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Supercard Archives / THE FALLEN vs THE FREAKETTES
« on: October 31, 2014, 06:40:44 PM »
(Oops, accidentally posted from the wrong account, sorry)
"Welcome to the special alternative lifestyle episode of celebrity wife swap where our couples have agreed to swap partners for two weeks. Felony Fontana and Rock Rose, one of the top tag teams in the SCW will swap partners with one of the most famous tag teams in wrestling history, Christian Underwood and 'The Big Pump' Scott Schriener.
How will this famous lesbian couple adapt to being forced to live with a gay man for two weeks? And what will happen when they have to live under each other's house rules? We are about to find out".
The scene cuts to a black limousine pulling into the driveway of a classically designed Victorian home. With textured, deep burgundy shingles, a partial width porch and awning giving way to an asymmetrical facade tiering up into a steeply pitched roof with a dominant front facing gable. The lawn appears impeccably maintained with a pair of fig trees greeting visitors at the bottom of the porch steps, a lush, green fern standing guard in the middle and rows of neatly trimmed shrubs lining the cobblestone walkway.
Stepping from the ten seater car Felony Fontana gazes up at the Queen Anne styled house, her eyes squinting in the mid morning sunlight while the chauffeur pops the trunk and tends to her luggage. She fumbles around blindly in her purse, her attention firmly on the immaculate house until her right hand emerges with a pair of sun glasses, which she quickly plops onto her face.
"Wow", she mutters, breaking into stride to catch up with her attendant who already is making his way towards the front door. "This is one of the nicest Victorians I've ever seen".
Once more the scene shifts, this time from the burnished Victorian home to an apartment building. Another black limousine pulls into a parking stall as its occupant, the other half of the wife swap Christian Underwood studies the rows of apartments and the layout of the complex.
"This place looks eerily familiar", he says softly studying the parking structure.
Just a few scant years ago Christian and his partner Scott Schriener shared a small, one bedroom apartment. For nearly ten years they lived in the same cramped rental while busying themselves with their careers until they had accumulated enough money to move into a larger home. But instead of breaking his multi-year lease Christian instead opted to sub let the tiny domicile out to Rock Rose and Felony Fontana.
"I don't believe it," he mutters finally realizing who he is switching partners with. "Either the world is a lot smaller than I figured..," he rambles while stepping out of the car. "Or I'm being played".
Back at the Victorian home of Christian Underwood and Scott Schriener Felony steps out of the foyer and into the spacious living room. Her blue eyes scan the expansive interior of the not so humble though less than ostentatious abode. The walls are gently layered in a soft beige wallpaper with a subtle floral design leading to like-colored moldings lining the top of the walls and the understated creme ceiling with an intricate ceiling medallion from which hangs an ornate chandelier to top off the indirect styling . On her immediate right sits a Florio wooden console table atop of which sits a pair of feline teddy bears giving Felony a brief moment for pause as she muses silently over the curious choice of decor. Moving further into the living room just beyond the edge of hallway she stops once more to take in the classically themed scenery. The floor is layered with highly polished rosewood and accented with several neatly placed Leila sculpted area rugs, including the Rose abusson rug runner on which she stands. An Adelaide Hurricane table lamp sits subdued in the center of a meticulously crafted storage stand. A few feet past the stand a pair of Portia wide curtains with a sash tie back gently frame the shingle styled windows. Her gaze slowly moves from the walls and floor and into the heart of the living room. It too is faithfully decorated in Victorian manner. A Florio leather upholstered sofa occupies the center with its' acutely detailed wood carved frame and a pair of vanity stools which flank a painfully bright and highly detailed coffee table. A large oval area rug is stationed beneath it all to protect the gleaming floor from accidents.
As her eyes continue to roam they lock onto a peculiar piece of furnishing; stationed to the right of the sofa, with a tuft of white hair protruding beyond the lip is a black leather recliner. Unlike the rest of the furniture it is not so anxiously cared for as evidenced by a smattering of small holes and a slew of scratch marks lining the side. A throaty belch emanates from the chair as a large flat panel television screen flickers to life. Although the 70 inch LED television set would appear right at home with the recliner, it instead stands out like the proverbial sore thumb. Felony's eyes widen in disbelief as she studies the white haired figure seated in the chair with its back towards her and carefully steps into position for a better look at the person. Moving into the individual's blind spot she stops and takes note of the features for a clue as to her new 'husband's' identity; huge, bulging arms rippling with raw power that hangs from thick, powerful shoulders while clutching a can of Bud Light in the right hand and a remote control in the left. A dark, neatly trimmed goatee falls from his lower lip into a cultivated point which directs her gaze onto his chest. It is every bit as muscled as the man's arms despite the tee shirt which tightly clings around it appearing to Felony to be two sizes too small. A second reverberating belch is released as ESPN's 'Sports Center' returns from commercial. Her eyes grow wide and blank as she makes the connection.
"Son of a bitch!" she mutters, the words hissing through tightly pursed lips. "You're my husband for two weeks?" she cries, breaking The Big Pump Scott Schriener from his reverie. "I'm switching places with Christian?"
"Yeah, so?" Scott demands, breaking his gaze from ESPN to Felony. Unlike his new partner, Scott does not appear to be surprised as to the identity of the couple with whom he and Christian were swapping, or to even care. "You act like this is a big deal", he says, taking a swig of beer. "Just do what you're supposed to do, no sweat".
"And what exactly am I supposed to do?"
"Christian's list of house rules are pinned to the fridge," he offers. "Just follow whatever is on that list".
"I don't believe it!" she exclaims. "So many gay and lesbian couples in the country and we're swapping with you?"
"Shut up and do what you're told!" the behemoth barks in his customary baritone growl.
"Don't you..," Felony cuts herself off short of the intended reprimand and her shoulders slump in capitulation. "Ugh! Ok fine, where is the kitchen so I can see this list?"
"That way," Scott says, jutting a thumb to his left while simultaneously boosting the volume of the television. "And keep your damned whining to a minimum," he snaps after Felony who has already retreated into the kitchen. "I'm trying to catch up on the scores".
The kitchen, like the rest of the house is fervently clean and adorned with Victorian accents such as the vertical metal plate rack affixed to the wall, a pair of windows treated with Fairmount lace tiering, a counter with a porcelain Annabel kitchen canister set, a corbel glass drink dispenser, cream colored wooden towel rack and a Victorian Harvest Santa Claus cookie jar. In the center sits a veraciously polished oblong rosewood table with a Canterbury classic lace table cloth and six matching high back leather padded chairs featuring an antigua birdcage lantern in the center, hand carved arms and legs and a ceramic rose vine covered jar. A small Anneliese crystal leaf chandelier provides the illumination. Spying the more modern refrigerator Felony notes the handwritten list and picks it off. She brings the single piece of paper to her eyes and reads it out loud, though softly to herself..,
"Just do everything - C." The note drops with her hands to her side as her expression is replaced with a mask of confusion. "What the hell?"
"Bitch..," the voice thunders from the living room, Scott's trademark rumble. "Beer!"
"What the hell did he just call me?" she demands of no one in particular ignoring the omnipresent lens of the camera..
"Bitch, hurry up I'm down to half a can!"
"Oh hell no!" the blonde fumes as she hurriedly begins to rummage through the drawers beneath the counter. "Nobody calls me that, not even Rosie". She casts aside an assortment of wash cloths and hand towels but find the drawer otherwise empty. Moving on to the next drawer to her right she hears the tell tale clang of cutlery as the handle as anxiously snatched open. Peering inside she scans the contents and reaches inside pulling out a large carving knife which is now brandished with lethal intent. "You want a beer..," she mutters flinging open the refrigerator door. "Fine! I'll get you one, you lazy, loud mouthed gorilla". Reaching in she pulls out a fresh can of Bud Light and then slams the door. It shuts with a muffled thump as the quickly exits the kitchen ablaze. "One beer coming up asshole".
Scott Schriener is a creature of habit, long accustomed to barking orders and referring to his partner Christian as 'Bitch', an affectionate nick name he had pinned on him shortly after the two met. Christian did not seem to mind and in some cases even seemed to encourage it through either his behavior or acidic tongue. But not everyone is cut from the same cloth, especially women raised by a mob family. Felony has detested the term ever since she could remember, starting one day in the third grade when a classmate had referred to her as such behind her back. At the time she did not know the meaning of the word but made it a point to find out and realizing the characterization implied immediately took to making her displeasure with the comparison known, much to the disapproval of her teacher.
"Bitch, dammit, where's my..,"
He is cut off by Felony's timely arrival who stands between him and the television. Before he can complain about her blocking the screen however; she hops onto his lap and thrusts the blade of the carving knife down onto his scrotum, stopping just before it penetrates his baggy silver and blue Detroit Lions sweat pants. Mouth agape he stares with alarm into the frozen blue orbs of his would be assailant.
"Let's get one thing straight right now mister..," she hisses while tightening her grip on the knife. "If you call me bitch one more time, just one.., more.., fucking.., time.., then so help me God you're gonna be singing soprano for the rest of your God damned life, are we clear?"
"Y-yes ma'am..," Scotty answers with a nervous bob his head. I'm sorry. C - can I have my beer.., please Felony?"
"Sure..," Felony pulls the cold unopened can of beer from behind her back and angrily slams it down on the table. Taking the knife into both hands she directs it over the can and then drives the tip of the blade into the top piercing the aluminum and then climbing off of Scott as it sprays foam into the air and over the table. She hands him the beer and brandishes the knife before her scowling visage. "You'd better drink every damned drop of it," she snarls before retreating back into the kitchen.
Meanwhile, back at the apartment of Felony and Rock Rose, Scott's significant other Christian attempts to reacquaint himself with the humble abode which he and Scott had called home for so many years. The walls have been painted over and now sport a soft green hue to match the thick, lush carpeting. The familiar furnishings are long gone and have been replaced with more modern counterparts, save for a battered, black leather recliner which commands the center of the living room where Rochelle Rose sits with a beer in one hand and the remote control in the other, her eyes transfixed onto a large flat panel television set tuned to ESPN's Sports Center. Suppressing a chuckle, Christian shakes his head.
"The more things change the more things stay the same", he sighs wistfully. "Bottom dollar says Scotty's watching the exact same program".
Turning his attention to the kitchen he spots an unusual sight, for him at least. The small kitchenette is bare. No utensils are anywhere to be seen, no condiments, bowls, jars, napkins or anything else for that matter. With a furrowed brow he makes his way into the cramped kitchen/dining room. To his right a black aluminum key holder hangs from the wall beside the door, the precise same one where he had hung his keys every night. To his left stands the same small white Kenmore refrigerator. Although the surface is clean, it is not up to his lofty standards. Reaching for the handle he opens the door and peers inside only to find several cases of Bud Light, a can of baking soda and a box of leftover Chinese food and nothing more, ditto for the ice box on top. A peek inside of the cupboards reveals a small stack of paper plates, bowls, ten or so containers of protein and other fitness supplements including Creatine, L Glutamine, Testosterone enhancers and a box of assorted plastic cutlery. A frown washes over his face as he continues his inspection checking below the sink, but he finds only a few cleaning supplies, a box of baking soda, a bottle of bleach, dish soap and all purpose cleaner with a roll of paper towels. His frown twists into a grimace of distaste as he continues to search only to find a bag of dog food and several cans with a bowl.
"You've got to be kidding me," he mumbles. "What do these people eat?" Looking up he glances back into the living room towards Rose who sits motionless in her recliner. "Umm.., Rosie?" He asks. "Isn't there supposed to be a list of house rules for me to follow the first week?"
"Iunno," Rosie shrugs while belching obnoxiously. "Me and Fel usually just clean up after ourselves and call it good", She mumbles. "We don't really have any house rules".
"I see..," Christian's voice trails off left behind in the wake of an oncoming flurry of thoughts, thoughts which are quickly scattered by the sudden high-pitched barking of a miniature Doberman that takes station at his feet, looking up at him, growling and barking into between leaps. Christian marvels at the surprising agility of the little black and tan dog, estimating it to be leaping a solid five feet with each bound. But that marvel soon turns into consternation as the dog continues to bark non stop. The chaotic frenzy of barking continues unabated for several minutes as the SCW co-owner resumes his tour.
"Does this dog ever shut up?" he asks, mindful not to step on the buzzing ankle biter following his heels ever so closely. "He's been going for ten minutes straight!"
"Naw," Rosie says casually. "Mayhem only listens to one person and that's Felony".
Peering into the bathroom he notices that the shower, bathtub, sink and toilet, like the refrigerator have not been cleaned to his exacting standards. Unlike the kitchen, the bathroom appears to be fully stocked with soap, towels, wash cloths, feminine hygiene products and various other necessities. Moving on with Mayhem in tow he bypasses the bedroom, afraid of what may be found and pokes his head into the hall closet where he finds a vacuum cleaner, broom and dustpan. The barking remains in full force and try as he may, Christian simply cannot tune out the unending shriek.
"Alright, that's enough", he growls. "I'll shut you up". Returning to the foyer where his luggage was unceremoniously dropped by the limousine driver, Christian kneels down to search through his primary bag. His hands emerges with a small bottle of magnesium citrate. He holds the unopened bottle aloft, looking it over under the overhead lamp. "I suppose constipation can be a blessing in disguise", he says looking at the growling Mayhem with a wicked grin.
Darting back into the kitchenette he pulls out the bowl beside the dog food and pours some of the Kibbles n bits into the bowl, dousing it with a small amount of the magnesium citrate. He sets the bowl down and the mini-pin immediately goes to work, wolfing it down in large gulps.
"I sure hope you're house broken," he says softly reaching for his keys.
"Where are you going?" Rosie demands upon hearing the creak of the door being opened.
"I'm going to the store," he replies. "I'll be back soon".
"It better be quick," she mumbles. "I gotta train for my match with the Fallen. I ain't got time to play tour guide".
"Welcome to the special alternative lifestyle episode of celebrity wife swap where our couples have agreed to swap partners for two weeks. Felony Fontana and Rock Rose, one of the top tag teams in the SCW will swap partners with one of the most famous tag teams in wrestling history, Christian Underwood and 'The Big Pump' Scott Schriener.
How will this famous lesbian couple adapt to being forced to live with a gay man for two weeks? And what will happen when they have to live under each other's house rules? We are about to find out".
The scene cuts to a black limousine pulling into the driveway of a classically designed Victorian home. With textured, deep burgundy shingles, a partial width porch and awning giving way to an asymmetrical facade tiering up into a steeply pitched roof with a dominant front facing gable. The lawn appears impeccably maintained with a pair of fig trees greeting visitors at the bottom of the porch steps, a lush, green fern standing guard in the middle and rows of neatly trimmed shrubs lining the cobblestone walkway.
Stepping from the ten seater car Felony Fontana gazes up at the Queen Anne styled house, her eyes squinting in the mid morning sunlight while the chauffeur pops the trunk and tends to her luggage. She fumbles around blindly in her purse, her attention firmly on the immaculate house until her right hand emerges with a pair of sun glasses, which she quickly plops onto her face.
"Wow", she mutters, breaking into stride to catch up with her attendant who already is making his way towards the front door. "This is one of the nicest Victorians I've ever seen".
Once more the scene shifts, this time from the burnished Victorian home to an apartment building. Another black limousine pulls into a parking stall as its occupant, the other half of the wife swap Christian Underwood studies the rows of apartments and the layout of the complex.
"This place looks eerily familiar", he says softly studying the parking structure.
Just a few scant years ago Christian and his partner Scott Schriener shared a small, one bedroom apartment. For nearly ten years they lived in the same cramped rental while busying themselves with their careers until they had accumulated enough money to move into a larger home. But instead of breaking his multi-year lease Christian instead opted to sub let the tiny domicile out to Rock Rose and Felony Fontana.
"I don't believe it," he mutters finally realizing who he is switching partners with. "Either the world is a lot smaller than I figured..," he rambles while stepping out of the car. "Or I'm being played".
Back at the Victorian home of Christian Underwood and Scott Schriener Felony steps out of the foyer and into the spacious living room. Her blue eyes scan the expansive interior of the not so humble though less than ostentatious abode. The walls are gently layered in a soft beige wallpaper with a subtle floral design leading to like-colored moldings lining the top of the walls and the understated creme ceiling with an intricate ceiling medallion from which hangs an ornate chandelier to top off the indirect styling . On her immediate right sits a Florio wooden console table atop of which sits a pair of feline teddy bears giving Felony a brief moment for pause as she muses silently over the curious choice of decor. Moving further into the living room just beyond the edge of hallway she stops once more to take in the classically themed scenery. The floor is layered with highly polished rosewood and accented with several neatly placed Leila sculpted area rugs, including the Rose abusson rug runner on which she stands. An Adelaide Hurricane table lamp sits subdued in the center of a meticulously crafted storage stand. A few feet past the stand a pair of Portia wide curtains with a sash tie back gently frame the shingle styled windows. Her gaze slowly moves from the walls and floor and into the heart of the living room. It too is faithfully decorated in Victorian manner. A Florio leather upholstered sofa occupies the center with its' acutely detailed wood carved frame and a pair of vanity stools which flank a painfully bright and highly detailed coffee table. A large oval area rug is stationed beneath it all to protect the gleaming floor from accidents.
As her eyes continue to roam they lock onto a peculiar piece of furnishing; stationed to the right of the sofa, with a tuft of white hair protruding beyond the lip is a black leather recliner. Unlike the rest of the furniture it is not so anxiously cared for as evidenced by a smattering of small holes and a slew of scratch marks lining the side. A throaty belch emanates from the chair as a large flat panel television screen flickers to life. Although the 70 inch LED television set would appear right at home with the recliner, it instead stands out like the proverbial sore thumb. Felony's eyes widen in disbelief as she studies the white haired figure seated in the chair with its back towards her and carefully steps into position for a better look at the person. Moving into the individual's blind spot she stops and takes note of the features for a clue as to her new 'husband's' identity; huge, bulging arms rippling with raw power that hangs from thick, powerful shoulders while clutching a can of Bud Light in the right hand and a remote control in the left. A dark, neatly trimmed goatee falls from his lower lip into a cultivated point which directs her gaze onto his chest. It is every bit as muscled as the man's arms despite the tee shirt which tightly clings around it appearing to Felony to be two sizes too small. A second reverberating belch is released as ESPN's 'Sports Center' returns from commercial. Her eyes grow wide and blank as she makes the connection.
"Son of a bitch!" she mutters, the words hissing through tightly pursed lips. "You're my husband for two weeks?" she cries, breaking The Big Pump Scott Schriener from his reverie. "I'm switching places with Christian?"
"Yeah, so?" Scott demands, breaking his gaze from ESPN to Felony. Unlike his new partner, Scott does not appear to be surprised as to the identity of the couple with whom he and Christian were swapping, or to even care. "You act like this is a big deal", he says, taking a swig of beer. "Just do what you're supposed to do, no sweat".
"And what exactly am I supposed to do?"
"Christian's list of house rules are pinned to the fridge," he offers. "Just follow whatever is on that list".
"I don't believe it!" she exclaims. "So many gay and lesbian couples in the country and we're swapping with you?"
"Shut up and do what you're told!" the behemoth barks in his customary baritone growl.
"Don't you..," Felony cuts herself off short of the intended reprimand and her shoulders slump in capitulation. "Ugh! Ok fine, where is the kitchen so I can see this list?"
"That way," Scott says, jutting a thumb to his left while simultaneously boosting the volume of the television. "And keep your damned whining to a minimum," he snaps after Felony who has already retreated into the kitchen. "I'm trying to catch up on the scores".
The kitchen, like the rest of the house is fervently clean and adorned with Victorian accents such as the vertical metal plate rack affixed to the wall, a pair of windows treated with Fairmount lace tiering, a counter with a porcelain Annabel kitchen canister set, a corbel glass drink dispenser, cream colored wooden towel rack and a Victorian Harvest Santa Claus cookie jar. In the center sits a veraciously polished oblong rosewood table with a Canterbury classic lace table cloth and six matching high back leather padded chairs featuring an antigua birdcage lantern in the center, hand carved arms and legs and a ceramic rose vine covered jar. A small Anneliese crystal leaf chandelier provides the illumination. Spying the more modern refrigerator Felony notes the handwritten list and picks it off. She brings the single piece of paper to her eyes and reads it out loud, though softly to herself..,
"Just do everything - C." The note drops with her hands to her side as her expression is replaced with a mask of confusion. "What the hell?"
"Bitch..," the voice thunders from the living room, Scott's trademark rumble. "Beer!"
"What the hell did he just call me?" she demands of no one in particular ignoring the omnipresent lens of the camera..
"Bitch, hurry up I'm down to half a can!"
"Oh hell no!" the blonde fumes as she hurriedly begins to rummage through the drawers beneath the counter. "Nobody calls me that, not even Rosie". She casts aside an assortment of wash cloths and hand towels but find the drawer otherwise empty. Moving on to the next drawer to her right she hears the tell tale clang of cutlery as the handle as anxiously snatched open. Peering inside she scans the contents and reaches inside pulling out a large carving knife which is now brandished with lethal intent. "You want a beer..," she mutters flinging open the refrigerator door. "Fine! I'll get you one, you lazy, loud mouthed gorilla". Reaching in she pulls out a fresh can of Bud Light and then slams the door. It shuts with a muffled thump as the quickly exits the kitchen ablaze. "One beer coming up asshole".
Scott Schriener is a creature of habit, long accustomed to barking orders and referring to his partner Christian as 'Bitch', an affectionate nick name he had pinned on him shortly after the two met. Christian did not seem to mind and in some cases even seemed to encourage it through either his behavior or acidic tongue. But not everyone is cut from the same cloth, especially women raised by a mob family. Felony has detested the term ever since she could remember, starting one day in the third grade when a classmate had referred to her as such behind her back. At the time she did not know the meaning of the word but made it a point to find out and realizing the characterization implied immediately took to making her displeasure with the comparison known, much to the disapproval of her teacher.
"Bitch, dammit, where's my..,"
He is cut off by Felony's timely arrival who stands between him and the television. Before he can complain about her blocking the screen however; she hops onto his lap and thrusts the blade of the carving knife down onto his scrotum, stopping just before it penetrates his baggy silver and blue Detroit Lions sweat pants. Mouth agape he stares with alarm into the frozen blue orbs of his would be assailant.
"Let's get one thing straight right now mister..," she hisses while tightening her grip on the knife. "If you call me bitch one more time, just one.., more.., fucking.., time.., then so help me God you're gonna be singing soprano for the rest of your God damned life, are we clear?"
"Y-yes ma'am..," Scotty answers with a nervous bob his head. I'm sorry. C - can I have my beer.., please Felony?"
"Sure..," Felony pulls the cold unopened can of beer from behind her back and angrily slams it down on the table. Taking the knife into both hands she directs it over the can and then drives the tip of the blade into the top piercing the aluminum and then climbing off of Scott as it sprays foam into the air and over the table. She hands him the beer and brandishes the knife before her scowling visage. "You'd better drink every damned drop of it," she snarls before retreating back into the kitchen.
Meanwhile, back at the apartment of Felony and Rock Rose, Scott's significant other Christian attempts to reacquaint himself with the humble abode which he and Scott had called home for so many years. The walls have been painted over and now sport a soft green hue to match the thick, lush carpeting. The familiar furnishings are long gone and have been replaced with more modern counterparts, save for a battered, black leather recliner which commands the center of the living room where Rochelle Rose sits with a beer in one hand and the remote control in the other, her eyes transfixed onto a large flat panel television set tuned to ESPN's Sports Center. Suppressing a chuckle, Christian shakes his head.
"The more things change the more things stay the same", he sighs wistfully. "Bottom dollar says Scotty's watching the exact same program".
Turning his attention to the kitchen he spots an unusual sight, for him at least. The small kitchenette is bare. No utensils are anywhere to be seen, no condiments, bowls, jars, napkins or anything else for that matter. With a furrowed brow he makes his way into the cramped kitchen/dining room. To his right a black aluminum key holder hangs from the wall beside the door, the precise same one where he had hung his keys every night. To his left stands the same small white Kenmore refrigerator. Although the surface is clean, it is not up to his lofty standards. Reaching for the handle he opens the door and peers inside only to find several cases of Bud Light, a can of baking soda and a box of leftover Chinese food and nothing more, ditto for the ice box on top. A peek inside of the cupboards reveals a small stack of paper plates, bowls, ten or so containers of protein and other fitness supplements including Creatine, L Glutamine, Testosterone enhancers and a box of assorted plastic cutlery. A frown washes over his face as he continues his inspection checking below the sink, but he finds only a few cleaning supplies, a box of baking soda, a bottle of bleach, dish soap and all purpose cleaner with a roll of paper towels. His frown twists into a grimace of distaste as he continues to search only to find a bag of dog food and several cans with a bowl.
"You've got to be kidding me," he mumbles. "What do these people eat?" Looking up he glances back into the living room towards Rose who sits motionless in her recliner. "Umm.., Rosie?" He asks. "Isn't there supposed to be a list of house rules for me to follow the first week?"
"Iunno," Rosie shrugs while belching obnoxiously. "Me and Fel usually just clean up after ourselves and call it good", She mumbles. "We don't really have any house rules".
"I see..," Christian's voice trails off left behind in the wake of an oncoming flurry of thoughts, thoughts which are quickly scattered by the sudden high-pitched barking of a miniature Doberman that takes station at his feet, looking up at him, growling and barking into between leaps. Christian marvels at the surprising agility of the little black and tan dog, estimating it to be leaping a solid five feet with each bound. But that marvel soon turns into consternation as the dog continues to bark non stop. The chaotic frenzy of barking continues unabated for several minutes as the SCW co-owner resumes his tour.
"Does this dog ever shut up?" he asks, mindful not to step on the buzzing ankle biter following his heels ever so closely. "He's been going for ten minutes straight!"
"Naw," Rosie says casually. "Mayhem only listens to one person and that's Felony".
Peering into the bathroom he notices that the shower, bathtub, sink and toilet, like the refrigerator have not been cleaned to his exacting standards. Unlike the kitchen, the bathroom appears to be fully stocked with soap, towels, wash cloths, feminine hygiene products and various other necessities. Moving on with Mayhem in tow he bypasses the bedroom, afraid of what may be found and pokes his head into the hall closet where he finds a vacuum cleaner, broom and dustpan. The barking remains in full force and try as he may, Christian simply cannot tune out the unending shriek.
"Alright, that's enough", he growls. "I'll shut you up". Returning to the foyer where his luggage was unceremoniously dropped by the limousine driver, Christian kneels down to search through his primary bag. His hands emerges with a small bottle of magnesium citrate. He holds the unopened bottle aloft, looking it over under the overhead lamp. "I suppose constipation can be a blessing in disguise", he says looking at the growling Mayhem with a wicked grin.
Darting back into the kitchenette he pulls out the bowl beside the dog food and pours some of the Kibbles n bits into the bowl, dousing it with a small amount of the magnesium citrate. He sets the bowl down and the mini-pin immediately goes to work, wolfing it down in large gulps.
"I sure hope you're house broken," he says softly reaching for his keys.
"Where are you going?" Rosie demands upon hearing the creak of the door being opened.
"I'm going to the store," he replies. "I'll be back soon".
"It better be quick," she mumbles. "I gotta train for my match with the Fallen. I ain't got time to play tour guide".