The Bristlecone ballroom at the Aria resort in Las Vegas, a sprawling 51,000 square foot auditorium located on the Promenade level decked out in a dazzling array of gold appointments accentuated by white on chestnut walls reaching 24 feet in height. 1,000 chairs are lined across the expansive, color matched carpeting sporting circular patterns. Bright lights shine down upon members of the media and visitors from overhead chandeliers, illuminating the cavernous chamber. At the head of the room, two rows of tables line the platform against the eastern wall, separated by a pulpit manned by the promotion’s co-owner Christian Underwood. Black and gold tablecloths featuring the SCW logo are draped over top, bearing the weight of an array of microphones, clear, glass pitchers of water and the personal belongings of SCW talent and management seated behind the table who patiently chat among themselves while awaiting the start of the pre-show High Stakes media scrum. The room is packed with an assortment of wrestling journalists, sports reporters, writers and vloggers. They too, exchange pleasantries with one another, their collective voices reverberating off the walls of the ballroom turned makeshift amphitheater until speakers embedded into the ceiling crackle to life, drawing their attention to the pulpit and the scratchy voice of Christian, who suppresses a cough.
“Excuse me,” he says, leaning into the microphone, offering a halfhearted smile. “This happens every time I return to Vegas following a trip abroad. At any rate, we are ready to begin. This weekend’s show features an historic card that will see two returning legends, six championship matches, a highly anticipated grudge match, the year end awards, and a live edition of under the bridge.” Gesturing outwards he directs the collective gaze of the assemblage to the lineup of talent seated on both sides including Fenris, Ken Davidson, Jessie Salco, Roxi Johnson, Krystal Wolfe, Goth, Miles Kasey, Agostino Romano and Cat Riley. “Our stars and bombshells have graciously donated some of their valuable time to speak with you today and are ready to take your questions, so let’s have at it, shall we?”
A throng of eager hands are promptly thrusted into the air, each of them waving excitedly while Christian’s steely gaze spans the room of wide-eyed faces before finally settling on a thin man, draped in a loud, bright orange suit that appears two sizes too big with a jab of his index finger. “You, what’s your question and who is it for?”
“Hey, how ya doin?” he offers in an over done nasal tone. The 20 something man rises from his seat, his hand glazing over a slicked back, black crew cut and adjusts a pair of black, horn-rimmed glasses. “I’m the Schmo from the YouTube channel The Schmo and the Pro and I got a question for Cat Riley, so I hope you’re ready?”
“Bob’s your uncle,” she nods casually, using a British slang term of acknowledgement.
“I don’t have a clue what that means,” his confession draws a muted chortle from several of the attendees. “But I’m gonna go ahead and fire away… what kinds of precautions is SCW taking ahead of your match with Crystal Hilton, and do you have any intentions of taking it beyond the mat, so to speak?”
“I don’t know,” she offers, setting down a glass of water and hastily unwrapping a hotdog from the concession stand outside. “Are you asking if I’m going CM Punk?” she shrugs, “that depends if I see her not. Listen, I don’t particularly care for shitting on my co-workers, but in her case, I’ll be more than happy to make it a double.”
A round of genuine, albeit nervous laughter ensues following her remark while Christian once more scans the room, “Eeny meenie, minie moe, catch a gossip monger by the toe…” and settles on a middle-aged brunette smartly dressed in a cotton, business casual, knee length mauve dress. “You,” he says.
“Liz Hunter with Pro Wrestling Illustrated,” she announces, rising from her seat. “My question is for Fenris, how do you feel going against perhaps the most famous name and longest reigning SCW champion of all time in J2H?”
A simple shrug is all the answer given as he nods to his employer, who smiles and nods back to him.
Moving on he selects Oliver Davis, one of the men who had previously conducted a sit-down interview with Cat mere days ago. He rises, his hands sliding down a wrinkled black tee shirt bearing the logo of the YouTube ‘WrestleTalk’ show.
“Ollie Davis with WrestleTalk news,” he announces. “My question is for Cat Riley… Since you’ve been gone, Crystal Hilton has been competing in and winning matches. Are you concerned about ring rust?”
“Ring rust?” she scoffs, rolling her blue eyes. “You know, Japan is a funny place. They’re so bloody steeped in tradition. One such tradition is to have new wrestlers serve as seconds or young boy slash girl to a veteran...
“So, you are rusty then?” he interrupts.
“You didn’t let me finish,” she snaps, her voice carried aloft by her rising temper. “I said it was tradition! I said nothing about having to do it. Oh, one of their veterans wanted me to do it… tried to insist no less, but much like your heroine Crystal Hilton, she had no idea what she was in for.” Stepping from the chair Cat draws an inquisitive breath from the onlookers by climbing onto the table. Snatching the microphone from its cradle she puts her unlaced, Puma high top sneakers to work by pacing across the surface. “Now, since it’s painfully obvious that you people won’t let me talk about anything but Hilton, we’re going to do this my way.”
His voice drops in apprehension, “and what way is that?”
“We’re going to play a game!” she grins, her black and white sneakers coming to a halt. “I am going to teach everyone here how to speak proper English… British English, using your favorite wrestler as an example. We will take some popular terms and phrases and put them into context.” The wood groans beneath her weight as the pacing is renewed. No more than a few steps are taken however, before she pauses in front of Fenris. Leaning down Cat takes a sip from his bottle of Icelandic water and grins, pinching his cheek. “I think you will benefit greatly from this lesson,” she smirks. “I’ll even throw in a few curses, just for you. In fact,” rising once more, “given who it is we will be discussing, I’m sure we will be cursing quite a bit. Now, let’s begin, shall we?”
Amused by his friend’s unexpected hijacking of the conference, Christian chuckles, waving away security and takes a seat behind the podium. Folding his arms over his chest he looks on through frolicsome apertures in blitheful anticipation. With an impish bob of the head, he silently lets Cat know that the floor is officially hers.
“We will start with a simple one, ‘a load of tosh’. Pretty easy to figure out really, unlike anything that may possibly be going on inside of Crystal’s barren blue head. For example, the mere idea that Crystal thinks she has a chance against me this weekend is, quite simply, a load of tosh. Now, with the first out of the way we are ready to move along.” Stopping in front of the center podium she notices Christian’s phone. Picking up the charcoal grey iPhone 13 she tosses it to him, “you’re going to need this,” she says in a mischievous inflection. “I plan on being here a while.”
“This next one is a favorite of mine; Christian is very familiar with this one… ‘I’m off to Bedfordshire’, which is just a funny way of saying you’re going to bed for the night. To put it into use we could say that the moment I get my arms around her neck, Crystal Hilton is off to Bedfordshire.”
“I hear it half a dozen times a day,” Christian adds, drawing a round of laughter. “That girl takes more naps than my Persian.”
“The bloody bed will not keep itself warm!” she answers, rolling her eyes. “Which brings us to the next one, ‘xtra’. Now mind you, this is not extra with an e, and it doesn’t mean ‘more’. We when want to say that something is really good, we say it is xtra. For example, beating Crystal Hilton’s sorry arse is xtra!” Extending her arm she points the microphone at the audience she reiterates in a louder, more firm tone, “Now I want you all to say it with me, beating Crystal Hilton’s sorry arse is xtra!”
“Beating Crystal Hilton’s sorry ass is xtra.”
“No, you twits, I didn’t say ass, I said arse. We’re speaking proper English here so get with the program! Once more from the top.” She offers an assist in the form of an extended finger acting as a makeshift symphony conductor while pronouncing the words slowly and carefully to ensure reception, “beating Crystal Hilton’s sorry arse is xtra.”
“Beating Crystal Hilton’s sorry arse is xtra.”
“Better but I want to see a bit more enthusiasm. Put yourselves in my position, you’re mere days away from whipping the piss out of the biggest flake this business has ever seen, get excited, now let’s go, one more time from the bloody top… BEATING CRYSTAL HILTON’S SORRY ARSE IS XTRA!”
“BEATING CRYSTAL HILTON’S SORRY ARSE IS XTRA!”
“Better, though you still sound like a chorus of school children reciting the alphabet. I suppose I will have to assign you some homework. When we reconvene following the show, I want to see it stated properly across social media; Twitter, YouTube, Truth Social, Instagram and even Tik Tok, assuming any of you can dance like an orangutan.” A chuckling pause follows as she exchanges a bright-eyed glance with Christian who laughs and nods. “In fact, I insist, I want to see some Tik Tok videos of you reciting what we’ve learned today. No video, no questions. So, charge up your phones and let’s make some stupid videos telling me how xtra it is to beat the blue out of Hilton’s haggard head!”
A shuffling amidst the crowd draws several members to their feet. One by one in the second row from the back members of the media rise to their feet to allow a diminutive figure to pass. Clad in a slate grey hoodie bearing a humorous ‘Monday Lisa’ iron on patch pulled over top of head, leaving strands of shimmering red hair to free fall past her obscured face. Scattered whispers are exchanged, some of them loud enough to draw Cat’s attention from atop the table where she stops pacing, her attention now squarely on the unidentified individual. Clearing her throat, she starts to speak but cuts herself off as the dainty, feminine figure stops upon reaching the aisle, holding aloft a wireless microphone. The murmurs turn to gasps as the hood is dropped to reveal the smiling face of Chloe Benton. Beaming widely the girl waves excitedly, her body bouncing in elation.
“Hi Ms. Cat!” She squeals happily.
“Hello Chloe,” Cat replies, her tone wrangled by the unexpected arrival. Bemused glances are traded with Christian, who shrugs, shaking his head. “What brings you here today, shouldn’t you be training?”
“Ms. F-F-Fox said I c-could come if I liked my own t-tweet!” she exclaims, her silken mane bouncing in sync with her effervescent demeanor. “I’m so ha-happy to be here, this is fun-n-n!”
“I should’ve known Fox would find a way to screw this up,” Christian mutters, leaning back and clasping his hands behind his head.
“Of course,” Nodding in agreement Cat turns her attention back to Chloe, replying “Yes, I suppose talking about Crystal Hilton is fun… like getting a tattoo on a thousand tits but being the apparent masochist that I am, I’m quite busy at the moment. What can I do for you?”
“Ooh C-Can I ask you a question p-please?” The girl’s bulbous brown eyes stare back at her pleadingly.
“I guess so, ask me anything you want about Crystal Hilton.”
“Why d-do I have to t-t-talk about Ms. C-Crystal?” The whine in her voice is palpable, bursting through the speakers with a sonorous balm of dejection. “I-I don’t even l-like her.”
“Ask me anything you want then,” Cat rephrases, lifting the dejection from Chloe’s face with a smile of her own. “Anything at all.”
“Yay!” She yips, bouncing joyously before regaining her composure. “Th-Th-This is C-Chloe with-th the Chloe news network…” the off seam start to her question draws a chorale of low-key guffaws and cackles. “I-I wanted to ask you if-if I could be in your c-c-corner th-this weekend?”
“Not a chance in hell.”
The answer is sharp and firm as it is ejected from her lips, a pointed dagger hurtling directly towards Chloe’s delicate heart. The impact reflects in her eyes, deep chestnut pools caught in a violent under current of sudden anguish.
“But… but… why?”
“Simple, she’s already hurt you once and may want to do it again,” Cat replies bluntly. “I can’t guarantee that I will be able to protect you. The best way to keep you safe is for you to stay at home. Besides,” she adds, “I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you apologize when it’s her who needs to do the apologizing… something I intend to make her do.” Referring to a recent Twitter exchange she remains steadfast on her position, and sharpens the point, “even if I have to end her bloody career.”
“B-B-B-But… but… M-Mr. Christian…” her voice tapers into a high-pitched whine, directing her attention to their collective employer Chloe begins to plead her case. “C-Could you tell Ms Cat th-that she’s not being nice? I-I work for you too a-and I have every b-bit as much right as s-she does to b-b-be there? I-I mean surely, I m-must have d-d-done something wrong t-t-t-to upset Ms. Crystal a-a-and…”
“And if you think you’re going to apologize to that schizophrenic bitch for anything after what she did to you, I’ll ban you from the building myself. In fact, consider it done.” His interruption prompts Cat to drop from the table to give him a high five in approval.
“B-B-B-But…”
“The only but I want to see is yours Missy, skedaddling out of here and getting back to your training. Now, go!”
“I-I’m sorry!”
Sliding across the table Cat jumps to the other side, landing with a muffled thud and approaches the glassy eyed lass. Stopping her she places an arm around the youngster’s shoulder in reassurance and whispers softly,
“We’re trying to protect you, sweety.”
“This is all m-my fault!” Chloe wails, the glass of her lenses having broken allowing the sobbing rain to seep over the windowsill. “I d-didn’t mean for any of th-this to happen.”
“Shhh,” Clutching the trembling teen into an embrace Cat hugs her tightly and attempts to dilute her distress, “It’s ok honey, everything is going to be fine, I promise.”
“A-Are you sure it’s not m-my fault?”
“No, it isn’t your fault.”
She glares up tepidly into the benign eyes of her mother, who had come to school to pick up the expelled six your old. The elder blonde woman leans over, tenderly brushing aside a straying length of blonde hair to inspect the swelling under her left eye, a gift from Kimberly Cobblepot, the biggest and meanest girl in Mab’s Cross Primary school near the Tesco district of Wigan, situated halfway between Liverpool to the west and Manchester to the east. An upcoming football game between Liverpool and Manchester United spurred the bigger girl Kimberly, a Liverpool fan to cajole Cat, a Manchester fan into a verbal sparring match. She severely underestimated the smaller girl’s agile mind however, leaving her classmates laughing obstreperously at her inept attempts to return fire. Repeatedly cut by Cat’s decidedly sharper tongue she elected to fight back in another way, by bombing the girl with fists. The considerably smaller Cat found herself unceremoniously dumped on the floor and forced into a fetal position to protect herself until the teacher could arrive to break up the one-sided contest, but not before Cat was left with a consolation prize under her eye.
Although the accounts of the witnesses bore out her story, school policy dictated both students be sent home, thus her mother was called in to pick her up. Despite her mother’s insistence that she was not angry, young Catherine Riley could not help but feel somehow responsible for her mother having to leave work for something she was involved in. Surely some of the blame would have to be shouldered by her. But the elder woman seemed unfazed by the incident, and even started to sing during the car ride home. Still unsure, the girl wiped away the last of her tears and looked up at Rebecca Riley behind the wheel for a final vote of reassurance asking if she honestly and truly was not angry with her and that she wouldn’t be punished.
“I promise,” Pulling away precipitously she spins Chloe around to face the crowd. Reaching up with her thumb she gently pushes away one last tear and grips her shoulders tightly to instill a sense of security into the distressed damsel. “Perhaps now you see what I’m fighting for,” she bellows into the congregation. “Chloe didn’t do a bloody thing wrong, and nobody deserves what she got at the hands of Crystal Hilton, nobody! Put your sister or daughter in Chloe’s place, or the little girl next door; how would you react, would you be happy, indifferent or would you lose the bleeding plot?” Her voice is frozen by an icy glare, blanketing them in a cold scrutiny carried along an unspoken challenge. Studying the men and women in attendance for several moments, she soon snaps from her reverie, satisfied. “I think you can all understand why I want to hurt that bitch… badly.” Spinning her back around she returns her attention to Chloe. “I think it’s time for you to get back to the center,” she says with a warm smile. “Your business here will be handled so you have nothing to worry about, ok?”
“Y-Yes ma’am,” she nods, her bright red mane bobbing up and down. As she is about to turn face, she feels Cat fingers digging into her shoulder, holding her in place and bringing an inquisitive countenance.
“By the way, how did you get here? You can’t drive and the center is 20 miles from here.”
“I-I took the bus,” she replies, her eyes alight in youthful innocence. “I-Is that alright? If not I-I’m sorry.”
“Are you daft? Cat demands, recoiling in astonishment. “That must have taken you all day!”
“Two hours a-and 45 m-minutes, M-M-Ms. Cat.”
“Bloody hell!” Shaking her head Cat slaps her jean clad thighs. “Unbelievable! Fine, whatever, I’ll drive you back myself. I’m done with these desk jockeys any road, let them talk to Fenris for a while.”
“That should make for quite the conversation,” Christian offers chuckling.
“Let’s go,” grabbing Chloe by the hand the pair make their way towards the doors. “We’ll be there in about five minutes.”
“B-But it’s 20 m-miles away...?”
“It’s alright, Christian taught me to drive, just like I’m going to drive my foot up Crystal’s arse this Sunday, fast and furious.”