do, he’s working on a game plan for you right now as we speak”.

“I assume you’re referring to senior?” she asks. “He’s out of the country and won’t be back until the weekend”.

“Doesn’t matter”, he shrugs with indifference. “He watches film constantly no matter where he is. He carries a digital library with him on his plane; so trust me, there’s plenty of film on Mercedes Vargas for him to watch. She’s been wrestling forever. He’ll have a game plan ready for you, I guarantee it”.

“Why can’t you fill me in on her? You said she’s been with SCW since the beginning so surely you know a lot about her”?

“Oh, I do indeed know a great deal about Mercedes, but it all boils down to this; I booked the match and am actively promoting it so it wouldn’t be fair to her for me to spill the beans on her tendencies to an opponent for a match that I booked her for in the first place. It’s a conflict of interest for which the SCW could be held liable and to be frank, I happen to like her. Mercedes Vargas is a hell of a talent and I want to keep her around. But don’t you worry; if there’s one man who figure her out it’s the Goldenboy”.



“Former roulette champion, three times over, three time tag team champion, two time bombshell champion, former internet champion and a pair of mixed tag team title reigns thrown in for good measure and that’s not including the several other promotions she’s worked for. Ten years of experience behind her and by looking at her performance in that tag team match with Cat she shows no signs of slowing down”. With the humming of four jet engines in the background holding the converted 747 aloft Goldenboy Gene Banton the official manager of Cat Riley pores over his laptop set on a fiberglass table before him.  “One hell of a resume”, he says, pulling his eyes away from the glowing screen and rubbing them gently between his thumb and index finger. “I wasn’t expecting Christian to book her against somebody of this caliber. Remind me to give him some lip service over this when we get home”.

“Are you sure? He might like it”. Seated to his right on the leather sectional is Brandi Constantino chuckles, a rangy blonde of nearly the same age; and a former wrestler and rival to some of his star protégés throughout the years cum friend and part time advisor. Looking over his shoulder at the screen she reviews a dossier compiled on Cat Riley’s next opponent. “She seems to favor the luchadora style but appears to be well versed in just about everything”, the veteran kickboxer notes. “And with ten years of experience backing her up Cat could be in for a long night I’m afraid”.

“Not if I can help it”, Gene says sternly, his gaze returning to the screen with fresh eyes. “She’s still human and that means she has a weakness. I just have to find it or something for Cat to exploit”. He scrolls through additional pages looking for recurring tendencies. “She seems to have a habit of self-promotion, more like a flair for it actually. Darn near every interview or social media post alludes to some new accomplishment and she keeps a detailed record of her peers as well; something to compare against I suppose and she does have a knack for using this to try to get into an opponent’s head. She may try to psyche Cat out”.

Having kicked off her white Adidas sneakers Brandi props her feet on the table and fires up a second laptop lying beside her. She listens silently to Gene’s observations while waiting for the familiar tiled windows logo to appear and allow her to connect to the built in wifi system aboard the extravagantly laid out private jet. “That does sound like a legitimate plan”, she offers. “Cat is young and new to the game so it only makes sense to use that against her”.

“It does”, he agrees as a smile slithers across his otherwise stony expression, “But Cat has junior in her corner and nobody is going to psyche him out. That boy is the best at that stuff, but I’ll be sure to alert him to the possibility”.

“I don’t know”, Brandi sighs and scratches her head. “I’m going through matches of Vargas against a variety of opponents; high flyers, technical, brawlers, and strikers and even against people versed in multiple styles but she always seems to be able to adjust and play the same game. She’s a tough nut to crack, like a jack of all trades”.

“Jack of all trades”, Gene repeats, lifting his gaze from the matte black Dell laptop, “Jack of all trades but master of none”.

“What do you mean”?

“We’re looking at this the wrong way”, he says, his voice picking in enthusiasm along with his expression and turns to face his associate, a former world champion in her own right who regards him curiously. “Of course she can adjust and adapt to multiple styles, she has the experience to have plugged the holes in her game long ago so rather than look for a weakness where none seems to exist we force her to prove she’s better at our game than we are. Look, she’s a good technician on the mat, no doubt about it but despite her experience she is still nowhere near Cat’s level because she has so many styles to train in while Cat only has one. Yes, Mercedes is good on the mat; very good in fact but Cat is absolutely world class. That kid has forgotten more submissions than most wrestlers will ever know and there’s no way she can hope to match her tit for tat on the mat for long, certainly not an entire match”.

“Ok”, she nods in acceptance. “But what is the counter to mat based wrestling”?

“Ariel”, he answers, his tone dropping, “something she excels at. However; I’m sure you’ve noted that she has a bit of an ego problem”? He posits and waits quietly for Brandi’s reply which comes by way of a subtle nod. “That ego of hers, combined with her own technical ability will trap her into playing Cat’s game, I just know it. She wants to prove that she’s better than everyone else and can beat them not only her way but at their own game as well. And when things start heating up and she realizes that she’s no match for Cat on the ground she’s sure to try and revert to her luchadora style so..,”

“So while they’re on the mat, Cat focuses on clipping her wings and keeping the fight on her turf”, she offers, finishing his sentence for him.

“Exactly”! He proclaims triumphantly with the glow returning to the surface. Bounding from his seat the brawny former wrestler clenches his fists in excitement, his blue eyes shimmering. He jettisons his light brown sports jacket, draping it over the seat opposite of the one he had previously occupied and runs his fingers through a silken, shoulder length blonde mane and cuts loose a voluminous breath. “This can work, we can use Mercedes’ own ego against her”.

“And the nice thing about this”, Brandi adds while also rising to her feet and quietly relishing the feel of the plush  magenta carpeting enveloping her bare feet, “is that Cat already knows the mechanics. You don’t need to teach her a thing”.



“The first thing you want to do is press down and hold the brake pedal with your left foot. I know, most people brake and gas with their right foot but that’s because they’re stupid and don’t know how to drive; by using the left you free up the right to hit the gas at the same time. You can spin the tires and lay down rubber for a better launch”.

From behind the driver’s seat of the big red machine idling with a loped rumble sitting stationary amidst the expansive abandoned parking lot of the closed for the winter Wet and Wild water park on south Fort apache road, twenty minutes west of the Las Vegas Strip Cat familiarizes herself with the controls of Christian’s four-wheeled rocket ship. With the patience of a teacher to special needs children he looks on while she fiddles with the gas pedal and the brakes while placing her right hand atop the smooth chromed handle of the hefty automatic transmission level on the center console.

“Go ahead”, he says, “put her in drive, and just make sure you’re holding down the brake when you do”. He watches and nods in approval feeling the 650 horsepower Camaro try to lurch forward only to be checked by the brake pads. “Good, now just feed it gas while holding the brake pedal until the rear wheels start to spin. You’ll know when you see white smoke all around you and smell the burning rubber”.

Following his instructions Cat applies the throttle little by little until the Z rated 330 Good Year tires break free of the pavement and starts to spin. Peeling against the tarmac the rubber begins to burn, spewing billowing plumes of acrid smelling white smoke which surrounds the madly fishtailing Bow tie.

“Now..,” Christian begins, training his eyes on the pavement before them. “Grip the wheel tightly and hold it straight and then release the brakes”.

Following the instructions of her sensei Cat sidesteps the brake pedal and the tires, half melted from the extended burnout are now effectively glued to the black top causing the car to hunker down on its haunches and lift the front wheels several inches off of the ground; blasting off under the motivation of more than 600 foot pounds of torque. It launches forward, accelerating at an alarming rate and pegs the speedometer in mere seconds as it rockets across the pavement. White knuckled Cat grips the thickly padded leather encased steering wheel tightly while her eyes are locked straight ahead.

“I think I see a speed bump up ahead,” she cries, trying to be heard over the roar of the agitated V8 engine. “What do I do”?

“Floor it”!

Doing as she is told Cat depresses the accelerator to the floor, giving the red and white steel bullet its head and allowing to charge unimpeded towards the speed bump. It hits the wide, low slung speed bump at more than a hundred miles per hour causing the vehicle to briefly go airborne. It crashes back down to Earth with a heavy, metallic thud bringing a broad grin to Christian’s face.

“Alright”, he says. Let off the gas and slam on the brake, bring it to a stop. Don’t worry about the car skidding, it’ll stop when it’s good and ready”.

After skidding and screeching for nearly 300 feet the beast finally comes to a rest, leaving a trail of burnt rubber in its wake and settles into a thumping idle as the gear selector is placed into parking mode. Looking at his student through beaming hazel lenses and grinning madly Christian offers her a high five.

“Yeah”! He exclaims. “Your first time behind the wheel and you’re already airborne. Now that’s driving”! Turning in the passenger seat to face Cat he continues in an animated inflection, “you’re almost ready to hit the streets, but I have to go over the rules of the road before we do that, ok”?

“Alright”, she nods enthusiastically. “What do I need to know”?

“For starters”, he begins, “you have to drive like you are the only person on the road. If you go and start doing stupid things like respecting your fellow motorists, you’ll never get to where you want to go”. Reaching out to the wheel he depresses the horn prompting the car to emit a piercing honk and goes on, “Let’s say you’re in an intersection, the light turns green but there are still people lumbering through. You can’t legally run them over so instead you press the horn and hold it down while burning the tires to give them the message. It works really well, they scatter like roaches when the lights come on and you just let off of the brake and away you go. Now for big crowds of people the horn doesn’t always work because there’s guaranteed to be some dumbass with his headphones on listening to crickets having drug induced sex at ten times speed who won’t hear it so you have to put the fear of God into them”.

“How do I do that”? Cat asks, her mind soaking the information given her and filing it for future reference.

“Turn the steering wheel about 45 degrees, any direction you want, it doesn’t matter”. He watches as his student turns the wheel as directed and nods before continuing, “Now, with your left foot holding the brake, I want you to do a burnout as I taught you and make sure to hold that steering wheel exactly where you have it, it’s important”.

Looking on quietly as Cat applies the throttle and nodding as the rear wheels slowly break loose and start to spin against the asphalt Christian reaches out with his left hand to grip the steering wheel, ensuring that it is held steadily in place. “Now”, he commands. “Hold that wheel exactly where it is and keep it there and let off of the brake”.

As the brake pedal is relieved of its duty to car lunges forward with a deafening roar, and directed by the angle of the front wheels it starts to spin madly in a smoky donut, leaving a circular trail of rubber behind. White knuckled and wide eyed Cat grips the steering wheel tightly, conscious of his admonition to keep it in place while the shrieking Chevy chases its own tail lights. After several moments and pounds of melted rubber he gestures for her to decelerate.

“Let off the gas” he shouts. “Again, don’t worry about the car; just let it stop wherever it wants”. Offering an affirmative pat on the back he asks, “Do you see how that works?”

“Yeah”! Cat cries in an adrenaline fueled pitch. “Not only does it work it’s fun”!

“You’re damned right it’s fun, and not only does it work on large crowds it shuts up those annoying backseat drivers”. Drawing a breath he leans back into his seat and exhales, releasing the last remnants of elation, trying to settle his mind back into teaching his prized pupil. “Now for the rules.., “he begins.

“You may as well throw the book out the window because it’s all wrong. It must have been written by a bunch of third graders strung out on crack after watching an NYPD marathon in super slow motion because nothing in it makes any sense whatsoever.  So forget the book, I’m going to teach you the right way. First, always drive in the open lane, even if it’s on the other side of the road. Next, hashed or broken lines mean you can change lanes; solid means just mean you have to do it more quickly. You can use any lane you want to pass somebody,”

“Even the sidewalk”? She says, interrupting. “But what if there are people on it”?

“They have legs”, he shrugs and resumes his oration. “Now, if you see a school bus with that idiotic stop sign just choose the lane where there are no kids and pass it there, and if you see an emergency vehicle, like a cop car or ambulance with the lights flashing get around it as fast as you can before all of the gawkers slow down to a crawl looking for body parts. As for traffic lights; green means go. Yellow means go faster and red means go when there are no assholes in the intersection”.

“Ugh, so many rules”. She scratches her head in frustration trying to sort and file them in the recesses of her subconscious mind. “How am I supposed to remember all of this stupid stuff”?

“Just remember the most important thing kitty cat, you own the road and that means driving them off it if you have to in order to get where you’re going.  The rest of it will come in time. The way I see it, if people are doing the speed limit they don’t have anywhere to be because everybody knows it is set artificially low so that the police can catch people. Nine times out of ten you’re going to be the only person on the road who has somewhere to be so it is their responsibility to get out of your way but sometimes you have to give them a nudge to remind them of it”.

“Wow”, she muses with a dirty grin. “I read the instruction manual on the internet last night, but the way you do it is a hundred times more efficient”.

“Like I said, I have places to go, they don’t”.

“How much longer until I’m ready to take the road test”?

“Not much longer”, he says assuringly. “But I still have to teach you how to ski the car up on its side wheels and drive it like that to get through those tight spots like traffic jams”.

“Ski the car? That sounds kind of difficult”, she frowns. “Is it as hard as it sounds?”

“Not really”, he replies while checking his reflection in the vanity mirror. “Skiing the car is a term used by stunt drivers when they put it on its side wheels and as for how they get it up that way, Have you noticed how the sidewalks at intersections are all sloped down flush with the streets at the corners”?

“Yes”, she nods certain of having the correct answer, her memory still fresh from reading the online manual the previous night and to which she promptly announces. “It’s to make them wheelchair accessible”.

“No”, he scoffs. “Screw the wheelchairs they’re not cars, they have no business being on the road. No, those slopes are actually ramps which, if you hit them at the right speed will help you get your car on the side wheels so you can ski and squeeze it through traffic”.

“Ah I get it”. Her eyes beam with the enlightenment of her sensei. “But I’m surprised they actually thought about people trying to get around for once”.

“Yeah”, he snickers, “Me too.”

Shifting to his left to face Cat he eyes her with a mischievous grin and says, “I’m going to teach you how to ski the car now, and then let you drive it on the street to the DMV to get your license but I have to ask one favor of you first”.

“What is it”?

“I want you to take Geno senior for a ride in your car when you buy one and show him everything you’ve learned, he will be shocked at everything you can do”.

“You got it”.



“I don’t get it”. With a furrowed brow Gene Banton senior stares blankly at the twitter feed of Mercedes Vargas, puzzlement etched across his face. “Mercedes is booked to wrestle on Thursday for Dystopia, then again on Saturday for Honor and on Sunday against Cat, why is she stretching herself so thin? The first is a number one contender’s match, the next is a pay per view and then she takes on Cat. She’s taking on three distinctly different opponents in as many days”. He shakes his head in disbelief as Brandi leans over his shoulder to gaze at the screen.

“Hmm, “she licks her lips and then offers a suggestion. “I think you’ve nailed her with the ego”,” she says. “She’s trying to prove everything she thinks about herself to the rest of the world and that’s her weakness. She’s preparing for three opponents at the same time while Cat only has one to worry about”.

Staring at the screen Gene briefly scrolls down the bombshell’s Twitter feed and begins reading aloud some of her more recent tweets to the public, “longest reigning honor champion at 200 days, hash tag the longest, the best, tied super hero Roxi’s record for most wins by a bombshell with the hash tag record breaking, history making, and she keeps track of her record better than most people track their finances”. Pulling his face away from the brightly lit screen he pauses a moment to rub his deep blue eyes between his thumb and index finger and then draws a belated sigh. “She’s more worried about her accolades than anything else, like she’s stockpiling them”.

“A doomsday prepper”, Brandi offers lightheartedly.

“Hunh”, he grunts, shoving the laptop further back onto the table. “Having seen this it only reinforces my belief in the validity of our original plan to make her try to beat Cat on the mat”. Rising to his feet Gene senior stretches his arms outward and cuts loose a heavy, cumbersome yawn. He digs into the right hand pocket of his snug fitting blue jeans to pull out a blue Apple IPhone X. “I’m gonna text Cassie” he says while pacing about the open cabin, “tell her to expect an email with my instructions for the match”.

“What about junior”?

“Ehh, I’d rather not since he tends to ignore them but I suppose I’ll send him a copy any way for the hell of it”. With his fingers walking rapidly over the keypad, he types out his message and presses ‘send’ which he quickly follows up by sending the same message to his son. A bright chirp from the grey rubber encased device informs him of the message’s delivery and is followed by a second in acknowledgement of the second recipient. “I’m gonna call for something from the kitchen”, he says while reclaiming his seat and pulling the laptop onto his knees. “Do you want anything”?

“A veggie burger with all the trimmings sounds great to me”, she answers.  “Thank you”.

“Cool, I’ll make it two; it sounds like a winner to me too”.



“Cat, we have ourselves a winner”! The piercing exclamation of Christian Underwood tears Cat from her reverie where she has been running her wracked mind through the gauntlet of the road test which she is about to undertake.  Despite the over cast day with a smattering of dark grey clouds beginning to lumber in from the south west his upbeat inflections is enough to line the cloud consuming her thoughts with silver as he joins her in leaning against the passenger side fender of the resting red leviathan. “I managed to get the same guy who gave me my road test years ago, you’re gonna love him”!

“Really, that’s awesome”! She chimes happily while craning her neck towards the door of the biscuit hued single story building; past a young man of roughly 17 sporting a scruffy, dark neckbeard practicing his parallel parking between four bright yellow plastic barrels and past the two stall canopy of the emissions testing station to the double glass doors where a steady stream of people filter out almost single file. A young woman joyously inspects her new license, the plastic still warm to the touch from the printer while an older woman fumbles about her purse for some unseen object. She is followed by an elderly man wearing a grey wool fedora with a full sleeved white button down shirt and black necktie with matching slacks and slowly ambling towards them with the aid of an aluminum walker with a pair of tennis balls shoved onto the business ends of the front legs to the apparatus.  “Is that him, the old man? She asks, casting a nod in the direction of the old man who has now separated himself from the pack. Christian nods with a grunt but sudden gust of dread deflates her sails as a frown rambles in. “Aren’t older people stricter? She asks, “They are back home, especially my uncle Ernie”.

“Don’t you worry kitty cat”, he replies with a reassuring pat on the back. “Mr. Jackson is the best, he gave me my test”.

“He’s awfully slow”, she observes, noting the short length of his steps coupled with a penchant for resting every 20 or so feet. “You’re sure about him”?

“A hundred percent and hey, you’d be slow too if you were 104 years old”.

“Wow”.

Several more minutes pass as Mr. Jackson makes his way to the waiting couple with Cat and Christian passing the time with idle chit chat which ranges from the weather to politics, to life on other worlds and nearly everything in between with Christian sharing an anecdote about his partner Scott failing his road test six times. Finally, and without any fanfare the elderly test instructor arrives at the car and glances expectantly at Cat through a pair of thick bi-focal glasses.

“Are you the one driving today”? He asks in a gravelly voice.

Cat dips her head nervously. “Yes, sir” she replies.

“Alright”, he begins, leaning against the walker and gesturing to the passenger side door. “Show me how to open the passenger side door”.

She throws an apprehensive glance in Christian’s direction as her boss then bobs his head and flashes thumbs up while backing away from the vehicle. Pulling on the latch Cat opens the door and the centurion ambles in. With a sigh he removes his hat and hands his clipboard to her with an instruction,

“Now go ahead and fill this thing out, I need to rest a while”.

Shutting the door behind him Cat scrolls down the paper attached to the plywood board and shrugs, looking up from behind a veil of bewilderment to Christian. “This is the checklist for the test”, she says as he reaches over to take it from her.

“I’ll fill it out for you”, he offers, pulling the pen from behind the aluminum clip. “Just take the car out for spin now”.  

Walking around the hood towards the driver’s side she casts another bemused glance to her driving instructor seated in the passenger seat with the fedora nestled into his lap, head resting against the pillar and eyes tightly closed.

“He’s asleep”, she mutters out loud.

“Don’t worry about it, just drive the car around for a few minutes and we’ll wake him up when you get back”.

“O… k…” Shrugging helplessly she brings the beefy V8 engine to life with a flip of the wrist and tucks the seatbelt under her tush and out of the way as Christian had taught her to do with the federally mandated annoyance. With the term at the forefront she glades to her right, a quick glance to see if her driving instructor had awakened yet but the elderly man’s snoring provides the half expected answer. She shifts the automatic transmission into drive and begins to power brake, bringing the engine speed up to the point that forces the rear wheels to break loose into a blustering spasm of smoke which draws the attention of various pedestrians; onlookers, employees, testing students and then forcing a young woman, no more than 16 with curly blonde hair and black rimmed glasses nervously guiding a Prius into a stop sign as she releases the brakes and careens through the parking lot prompting some of the onlookers to shout in consternation,

“Go back to driving school, you idiot”!

“Way to fail, dumbass”!

“You’re a road menace”!

“Somebody should lock you up”!

Their less than kind words are not lost on the pilot of the irresistible force, despite the cacophonous roar of the engine and with a quick snap of the steering wheel the metal maniac has turned its attention to them and barrels across the lot. An assortment of debris, primarily small rocks and dirt is kicked up by the whirling wheels of death chasing a flock of birds settled on the branches of a nearby tree into frenzied flight. Making her way towards them Cat suddenly jams on the brakes and snaps the steering wheel hard left which kicks the rear end out at them and sends the gawkers scrambling for cover behind a pair of parked econo boxes a red Fiat 500 and a white Smart car, a mail box, a light pole and even behind a large man whom she estimates at over 4oo pounds in weight while Christian watches from the other side and cheers her on enthusiastically.

“That’s my kitty cat, way to go”! He cries with clenched fists, looking on in satisfaction as the beast fishtails out of the parking lot and into the street. “I’ve outdone myself with her”.

With her adrenaline flowing following the chaos in the DMV lot Cat finds herself getting more and more into the moment as she guides the errant missile westbound on Sahara Avenue. The jitters fade as her thoughts turn to the realization that she is finally driving a car for the first time in her life and the experience is living up to everything she had hoped it to be.  Steering the car onto the sidewalk to escape a white Ford Taurus with its hood propped open and hazard lights flashing in front of her and subsequently sending a trio of missionaries fleeing in terror, causing them to drop their Bibles as they scatter and swerving back onto the street she starts to wonder if this drive truly qualifies as her first solo trip. Christian had always been with her before and even though Mr. Jackson is with her, technically at least, he remains fast asleep. She peeks over to the man snoozing peacefully for confirmation. So he is with her in body, but nothing else, so is it a solo trip? Unable to decide she turns her attention back to the road just in time to recognize construction crews busily jack hammering away in the middle of the street, their work space cordoned off with a trail of bright orange cones. Picking up speed she plows over the cones, reducing them to a mangled heap of rubber and turns left onto Maryland parkway, preparing to return to the DMV station.

The return trip is brief and relatively uneventful; the two taxis driven into a tree and a ditch not withstanding as Cat guides the Camaro at violent velocity back into the lot, sending a mail man ducking behind a tree, dropping his satchel of letters and packages as she slams on the brakes allowing the car to skid to a stop. Breathing a sigh of relief as Christian approaches sporting a wide eyed grin, she grabs the handle and flings the door open.

“How did I do”? She asks.

“I thought you did awesome”, he replies. “But his is the opinion that matters”, gesturing to the still dozing DMV associate. “Let’s wake him up and find out”.

After several minutes of vigorous shaking and two packs of smelling salts the old man slowly starts to come around. His eyes flutter open followed by a mournful yawn as he stretches his limbs and looks over to Cat.

“That was a nice, relaxing ride”, he says. “I haven’t slept that good since my divorce. I could swear you’ve done this before”. He misses his test subject shaking her head no, reaching through the passenger side window to Christian for the clipboard. “Ok”, he exhales and reapplies his glasses. “Let’s see how you did”.

Holding her breath Cat looks on anxiously at the instructor as he scans over the checklist, her heart hammering away at the walls of her breathless lungs.

“Turn signals, proper braking technique, speed, control of the steering wheel, presence of mind, paying attention to your surroundings..,” he rambles off the itemized list in a sleepy drawl as she prepares to exit. “You scored a hundred percent, very impressive”. Reaching over the older man gently pats her on the knee in approval. “Let’s go inside and take your picture for your new permit”.

Excitedly Cat leaps into Christian’s arms, wrapping her arms and legs around him in a massive bear hug squealing gleefully. “Thank you”!

“Haha you’re welcome kitty cat”, he laughs. “I had fun doing it”.

The pair walks slowly behind the tester as he ambles along with the aid of his walker towards the building, their feet scraping against the hot pavement having difficulty adjusting to the stagnant pace set for them. Reluctantly Cat turns over the key to Christian, her thoughts fluttering in transitory with her attention turning to her scheduled match this weekend in Scottsdale Arizona. She sighs.

“If only Mercedes could be so easy”.

 “I don’t know what you have me hooked on, but I’m going to recommend it to all of my friends”.

Peering through hazy eyes at the well-toned silhouette standing over her Cat Riley studies the visage hovering over her prone body while holding a small rectangular object. Although she cannot distinguish his features which are blurred by the ceiling light flashing from behind him she can readily tell that the unidentified man is athletic in build, sporting a chiseled frame topped off by long, shoulder length hair. And going by his apparent concern for her condition, looking on and watching her closely the woozy Briton detects a fuzzy sign like a faded image as seen through a pair of binoculars at close range, but a sign nonetheless. It is that one she latches onto as would a hungry lioness being offered a well done slab of prime rib; feeling his strong hand gripping her shoulder gently she snatches the beef and draws it to her ravenous canines sucking the tasty morsels from the bone.

Grimacing in distaste, Christian Underwood yanks his hand away and uses the hem of his dark double breasted blazer to dry his fingers off while steadily holding his cellphone in his other hand, the camera directed onto Cat, lying in the King-sized bed in the luxury stateroom suite. He says nothing, his attention focused on the mobile camera/phone directed at the young blonde eying him eagerly from underneath the beige and white quilted blanket. Jettisoning the covers to the warm apricot carpeting she moans softly,

“Mmmm.., I love a man who plays hard to get”.

Reaching down and grabbing her oversized blue tee shirt by the hem line she pulls it off and discards the fabric to the floor alongside the quilt exposing her fully nude body. Reaching down and running her slender fingers across waxen skin then smoothly sliding over a splayed torso towards exposed, heaving teats Cat lifts her flaxen maned head, glaring through molten cerulean lanterns and purrs in a husky, English accent,

“You’re like a wild animal, a sexy beast roaming about his territory and I’m a little girl who just wandered in. I want you to run your hair over my breasts like a feather duster then jump on and ravage me like the unsuspecting prey that I am. Treat me like a piece of meat”.

“Uhh..,” Stammering over the unexpected turn of events, Christian lowers his phone catching a good view of the double, ceiling to floor double sliding glass doors showcasing the expansive rolling blue waters of the open ocean and takes a step back towards the door. “No offense honey but..,” he stops himself mid-sentence hoping to avoid agitating the heavily drugged woman while trying mightily to suppress an obnoxious guffaw over the proverbial gold mine being fed to his phone’s video camera. Dropping into silence he subtly reaches for the door knob behind him and twists it into the unlocked position. Pulling it open he offers a smirking reply, “I’m late for my facial”, and quickly ducks out slamming it shut behind him.

In the brightly lit hallway he leans against the wall next to the door of Cat’s suite and rears his head back with a grievous sigh, only to jerk it away mere moments later as the crash and shattering of a porcelain lamp being hurled into it jolts him into an upright position.

“You bloody arsehole!” She cries angrily from within the room, her voice reverberating throughout the compartment and startling a pair of SCW fans filing past him in the hall. “Get back in here”! Exchanging bewildered glances, first with one another and then with Christian they stare at him, their blank expressions nonetheless asking an unnecessary question.

“Mystery guest for the show”, he offers with a sheepish grin and a meek shrugging of his shoulders. “She kind of didn’t want to come”.

“Come back love. Stick your bridle into my mouth and ride me like a Pegasus”!

Not wishing to delve any further into detail Christian excuses himself from the couple by diving into his cellphone and is quickly swept away by the rapidly flowing stream of information as the couple ebbs off with the tide towards the outside deck.  With his mind still on Cat and the strange events taking place behind the soft, cream colored walls he begins to surf the waves of Google, hanging ten over a digital pipeline which directs him to a binary island explaining the effects of chloroform.

The chemical compound was first described and produced by German physicist Moldenhawer in 1830 by mixing chlorinated lime with ethanol believing he had prepared chloric ether. This was followed up by the American physician Samuel Guthrie who also believed to have prepared chloric ether in 1831. Guthrie immediately noted its anesthetic properties. Following their discoveries and notations the compound quickly found its way into use as an anesthetic during surgery for many years until the chemical’s harmful side effects on the liver and kidneys were noted along with occasional dizziness, nausea, disorientation and headaches and confirmed by multiple independent tests.

“All this science is making me sleepy”, Christian yawns softly dropping the phone to his side and muttering to himself. He slides the phone into his side pocket and pressed the right side of his head against the wall. Against the thrum of the ocean he picks up on the faint sound of snoring emanating from the room and sighs, shuffling his feet into action. “I guess I should go to the store and pick up some ibuprofen, she’s probably gonna have a whopper of a headache”.

“Ungghh, my head is killing me”.

With a prepared smile Christian reaches over to grab a cup of water from the nightstand and hands it to Cat with a couple of Motrin tablets. Feeling somewhat vindicated by his study he takes a seat in a nearby chair, having earlier dragged the wooden framed, delicately appointed cathedra alongside the bed. Leaning back he clasps his hands behind his head and kicks off his of painlessly polished black leather penny loafers and mentally prepares to answer the next expected question.

“What happened to me? The last thing I remember was wandering about the homeless encampment on Owens by the cemetery, then this big, dark suv pulls up and everything went black. Then I wake up here with you..,” gasping in recognition she shoots into an upright position. “You”! She cries. “You did this didn’t you? You intend to collect all of that money I owe you”! Plopping back down onto her back she presses the palms of her slender hands against her temples, grimacing. “I’ve got some bad news for you, I don’t have any money so you either have to make me work it off or kill me”. Rolling onto her side in the king-sized bed facing her boss Cat locks her blue and red eyes onto his while clutching one of the two pillows tightly to her chest. “On second thought please don’t kill me yet, this bed is rather comfortable. Where am I any way”?

“Ahh kitty Cat..,” he begins with a chuckle. “You don’t owe me a damned thing, and to answer your last question you are onboard the cruise ship Sun Princess as a guest of SCW for our annual week-long tour. Getting to your first question..,”

“Oh I get it,” she interrupts. “You pumped me full of drugs and plan to sacrifice me to one of those leviathans on your roster”.

“Not quite,” he snickers. “The story is a little bit more involved than a simple sacrifice at dawn”.

”You are without a doubt the densest human being I have ever met”, the words fly as daggers from his tongue, piercing their intended target with sharp vitriol. Christian glares through narrowed slivers at his partner Scott Schreiner who looks on helplessly from the stressed out living room sofa supporting his 290 pound heft. “I swear, I can’t leave you alone for five damned minutes without you turning the entire planet off its axis. I swear, what are you going to fuck up next”?

“Chrissy I..,”

“Shut up! Did I ask you a question”?

“Well actually..,”

“I said be quiet! I can’t believe you did that”! Folding his arms tightly across his chest the co-owner of SCW leans with his back against the door jamb leading out of the eclectic Victorian furnishings of the living room into the well-lit main hallway. His head drops along with his thoughts sinking into deep contemplation. Scott shuffles his bulk nervously, drawing a light squeak in protest from the hardy oak frame of the couch and looks down, feeling a softness rubbing against his bare leg. Seeing the couple’s long haired Persian cat Genie, he reaches down to pick her up, but the cat unexpectedly draws back, bearing her claws and swiping at his softball sized calf muscle.

“Oww! What the hell was that for Genie”? He cries, grasping his lower leg, rubbing the tender flesh.

“What do you think nitwit”? Christian snarls. “She misses her favorite chew toy..,” His voice trails off along with his thoughts before he adds, “and I miss my co-pilot”.

“It’s been over a week” the big man laments in a gravelly tone. “She’s gone and there’s nothing we can do about it. I’m not inspector gadget and I can only apologize so many times”.

“Maybe there is something we can do,” Christian lifts his head breaking from the reverie. You and I weren’t able to find her, but we’re not exactly detectives. So I’m going to hire a professional to find track Cat down and bring her back”.

“A professional, are you sure we can afford that”?

“I think the sock can cover it”, Christian rolls his hazel eyes replying sarcastically.

“Wait, you can’t take it from the sock”! Cut off by the loud hissing of his pet Genie Scott quickly backs off holding his hands up in capitulation. “Ok, ok, take it from the sock”.



The rainbow colored long sock dangles loosely from Despayre’s fingertips. He holds the moldy hand knitted garment up high, inspecting it with a keen eye, and a wrinkled nose. Reaching into his pocket to retrieve a clothespin the raven haired young man uses it to pinch his nostrils shut before reaching inside.

“Fortunately,” he says while digging through the contents, “I keep my list of contacts in the world’s most secure location, a place no one would dare venture”. Grabbing hold of something he snags it with his fingertips and pulls a crumpled piece of paper with names and other information hastily scrawled in crayon from the mildewed sack and unfolds it for a closer inspection.

Christian looks on and smiles knowingly, himself very well acquainted with the use of socks for odd purposes. It is nearly 10 PM in the sleepy Summerlin neighborhood, with the residents living in the neatly lined homes behind delicately manicured lawns having long since retreated indoors leaving him and Despayre alone underneath the street lamp at the edge of the youngster’s father’s driveway with Angel, decked out in a black fedora and tiny trench coat seated on the ground facing south, vigilantly keeping watch while his partner conducts business.

“Ah yes, here it is,” the boy mumbles behind furrowed eyebrows while gazing at the paper. “I can take your case, but given the cold trail and the elusive nature of the subject it will be a difficult task thus, I must ask for twice my standard fee; One half to be paid up front and the remainder upon completion. Do you have the payment”?

“I do”, Christian replies softly, reaching into his right front pocket as Despy casts a wary glance over his shoulder to ensure there are no prying eyes. He removes a bag of Skittles and, cradling the candy gently, he surreptitiously palms the bag to Despy who quickly stashes it in his pants.

“Very well,” Despayre announces softly. “I shall commence the investigation post haste. I trust that you will not mention our arrangement to anyone”? He asks.  Nodding in acceptance to the bobbing of Christian’s head he continues, “So be it, our business is concluded. My associate will contact you once we have secured your friend.  In the meantime I have another pressing case which requires my undivided attention. I bid you good night”.

Without another word, Despy picks up the teddy bear, turns and slowly begins his trek back up the driveway, pausing every few yards to ensure that he is not being followed with Christian Underwood turning towards his nearby parked car, departing. Clutching the bear tightly the would be detective leans over as if listening to something being uttered by Angel, an utterance which prompts him to rear his head back while glaring at the bear.

“Of course we’re not going out there to find her tonight, are you kidding? Golden Girls is about to come on! I’ll just call Uncle Guido and when his people find Cat we grab her and viola, free Skittles”!



Turning her head back while holding the small rainbow patterned bag to her mouth Cat taps the bottom hoping to entice any errant remaining skittles candies into the voracious cavern, and satisfied she crumples the wrapper into a ball dropping it into a grey concrete cylindrical waste basket. Reaching up with her right index finger she adjusts the aviator style Ray Ban sunglasses protecting her shimmering blue eyes from the intense UV radiation trapped within a high pressure heat dome on a typical Las Vegas summer day.

“I should have brought more sunscreen”, she mutters and pulls her arms fully inside of her white tee shirt to protect her porcelain skin from the overbearing sunlight. Ignoring the gaping stares of an elderly couple passing by, most likely gawking at the image on her tee shirt, a black and white screen printed pair of naked breasts than with the arms stuffed inside. Turning on the brown metal panel bench to face her companion she proposes, “Why don’t we go find a spot to sit outside of this bloody convection oven”?

Luke Owens, a lean man of average height with a wiry build bearing a pasty complexion similar to hers nods his head, which is topped with a carrot toned coif in agreement. The pair rises collectively to their feet as Mr. Owens, a man in his late 20s discards his beige flannel styled sport jacket in favor of the simple white tee shirt underneath, tucking a notepad and recorder into the left front pocket of his blue jeans and they begin their trek in search of a more hospitable climate to conduct the interview for his website.

“England has nothing on this heat”, he observes in a west London cockney drawl, his eyes scanning up and down Freemont Street in Downtown Las Vegas.

“It’s hotter than the Devil’s arsehole”, Cat nods observing the ramblings of tourists with their faces glued to maps, plodding about with no sense of direction and stopping every few feet to stare at another colorful neon sign. Up ahead beginning at the Main Street intersection her gaze fixes upon the large canopy sprawling the width of Freemont and extending for five blocks. Although initially intended as a featured attraction to night time show called ‘The Freemont Street experience’  The canopy, also known as ‘Viva Vision’ with its 12.5 million LED lights and 550,000 watt sound system has proven equally adept at protecting the people milling about the pedestrian mall below from the intense heat of mid-day.  Gesturing to the canopy Cat says, “Let’s go there, to the Freemont Street experience under the canopy. There are plenty of seats and shade there”.

Moving along the duo eventually settles for a bus stop style bench similar to the one they had vacated moments earlier. They sit quietly while Luke Owens prepares his recording device and notepad and Cat stuffs a piece of chewing gum into her mouth, savoring the initial burst of apple flavored sweetness and blowing then cracking a small bubble once the rush of juice has dissipated. With his equipment prepared Luke brings the recording device to his pursed lips and speaks in a practiced, polished tone.

“Hello again everyone”! I am Luke Owens with Pro Wrestling Fangasm, your go to source for all things wrestling. I am here today with SCW star and the motherland’s own Cat Riley who is set to return to action this weekend against Brittany Williams in Irvine California following an unexpected layoff from the squared circle. Cat, can you tell what has been happening since your layoff, and why”.

“As many of you may already know, I am new to this business, to Las Vegas and the United States in general, “she begins in a slow, husky voice. “I had been staying with Christian Underwood and his Partner, or husband or.., hell, I don’t know, maybe his wife Scott Schreiner at their home here and things were a bit.., complicated”. A collage of imagery streams through her mind depicting the events leading to her eviction including the lack of payment for her matches which she later learned Christian had been saving for her while living with him, the destruction of several sections of the custom built Victorian style home to her would be hiring of Scott to serve as her manager in an ill-fated attempt to gain a leg up on her employer. “I was thrown out”, she continues. “Due to my previously mentioned complications, which I would rather not elaborate on, I was thrown out with no money and almost no clothes..,”

“You were living on the streets”? Luke interrupts questioningly.

“Yes, there are several homeless encampments near Owens and Main Street in North Las Vegas..,” a blast of air, heated by the high pressure dome extending over the valley smacks her into a pause and lends credence to her description of the valley weather as a ‘convection oven’. Re-boarding her train of thought she continues, “I found a tent village across the street from a soup kitchen where people usually stayed to wait for the kitchen to open so they could get something to eat. Most of us would stay there during the day until after dinner, which usually consisted of stuff donated from local casinos, stuff that was about to expire so it wasn’t very good. But beggars can’t be choosers, right? Any way after dinner some of us would retreat to the I-15 over pass near Bonanza, it was fenced off, but there were plenty of holes to crawl through and we would set up around the pillars supporting the overpass or against the concrete bank overnight. It was about as comfortable as Elton John in Moscow and smelled like the old shoe of an 800 pound man, but it is what it is I suppose”.

“Fortunately in your case the proper term is now ‘was’”. The interviewer observes. “Which begs the question, how did you escape such a vicious cycle”?

“I was homeless for a little over two weeks but then my memory becomes a bit hazy, like I was drunk or something..,”



It is just past midnight in North Las Vegas and Cat Riley tries to sleep on a perforated olive drab blanket which bears the sudoric odor of mildew. She tosses and turns on the blanket which tries in vain to protect her from the hard, rough surface of the concrete bank supporting the over pass of Interstate 15. She can tell by the cacophony of horns blaring, brakes squealing and the omnipresent hum of engines at idle that traffic has slowed from its usual breakneck pace to a crawl, probably due to a break down she surmises while reaching out to fluff the bundled collection of rotted, discarded shirts serving as a pillow. The air is still and hot without so much as a whiff of a breeze. Finally giving up, she gathers her belongings and stuffs them into a tattered, black sack and then stashes it inside of a thick, prickly bush before stepping away from the makeshift camp set up by the city’s homeless in favor of a walk down Bonanza road. The sky is clear and despite the lack of sunlight still bright enough to read the labels of various soda and beer bottles scattered carelessly about the road and sidewalk courtesy of the obnoxious lighting of overzealous casinos hoping to lure in other insomniacs. A dog barks from behind a fence as she passes by an old, dilapidated wooden home which looks to be more than twice her age sporting faded paint, cracked and split wooden storm shutters and topped off by a patchwork tile roof.

With her head bowed Cat continues along the sidewalk consciously avoiding the numerous cracks which ripple across the weathered concrete in a stormy web, her mind replaying the old children’s nursery rhyme recalled from childhood,

“Step on a crack, break your mother’s back”!

She pays no mind to the throaty bellowing of an engine behind her, figuring it to be another midnight maniac, probably late getting home from something they should not have been doing in the first place. The roar dulls to a loping idle accompanied by the high pitched squeal of brakes being hastily applied and then.., footsteps in tango with a hushed voice. Someone is approaching from behind. Quickly she spins on her heels finding herself face to fur with a teddy bear. Looking down at the small, stuffed animal curiously dressed in a black trench coat with matching fedora her brow furrows in familiarity, but before the mental connection can be made her nose is assaulted by the ether-like odor of a drenched rag clamping over the homeless Briton’s mouth and nose. She cries out for help but her voice is muffled by the rag which bears a slightly sweet tinge to it and despite her instincts to fight back she is overcome by darkness.

Despayre strains with the dead weight of his unconscious victim as he struggles with Cat’s limp body dragging it towards an open door of the black Lincoln Navigator SUV. “Quickly”, he shouts to the driver, an older Hispanic woman seated behind the steering wheel. “We have to get her inside and take an emergency shower”!

“A shower”, the driver asks. “What for, she doesn’t smell that bad”.

“I touched a girl and she might give me cooties”!

Exiting from the vehicle the slightly heavy set woman mutters beneath her breath in her native Spanish while proceeding to help him pull Cat into the third row folded rear seat. Between the two of them, or three if you include their fur laded accomplice resting atop Cat’s chest, they are able to drag her into the truckster with minimal fuss and the Lincoln belches tire smoke, spewing pebbles as it careens back onto the road with its cargo secured.

Inside, with the stereo tuned to a Mariachi station Despayre fiddles with a set of plastic zip ties. Looking over top of the bench seat into the third row behind them he glances at Angel still seated on the blonde’s softly heaving chest. “We have to secure her hands”, he states. “If we’re not careful she could give us all cooties and that can be very dangerous”. With the ties in hand he leans over the backboard and carefully grabs Cat’s wrists, but becomes distracted by the sweet smell of the rag used to secure their hostage. “That smells like Skittles”, he notes, dropping the ties in favor of the tattered and soaked white cloth. “Shut up” he snaps, glaring at the bear. “How do you know it’s not Skittles, did you taste it”?

Ignoring the silent protests of his partner in crime, Despy takes the rag in hand and lifts it to his face. Giving it a once over with his nose he frowns and glances back at the teddy bear. “Ok, you’re right”, he concedes. “It’s not Skittles, it’s more.., medicine-like..,” A pause ensues with his mind fast tracking over a list of possible candidates. “Kind of like.., mint”. A broad smile encroaches over his youthful features upon the sudden revelation.  “I love mint”!

Peering through the rear view mirror the driver observes her passenger preparing to shove the rag into his gaping mouth. “Despayre, no”! She attempts to cry out in warning but is too late as he has nearly ingested the chemical laden wash cloth and promptly slumps over against the door. “Aye carumba”, she mutters pulling the vehicle off onto the side of the road. After checking on the passenger and ensuring that he is well, the woman retrieves a cell phone from the glove box and dials a number.

“Senor Synn”, she speaks slowly. “We have a small problem”.



“It’s a fascinating tale to be sure and we are all relieved that you are alive and well,” The wrestling journalist offers following a break in Cat’s yarn. “But this little adventure puts you in a bit of a pickle”.

“How so”? Cat asks, glancing at him over her shoulder.

“Training,” he states flatly. “I imagine it is rather difficult to train under the circumstances you had been subjected to and you’re scheduled for a match this weekend in Irvine against Brittany Williams, an opponent who already knows you. You don’t have much time to shake off the rust, especially against somebody who has sampled your brand of wrestling before”.

“Perhaps that may be true for most people”, she replies with a light shrug. “But I am not most people. When I train, I train properly; to the point of everything I do on the mat being from muscle memory”.

“Could you explain that a little bit for our fans”?

“It’s quite simple really,” Cat begins in an obligatory tone, pausing briefly to glance upwards to the LED lights of the massive canopy, which have yet to be turned on. “When most people practice, they stop when they feel they have a mental grasp of the concept. But my uncle Ernie insisted that I treat it like tying a pair of shoes, by doing it so often that it becomes instinctive”. Turning to face her interviewer she posits, “How often have you found yourself tying your shoes or brushing your hair or some other task you do daily without even thinking about it”?

“Quite often, to be honest”, Owens admits.

‘Exactly, you’ve done it so many bleeding times that it has become ingrained into your psyche, its automatic. You don’t think about it, you just do it and that’s where I am, every time I apply a head chancery, a three quarter nelson or a double wrist lock I am not thinking about it at all. I merely see an opening and move in for the kill. My conditioning on the other hand may prove somewhat lacking”.

“Why is that”?

“Have you ever seen a gym for the homeless”? She responds with a smirk. The journalist shakes his head in the negative allowing Cat to continue, “Neither have I.  Fortunately the majority of my conditioning is through cardio and calisthenics and since you can do that almost anywhere I was able to work out a few times though not as often as I normally would. But I don’t think I’ll even miss it for this match considering the extra motivation I have been given”.

“You’ve already wrestled Brittany Williams,” Luke observes curiously. “What makes it so special this time around”?

“I just found out that she is a Kardashian”! Grinning wickedly Cat rubs her hands together in excited anticipation. “The beating I’m going to give to her..,”

“I hate to be a Debbie downer but..,” pausing to carefully choose his words Luke Owens winces subconsciously over the thought of being trapped in one of Cat’s notorious arm locks. Still, he elects to test the current calmness of Hurricane Cat, a woman who has become somewhat legendary among his peers for her temper and intrepidly pushes forward. “You thought that she was a Kardashian the last time you met her and it turned out that she was not. Has some new information been brought forth that we are unaware of”?

A fair question to be sure, a question which Cat takes in stride pausing ever so briefly to pop her knuckles and drawing an involuntary jump from her companion in the process before replying with a tinge of excitement in her husky voice,

“Have you read the program for Climax Control this weekend in Irvine”? She demands.  Without waiting for a reply she reaches into the front pocket of her faded and torn blue jeans pulling out a crumpled copy of the program just mentioned. Unfolding it she hands it to him looking on expectantly. “Go ahead, read it out loud”.

“Very well”, he reluctantly agrees, stopping to clear his throat. “The Cat is back! Cat Riley, after taking much time off of SCW active duty for reasons as of yet undisclosed, is back in action! What has she been up to? Where has she been? Answers we hope to be answered, but for now she will find herself in a difficult position as she faces a familiar adversary in Brittany Williams! Cat has it in for Brittany, if for no other reason the flighty Bombshell is seemingly convinced Miss Williams is a, or resembles a -- Kardashian! And Cat HATES the Kardashians! The bosses know a money maker match when they see one, and seeing the former Roulette Champion Brittany against the upstart Cat fits the bill!” Refolding the paper he hands it back to Cat with a frown. “I’m afraid that does not implicitly state that she is a Kardashian. In fact it merely implies that you..,” he pauses on the word for emphasis, “are the only one who believes this to be true”.

“Did you read the Twitter announcement, what more proof do you need”?

“I did see the Twitter announcement, and if memory serves ‘Kardashian’ was in quote marks”.

“What the hell does that mean; that he was quoting himself”? Shaking her head Cat draws a beleaguered breath and pops her knuckles once more. “It doesn’t matter”, she resolves. “When I get my hands on Brittany I’m going to beat until she makes roadkill look cute. But I still think she may be a bloody Kardashian, probably a second or third cousin twice removed or whatever. I don’t care, either way I’m going to beat the trust fund out of her”.

“By the way, the announcement called you flighty”.

Cat spits, “That’s silly. I’m not a bird. Well, not literally at least”. Turning to face her interviewer Cat’s typically soft features slowly take on a stony façade of seriousness. “As I have said, it doesn’t matter. If she is associated with those bleeding Kardashians in any way, shape or form she will get what they all desperately need and if not.., then at least I will teach her that a dollar is not the only thing that can be stretched”.

“It sounds like you’re fired up for this”.

“I still think she may be a Kardashian, all that money and not enough time to count it all. Sitting around the pool in one of fifteen mansions while being filmed fussing over the color of her nail polish, I mean.., seriously? Their idea of entertainment is spending money, just like Brittany. Kardashian or not, when she gets to Irvine she’s going to learn that she is a bloody long way from la la land”.

“Speaking of getting to la la land, how do you plan on getting to Irvine”?

“It won’t be the same way I got to the cruise ship, I can promise you that much”.



San Pedro pier lies 18 miles south of downtown Los Angeles and has long served as the point of departure for various cruise ships and numerous other commercial vessels. Nestled against the rolling blue backdrop of the Pacific Ocean it has become the central hub of the port of Los Angeles as well as the home of the Princess Cruise line. At berth 54, one of two docks devoted solely to the cruise line a massive ship sits idle, moored to the dock with multi-colored nylon ropes nearly 90 mm in diameter the Crown Princess, with a dozen decks and 113,000 ton displacement sways gently on the water with the lapping tide. Below on the docks, men and women decked out in snappy white uniforms greet guests as they arrive at the loading dock. Tug boats meander about the vessels awaiting the anticipated command to get the 951 foot floating city under way, their job being to push and pull it into navigable waters. A young man sporting a captain’s style ball cap checks the boarding passes of guests as they line up awaiting their turn. From a railing just above the loading docks onboard Christian Underwood yawns while watching the passengers being herded through. From behind a pair of rectangular Ray Bans he scans the dock, his gaze sifting over a sea of people. He is joined by the former pro wrestler turned father Synn whose eyes are glued to his cell phone. He punches away at the key pad typing an unseen text message and turns to Christian,

“They’re almost here, about to pull up to the dock”.

He makes his way down the ramp to await the arrival of a gleaming black Lincoln Navigator SUV which arrives in short order. His housekeeper, Theresa slams the vehicle into park and jumps out from the driver’s side to greet her employer with a light tirade fired off in her native Spanish before leading him to the back door. He opens it up and peers inside where his son Despayre and his teddy bear Angel are fast asleep with Cat Riley curled up in the third row. Gently he scoops the trio out, one by one, hoisting them onto his chiseled, broad shoulders as Theresa gathers their belongings, stuffing everything from comic books, to medicine, to an assortment of DVDs into a blue nylon satchel and handing it to him. With a curt nod the grateful housekeeper is dismissed and retreats to the serenity of an empty SUV while Synn turns back to the ramp, pausing to show the group’s boarding passes to the usher who regards him in bewilderment.

“They had a bit too much to drink”, he explains in a white lie which the younger man acknowledges in an accepting nod, gesturing them aboard.

With the thudding of his father’s boots against the grated ramp Despayre lifts his head groggily and drunkenly slurs, “I told you we shouldn’t have climbed that beanstalk”!

 “I want her out of my home Scotty, that’s all there is to it”, with his arms crimped across his chest Christian defiantly huffs in an agitated response. He and Scott have been arguing for nearly an hour following the Cat vs cat showdown and the resulting destruction culminating in thousands of dollars’ worth of damage. Through mournful eyes Cat Riley, fearful of being evicted had sworn vehemently to make amends. But he isn’t ready to buy it. “God only knows what that woman could have done to Genie had we not returned when we did”, he continues.

A resounding flush reverberates throughout the master bedroom, emanating from the attached bath. The squeak of a not so well oiled door hinge heralds the return of Scott into the bedroom. Stepping over the threshold and onto the 10’ by 10’ softly colored blue and white throw rug and heaving a satisfied sigh he jettisons his grey tee shirt onto an ornately carved black trunk cocktail table with a centered gold carving aligned in the center with brass handles at each end, leaving him clad in a simple pair of black briefs. Pushing aside a simple, yet elegant sitting chair sporting a cream hued seat cushion atop a hand carved rosewood frame the self-styled ‘Big Pump’ pulls back the crepe-back royal blue satin comforter and slides his hefty frame into the bed alongside his spouse after designating a station for three of the six matching pillows. He sits himself upright, propping his broad back against the sturdy cedar headboard adjusting one pillow to provide a buffer between his bare skin and the midnight half-moon headboard. Reaching to his left he snags a remote control from the baby blue nightstand dresser beside him and uses it to power up a Sony 60 inch LCD flat screen hanging against the taupe plastered wall as Christian rambles on.

“She destroyed our entire living room,” he moans, his voice cracking in frustration over the events of the day. “We’ll have to buy a whole new set. Not to mention the pull down ladder to Genie’s main room, and let’s not forget the china laying on the floor scattered about the dining room now in pieces. I thought it was a good idea; to take this kid and maybe teach her some responsibility while helping her out but I was wrong. She’s beyond help so tomorrow morning I’m going to cut my losses and tell her she has to leave”.

With a disinterested groan Scott abruptly turns the television back off and turns to face his partner, a veil of mild annoyance stalking his chiseled jawline and dropping the remote to the floor where it lands with a light bump, muffled by the white and blue SmartStrand silk reserve throw rug.

“Would you listen to yourself”? He demands.  “Cat did this, Cat did that”, he spits. “Cat didn’t do anything Chrissy, this one is on you and you alone”.

“How do you figure”? Christian asks in a challenging tone, clutching a pillow tightly across his bare chest. “Did Genie just decide to fill her own litter box with five pounds of cat nip”?

“C’mon babe, you gotta admit that was pretty clever”, Scott cackles smacking the pillow across Christian’s chest with a quick swat.

“You don’t see me laughing, do you”?

“Nope”, the big man nods in agreement, his short-lived grin abruptly inverting. “I’ll tell you something else I don’t see either; you, after talking about teaching her responsibility, accepting any for yourself”.

“What are you saying? I was trying to help the kid out, I bent over backwards to take care of her. She’s the one who failed me”! Releasing his grip on the pillow Christian casts it aside with a twitch of the wrist, allowing it to fall to the wayside with the frustration spilling over the brim of a tanned profile. Surely if anyone were to take his side in such matters it would be the man to whom he has been married for the better part of a decade, but the man sitting beside him appears more interested in arguing. His teeth grind together awaiting the expected reply; a nervous habit developed after years of fighting with a disagreeable father.

“Uh huh”, Schreiner replies dismissively. “Whose idea was it to allow her to move in”?

“Scotty I..,”

“And whose idea was it to have her sit for Genie, knowing that Genie doesn’t like her”?

“Wait, what”? Christian cries glaring at his partner incredulously. “I had no idea Genie wasn’t going to take to her”! Feeling a slight palpitation in his heart over the telling of a white lie he backs off, wanting to go further in his own argument but deciding against it for the sake of keeping his anxiety level down.

“Despite the fact that she spent a good part of the day destroying Cat’s clothes right in front of you”, He presses on from the observation. “You know damned well she doesn’t like Cat, but you still asked Cat to sit for her, so how about telling me the truth”?

His tawny, bare shoulders slump in capitulation in the face of Scott’s surprising logic Christian heaves a raspy murmur of acquiescence.  “Ok, to be totally honest with you”, he begins, “Cat is a handful. Hell, she’s more than a handful, she’s a trainload of truckloads and I underestimated her. I was sort of hoping Genie would do her thing and make Cat think twice about staying here, make her want to move out and do everything imaginable to get her money straight, you know”? Running his fingers through his sandy locks and gripping them tightly at the ends he exhales grievously but goes on, “I was only expecting it to be for a few days, but it’s starting to look like a long term deal and I just want out so we can get back to our lives. You can appreciate that, can’t you”?

Sliding back down into bed, beneath the double layered comforter Christian abandons the pillow against the headboard in favor of Scott’s bulging thigh. Looking up at his spouse of so many fun-filled years, into those deep, watery blue pools he feels a pang of guilt stabbing at his heart for lying to him. White lies are still lies his mother had always told him and from behind a remorseful visage, while gently stroking Scott’s vein laden forearm he says softly,

“I’m sorry I lied to you, it’s just.., I don’t know really. Cat is a train wreck. Did you know she broke the glass door at Gabriel’s gym”?

Grunting with a nod of his head Scott wraps his beefy right arm around Christian’s shoulder, “Yeah, I heard about that; trying to rape a teddy bear”, he chuckles, stroking his bleached goatee thoughtfully. “But look at it from her perspective; here’s a kid trying to establish a career, alright? She’s young and inexperienced so she’s prone to making mistakes. She starts off on the right foot, getting signed and winning her debut match and the follow up but she made a couple of mistakes and then found landed in trouble. So she..,”

“Scotty, I already know this”, Christian interrupts in a crumpled tone. “I said as much myself, I just..,”

“How is she supposed to dig herself out of this mess with you keeping an itemized list of every expense she’s accrued? A nickel here, a dime there, gas money for a ride to the arena, repairs to the house and now an entire new wardrobe thanks to your brilliant idea. The poor things gotta be worried sick, I mean, where does it all end”?

“Scott..,” he replies plaintively, “I’m not charging her a dime, I told you”!

“But she doesn’t know that”, Scott replies pointedly, flicking the tip of his partner’s nose for added emphasis.

“I figured she’d put two and two together once she got her check”, Christian shrugs. “Once she realizes her check is the full amount she’ll do the smart thing and save it”.

“Yeah, save it for when you come by to collect”, he retorts. “She has no idea that you have no intention of collecting so she has to behave accordingly”.

“I see your point”, the SCW co-owner nods softly, relenting to the unexpected reason of his partner. “I..,” his voice trails off allowing his mind to retreat into consideration. Retracting his gaze from Scott he draws it inward to more conscientiously address the situation before him. “What do you suggest”? He asks after several moments spent in silence, unable to see an immediate solution.

“I think it would be a good idea to take the kid shopping, help her get her clothes and stuff back together. Do you know what she wore to bed tonight”? He shakes Christian gently who sways his head from side to side in a silent ‘no’ and with a snicker adds, “She wore one of my tee shirts. Genie tore up everything she has”.

Stifling a snicker of his own Christian nods his head in approval saying, “I guess I can do that. But it can’t be tomorrow, I have a lot of fed business to attend, not to mention payroll. How does the day after sound”?

“That’s fine”, the ‘Big Pump’ answers in an accepting tone. “She can romp around the house in my tee shirt tomorrow, I don’t care”.

“I’ll take the money she’s given me so far and just stash it in Genie’s jar for the time being”, Christian offers, reaching up and snaking his arm across Scott’s chest, grateful for the clarity he has helped bring. With his anxiety ebbing he feels the waxing tide of a different emotion flowing in. “But for now..,” looking up at his husband through wryly gleaming eyes, he turns off the small bronzed lamp on top of the nightstand and whispers, “I have other ideas”.

“Oh, by the way.., have you seen Genie”?



The largest of the big cats, the Siberian tiger is widely regarded as the strongest and most dangerous of them all and has been known to hunt and kill prey up to four times its own size. This time however, the target is even larger, a certain record breaker. The gigantic beast’s legs alone tower above the great predator, so high as to render the upper extremities indistinguishable but this does not intimidate the true king of the jungle. Instead it merely serves as additional motivation for the ravenous carnivore crouching down, hidden in the shade of a wide, low slung tree which provides ample camouflage from the rays of early morning sunlight filtering in through the overhead cover and illuminating the hunting grounds. Its steely blue eyes locked onto the target the muscular man-eater follows its every movement unflinchingly, waiting in patience while taking in its surroundings; the smell of a fresh breeze delivered by an object whirling, the bristling of a strange looking tree branch being swept back and forth across a shiny hard ground, and stickies’ clinging to the bare skin covering the legs of its intended meal with an incessant screeching billowing throughout the land; most likely the result of a successful kill by another predator, an event soon to be upstaged by the mightiest of them all.

Busying herself with a short handle broom Cat sweeps it back and forth over the polished wooden flooring, ushering stray clumps of dirt into the open mouth of a black Rubbermaid dustpan which eagerly devours the scuz. Moved by the beat of Iron Maiden’s ‘Back in the village’ squealing from the bass enhanced box speakers to the bookshelf stereo system the blonde gyrates her body back and forth with the motion of the broom, her hips swaying to the rhythm along with her champagne locks being flung about by a wildly swinging head. The three blade ceiling fan whirrs along, providing a refreshing current, a draft she takes to dancing in, with her blue tee shirt, grossly oversized for her petite frame flowing whimsically to the convulsions of her body. She raises her bare feet, both adorned with a good half dozen band aids, bringing them into the game. Shuffling across the.., somewhat clean flooring towards the tattered remains of a loveseat; victim of recent events involving the house cat from hell and outstretching her arm she reaches for the furnishing pressing her body weight against it to push it aside and allow her to sweep beneath.

Such a strange beast this creature; it displays movements never before seen in the harsh environment of the underbrush, and a most unusual mating call. Watching in steadfast determination the stealthy ambush predator holds still, its hind legs tensing in preparation for the coming attack. The carnivore’s tail twitches in alarm while following the movements of the furless creature and notices it ambling towards the tree under which it sits in wait. The ground vibrates below its paws, perhaps an earthquake? Not quite. No, the bipedal monstrosity, in a mind boggling show of strength is attempting to uproot the entire tree! Forced into action the massive tiger leaps from its hiding spot; a white streak pouncing from seemingly nowhere and sinks its talons into the bare flesh of the surprised animal’s lower legs. It drops the gigantic tree branch held in its hands and collapses with a heavy thud and howling in pain.

“Damn it! That bloody cat attacked me again”! Cat cries out, reaching for her ankles.  The sticky claret oozes from the fresh wounds smearing her fingers which she wipes off against the loveseat before using it as a brace to pull back up to a vertical base. Looking down at her two-toned feet with the juice pouring over them and onto the floor the wounded prey slaps her forehead, leaving a bloody handprint and redirects a simmering glare towards the corner where the white Persian sits still, back arched, ears pinned and growling; watching her through malicious blue monocles. “So that’s how you want it”? Cat demands sullenly. “Alright you flea bitten muppet, you got it. Just let me stop the bleeding and it’s on”!

Retreating into the bathroom and leaving her attacker behind in the living room she proceeds into the nearest of three bathrooms, actually half a bathroom considering that this particular unit, crammed into a space no larger than a walk-in closet with barely enough room for the distressed white antique vanity set with matching framed mirror and a black granite counter top housing a recessed porcelain bowl stationed opposite to a Victorian Trent sanitary closet toilet with autumn colored floral patterns. Walking over the low-sheen glaze of the subdued teal and golden yellow tiles and leaving a trail of cruor in her wake she digs through the cabinet beneath the sink to retrieve a roll of flesh tone gauze which she quickly opens and then proceeds to wrap around her lacerated ankles muttering various vulgarities. Securing the wrapping with tape the wounded woman rises back to her feet, inhaling deeply to prepare her mind and body for the battle to come and, boosted by conviction, steps back into the hallway towards the living room.

It looks angry, its chest heaving, filling its cavernous lungs with resolve and eyes burning in a blue flame as it rumbles back into the hunting grounds. Towering over the trees and bushes the giant creature looms over the landscape; a malicious monolith scanning the environment with a laser-like focus and bearing no sign of its recent injury. The mighty predator lies in wait, camouflaged by the surroundings and wailed by confusion. What happened to its wound and why no more blood and that curious new layer around the point of attack.., did it grow new skin? What manner of monster is this? Uprooting a tree the primal beast begins sweeping the dry lands as it had before while snarling in a guttural rasp.

“Come out come out wherever you are”. Cat chirps returning to floor duty. “I won’t hurt you little kitty. I only want to feed you.., to the garbage disposal”!  Continuing to scan the room a white tuft slinking between the furniture catches her attention, prompting the attentive blonde to bring the broom to the ready, holding it just above her shoulder in a double-fisted grip like a Louisville slugger and coos menacingly with a few choice adjectives, “Don’t be frightened, you four legged, shite stained walking billboard for Dutch fur disease”. Stepping gingerly on the balls of her feet to minimize the sounds of her steps against the glossy floor boards she directs her gaze towards a small wooden oak table stand with a low sheen original finish and a small white tuft of fur protruding just above the surface, partially hidden by a hand crafted table lamp resting on a round base against the surface. The gold and bronze hued shade lined with like colored fringe glows brightly casting its shadow, along with Genie’s against the wall. Tensing up Cat pulls back, preparing to swing, “Batter up..,”

With a heave she swings the broom mightily, directing it to the silhouette of her target, but Genie quickly scampers out of the way leaving only the table lamp which is shattered by the blow to scatter about the corner of the living room in shards. Cursing under her breath she turns about to see the white streak zipping over the floor, across the throw rug, under the coffee table on her way to the far side of the room. Clenching the broom reassuringly Cat pops up onto the coffee table, stepping on the remote control. Assured of its destruction by the sharp cracking under her feet, she grimaces at the thought of Scott Schreiner without his ‘shooting iron’ but casts it aside with a shrug.

“It’s not like I don’t already owe Christian a fortune”, she grumbles. “I may as well burn down the whole bleeding house”.

Despite the creature’s immense size it is still slow, very slow and the great predator finds that her instinctive reflexes can easily avoid its attacks. Killing it however; is another matter. Shrouded by a curious veil of some sort of animal skin hanging from the sky the queen of the jungle carefully studies the behemoth perched atop the four legged rock formation searching in vain. Over its head flies the four winged bird, hovering in the same position for more than ten years now, its long wings providing the field below with an airy breeze. Distressed wailing echoes through the valley; perhaps a mother having lost her cubs and calling out for them in a pitiable tonality. Oddly enough the creature appears to be entranced by the blubbering sobs assaulting the air and starts to sway its head back and forth. The distraction unknowingly providing the white tigress with the perfect opportunity and her body tenses, the muscles in her rear legs binding tightly as her senses go on high alert detecting for any possible last moment distractions, but finding none. The time to strike has arrived..,

Without warning a white blur streaks across the floor and takes flight, diving towards Cat’s already injured feet with razor sharp talons fully extended. But the blonde is prepared, having been spying her attacker from the corner of her eye and jumps upwards, and grabbing hold of the ceiling fan and grasping it by the wooden blades which continue to spin despite the added heft of her 110 pound frame and allowing the assailant to fly by harmlessly beneath her coiled legs. Genie lands safely on the floor and spins around growling; an act which prompts Cat to spitefully remark,

“Hah, you’re too slow for this cat”!

But with her attention solely on the flustered feline the Brit fails to notice the pained protestations stemming at the bronze base of the fan that gives way with a final creak and sends its still spinning hitchhiker tumbling from the ceiling and through the coffee table where she lands with a jarring thud accompanied by the shattering of the glass top along with the snapping of two of the wooden legs. The propellers, now severed from the wiring lie atop her body in a mangled heap with the heavy russet seat lying beside her head after colliding with it on the way down. A broken whimper resounds, chaperoned by the melancholic mourning of ‘Timmy Turner’ by the mumble rap artist Desiigner through the surrounded sound speaker system. Reaching up with a trembling and bloodied right arm Cat latches onto the broken rotors of the fan with a shaky grip and with a harassed effort she manages to cast it aside to the floor.

“Unnnghh.., it feels like I’ve been hit by a busload of musclebound missionaries. I think I’m just going to.., lie here for a while”.

The queen of the Victorian jungle cautiously approaches her prone prey lying precariously on the floor amidst the wreckage and pauses briefly, just out of reach to observe its condition before taking a test swipe at the feet. The gigantic beast does not react, save for an anguished drawl. Confidently the mighty predator climbs atop the palpitating chest of her prey, looking down at it through satisfied blue lenses and bares her fangs, preparing to strike the final blow.

“Make it.., quick please” Cat huffs, turning her head to the side and exposing her jugular.

Genie inches forward, her claws digging into the supple skin of her victim when her ears are assaulted by a sudden high pitched ripping sound which is accompanied an equally piercing shriek followed by a rapid percussive thumping. Alarmed and fearing the arrival of an intruder she arches her back, her electrified tail standing on end and spins around madly greeting the unknown with a cautioning hiss, but there is nothing to see, save for the debris of the dead, four-winged bird; finally brought down from its ten year holding pattern. Clamorously she issues a hard-nosed warning, her blue eyes narrowing into menacing slivers but the squalling continues unabated and unable to locate the source of the vexatious cacophony she begins to back away, off of the chest of her intended meal, slowly retreating to a safe zone away from the pandemonium while shaking her head in a madcap effort to rid her stinging ears of the tumult.

Safe for the moment Cat turns her head to follow Genie’s curious movements, her mind running through numerous possible scenarios that could result in such an unexpected outcome. Although battered, bleeding and aching all over she does not notice the pain as her thoughts are temporarily consumed. Lifting her gaze away from the12 pound wrecking ball she too scans the living room for a possible source but the only thing she is able to discern is the obvious; the wreckage of the ceiling fan and the coffee table, the overturned loveseat and the lashing sounds of Leo Moracchioli’s heavy metal rendition of Michael Jackson’s classic ‘Beat it’. Glancing back to the anguished Persian and noting its attempt to bury its head into the hard wood floor she manages to put two and two together and answers with a warped sneer,

“The shite doesn’t like thrash metal”.

Reinvigorated by the revelation she fights through the pain wracking her body to pull up to her feet, using the overturned loveseat. Reaching down to wipe some of the blood off of her legs but only managing to smear it further, Cat limps towards the bookshelf stereo, leaving a sanguinary trail and begins to fumble with her phone which is attached  to the Sony sound system by an auxiliary cord. Swiping through the music app she eventually settles on a suitable station, silently relishing the revenge about to be unleashed but she is interrupted by the booming voice of the man of the house Scott Schreiner,

“Cat, I’m done with my workout”! He shouts. “I’m gonna take a walk.., I want you to come with me”.

“I.., I, “caught off guard by the command she stumbles over her thoughts, derailed and now in search of an excuse to remain behind and finish what she is about to start. “I don’t have any shoes, “she offers. “Or underwear for that matter”. Looking across the living room towards the dimly lit foyer and the burly powerhouse, still outfitted in his gym clothes; a simple pair of black speedo shorts and black and white weight lifting tank sporting the ‘Superman’ emblem and finished with a pair of matching Adidas low rise sneakers and offers a faint smile. “I can’t go outside naked, can I”?

“I already thought of that”, he rumbles in a lumbering timbre, reaching up to stroke his neatly trimmed, bleached white goatee thoughtfully. “I got you a pair of Christian’s sandals and one of his girl type belts, some kind of chain; I forget what he called the stupid thing. Just put it on and let’s go, we need to have a chat”.

“Umm.., I don’t have any underwear either”, Cat offers in a fading objection quickly realizing that this is an argument she will not win and convinced of being the target of an ensuing diatribe.

“Girl please”, Scott snorts. “My tee shirt is big enough on you to wear as a full length dress and ain’t nobody in their right damn mind gonna go peeking up it while I’m around”. Stepping further inside he snatches up a silver and blue Detroit Lions gym bag and tosses it across the room to Cat, who catches it and peers curiously inside. “Now put that crap on and let’s go”.

Despite his indisputable brawn, the strapping bruiser also appears to have a good amount of brain as well, amply illustrated by his answers and obvious forethought.  Respiring in capitulation she thrusts her right hand into the bag removing a pair of pink and blue floral print rubber sandals and a sterling silver belly chain bearing a heart shaped clasp which she fastens around the king-sized tee shirt at the waist before dropping the sandals to the floor and sliding her blood caked feet into them. Dropping the bag to floor she steps towards the foyer and her waiting companion, but stops short of a second step, instead spinning about and darting back to the stereo. She dials up the volume control raising it to an emphatic, wall shaking level. With a mocking grin directed at the hopelessly concaved kitty she joins Scott at the door, who regards her in a baffled inflection

“Why did you turn the music up”? He asks.

“So people think that we’re home”, she offers, curtly turning to the street not wanting him to press the matter for the truth and bracing for the inevitable jeremiad. “Come on, let’s get this over with”.

“Good thinking”, Scott replies in a soft acceptance of her explanation. Shutting the door with a heavy clump and locking it, he fails to notice the pitiable lamentation over the discordant symphony of chainsaws detonating in the living room. “Heh, Chrissy hates that music”. He observes and joins Cat on the sidewalk.

“He’s not the only one”, she says softly to herself.

It is a relatively mild afternoon in the master planned community of Summerlin, only 91 degrees with but a smattering of fleeting white clouds overhead, not enough to interrupt the journey of sunlight on its way to warming the ground and everything else in its path. Typical Las Vegas weather really, with spring mostly forgotten by the residents, having grown accustomed to jumping from their almost comical idea of winter directly into triple digit heat, separated by a handful of 90 degree days. A warm breeze slinks through the neatly trimmed trees already bearing fully green leaves and caresses the cheeks of pedestrians milling; bringing with it a waft of lavender courtesy of an obsessively groomed young woman passing the dup by along the meticulously up kept Trailwood drive. An elderly man takes refuge from the unrelenting sunlight on a bench thoughtfully stationed underneath a fig tree, his bespectacled eyes glued to a dog-eared hardback novel and rendering her oblivious to the sights and sounds of this lazy afternoon.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your living arrangement with us”, Scott begins softly, his gaze, though hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, bouncing off of the people and cars nearby as they come and go through the quiet neighborhood.

“Here it comes”, Cat groans dejectedly under her breath, her heart dropping in anticipation of the bomb about to be dropped. “How long do I have to find another place”? She asks.

“No”, we’re not throwing you out”, Scott reassures her. “Hell, I like having you around. You’re the best brand of entertainment we’ve had in years. If only I could package you as a television show”. He offers a fading chuckle, lifting his head towards a smattering of clouds which bear a striking resemblance to a dancing feline. “I just wanted to give you some advice to dealing with Chrissy”.

The pair stops upon being approached by a thin, wiry man of college age sporting a short coif of curly dark brown hair neatly tapered at the back of the neck with brown eyes bulging out behind a pair of thick lensed black-rimmed glasses. Pausing in front of the pair he adjusts the red book bag draped over his shoulder gawking slack jawed at Cat who mockingly returns his expression with one of her own. He opens his mouth, pursing thin, lightly chapped lips in an attempt to speak but is unable to find the words and instead drops his gaze downward to her blood stained legs stammering and stumbling through a scattered vocabulary, his mind anxiously turning over adjectives and verbs in search of the right manner to wrangle the macabre spectacle. Finally he exhales deeply and elects to tackle the matter head on, stating imprudently,

“Shouldn’t you be using a Tampax or something”?

Angrily Scott reaches out grabbing the youngster by the collar of his blue Avengers tee shirt and lifts him off of his feet. He gives the kid a violent shaking; his beefy arms coiled tightly and locked in place. The vice-like grip of his massive hands threatens to tear the shirt off of the lad as he is manhandled by the swollen powerhouse.

“Hey! If you got a problem with my little girl, you take it to me”! He shouts, his bass laden voice thundering through the air in a verbal storm drawing the attention of others who stop and look on in alarm. With a heave he sends the frat tumbling to the sidewalk and glowers over him with a stern warning, “You got two seconds to get your scrawny ass outta here before I use you as a medicine ball”.

A storm chaser he is not and the kid scrambles to his feet and beats a hasty retreat, his sneakers squeaking against the smooth concrete Leaving Scott to turn his glare onto the onlookers bellowing, “And that goes for the rest of you! Anybody who has a problem with my precious baby girl, you take it up with her old man”! Jutting his thumb at his capacious chest and bouncing his pectorals underneath the exceedingly tight fitting plain black tee shirt he growls. “Any of you got anything to say, huh”?

Not a sound is heard as the bruiser stares down the small crowd, none of them interested in taking him up on his challenge and they quietly disperse, fluttering on their way as so many leaves kicked by a strong blast of hot air, leaving Scott and Cat to themselves. With a hearty chuckle Scott drapes his massive arm around his ‘baby’s’ shoulder and continues with his train of thought prior to the disruption.

“Chrissy has you doing all this stuff around the house, but the fact is you don’t really have to do anything”.

“Oh that’s bloody brilliant ‘daddy’, like he hasn’t docked me enough money already”, she replies sarcastically.

“Listen to your old man”, Scott laughs while giving her shoulder a playful squeeze. “I know him better than anybody and I’m telling you straight up that you don’t have to do a damn thing around the house because he is completely OCD. When he gets home from work every day he does the exact same thing; he looks over the house and rearranges everything. I don’t care if you’re Mary Poppins, you can’t clean that house to his satisfaction. So why even bother if he’s just going to re do it all over again”?

“But he’ll dock my pay and..,”

“No he won’t”! Scotty insists. “Listen, cleaning the house is like a sacred ritual to him and when he gets started he gets into the zone and he won’t even think about anything else. Your time will be better spent with me watching sports”.

“That does sound a lot better”, Cat agrees hesitantly, “But I have a match this coming weekend with Lucy Seraphina and I still don’t have any clothes or money to get there”. Leaning against Scott’s sturdy frame as they trek down the street she finds her mind wading into the depths of SCW’s talent pool, Lucy Seraphina presents yet another stern test of her abilities being a former tag team champion and internet champion, whatever the internet championship is. It is a title she has never heard of before and the unknown crown pelts her consciousness with a rainfall of inquiry which prompts her to look up at Scott and ask,

“What exactly is the internet championship any way”?

“The internet belt was only around for about three years”, he begins. “It started in January of 2015. Joanne Caneli was the first champion for the women but she only held it for a couple months before leaving SCW. Any way it’s a defunct mid-level title meant to bridge the gap between undercard, mid-card and main event talent but it ended up being unified with the main title and dropped altogether”.

“How long did Seraphina hold the belt, and was she a good champion”? Cat asks, hoping to glean some new information about her upcoming opponent. “What else can you tell me about her”?

“She was alright, I guess”, his attention is diverted from the question at hand to a small kiosk tended by a middle aged man, balding with a lean, athletic build and wearing a white paper hat. Busily he sets up a small table and erects an umbrella over the kiosk, setting up a sign advertising ice cream on the table and draping a banner over the edge of the rotunda bearing a similar advertisement. “She held the title for a month before dropping it. She was the sixth internet champion I think”. He goes on, sharing some of his knowledge with the young lady, and recounts some of her opponent’s history, mannerisms and other penchants.  Looking on at the man continuing to set up shop, laying out a small tin and calculator and then settling back into a lawn chair to await potential customers, Scott tapers off his recital and nudges his companion with a subtle elbow to the shoulder. “Hey, I could go for some ice cream, how about you”?

“Sure, why not”?

The exchange is brief with Scott and Cat making their purchase and leaving the vendor to his wares. Scott; ever health conscious digs into a strawberry yogurt parfait with a small spoon while Cat unwraps a Neapolitan ice cream sandwich, carelessly dropping the plastic wrapping to the ground much to the chagrin of a the Clark County Department of Corrections work detail tending the trash bins nearby.

“So let me ask you another question, “Cat says picking up her pace to match the stride of ‘the Big Pump’.  “How do you know so much about SCW? You have all that stuff memorized”.

“I don’t have a job,” Scotty offers nonchalantly. “All I do is sit back, work out and watch the tube all day. Besides, I’m married to the co-owner so it kind of goes with the territory I guess”.

“So you’re the wife”?

“What”? Stopping abruptly he spins on his heels glowering at the diminutive blonde who regards him curiously. “What makes you say that”? He demands, flexing his massively peaked bicep in front of her face. “Do I look like a wife to you, hunh, would a wife have freakishly huge arms like these”?

“Not even close”, Cat admits nervously, grabbing hold of the swollen limb and struggling to pull it down and grant her a more direct view. “That’s why I’m so confused. If anybody should be the wife it would be Christian, but he’s the one who goes to work every day and makes the money. Isn’t the husband supposed to be the one working? I mean, that’s the tradition isn’t it”?

Although his first impulse is one of rage, Scott backtracks beyond Cat’s words and over 10 years into the past to his retirement from the squared circle. It was an event for the ages as he was inducted into the hall of fame for numerous promotions forever enshrining his accomplishments for the fans of yesterday, today and tomorrow. But what has he done since? While he is now a bit older than the average wrestler he has always dedicatedly maintained his comic book proportioned physique and felt he could step back into the ring at any time and against anyone. Instead he eschewed the gladiatorial endeavors of his youth in favor of a more sedentary lifestyle, electing to ‘take it easy’ as it were; staying at home with his pet and television while his ‘wife’, as he has always been keen on informing people and also retired, continued to go out and work, but on other things like a film career, guest spots on fashion shows, cleaning the house, cooking and even co-founding SCW with Mark Ward. He has never been one to dwell on the past, but in this brief introspection through hindsight he can clearly see that Cat has a point. Christian is the one who has kept busy with work, household chores and shopping while he has done nothing, effectively becoming a housewife and the very antithesis of manhood. His heavy footed gait, slowed by the brisk wind of memories blowing through his consciousness comes to a halt.

“Damn”, he mutters airily while stroking his goatee.  “Maybe I should get a job”.

“Lots of retirees still work”, Cat offers. “But if you’re happy doing what you do now I don’t see any reason to stop”.

“That’s just it”, he counters, turning to meet the gaze of his companion. “I don’t do anything. Well, except for..,”

“Yes”, she interrupts hastily, hoping to avoid any sordid details of his nightly escapades. “I’ve heard Christian’s screaming”.

“I was gonna say work out, but yeah, that too.  I need to find something to do, to bring home the bacon like in the old days. Do you have any ideas”?

Her mind turns briefly to her future opponent Lucy Seraphina, a woman she knows very little about. Scott on the other hand appears to bear an encyclopedic knowledge on not only Seraphina, but all things related to SCW. As the pair resumes their walk she explores various avenues and charting their potential. He would want to do something enjoyable obviously so fast food service is out, as is pretty much anything in customer service, especially given his temper. Ideally he would want something that could create new memories, memories like the ones he shares with Christian, but uniquely his own. Cat’s thin lips, tightly pursed in contemplation slowly crease into a wicked beam as a plan begins to take form from the muddled waters of conflicting ideas. “I have an idea”, she says, turning to him, “an idea that I promise will have the people once again chanting your name and heaping you with praise”.



“Cat, you are without a doubt the most ridiculous excuse for a woman that I have ever met”! His tanned, unblemished complexion awash in astonishment Christian looks on through incredulous hazel eyes at the young blonde standing before him in a pair of black strapped Christian Louboutin pumps with her feet awkwardly angled onto their sides owing to her inability to properly manage the stiletto and continues his dressing down of the Bombshell contender. “How God saw fit to give you a woman’s equipment is beyond me. You’re like a cat that barks. I swear you are the most inept..,”

“And what makes you an expert of women mister Underwood”? She hisses in venomous retort. “I don’t see any tits on you”.

“Honey, I’ve forgotten more about being a woman than you’ll ever know. How can you call yourself a female and not know how to wear heels”?

“Then why don’t you show me”? She challenges. “You probably don’t even know the difference between a garter belt and a garment bag”.

Go big or go home has long been one of Cat’s mottos and though it is highly unlikely that she had personal mistakes in mind when adopting the phrase it most certainly applies when challenging an openly gay man with more years of cross dressing experience than she has had on this Earth to prove his sense of fashion.  Many moons ago Christian had graduated beauty school, earning the highest marks in his class, a class full of women no less while raking in certifications in hair, makeup, clothes, nails and skin care. Entering the world of professional wrestling he put his knowledge to good use developing the now infamous ‘Pink Flamingo’ persona. It grew into a legendary alter ego and he quickly became notorious for his sarcastic wit, flamboyant style once referred to as a ‘Liberace with muscles’ and an open ambivalence to political correctness. Christian was Ru Paul before there was a Ru Paul. With a confident smirk he picks up the gauntlet and ambles towards the shoe rack tucked against the wall behind Cat, his eyes scanning for a suitably sized fork with which to feed the impugning young lady a healthy helping of crow. Settling on a pair of Jimmy Choo Tacey powder mauve crystal and feather embellished sling back pumps he takes a seat on the adjoining bench to swap them out for his polished chestnut Bruno Magli loafers. Standing back up he peers down to inspect the footwear,

“Hmm, the sole is nicely arched but the bridge could stand a touch more support. Still, it’s not too bad for $1300”.

With barely a second thought the ‘artist formerly known as the Pink Flamingo’ breaks into a strut, imagining himself on the catwalk with fashion critics scribbling notes, cameras flashing and onlookers eagerly jockeying for position to better view the spectacle. His head, tilted slightly downward to project light attitude his lips closed in a natural position and eyes locked onto a fixed point on the far side of the nearly empty aisle he struts past various racks displaying other garments and reaching the end of the imaginary runway he spins expertly on the ball of his foot turning about face and sashaying back towards a dumbfounded Cat, who looks on through wide, glazed over eyes with her mouth agape. Reaching the awestruck Briton he stops to flash a wink before moonwalking back away drawing an audible gasp.

“Holy.., my own mum can’t do that in heels”.

“I can tap dance in them too sweetheart”, he says irascibly. “Now, are you ready to get down to business and do some shopping or shall I teach you how to wear a bustier”?

With Cat on board the pair proceeds to canvass the Galleria mall in Henderson, floating in and out of numerous outlets. She anxiously drags him into an Abercrombie and Fitch boutique, a store specializing in modern, casual attire aimed at the hip and trendy 20 somethings only to be yanked out by her scowling stylist. A Nike franchise grabs her by the eyelids pulling her inside to gaze over the rows and rows of custom sneakers inspired by hip hop artists, basketball stars and pop culture. She immediately gravitates towards a red bench stationed in front of a wall display featuring a life sized stand up of Lebron James touting his new line of shoes but before she can try on a pair she is forcibly grabbed by the collar of her oversized tee shirt and pulled out of the store and back into the gleaming white marble aisle protesting vehemently,

“But Lebron is the greatest basketball player in the world”!

“That doesn’t mean he has any fashion sense honey,” Christian remarks in a low growl. “But I’ll tell you what we’re going to do; since you’re such a bratty child we’re going to play a little game”.

“And what kind of game do you have in mind”? Cat demands, folding her arms indifferently across her chest, “Hide and go seek”? Though she says it hopefully she realizes that he has no intentions of doing any such thing and will most likely select something she would perceive as ridiculous and offers another half-hearted suggestion, “Maybe a rousing game of pin the tail on the arsehole”?

“Hah, you wish”. He spits, shaking his head in the negative.  “No, I want you to imagine that you are in a life and death struggle against your opponent this weekend, Lucy Seraphina and your only chance at survival is to come up with the most killer outfit and..,”

“You can’t be serious”.

“Listen child”, he responds in a perturbed inflection. “I may joke about a lot of things but I take my shopping very seriously and if you want to beat Ms. Seraphina this weekend then I strongly suggest you get in line. Besides, this is the same method I used to teach Scotty how to properly shop”.

“Hunh that explains why he has so many tee shirts”, she observes dryly.

“Scott is a work in progress”, he acquiesces, “but you, supposedly being an actual female should be better able to grasp the concept than his poor, distracted male mind. So get to shopping and if I approve of the outfit I’ll buy it for you but if not, then Lucy wins and you’ll have to wrestle her naked”.

“Supposedly?” she demands, planting her hands on her sinewy hips defiantly.  

“Yes dearie, I said supposedly. You’re gonna have to prove your womanhood to me by shopping like a professional. Now this is how it’ll work. I am the referee and each time I disapprove of an outfit it’ll count as one slap on the mat. Three slaps and Lucy pins you, got it”?

“I guess so, whatever,” she sighs, shrugging her shoulders helplessly.

Following Cat through the maze of kiosks and boutiques Christian busies himself by absent mindedly playing with his phone, allowing the younger girl to lead the way. She pauses at a puppy store featuring a small, enclosed pen out front populated by several young puppies playfully frolicking in the straw lining the floor. Leaning over the edge of the railing she coos softly at the fluffy pets who respond to the woman’s outstretched hand by congregating around and taking turns at licking the fingers. With her thoughts floating away in a cirrocumulus cloud of cuteness she finds herself suddenly whisked back to the present by her would be instructor’s hand abruptly pulling her away.

“You can be counted out,” he advises in an air of hostility. “And this match also has a time limit, now break Lucy’s count and get your ass to shopping”.

Renewing her trek through the spacious, well-lit caverns of the mall she scans the signs posted above the entrances to various outlets including Radio Shack, Spencers, Game Stop and others, none of which being clothing related until she happens across a sign promoting a newly opened A’gaci  store. Recognizing the name as a retailer of young, trendy apparel directed towards fashion conscious young women she elects to step inside. The pair is immediately approached by a stylishly dressed woman of about 30 years sporting chestnut brown hair tied neatly into a bun and topped off with a royal blue stewardess cap with a gold head band and a feather tucked into it. Beaming the clerk thrusts her hand outward in greeting but is rebuffed by Christian as he grabs Cat by the arms and escorts her out of the store.

“Stewardess cap with a gold headband”? He whisks her around to face him. “That’s as tacky as a dress over jeans! And it is also strike one. Lucy knocks you down and gets the first count. Do you submit to her obviously superior sense of fashion or do you shop”?

“Wait a minute”, she protests, her husky voice rising to a squeal. “Just because she wasn’t dressed to your satisfaction doesn’t mean I would have been”!

“You chose the store”, he rebuts thrusting a finger into her chest. “And any store that employs clerks who can’t properly dress themselves I mean, she probably wears checked trenches with matching baseball caps, sparkly crystal earrings and argyle golfer socks and she certainly has no business selling clothes to women. I can promise you that Lucy Seraphina wouldn’t be caught dead in that place”.

“And what makes you think Lucy is such a bloody fashion plate”?

“Because she’s a woman, something I’m trying to teach you to become. Now kick out and get back to shopping”.

Grumbling under her breath Cat resumes her search for a suitable vendor of apparel while her mind occupies itself backtracking through recent memories of her conversation with Scott in relation to her opponent at Six Flags over Georgia in Cobb County. From what she was able to glean from his description she pictured Lucy Seraphina as a bit of a goth girl, with wildly colored hair, pasty skin tone and typically dark attire, and usually casual, much like her own choices. Indeed, having seen the Russian woman backstage at previous events the implied image seemed to play out to the proverbial ‘T’. Even her entrance music, ‘Assassin’ by Muse – a fast paced guitar heavy piece featuring low key vocals and strikingly reminiscent in tone to the hair metal band Iron Maiden suggests a woman with comparable tastes to her own. So why then is Christian depicting her as the second coming of Tyra Banks?

With Cat scratching her head in confusion and slipping deeper into her musings Christian elects to take advantage of the lull by exploring some of the nearby stores.  Leaving the youngster to her own devices he fully expected her to emerge with some sort of sport themed ensemble, likely with the coordination of a mosh pit. And despite his fashion challenge he would then relent and buy it any way, never once intending to make her over; simply wanting to have a little fun at her expense. He exits a beauty supply store with a small bag and shuffles around the corner to a nearby Victoria’s Secret, emerging minutes later with another bag. From there he makes his way into the adjacent Bath and body works and proceeds to browse the displayed inventory with a critical eye, pondering another potential purchase.

Continuing to roam the halls Christian’s assortment of bags has now grown into a full blown collection of bags stuffed with goods, enough to impel him into adding a luggage dolly to more conveniently haul his expensive trappings. Another store equates to another purchase with him lugging yet another bag featuring a stylish ensemble he had seen advertised on Ru Paul’s ‘Drag race’. This is followed by a trip to the pet store and the acquisition of another five pound box of cat nip to replace the one wasted recently. His travels next carry him to the food court where he reacts to the demands of his growling stomach and weary legs by stopping at a Smash Burger; treating himself to a meal of bacon cheese burger, chocolate shake and fried pickles. Accenting his meal with a bit of people watching and running various fed related issues through his head he quickly loses track of time as Chronos, as he is wont to do, sprouts wings and leaves him to his thoughts with nary a clue until he reaches up to casually scratch the tip of his nose which provides him with a peek at the linked, gold plated Lucian Piccard time piece. He gasps upon realization of the time and hurriedly dumps the cluttered tray into a nearby white plastic receptacle and grabs the loaded luggage dolly.

“Cat, it’s time to go”. Exhausted from his own excursion Christian pays no mind to finding Cat precisely where he left her over two hours ago, still with no bags, in front of the central mall directory. His only concern is figuring out how to load everything into the car, get it home and take a nice, hot bath.

“But, what about my match”, she whines. “And I still don’t understand how the whole accessorize thing works, and what about makeup; do I use a heavy base or a light foundation”?

“Don’t worry about Lucy or any of that other stuff”, he offers. “She’s already won by count out. So let’s go home and you can figure out what you did wrong. Now, help me with my clothes, I’m tired”.

“Your clothes”! She cries. “Weren’t we supposed to get me something to wear”?

“Maybe next week, I’m tired and want to go home”.

“But I still don’t have any clothes”.

“Then you’ll have to wrestle naked”.

“This is bloody great”, her protestations echo through the halls but fall on deaf ears with the co-owner of SCW more interested in his own details. Trotting up to him she jerks a handful of bags from her boss’ shoulder and then drafts in behind him, continuing to grumble.
“I get my arse beat by Marilyn Monroe at the inaugural ‘Bashin with fashion’ and now I have to wrestle Lucy Seraphina naked in front of a crowd of people”.

“Eh, it could be worse”, he replies indifferently, quickening his pace and pulling ahead of his fashionably challenged protégé.

“Oh it will be,” she snarls on the nether side of a forked tongue. “Wait until I spring my little surprise you bleeding catfish”.

 “Ok, I’m ready”, Cat Riley’s husky voice echoes through the well anointed halls from the recesses of the second story bedroom. Emerging from the room clad in color matching grey athletic gear the 13 year old strides briskly across the carpeting of towards a decidedly non-descript stairwell, lacking in embellishments. She trots down the steps, her sneakers offering no more than a muted thud as she bounds to the main level of the spacious open-plan home with its merged kitchen and dining rooms, fitted carpeting, ice cream colors and multi-tasking furniture. “This isn’t going to hurt is it”?

“Shut your yap and get out here”, her Uncle responds in his thick, raspy tone which serves as a beacon, guiding Cat through the well-lit living room with its three piece sectional effectively cornering the wide, flat screen television, one of the few modern amenities inside the home. “I’m on the porch”.

Cat joins her Uncle on the porch where he is looking across an expansive landscape towards a small, windowless wood and brick building with a flat, white roof. He pays no mind to the arrival of his niece as his mind wanders back to days gone by. The building which holds his attention was originally built by his father back in the 1950s to serve as a training facility. Although it has undergone many changes through the decades since, three renovations, one expansion and several paintings, the building still appears much the same as he remembers it from his youth when he and his brother Paul were training along with others by his father. The building would once more serve its intended purpose as he would pass down his father’s legacy to his niece as he had done to hundreds of students as well as his own son, but not just yet.

“The most important thing about catch wrestling..,” he says softly, with his gaze still fixed on the building in front of them, “is physical conditioning. You have to be in shape and no, I don’t mean no bloody pressing benches. I’m talking about wrestling shape; cardiovascular, flexibility, reflexes and speed. Strength helps but it is not the be-all end-all of this sport”. Reaching into his pocket he removes a deck of playing cards in an unopened box which he hands to Cat. “Open this box and start shuffling the deck”.

The young woman casts a quizzical glance to her Uncle, taking the deck from his hands. She removes the deck from the box, depositing the clear plastic wrapping into a small waste receptacle situated by the screen door. With a muted sigh she begins to shuffle the cards as commanded.

“So what’s your game”, she asks. “Bridge, Gin, Spades, five card draw or 21”?

“Let’s just say my game is a modified version of 52 card pickup”, he snickers.

“And you said strength was no big deal here”, she grouses. “By the time I’m done lifting these cards I’m going to have the strongest case of boredom in all of England. Ah well, I’ve always wanted to see Las Vegas”.

“Alright, that’s enough”, he barks. Having watched her shuffle the deck for several minutes the man reaches out with a beefy paw to snatch it from her slender fingers. “Now, here’s how we’re going to do this, each card in the deck has a specific value with face cards, aces and the joker being ten and all the others are whatever their number is. Each suit has its own particular exercise; hearts are pushups, clubs are squats, diamonds are kettle bell presses and clubs are jump squats. When you draw a card, look at the suit to see which exercise you’ll be doing and how many repetitions, but instead of performing the face value of reps, you will be doing double that number, so instead of doing ten for a King or Queen you will be doing 20 and since the Joker is always wild, that exercise will be your choice. Do you understand”?

Cat nods, feeling her heart drop into her chest where it lands with a heavy plop. Leave it to a grizzled old veteran to take a simple deck of playing cards and turn it into a spirit crushing, body disintegrating workout regimen. She knows these as basic exercises from gym class in school where they performed them almost daily but as her memory reminds her, they were difficult then, under the lazy atmosphere of an informal education, but under the hawk-like eyes of her onerous Uncle she suddenly finds herself dreading what is to come.

Although loving and protective, Ernie Riley is as stern and demanding as they come. Here is a man who - while has serving in the Korean War as a sniper with 73 confirmed kills, once went without food, water or even sleep for three days while tracking a target to score an elusive kill. He has been awarded numerous medals for valor, including the Distinguished Service Cross, Conspicuous Gallantry medal, British Empire medal, Queen’s Commendation for brave conduct and even the highest medal in the country, the prestigious Victoria Cross. Yet, despite the status and preeminence of the decorations he steadfastly refused to wear them, instead tucking them away with other memorabilia while proclaiming them useless as they ‘could not carry a rifle’.  This is the same man who was later discharged for ‘cruel and unusual’ treatment of his recruits after being promoted to senior instructor for denying them rest and food under simulated combat conditions. He accepted his discharge with a proverbial grain of salt, only asking the commander if he could differentiate between ‘realism and fantasy land’.

Grabbing Cat by the shoulders he turns the youngster to face him. His glowering, steely blue orbs lock onto hers with an intensity rarely seen. Gone is the kindly visage of the loving Uncle who had just beaten up the father of her antagonist, replaced by this hard-nosed figure now clutching her tightly. His thin lips distort into a twisted snarl, preparing to speak.

“I need ya to listen to me, and listen good”, he growls tightly. “Yes, I’m your Uncle. Yes, you are the only child of my baby brother and yes, I love you. Hell, I love you as much as my own son, even more some days. But don’t let any of that fool you. I will be the biggest arsehole you have ever dealt with, bar none. I will settle for nothing less than the absolute best I can get from you.  In return I give you my word that you will get the very best training I can possibly give you. I will ask you to go the extra mile for me, and I swear to do the same for you. Now, with that having been said, I am giving you one chance and only one chance to back out of this. If you say no, we will call it right here. If you want to go through with it, I will own your arse. Now what’s it gonna be”?

Breaking from her reverie Cat looks up as the waitress arrives to her table holding a large tray bearing several plates covered with aluminum lids. The woman, an Asian smartly clad in a black uniform with purple accents, perhaps in her mid-40s but showing no signs of age sets down a black, wooden tray stand. Opening up the stand she proceeds to set the tray down and distribute the dishes to Cat and her companion, Miles Bryant, a journalist for The Wrestling Observer newsletter and web site. The waitress removes the lids from the plates and promptly excuses herself, returning to the back leaving the young wrestler alone with the media man who checks the status of a small cigarette lighter sized recorder with HDMI plug-in on the purple linen table cloth beside her.

“My first impulse was to say no”, Cat reflects softly on the memory of more than ten years ago. “But having seen him in action, at over 60 years of age no less I was sure that he could do exactly what he said. He had piqued my interest and I wanted to learn more.  My eye was still sore and I wanted to have the ability to keep that from ever happening to me again”.  Looking down at her plate the SCW rookie takes a fork into her right hand and prepares to dig into the two eggs laid atop a pile of fries mixed with cut up Spanish Chorizo which struck her more as sliced up hot dogs. The egg yolk oozes out like a fine sauce, blending with the spicy red oil that leeches out from the Chorizo, creating an interesting new sauce which she squeegees with a forkful of fries.  “He was every bit as hard on me as he said he would be”, she continues, while chewing her food slowly and enjoying the piquant richness of the unusual delicacy.

“Looking back on it however, I can honestly say that he laid out my introduction to catch wrestling very intelligently”.

“How so”? The blond haired journalist asks while delving into his own plate of Tapas.

“He started me strictly on conditioning”, she answers with a brief pause to take a sip of white Sangria.  “We worked for four consecutive days on nothing but conditioning and it was always the same exercises. As he had told me that first night at dinner, the idea was to bomb my body into responding and promoting the recovery process. While I was still a tad sore after four days, it wasn’t so bad that I could hardly move as with the first two. My body was adjusting to the new routine exactly as he told me it would”. Dabbing another forkful of fries into the spicy sauce secreted by the Chorizo juice blended with the egg yolk she stuffs her mouth, with a light moan emanating in approval of the fiery casserole.  

“Never in my life did I imagine a simple deck of playing cards could be used as such an effective exercise tool, it was so hard on me that I wanted to quit after the first day, but he said he owned me and he showed it. He wouldn’t let me quit and even my Auntie Beatrice wouldn’t let me quit, no matter how much I cried”. She reflects on the arduous adventure with a chuckle. “Of course she had seen it all before with the other students and their son, my cousin William. She was firmly on his side this time”.

“So what gave you the strength to persevere”?

“Not what but who”, she replies pointedly, gesturing to him with a loaded fork. “It was my cousin William who had just gotten home at the end of my second night from a tour of Japan where he wrestled.  He was the champion there and had gone through exactly the same thing as I, so he knew how I felt and resolved to go through it again with me. Misery loves company, ya know? At any rate he went through it all for a second time, helped to coach me and motivate me. I don’t know how I could’ve made it without him”.

Drawing her head back Cat takes in the modern, indoor, open patio style setting of the restaurant, the tranquil tones of vintage Spanish music serenading her mind with images of old world Spain amidst its wines, vibrant architecture and classic art. What a time to have lived she muses, the simple lives of merchants, entertainers and ordinary townsfolk, free of the ties to modern society with the constant distraction of their cellphones, Instagram accounts, twitter feeds and news hungry apps to take their worries with them wherever they may roam.

“Do you regret any of it”? Miles asks, digging into a small plate of ‘Black Rice’, a creamy side dish-sized portion of Spanish seafood merged with Italian Risotto. Colored as dark as crude oil, flavored by sofrito and decorated with a few char-kissed rings of Calamari the tasty fare leaves a black streak on his purple napkin as he dabs at his mouth. “It sounds as if you went through hell”.

“Not at all”, she replies while carving an actual Risotto. “That experience made me appreciate the dedication required to perform as a professional athlete”. She bites into the Risotto, noting the nice, cheesy texture, even without the manchego on top. The grains display just a tiny bit of tooth, and between them the mushrooms-big, squishy, and tasty ones hiding like undiscovered jewels arrive to announce themselves boldly and draw a satisfied sigh. “Once I realized how difficult it is to train yourself to this point I resolved to never allow myself to slip as I would rather not have to go back and start it all over again”.

“This weekend marks your professional wrestling debut in SCW at the Star of the desert arena in Primm. Your opponent is Nyla Dupre, a fellow Briton, who is also a newcomer to SCW but holds a vast amount of pro experience over you in other promotions. Do you feel yourself to be at a disadvantage coming into this match with nothing but amateur experience to face an opponent so much more background at this level”?

“Let me stop you right there”, Cat declares abruptly pointing her fork at him. “My experience is not amateur. I am not an amateur wrestler, I am a catch wrestler and as I have said before there is a large difference between the two styles”. Turning the fork from the interviewer she redirects it to a cube of raw ahi, crusted with sesame seeds which serve as the building block, with the upper portion being a raspberry Jell-O shot described in the menu as ‘molecular’ and together tasting like taking a sip of a smoothie right after consuming a small serving of sushi. “Amateur wrestling does not involve hooks of any kind while catch wrestling is all about hooking your opponent. I can assure you that catch wrestling is decidedly the more dangerous endeavor”.

“I understand”, Miles pleads innocently. “I am just trying to convey that there is a wide gap in experience between you and your opponent this weekend. Nyla Dupre has won championships in the AWO, EWE and PCXW. While she may be a newcomer to SCW she is far from being a rookie in this business. Surely this must weigh on your mind as you look forward to going to Primm”.

“You are asking me if I am nervous”. Cat says, digging further into her meal. “It’s only natural to be nervous. Every time a person undertakes a new endeavor there is a degree of apprehension; questions arise in the back of your mind asking ‘what if?’  I’m sure Nyla Dupre went through it all the same when she had her first match, just as everybody else, it’s only human”.

“How are you preparing for this match”?

“By doing my homework”, Cat replies straightly. “She has worked for these other promotions and won championships so there is a wealth of film on her. In addition to studying her film I am continuing to train every day, keeping myself sharp and focused”. She drops her knife and fork to the side in favor of the tall glass, freshly refilled with white Sangria by the attentive waitress. Taking a sip she swishes the white wine about her mouth savoring the blend of apple, citrus and tropical fruit flavors accented by the concoction’s zippy acidity. “You’ve been so keen on pointing out her advantages over me leading into this match. I would like to point out that I have an advantage of my own”.

“Which is...”?

“Nyla is coming off of a lengthy layoff following the untimely death of her father and she is likely to be rusty and unprepared while I have had a single minded focus the entire time leading up to this moment. There is a good deal of film on her but there is little, if any on me. I have an idea what to expect where she has none”.

“That can indeed be considered an advantage”, the reporter concedes. “But as they say, experience is the best teacher and having been through so many matches before it is bound to come back quickly to her”.

“If I didn’t know better I would swear that you want her to win”, Cat spits, angrily slamming her glass back onto the table prompting a small amount of wine to splash over the rim and create a dark stain on the purple linen table cloth. “Do you have some sort of business arrangement with her”?

“No”, Bryant interjects, thrusting his hands out imploringly. “There is nothing like that between us, but I have been covering wrestling for many years and have seen many of her matches so I know what she’s capable of”,

“But you have no idea what I’m capable of”, Cat hisses, her blue eyes narrowing into venomous slits. “You may know her but you don’t know me”.

“You are right”, he cedes. His gaze drops to the stain on the table in a subtle attempt to defuse the wick he has inadvertently lit. “I don’t know you at all, which is precisely why I requested this interview on behalf of the Wrestling Observer. I simply am trying to gauge your reactions to the advantages she enjoys over you as our subscribers may see them. I am trying to think as they would”.

“Sounds like your fans are a bunch of arseholes”, Cat dryly observes while gesturing to grab the attention of her waitress. The woman duteously shuffles over to their table. “Can I get a diet Pepsi please”? Cat softly requests.  “I’m weary of this alcoholic Hawaiian Punch”.

“Let’s take a step back”, Miles interjects in a careful, pliable tone hoping to calm his agitated guest. He quietly waits for the server to bridge the gap between them and earshot before resuming his train of thought. “The fans see and understand the importance of the rift in experience between the two of you”, he says demurely. “They are not stupid; they are simply asking the obvious questions here. Nyla Dupre has years of professional experience over you, that is all. But let’s change the topic a little bit, have you ever met her”?

The waitress returns with Cat’s Diet Pepsi and granting the young woman a brief reprieve and allowing her to lift her head, directing her gaze to the muted overhead lighting where she considers the question posed. Having been a member of the SCW roster for barely one week she has not yet had the opportunity to formally interact with many of the other members of the roster save for management and of course the backstage reporter Miss Rocky Mountains, herself a former wrestler. She did however pay strict attention to their work in the ring, taking mental notes of everything deemed of importance. With the waitress departing Cat redirects her gaze to Miles having managed to calm her mind ever so slightly.

“I cannot say that I have had the pleasure”, she begins evenly; taking a deep, quiet breath. “I did see Nyla backstage at the Sam’s Town arena for the Blast from the Past tournament. “She’s bigger than me, much bigger in fact but I trained with the boys for almost ten years so I’m used to that. As for me not having any professional experience, I wouldn’t quite say that”. Her voice slowly trails off as her mind rewinds to the not so distant past.

The travelling fun fair, long a mainstay in the British countryside is a carnival or amusement show consisting of various rides such as the Ferris wheel, tilt-a-whirl, merry-go-round and others, as well as a myriad of food vendors, merchandise vendors, games of chance and skill, thrill acts, freak shows, wax works, a theatrical show and the occasional boxing/wrestling challenges has returned to Wigan bringing with it all of the expected pomp and circumstance traditionally associated with such events.

“These things have certainly changed, haven’t they Paul”? Ernie Riley, flanked by his younger brother Paul as well as their wives and his niece Cat look over the expansive fairgrounds set up in a huge, unused parking lot on the outskirts of Wigan, Greater Manchester. It has been an unusually sunny day in this part of England, a country known for its rain and fog; perfect for a trip to the fair grounds.

“I haven’t been to one of these in 20 years”, he replies as his hazel eyes scan the area taking in the obnoxious neon lighting of the rides which is accented by the tangy aroma of a nearby barbeque.  Behind it lies a row of booths housing everything from tee shirt vendors, duck galleries and more; each of them heralded by a barker standing out front shouting to passersby trying to get them to part with their hard earned money. “They’re so much bigger now”.

Paul Riley is the younger brother to Ernie by 12 years and Cat’s father. Although in his 50s the man appears to be aging well to the eyes of other patrons strolling about the asphalt grounds. Standing at 175 cm he is not very tall, more in line with the average man but sports a muscular, athletic build, a by-product of regular exercise. Reaching up with his right hand he brushes back an errant strand of an otherwise neatly trimmed chestnut coif and places his arm around his wife of nearly 30 years and mother to his only child Cat, Rebecca.

A somewhat small statured woman, Rebecca resembles their daughter in more ways than one; with her pointed dark eyebrows, shimmering blue eyes and angular face gently caressed by a long blonde mane. She adjusts the position of a beige, straw sun hat to allow for better visibility as the sun slowly begins to set over the horizon.  The woman casts a cursory glance towards one of the carnival barkers, but ignores his attempts to entice her into throwing darts at balloons to win a small teddy bear that she could find every bit as inexpensively at a yard sale.

To the couple’s left Ernie clasps the hand of his wife Martha, an older woman approaching 65. Slightly taller than her counterpart and bearing the additional weight of an easier lifestyle, she too looks about the fairgrounds, watching a young couple excitedly plucking away with a BB gun at a row of metal ducks in hopes of winning a stuffed animal prize. Her grandmotherly face splits into a smile as the couple embraces in an enthusiastic embrace as the barker hand them a large stuffed bear.

“How many of these things have you boys gone to over the years”? She asks, returning her gaze to her husband.

“A few dozen maybe”, Ernie replies curtly. “They’ve sorta lost their appeal over the years”.

“We only went for one reason”, Paul adds. “But about 25 years ago they stopped most of the wrestling. I guess they found a better way to make money”.

“They still have a wrestling show once in a blue moon”, the elder brother enumerates, pausing to zip his black leather jacket partly as a brisk sliver of cool air winds through the grounds. “But they seem to be coming fewer and farther between. I haven’t seen wrestling here in a good five years”.

“Don’t tell me you two still are still looking to wrestle”, Cat says noisily from behind, making her presence known to the group. “You’re both far too old to be doing that any more”.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t watch it”, Paul says while turning around to playfully thump the visor of his daughter’s black and white ball cap. “We grew up around it and still appreciate a good match”.

Walking further along the quintet enjoys a session of idle chatter with the men reliving their days working the carnivals and the women swapping stories about tending their injured spouses and Cat trying to place herself in such an atmosphere, wondering what it must have been like for them. She pictures an excited crowd gathered around a pit-like area, yelling, cheering and clapping at the action taking place in the center. The barker stands atop a small pedestal, calling the fray hold by hold, move by move and pausing every few moments to remind the spectators to place their bets with the booker to his right. She imagines two shirtless men dressed casually in blue jeans and boots, looking more as if they had just gotten off of work than seasoned professionals. The sweat rolls off of their brows, coating their bodies as they struggle for position with many attempted holds failing to the glazed limbs and torsos. The pair continues to jockey for position with each taking a turn on top doing their best to ply their craft under the lubricous conditions. Finally, after several long minutes of painstaking effort one man manages to secure a triangle choke on the other and draws a loud cheer from the crowd as he manages to sink it in.

“There we go”!

Her Uncle’s throaty yelp breaks Cat’s muse and pulls her mind harshly back to the present. She inadvertently collides with her father who along with her Uncle and the women has stopped in their tracks. Taking a step back she cranes her neck as her gaze veers off in the direction of whatever it is that has captured their attention. Looking roughly a hundred meters ahead she recognizes a figure dressed in an obnoxious red and white pin striped suit holding a megaphone calling out to a slowly assembling mass. The men break into a determined stride, their loafers pounding against the black pavement in muffled thuds as they make a beeline towards the congregation with the women and Cat following suit behind them. In short order the groups finds themselves joining the pack and start to jostle about for a suitable viewing point.

Looking on she spies a small, roped off area padded with gym mats with two women standing in the middle, facing each other. One woman, a rough looking local sporting electrified blonde hair and clad in jeans and a plain white sports bra rubs her hands together in anticipation while fidgeting on her feet, unsure of how she wants to stand. The other, a toned, athletic brunette with her hair neatly braided into cornrows stands motionlessly, her brown orbs fixated on the twitching bundle of nerves in front of her. She makes no sound and waits with a calm indifference as the barker encourages the pack to place their bets.

“Times are changing”, Paul observes in a hushed inflection. “This is going to be a wrestling match no doubt about it, but in all of my years I have never seen women working at these places”.

“Aye”, Ernie agrees with a slight nod. “And mark my words, that brunette wearing the black singlet is a hooker. This match probably won’t last five minutes”. Turning about face he reaches out and grabs his niece by the shoulder, pulling her to his side. “I want you to watch this kitty cat”.

Joining her Uncle Cat looks on with heightened curiosity as the brunette finally starts to move, spreading her legs side to side and twisting her torso to allow her head to meet each leg at the knee to warm up. The other woman too begins to warm up, jumping in place likely hoping to release some of the pent up jitters. The barker continues calling for bets on either contestant, directing players to the bookie standing to his side and throws out a reminder to the onlookers that the match will be starting in two minutes.

“Do you want to place a bet”? Cat asks hesitantly. “The bookie is right there”.

“Nah”, Ernie replies. “They give rubbish for odds. We’d have to bet a fortune to win a pittance”.

“They’re paying 20 to 1 on the local” Paul offers, having just looked at the odds hastily scribbled on a chalk board behind the short, rotund man with a leathery complexion and rapidly greying hair receding from his scalp. “We’d have to bet 20 pounds to win one. It’s not worth it so we’ll just watch”.

“One minute until the bell rings! Be sure to place your bets and remember that all wagers are final”.

“Fine”, Cat says somewhat sullenly and settles back folding her arms across her chest. “I don’t mind watching. Maybe I’ll pick up something new”.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s show time”! The barker gestures animatedly towards the combatants, directing the attention of the onlookers towards them. “Introducing first, she hails from right here in Wigan, standing at 17 and one half hands, she is Deborah Wilkes”! A brief pause by the overly excited emcee allows from a scattered round of applause for the local woman who sheepishly raises her arm in acknowledgement. “Next, we have the undefeated, undisputed women’s champion of the United Kingdom, a woman who holds a professional record of 437 wins and no defeats; how about a round of applause for the Ire of Ireland Reina Rourke”! The champion clenches her fists and aggressively raises her arms, mean mugging for the spectators who react with a mixture of awe and wonderment; save for two.

“Champion my arse”, Ernie scoffs under his breath. “That record is as padded as a teenaged girl’s bra on date night”.

“I don’t even think I’ve had half that many matches”, Paul adds with a snicker.

The bellicose announcement by the barker is heralded by the piercing clang of a bell which prompts the combatants into action. They begin by slowly circling, sizing each other up, and warily eyeballing the other while contemplating their first move. The tension is palpable with the women silently continuing to circle; their slow, deliberate breaths can be heard over the iced cluster of people. They lock up collar and elbow style but the blonde proves to be much stronger than Rourke realizes and she is forcibly deposited to the mat. Before she can capitalize however, the braided bobcat springs to her feet with alacrity and shoots in low attempting a double leg takedown but Wilkes proves nearly as quick on her feet as she manages to sidestep the chiseled projectile. An awkward pause follows with the local woman unsure of what to do next and this provides the more experienced competitor valuable time to spin back up to a vertical base.

With the mob roaring its approval the duo locks up again but the carnival champion quickly pulls free of the tie-up and takes a step back, concerned about making the same mistake twice. They begin to circle anew with the barker calling the action as it unfolds through his bullhorn. The ‘Ire of Ireland’ shoots in quickly looking to score a single leg takedown but is swatted away by the more powerful woman but as she spins to her feet she instantaneously shoots back in finally scoring with a double leg takedown. With the bigger fighter on the mat the illustrious Irish woman rolls over trying to find her way onto the back of Deborah Wilkes, but she manages to defend it, forcing the pair into a lock-flow.

“Second time’s a charm, eh”? Paul mutters while dipping his right hand into a bag of popcorn held by his wife.

“If you can call this charming,” Ernie replies nasally while folding his arms indifferently across his chest, “then so be it”.

The match continues on with the vociferous horde screaming and clapping, egged on by the barker who looks on with barely more than a slight interest, his attention more preoccupied with the money flowing into the bookies’ hands.  More holds are attempted and moves exchanged with neither of the pair able to secure a suitable position and the tete-a-tete continues in this methodical fashion until and overzealous onlooker stumbles drunkenly on his untied boot laces over the single rope separating them from the adversaries and falls on top of them. The barker is quick to dispatch security as the foes are stood back up. With the intoxicated laborer whisked away the barker loses no time in calling for the bout to resume. Reina Rourke shoots in forthwith, surprising the unsuspecting local with dazzling speed and scores a double leg takedown. Before Wilkes can fully absorb what has happened the champion dives on top of her. She directly snakes her left arm around the neck and pivots across the other woman’s body and clasps her hands together in a choke.  The challenger flails her arms in a desperate attempt to free herself but the weight of the champion prevents her from rising back to her knees. Finally, after several exhausting moments of maltreatment and with light headedness setting in she signals her surrender to the delight of the barker whose burnished brown eyes shimmer with the expectancy of a new father.

Dejected ramblings among the losing bettors can be heard as some begin to quietly disperse and others begin to look among themselves for a potential new challenger. With the barker momentarily distracted the Irish queen pin grabs a towel and begins to dry off in anticipation of another showdown.  A pair of rough necks, still clad in oil stained overalls and smelling of cheap gin with day old remnants of previous meals trapped in a briar patch of a beard try to argue with the bookie over their bets while others badger the beleaguered backer about the unexpectedly small payout.  One of the men begins to shout while taking an aggressive posture towards the bookie leading to another intervention by the harried security team. Further off to the side with a discreet eye on the winner whom he has been eyeing carefully since the end of the match Ernie clamps his hand around Cat’s shoulder and then turns to face her.

“So what did ya think kitty cat”?

“In my honest opinion..,” she pauses to consider her choice of words with images from the match still fresh in her mind, “it was as clumsy as a chicken skipping rope”, She says. “Were it not for that drunk forcing them to break the match would still be going, sloppily of course but still going”.

“Anything stand out to ya”?

“Hmm..,” Rubbing her chin thoughtfully Cat revisits the first of a quartet of double leg takedown attempts. “Yes, That Rourke woman was over reliant on shooting in for the double leg takedown”. Recalling her Uncle’s lessons on the history of carnival catch wrestling and their propensity for using journeymen, shooters and hookers for different purposes, Cat shakes her head and wonders aloud,” I can’t help but to wonder if it was a work”.

“Hey Paul”, Ernie calls out to his brother as he puts the finishing touches on his wife’s bag of popcorn, his educated eye also studying the victor. “Do you remember how we used to weed out the journeymen from the hookers?”

“Great minds do indeed think alike”, Paul says with a prudent smirk. He casts a final glance to Reina Rourke before turning his attention squarely to his brother and daughter. “We can use Rebecca as the bait”.

“The bait..,” Rebecca questions upon overhearing her name mentioned. “Bait for what”?

“We’re gonna give Cat a chance to earn some money of her own”. Ernie announces with a fiendish coruscation”. He gestures the women and Cat in close and the group huddles up with the quarterback calling the play.  “Here’s what we’re gonna do; Rebecca you’re going to challenge that Rourke woman and..,”

“I can’t wrestle”! Rebecca cries.

“Don’t worry love”, Paul says softly with a reaffirming squeeze on her shoulder, “you won’t have to”.

“Exactly”, Ernie continues. “You just make the challenge and wait for a moment. If the barker calls for another girl we’ll know the match was a work, but if the Irish girl stays put, it means she is their hooker. Either way, once we have our answer you back out of it. If the Irish girl is really their hooker we’ll have Cat make the challenge after you back out while the barker is busy thumping his chest about how no one can beat his girl”. Turning to his niece he grins broadly and asks, “What do ya think kitty cat, think you can take her? You said you we’re thinking of becoming a professional wrestler, think of this as your debut match”.

“Uncle Ernie..,” she looks up at the would-be match maker through piqued lenses and replies with a vexed groan. “You have been training me for almost ten years now with boys almost twice her size; ever since those girls beat me up that day in school and you said yourself that I took to it like a fish to water”. Jutting a thumb out in the general direction of Reina Rourke, who waits patiently behind her for the barker to find another opponent she continues, “That bogtrotter is all piss and wind, and of course I can beat her”.

With a satisfied smirk, Ernie and Paul exchange a brief glance before turning to Rebecca with a subtle nod indicating to her to make the challenge as discussed.  Discarding her sun hat into the waiting hands of her husband she steps forward.

“Remember love”, he whispers to his wife, “act like you’re nervous, and don’t give him your real name”.

“I am nervous”! Rebecca snaps.

Stepping forward the 50 year old mother of one hesitantly raises her hand and sheepishly looks around while hoping that the barker fails to notice. Unfortunately for the jittery woman the barker is eagerly scanning the mob in search of another payday and he quickly spots her hand. Pointing to her the man calls out excitedly,

“We have a challenger”! He cries gesturing to her to step forward and onto the mat. Reina Rourke also steps forward to inspect the new arrival. Eyeing the woman up and down, she then turns away with a sneer, shaking her head. The barker too, steps forward and places his arm around Rebecca’s shoulder. “What is your name love”?

“Uhh Rebecca”, she stammers before recalling her husband’s admonition about giving her real name. Rebecca Stanton”.

With the barker chit chatting Rebecca, Ernie and Paul keep a close eye on the drapes behind his podium where they assumed but detect no movement from behind them. Diverting his gaze to the Irish ‘champion’ Paul notes that she has already begun to warm up in anticipation of a contest. He nods to Ernie who thrusts his right hand out asking silently for a few more moments which pass with no appreciable activity save for the bookie hastily scribbling odds on the small, hand held chalkboard. Finally, he signals to Rebecca to back out which she gratefully does, thrusting her hands up in capitulation and drawing a muted whiff of consternation from the hungry pack looking forward to more activity. The barker somewhat dejectedly returns to his podium where the megaphone awaits his return.

“Well that went balls up in a hurry didn’t it”? He announces with a hint of a chuckle.  “It appears our girl Rebecca is all blah and wants no part of the Ire of Ireland, but who can blame her? Reina Rourke has never been beaten on the mat. I wouldn’t want any part of that either but that means we need another challenger. We need somebody with some brass”, he clamors. “Surely we must have somebody interested in a date with the champ”.

With the barker breathlessly rolling through his spiel Ernie and Paul are huddled up with Cat as Rebecca joins them. She takes her straw hat from her husband and reapplies it while listening in on the two men instructing the 20 year old on the intended game plan.

“She likes to shoot in for that double leg takedown as you noticed”, her father advises. “You can bait her into it, just make sure you have that back leg planted when she shoots in and you can nail her with a rolling chancery”.

Cat nods as her Aunt Beatrice takes her long blonde mane into her hands and hastily begins to braid it into a makeshift bun. Looking down at the youngster through concerned eyes she finishes the braid off with a rubber band taken from her purse. The elderly woman tracks back to admire her handy work before casting a peek skyward and taking note of evening sky finally settling in over the exposition.

“Are you sure you can do this kitty cat”? She asks with a soft spoken apprehension.

“If I can’t,” Cat cheekily replies, “It’s Uncle Ernie’s fault”.

“Bollocks”, the old timer counters with a dismissive wave. “Get in there and make your bloody challenge. I’m getting hungry and it’s gonna be your treat tonight”.

“I’ll fight your bloody champion”!

Cat thrusts her hand into the air and steps onto the mat certain of the gauntlet being picked up. The blowhard is quick to do so, dropping from his podium and onto the mat to greet the new arrival. The Irish champion does likewise; approaching Cat and coming uncomfortably close, sensing this to be a more legitimate challenge. She eyes Cat up and down taking mental note of the young girl’s physique before locking her gaze squarely onto Cat’s own. The 20 year old responds in kind with a searing scrutiny and is unfazed by the deportment of the muscular lass. Sensing the tension the barker thrusts an arm between the two intending for a separation which is grudgingly provided.

“I think we have a winner this time”! He frantically announces while placing an arm over Cat’s shoulder. “Tell these fine folks your name”.

“My name is Catherine Stanton”, she responds, using the fictitious surname given by her mother moments earlier. “That woman you just chided is my mother”.

The crowd lets loose with an iced gasp picking up on the apparent animosity between Cat and the ‘Ire of Ireland’. With the bookie springing into action a flash mob envelopes him and pushes the bulging book maker back against the barker’s podium and forces security to step in to restore order. Appreciating a good thing when he sees it the barker climbs back onto his podium and calls for bets while the combatants begin to warm up.

“Two minutes to place your bets”!

“I’ve got 300 pounds”, Paul announces while rifling through the front pockets of his khaki pants and pulling out a banded wad of cash which he hands to his brother.

“I have 200myself”, Ernie says and takes the cash from him adding it to his own. “The bookie just wrote down 20 to 1. That’ll give the kitty cat 10,000 pounds when she wins”.

“You bet your arse she’s treatin’”, Paul laughs at while his brother excuses himself and makes a straightaway for the booker.

Beatrice and Rebecca look on, their uneasy expressions in stark contrast to the jovial aspect of their male counterparts. Rebecca quietly accepts the rejected blue and white warm up jacket of her daughter as well as the black ball cap leaving her wearing a pair of blue and white track pants supplemented by black and white Nike sneakers and a drab grey sports bra. Her gaze shifts over to the proclaimed champion who warms up with a set of light calisthenics including jumping jacks and cherry pickers.

“Oh I hope the boys know what they’re doing”, Rebecca mutters softly and clutches the arm of her companion. “I couldn’t bear it if Catherine gets hurt”.

“Don’t worry Becky”, Beatrice answers in a reassuring inflection, “they’ve been doing this for far too long to take a nose dive. I’ve seen Cat train and Ernie often says she’s one of the best he’s ever seen. She’ll be fine”.

“One minute to place your bets”!

Ernie returns to the group with Paul sporting an ear to ear grin, happily waving a piece of paper. He gleefully shows off the sports ticket listing Cat as a 20 to 1 underdog, his heavy index finger pointing with a less than subtle tapping to the payout listed as 10,000 pounds. Taking note of the payout the women stare blankly with their mouths agape in astonishment.

“Do you really think Cat has a chance”? Rebecca inquires breathlessly while gingerly taking the hand printed gold mind into her hands. “This is so much money”.

“You better believe it”, Paul answers taking the ticket back. “We wouldn’t risk this kind of money on anything less than a guarantee”.

The introductions are made by the barker while an anxious throng pushes their way to the beleaguered bookie shoving fistfuls of cash in his face. Reina Rourke acknowledges her introduction by flexing her arms to a smattering of cheers by the wide-eyed onlookers. Ernie gestures to them with a hearty chuckle muttering something under his breath about fishing. In contrast to her opponent Cat does not acknowledge her introduction, not that it matters as she is paid little attention by the audience; who fully expects another victory by the champion.  After several moments of pushing and shoving around the odds maker order is finally restored and he declines t0o take any further wagers, taking his place at the side of the barker who looks on through the broad eyes of a child on Christmas morning.

“It’s show time”!

With their respite brought to an end by the tinny reverberation of the rusty bell the two contenders approach each other, their eyes warily studying the moments and body language of the other. Beginning to circle one another the champion backs off unexpectedly, but quickly reverses course and shoots in for a double leg take down. Cat is ready and merely sidesteps the onrushing Irish woman and shoves her in the back forcing her chest first onto the mat and drawing a few thrilled flare-ups out of the bystanders. Shaking her head Cat takes a step back and allows the other woman to get back to her feet.

“Too easy”, she snickers.

Her face reddened by embarrassment, Reina Rourke glares angrily at Cat who regards her foe with a snarky smirk. Without regard Reina bulls her way into a collar and elbow tie up and the two struggle for a moment for position before Cat drops to her knees and while twisting her body to score a dazzling arm whip which draws another ejaculation from the group with the barker looking on in alarm. As she had done moments ago Cat steps back to allow her opponent to return to her feet. Her face as red as a tomato and with the veins in her forehead dancing in agitation the champion rises and begins to circle the younger woman. Cautiously she maintains her distance, having learned the hard way about Cat’s reflexes until Cat’s back is facing the podium. Noting the other woman’s trepidation Cat offers a wink and blows her a kiss while straightening her upper torso ever so slightly as to expose the thighs as a ready-made target.  Sensing the opportunity Rourke dives in shooting for another attempt at a double leg take down but Cat quickly leans forward to snake her arm around the lass’ neck securing a front chancery and rolls back with the momentum using her forward most leg to hook her opponent’s forward most leg trapping her. The crowd comes to life and roars in approval, having forgotten about the small wagers they may have made on the champion and begin cheering for the local girl.

With his money threatening to sprout wings the barker, thinking quickly, wobbles at his podium and falls forward directly on top of the combatants breaking up what would have assuredly been the finish of the match and drawing a rousing chorus of jeers from the public. Getting to his feet he orders the two women separated as his mind races, feverishly chasing an elusive liberation from the depths of debacle. He starts to gesture wildly towards his security personnel who find themselves caught up with a mob of their own from a nearby booth.

Angry and wholly humiliated Reina charges in, her eyes ablaze with reckless abandon and shrieking wildly; she attempts to throw a side kick only to see her leg caught by the crafty Cat who grabs firm hold of the ankle and twists it harshly, forcing the champion to fall face first to the mat. The young blonde deftly positions her body weight atop her desperately squirming opponent’s legs thereby preventing escape and wrings the ankle looking to draw a submission.

The carnival barker, seeing his champion about to lose drops onto the mat overrun with frantic emotions looking to break up the fracas anew but Cat spies him out of the corner of her eye and reapplies the pressure, mustering every ounce of strength she can muster and stops the barker dead in his tracks with the stomach-turning snap of Reina Rourke’s ankle being broken. The crowd falls into a departed silence leaving the pit void of turbulence save for the labored mewling of the now former champion.

After an incredulous stare down with the winner the barker, now resigned to his fate dourly makes his way back to the podium not once removing his gaze from Cat Riley who starts to revel in the triumph with her family and well-wishers from the jubilant horde. Paying them no mind he grips the megaphone firmly into his hand and climbs back onto the podium.

“I don’t believe it”, Miles Bryant says in a soft, understated tone and accentuating his response with a shake of his head. “I just can’t believe it”.

“What’s not to believe”? Cat asks. Having finished her meal the SCW rookie pushes her plate forward and takes the reprieve from telling her tale as an opportunity to drain her glass, which she does; gulping the carbonated beverage down. “Everything I just told you is 100% factual. In fact, Reina Rourke quit wrestling completely after that night”.

“For starters”, Miles says, pointing a finger up towards the ceiling in contention, “I have it on pretty good word that they stopped doing those carnival wrestling events years ago, decades in fact”.

“What so-called authority is this”? Cat muses with a hint of a smirk, her mind having been calmed by the wandering twists and turns of experiences eventually culminating in a fond memory. “Your authority has clearly lost the pot when it comes to England. The fact of the matter is they still do hold such events at the fairs”. Tipping the glass she drains the last of her soda and sets the empty container back onto the table with a clunk and then leans forward to continue her point. “Now granted these carnivals are much fewer and farther between than in years gone by, and even fewer are the ones that hold such contests. But rest assured my dear boy, they still exist”.

“So you’re saying you got lucky to find one”?

“I suppose you can say that”, Cat nods before pausing as the waitress returns to slide the check face down onto the table. “It’s sort of like playing cards I guess, if you play enough hands you’re sure to find a winner. My Uncle has a habit of taking pot luck when it comes to them and I had been to several before with him with no sporting event of any kind”.

Miles grabs the check and glosses over it, content to put it on his expense tab for the sake of the interview and reaches into his pocket, unfolding a wad of bills. He counts a few off, running calculations in his head to decipher the magic 12% marker and tucks them beneath a plate.

“Cat Riley”, he says, reaching for his recorder after stretching his arms out with a drained whistle, “I must confess that this has been one of the more interesting interviews I have ever conducted. Before we go is there anything you would like to add”?

“Yes”, she nods in acceptance. “You and your subscribers may think that I lack the experience to compete with Nyla Dupre, but not all experience is picked up in the ring. I graduated the school of hard knocks with a Ph.D. in arse whipping and when we get to Primm, your girl Nyla will be the next chapter in my thesis”.

 The wrought iron gate slams with a heavy metallic clang prompting a trio of teenaged girls to stop short their pursuit of another young woman, who, safely on the other side maintains stride. Her well-worn black and white sneakers beat a path up the brick sidewalk stopping only at the varnished, chestnut door of the two story brownstone to which it lays claim. Chest heaving with copious breaths she fumbles about the right pocket of a pair of faded blue jeans for the keys, tears streaming from her soft blue eyes –one of which is blackened - while her hunters chide her from the other side of the black iron fence which keeps them at bay.

“Aww, the little girl doesn’t want to play any more”, a husky brunette calls out while leering at her prey through angry snuff colored eyes.

“What’s a matter little kitten?” chides a lanky, freckle faced redhead while shaking the gate, “is it time for your breast feeding?”

“She looks like she wants to honk” Their companion, a hulking, giantess of a teen laughs obnoxiously. She kicks at the ground where the fence meets the sidewalk with a pair of sturdy, black leather boots and joining her companions in shaking the fencing.

With a nervous grip their prey shakily slides the key into the lock and quickly lets herself in. She slams the door shut and locks it before leaning against it exhaling a sigh of relief while reaching up to brush aside an errant strand of sweaty blonde hair, her sobs echoing throughout the foyer.

“What in the bloody… “The muffled thud of boot steps hurriedly crossing a carpeted floor reverberate from across the dimly lit foyer and forcing Catherine Riley to wipe the tears from her reddened face. “Kitty cat, what’s wrong, what happened?”

Alarmed, Catherine drops her glare to the floor attempting to play it off while her mind races for an excuse that proves elusive. “Nothing Uncle Ernie,” she replies softly, still trying to bring her heartrate down. Her uncle, an older, heavyset man with loose jowls and a leathery complexion from 68 years of life looks on from behind a pair of wire framed glasses, his blue eyes flickering in concern while she continues. “I just thought to take a jog home from school, to get some exercise, ya know?”

“Bollocks young lady,” he snorts, “pick your head up, let me see your face”. An audible gasp slithers through pursed lips as he takes the youngster’s chin gently into his hand. Noting the black ring around the eye and the onset of swelling beneath it his gruff expression turns to one of paternal concern. “Who did this to you?” he demands. “I want names”!

“Nobody Uncle Ernie”, Cat says with uncertainty, not even believing herself but still hoping to convince her elder, a man notorious for his temper that nothing was amiss. “I just had an accident in gym class, nothing more”.

“What were you learning, street fighting”? He scoffs.  Grabbing his niece by the shoulder he carefully moves her aside, clearing the way to the door which he promptly opens to peer out into the street. A curt breeze gingerly sweeps his short grey hair as he steps fully onto the patio in search of the perpetrators but even with the aid of a clear sky and the sun to his back he sees no sign of wrongdoers, the only other person outside within sight is an elderly woman whom he recognizes as their neighbor Mrs. McArdle of more than 30 years walking her dog. He responds to her greeting with a wave of his own before slamming the door shut. “Bloody little shits”, he fumes. “Let me get my hands on them. I’ll rip off their bleeding legs and use them as a Billy club”. His demeanor quickly shifts gears from belligerent to kindly, turning back to his niece looking up at him through sorrowful eyes. “Come with me to the kitchen”, he says, guiding her with a beefy hand on the back. “Let’s get you fixed up”.

Seated at the painstakingly crafted old world style kitchen table, Cat nurses her eye with an ice pack while sipping a diet Pepsi. Her uncle meanwhile busies himself at an equally old gas stove preparing a pot of tea. He shuffles about across the polished wooden floor gathering a cup, saucer and coaster until the whistle breaks the silence with a sudden shriek alerting him that his drink is ready. Taking the silver pot by its’ wooden handle he quietly fills his cup before setting the kettle back down and joining Cat at the table.  Setting the white porcelain cup and saucer down on the lovingly crafted, multi-colored yarn coaster the big man leans back in his chair seated opposite his niece which creaks in protest.

“Now then”, he says looking Cat in the eyes. “Tell your Uncle Ernie what happened today at the Battle royal, and don’t try to lie to me anymore”, he admonishes with a shaking of his index finger. “You’ll never be any good at it any way”.

“Well, I didn’t lie about being in gym class”, she begins while suppressing a halfhearted chuckle over the elder man’s comment about lying to him. He’s right she muses. He has always been able to tell when she was trying to lie to him. “It’s three girls”, she continues. “Darla, a little fat shit with a Little Debbie haircut. Then there’s Diane, she’s this skinny slapper who always chums it up with Darla. She’s a tall ginger with freckles and everything, looks like a bloody plank with lipstick and eyeballs. Then there’s Roberta. She this gigantic, fat arse Billy No-mates, at least until she met Diane and Darla at the beginning of the school year, then they all started tossing together. They’re all 14, a year older than me”. She pauses to take a sip of her soda while casting a curt glance to her uncle, hoping not to have upset him with her choice of language. He does not seem to care and continues to look on with interest, his mind obviously processing what she has told him thus far. Despite his advancing age the man’s mental state still seems as sharp as ever. “Any way they’ve been picking on me for just about the whole school year, me and a couple other girls. I guess it was my turn again today”.

“Again?” he interrupts in his gravelly voice.

“As I said, they’ve been picking on me the whole school year. First it was over my dark eyebrows, they would say it makes me look like a zombie. Then it was about my legs, how my right leg is a little bit shorter than my left and causes me to walk a little differently and today it was my toes. They saw that my second toe is longer than my big toe when we were changing into our gym clothes”.

“And that gives them reason to go beating somebody up”?

“Well, not entirely”.

“Go on”, he dictates softly, pausing to take a sip of tea, his kindly blue eyes remaining fixed on his niece.

“They wouldn’t shut up about it”, she says. “They were calling other girls over to show them my toes while laughing and cracking jokes. I finally got tired of it all and told them to bugger off. Then Roberta pushes me up against my locker and is about to hit me but the teacher walked in and broke it up. They said they would get me after school and although I tried to avoid them they caught up with me around the corner from Mack’s Tavern. Roberta grabbed me and they all pushed me into the alley behind it and started hitting and kicking me before one of the patrons saw what was happening and yelled. That gave me a chance to escape and I ran home”.

“All that tosh just because you’re different,” he growls while slapping his tea down in disgust. “They may as well declare war on the whole bleeding planet”.

“Fortunately today was the last day of school for the year”, Cat adds before draining the last of her soda.  “So I don’t have to worry about it for a while”.

“You don’t have to worry about it ever again”, Ernie says picking his tea back up.

“What do you mean Uncle, what are you going to do”?

“It means”, the elder man drops his voice upon noticing a spot on his red sweater and reaches for a napkin to dab at it and giving his mind the opportunity to visualize his intended plan of action. An action he had considered for a long time, only to allow himself to be talked out of it time and again but no more. Looking across the table at his young niece nursing her black eye with an ice pack consisting of cubes bundled into a white linen towel he quietly resolves to stand his ground. He turns his attention briefly back to the tea stain on his hand knitted sweater and dabs at it again. No more would he acquiesce to tradition. In his brother’s only child he saw someone every bit as deserving of what he could teach her, gender be damned. Clenching his fist he drops the napkin back onto the table and lifts his gaze to meet hers. “It means I am going to make you a part of our family legacy”, he says. “I am going to teach you how to handle girls like that”.

Her mouth agape Cat stares incredulously at her uncle, stunned by the announcement.  Although she has long known of his career training professional wrestlers but never having considered herself as a candidate she had brushed the thought aside almost as quickly as it had entered her mind. Professional wrestling was and remains a tough sport practiced by highly skilled athletes with the balance of a gymnast, the strength of a bull and the quickness of a panther, qualities she has never seen herself as having. Still, the fact that he would even suggest such a possibility left her mind reeling. This is a man who has wrestled himself and trained others in the craft for more than 40 years. Obviously he must see something that she does not, but what? Questions begin to pepper her train of thought with the cacophony of a hail storm on a tin roof, each one louder than the last and each one bringing with it another. She shakes her head in an effort to compose her thoughts and fixes her gaze firmly on her uncle’s face, his blue eyes smiling at her from behind a pair of thin, gold wire-framed spectacles; he had expected her reaction.

“You’re talking about teaching me to wrestle”? She asks.

He says nothing other than offering a nod of his head, shifting his aged bulk back into the old wooden chair which emits a light squeak in protest to await her next question.

“What makes you think I am cut out for that sort of thing”? She demands while setting her half melted ice pack down onto the table.  “They’re all musclebound! They flip and flap about the ring like monkeys on crack and they’re as big as a house! I’m nothing like that Uncle Ernie. You know that. I can’t do somersaults or bench press ten times my body weight”. Shaking her head in exasperation she continues, “I don’t have the body or coordination to do the crazy things they do. I mean, I might make a decent ring girl,” she pauses to consider her words and resumes, waving her hands dismissively. “Provided I was size two ten feet tall perfect. I suppose stilts are an option and I can always stuff my bra but other than that I don’t see how it can happen”.

Leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table Ernie bows his head as Cat’s voice trails off leaving him to envision her ramblings in a comedic parody of the craft he has donated the majority of his life to perfecting.  With a chuckle he shakes his head but the image of his niece trying to walk about the ring on a pair of stilts and her shirt stuffed with a pair of melons proves to be too much and the brief chuckle is followed by another and then another. The chuckles soon converge into a rolling peal of laughter which echoes throughout the otherwise empty house. The laughter continues for several moments until he finally manages to calm himself down. Dabbing at his left eye with a napkin he draws a deep breath.

“Ah kitty cat”, he says with a beaming grin. “You never fail to make me laugh”. He sets the napkin down and replaces it with his tea. He blows over the rim of the cup through pursed lips; a light whistle gliding through them before he takes a sip of the beverage, his nostrils reveling in the floral undertones. Smacking his lips the man exhales a satisfied murmur and turns his attention Back to Catherine, who has since reapplied the ice pack to her tender eye, “Ah how I love that sarcastic wit of yours, but I don’t think you understand my dear”.

“I do believe that I understand”, she says while rising from her seat. The rubber soles of her sneakers squeak as her feet glide across the polished wooden floor, guiding her to the sink. Opening the towel she dumps the nearly melted ice cubes into it and reaches to the freezer on her left for a fresh supply, pausing to drop a few into her glass which she then refills with Diet Pepsi, her drink of choice. “I understand that you have been training professional wrestlers since long before I was even born”, she says rejoining him at the table.  “But I can’t bench press a biscuit let alone another person. My point still stands”.

“The only point you have – you silly bird – is your head”, he responds with a chortle.

“Uncle Ernie, I can’t do that stuff they do on the telly”! She exclaims.

“I’m not talking about that poppycock you watch on Saturday night. That is nothing more than theatre, a show put on to entertain the audience. I do not train for that. What I do is pass on the legacy started by your Grandfather Billy Riley in 1950 by teaching catch wrestling”.

She had heard the term thrown about by various members of her family through the years, her uncle and father most notably but as a young girl her attention was predominately elsewhere so she never bothered to learn more about it, preferring instead to associate with other children her own age. A quick trip down memory lane brings to her images of both her father and uncle’s trophy collection, an immense display of wrestling prodigy and, strangely enough, no championship belts. A sweat stained padded mat situated over a hard dirt floor illuminated by candlelight and lined by several creaky old wooden benches inside of a large shed behind her Grandfather, now her uncle’s house and a seemingly endless line of people, all young men gathering inside the shed for hours on end almost every time she and her parents visited. She recalled the groaning and constant grunts as well as the lingering stench of perpetual perspiration. The smell alone was enough to ensure that she never ventured inside the shed for more than a fleeting moment and questions to her father were either quickly forgotten by her youthful mind or simply went unanswered.

But now, her Uncle, the same man from her memories, only older, sits in front of her seeming to imply that what he teaches is something completely different from the professional wrestling she has long been certain that he has been teaching.  And a whirlwind of questions gust through her mind which breezes with possibilities previously unconsidered.  What makes it so different from Professional wrestling? How could this help her deal with the bullies from school? How can she be expected to do this when she remains convinced that she is unsuited for professional wrestling and, most of all, what exactly is catch wrestling? The term is only vaguely familiar to her, often used by her family and equally as often cast aside by a young girl with other thoughts and inclinations. She holds no doubts to her family’s background in the sport, the ostentatious display of her father’s accolades and accomplishments in the living room had certainly seen to that but is it something that she can learn? Her mouth opens to give voice to the loudest question in her mind but is interrupted by the shrill ringing of the old style cord telephone hanging on the wall next to the refrigerator.

“Would you grab the bone Cat”?

With a shuffle of her feet Cat bolts up from her chair and hop steps to the phone, picking the receiver up into her hand she cradles the red plastic against her cheek and answers with a cheery ‘Hello’.  She listens for a moment to the voice on the other end and grins broadly in recognition.

“It’s Mum and Dad”, she whispers while covering the microphone with her left hand. Ernie turns ponderously in his seat towards Cat and the telephone in anticipation as she continues. “We’re doing fine Dad, me and Uncle Ernie are just sitting at the kitchen table and chatting”. The conversation continues in this vein for the next several moments with Cat relaying some of her experiences at school and home over the previous weeks as her Uncle sat for her while they have been vacationing in New York City. In turn mother and father alike take turns speaking with their daughter, relaying their own experiences in the United States as Ernie Riley begins to fidget  anxiously until finally gesturing to Cat with a silent instruction to hand him the phone. “One moment Dad”, she replies to both her father and uncle. “Uncle Ernie wants to speak with you”.

“Paul”! He answers gleefully upon accepting the receiver from his niece. “How the hell have you been”? A similar round of small talk between the brothers begins as it had moments before with Ernie initiating but ever impatient the elder of the two siblings cuts it short after a surprisingly brief exchange. “Look Paul, let me cut to the chase here. Cat has been having some trouble at school with a couple of birdies and I mean to start teaching her in the pit”. The Pit refers to the informal wrestling school held in his backyard, known professionally as The Snake Pit. While both brothers are owners of the school, it has always been Ernie who tended to the daily affairs and continues to serve as the lead instructor with Paul taking on the role of silent partner. He responds to the obvious question by relaying to her father Cat’s tale from earlier in the day. “Don’t you worry about them blokes”, he interjects to answer a question before it even asked. “I’ll handle them”.

The Snake Pit when it was originally founded by Billy Riley was intended to teach men only as such sports were traditionally male back in the 1950s. This tradition continued until 1978. Upon the death of the founder his sons Ernie and Paul assumed ownership and several former students with children of their own began to pressure the brothers into teaching young boys. The brothers agreed and The Snake Pit continued business as usual but women and girls remained barred from participating in strict adherence to older conceptions. Paul, younger by 12 years had anticipated a backlash by some of the more conservative veterans and posed the possibility.  But the strong personality of Ernie Riley would hear none of it.

“It was me who allowed those blokes to bring their kids to learn the craft, and now I’m going to bring my niece and teach her the same way I taught them, better in fact and there isn’t a bloody thing they can do about it”. A brief pause ensues between the men as Cat looks on from her seat, her heavy eyebrows arched in uncertainty. “Don’t you worry about a thing Paul, When I get through with her our little kitty cat is going to be a man eating tigress. We’ll see you soon”.

Turning back towards Cat he hands the receiver to her, his eyes asking her to hang it back up. She dutifully complies before eagerly bouncing back into her chair, her expression glimmering with hope.

“Well”? She asks. “What did he say”?

“He about bit my bloody arm off! He loves the idea of your becoming a strong and independent woman. So get your gear together because tomorrow you and I are taking a trip to the pit”.

“I can’t wait”! Cat cries, leaping from her chair to tightly embrace her Uncle. “But you still haven’t explained the difference between catch wrestling and the stuff we see on the idiot box”.

“You’ll learn that tomorrow, just be sure to get your rest. You’re going to need it”.