“Ugh”!
With a heavy thud Cat drops several loaded shopping bags onto the rich, beige carpeting of the living room floor to her cramped studio apartment in the southwest corner of Las Vegas, her weary arms grateful for the relief having spent nearly eight hours combing the Boulevard shopping mall. With an elongated sigh she stretches her arms up, clasping her hands and arching her back until an audible pop rings out through the empty stead. She discards her ball cap, jacket, and sweat stained tee shirt to the floor at her feet while mentally kicking herself for wearing the jacket – a habit formed while being raised in the much cooler climate of Great Britain - in 90 degree heat and leans over to grab a pair of the smaller bags before plopping into the cushy white leather sofa. The billowy cushions whistle softly with the air between them being forced out by the weight of the 23 year old and Cat holds the bags upside down, unceremoniously dumping their contents onto the bare cushion next to her.
She begins combing through the debris, her mind rewinding several hours in the day trying to recall the initial reason for the spree. Spying a plush toy depicting a white haired man sporting a black suit and tie with matching fedora she pulls it from the wreckage for a closer inspection. The doll instantly reminds her of her grandfather, the late Billy Riley. Although he died before she was born and thus did not know him, she knew of him from family photographs and stories passed down by her father and uncle. It was his machinations which got the family started in catch wrestling. Waving the doll about briefly she smiles at the uncanny resemblance; it will serve as a loving reminder of the family legacy she has inherited.
“I’m going to name you Billy, after my grandfather”, she says softly while perching the doll atop the sofa against the wall before turning her attention back to the pile at her side. “Let’s see what else we have”.
Turning her attention back to the disaster she begins combing through it anew, tossing aside an assortment of hygiene products, a DVD copy of SCW’s greatest matches and a multi-colored knit beanie her gaze comes across a white box depicting a speaker on the outside. Leaning forward for a closer inspection she recognizes the Google emblem on the eight by five inch box and retrieves it from the stash with her eyes settling on the words ‘Google home”. She opens the box hastily, tearing the cardboard in the process in her eagerness to see the actual device. It is relatively small and conical shaped; constructed of white plastic on a black base with a speaker at the bottom. The top is a touch surface with a blue led ring surrounding a microphone in the center. On the back is a microphone mute button with an indicator light below it and packed separately in the box is the color matching power supply with installation instructions.
“Hmm, this could be fun”, she whispers to herself while unfolding the instruction booklet; her zealousness is quickly deflated upon noticing the sheer depth of the manual. “47 steps are you joking”? Thumbing through the shilly shally images of stick figures removing a crude looking object from a box Cat recognizes one of the images as the first step and reads it aloud, “Step one, remove your new Google Home from the container..,” with an open-mouthed pause she stares blankly at the object sitting in the middle of a glass top coffee table and then shrugs it off, electing to move on to the next step. “Step two, locate and carefully unfold your instruction manual.., umm, ok”. With a mild annoyance she moves on to the next step, “Step three, locate a flat surface in the center of your home and carefully set your new Google Home device down..,” with another yawning pause Cat rolls her eyes into the back of her head, sighing harshly. “No bloody wonder its 47 steps”.
“Ugh, I’m so sick of shopping”!
Having taken considerably more than 47 steps for a second time this day and now too exhausted to properly shut the door Cat Riley merely kicks it closed, and with a cumbrous gait plods across the floor back to the sofa next to the coffee table. Kicking off her high top sneakers she drops the plastic shopping bags emblazoned with the Best Buy logo which she inverts, allowing the contents to drop onto the table. Reaching for the first box, a rectangular shaped black and blue box with the Linksys logo featured prominently above an image of a wireless router she tears the cardboard open, hastily removing the plastic device, unfolding the chubby, rubber black antenna situated on both ends at the rear of the object Cat rises slackly from the sofa and takes it to a cluttered computer desk doing double duty as a breakfast bar. She plugs the device in while powering up a black SYX gaming desktop which commands the majority of the space and inserts the router’s accompanying disk containing the software necessary to run it. Finally, after several minutes of forced patience a message pops up on screen informing her that the device is ready for use.
Following another arduous trek through the wild and wooly world of instruction manuals Cat leans back on her sofa, her body wracked by a busy day of nonstop walking, and her mind weary of the intellectual challenges associated with setting up and activating unfamiliar devices, but the beaming of her blue eyes and etching of a smile relay the satisfaction of a job well done. Exhaling gratefully she stares at the clean, white object sitting alone in the center of the coffee table, and allows her mind to playfully breeze through various questions for the impending test drive of her new toy. Eventually she settles for perhaps the most common search conducted by young men and women, driven partly by curiosity and partly by ego.
“Ok Google,” she says, licking her lips in anticipation of a positive response. “Search for ‘Cat Riley’”.
“No results found”.
“It must be an error, search again”.
“No results found”.
“Bloody..,” her thoughts jump into the whirling fray of confusion brought about by the unexpected result. “Ok..,” she resolves, figuring it to be a simple mix up between her nickname and the feline with which it is more commonly associated. “Search for Catherine Riley”.
“No results found”.
“You’re kidding me. I’m a professional wrestler, I’m bloody famous. Repeat search”.
“No results found”.
Caught off guard by the unexpected lack of results Cat’s mind swirls about, relentlessly chasing after a myriad of possible reasons that could lead to the surprisingly empty product until hitting upon the thought that the device is not properly connected to the web and therefor unable to retrieve the information requested. With a slight bobbing of the head she elects to try an entirely different search and settles on the first thing to appear in her mind.
“Ok Google, search for Nyla Dupre”.
“11,787,378 results found, Nyla Dupre is a veteran professional wrestler contracted to SCW and is a multiple time champion, her record includes..,”
“That’s enough, stop,” she barks while inching closer to the device. “Now, search for Cat Riley”.
“No results found”.
“Wait,” she stammers, plopping her bottom on the floor aghast. “How can you find almost 12 million results for Nyla Dupre and nothing for me when I just whipped her arse”!
“No results found”.
“Shut up Google”.
Rising to her feet Cat grabs at her hair in frustration and starts to pace around the coffee table, casting periodic glances to the Google Home seated dead center. Questions begin to salt her wounded ego while pouring over possible reasons for the exclusion, none of which strike her as particularly appealing and after several moments she offers a sigh of capitulation and jumps onto the sofa. Fumbling for the remote she rescues the thin ‘shooting iron’ from the recesses of the cushions and directs her attention away from the Google Home and towards the 46 inch Sony Plasma flat screen. Depressing the red power button at the top of the remote brings the television to life with a fuzzy click. A brief pause ensues with a black screen, allowing the plasma a moment to heat up before the picture comes into razor sharp focus with a second fuzzy click. Her bushy brows recoil in concert with a delayed groan slithering from between pursed lips upon recognition of the scene displayed; members of the world famous Kardashian clan including Kyle and Kris Jenner with Chloe Kardashian are seated in a salon while attendants busily tend to the women’s nails. The women are chatting between themselves briefly before the scene cuts to Chloe seated against a blue backdrop speaking on some perceived tension in relation to the scene previously shown.
“Damn it”, Cat hisses while pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger.
Anxious to escape the home brewed drama between the family members Cat depresses the channel button with her thumb in rapid-fire succession blinking as the screen flips from show to show to show until she releases it, allowing the television to settle on a single station. An image of Kim Kardashian greets her, speaking in an over indulged nasal tone about a solid gold Lamborghini she bought for her husband only to see him crash it into the security gate at the entrance to the family compound and dislodging some of the 4,000 karat diamonds in the grill a mere week later. Cat shakes her head watching a video montage of perhaps the most famous Kardashian attending various gala events wearing millions of dollars’ worth of jewels and ultra-exclusive designer clothes while mingling with celebrities, royalty and business tycoons. Rearing her head back in frustration Cat groans plaintively and changes the channel once again. This time it stops on an advertisement for another in the expansive list of Tide brand concoctions.
Kim, Chloe and Kourtney Kardashian gush over one of Kim’s expanding collection of celebritots. Despite being draped in a soft blue cashmere blanket encrusted with diamonds (of course) the baby cries in some unknown distress while the women try to ascertain the cause of the child’s boggle but it is not until the arrival of the Jenner clan Matriarch, Kris carrying a pink, plastic bottle of Tide Fabergé along with a rolled bundle of silk that they are clued in.
“I don’t understand,” Kourtney whines. “We’ve had his diapers changed eight times already”!
“That’s because it is not his diapers that are the problem”, Kris Jenner interrupts while joining the group. “You need to change his blanket”.
“His blanket”, Kim gasps. “I’ll have you know that blanket was hand sewn by Giorgio Armani himself! It cost me over 10,000 dollars”.
“What have you washed it in”? Kris asks.
“I fly Nicolas de Bronac in from Paris twice a week to personally wash the baby’s blanket by hand”, Kim answers curtly, likely annoyed by the possible suggestion that she would ever wash it herself.
“Try this”, a smiling Kris hands Kim the bundle of silk which is revealed to be a blanket sewn from Mulberry silk. “This is Mulberry silk, hand sewn by Stella McCartney and exclusively hand washed by your very own Nicolas de Bronac in Tide Fabergé”.
Handing the baby gently to her sister Khloe, Kim takes the old cashmere blanket and sets it aside in favor of the silk blanket offered by Kris Jenner which she delicately envelopes the child in, leaning over to catch a whiff of DKNY Golden Delicious million dollar perfume. The tot giggles and playfully grabs at his mother’s elongated nose as she takes him back prompting a another nauseating round of cooing from the reality TV stars.
“Tide Fabergé”, Kris announces “is the most expensive brand of detergent ever produced with each batch hand mixed and containing one full ounce of DKNY Golden Delicious million dollar perfume, and best of all it only costs One Million, seventeen dollars and forty nine cents”!
Kris’ voice trails off as her daughter rushes to grab the cellphone from her Louis Vuitton designer handbag and hurriedly punches in her key code to unlock the device.
“I need to stock up on Tide Fabergé before they sell out”!
A perpetual thud reverberates throughout the apartment with Cat, having risen from her seat in utter disgust, having walked over to and partaken in slamming her head repeatedly against the lumber reinforced drywall. She pauses briefly to pick up a post it note reminding her of an 8 PM training session and then checks her equilibrium and although shaky she manages to remain on her feet.
“A few more times for good measure”, she growls.
Returning to her tantrum she draws several responses from the neighbors occupying the same building. Beneath her a broom is put to work slamming against the ceiling while above, another annoyed neighbor responds by dropping dumb bells on the floor and from down the hall of the dormitory style building a voice angrily cries out for her to ‘stop that racket’ while threatening to call the manager.
“Kiss my arse”! Cat spits. “Why don’t you try watching this rubbish on the telly”?
“Then turn it off, dumbass”.
Pulling away from her extracurricular activity Cat points the remote control towards the television and turns it off, heading her neighbor’s reasonable suggestion. Breathing a sigh of relief she suddenly feels a sharp pang running across her forehead prompting her to cradle it into her hands. Kneeling over she moans until the pain subsides moments later and frees her up to retrieve a blue Windows Phone from a scratched, faded and decidedly less expensive handbag. Cradling the device she enters a four digit security code and then proceeds to dial a number and places the device to her ear.
“I want to talk to Mark ward”, she spits in a venomous tone, still seething from the televised ‘drama’. “Tell him it’s Cat Riley and I want to speak to him right bloody now”! Pressing the palm of her right hand against her forehead she waits for several agonized moments listening to a radio version of ‘Dumb Girl’ by Run DMC until she finally hears the familiar voice of the SCW co-owner pick up the other end. “Have you signed them yet”? Cat asks impetuously. She listens in abeyance while Mr. Ward rambles on about something to do with a team of lawyers and multi-million dollar lawsuits before being interrupted. “Forget the bloody law suits; I’ll break the lawyer’s necks too. Look, I don’t care what it takes. You have to sign the Kardashians to SCW so that I can break every cosmetic bone in their silicone bodies”!
Without waiting for a reply she shuts the phone off tosses it on the coffee table beside her new Google Home and, cradling her throbbing head once more, shakily navigates the clutter on the floor towards the welcoming plushness of the sofa and into which she gratefully drops.
“Ungh, I need a nap”.
“Don’t go napping on me”! The voice cries thunderously, echoing off the mirrored walls of the Syndicate Mixed Martial Arts gym in the southwest portion of the Las Vegas Valley. Walker Vivian, a bearded, 30 year old man with a lean, wiry frame stands over Cat, who lies on her back atop a thee inch padded grappling mat using a balled up jacket as a makeshift pillow. He drops a pair of Muay Thai kickboxing gloves in her lap and picks up a kicking pad; with two arm slots in the rear, the red synthetic leather pad boasts impressive size and thickness and more resembles a puffy, rectangular shield than a device used to train professional athletes. “On your feet”, he barks, and takes a step back further onto the mat on which Cat had been resting. “It’s time to get started”.
“Sorry”, she offers, while rising slowly to her feet and beginning to apply the gloves. “I’ve had a bit of a hard day”.
“We’re gonna start with some striking drills to check your form before moving to the focus mitts,” he watches her through brown, ambivalent eyes and lifts the thickly buffered shield into a defensive position. “Once we’re done you’ll finish up on the heavy bag”.
Muay Thai, perhaps better known as Thai boxing is a combat sport of Thailand from which it derives its name. It is a discipline which requires both physical and mental toughness and is colloquially known as ‘The art of eight limbs’; this is due in part to its heavy use of fists, elbows, knees, shins and thus making eight points of contact and shortly after its introduction to the world it was merged with British boxing to create the modern style currently in use. Despite her stellar mastery of catch wrestling Cat Riley realized early on that in order to become a more complete fighter she would need to learn an additional art to cover the gaps of her primary focus. With catch wrestling being more ground centric she immediately knew that a good striking game would become critical to her future success and sought out the best stand up striking style she could learn to round out her training. Shortly after her arrival in Sin City she began to take advantage of the valley’s reputation as the ‘fight capital of the world’ by visiting various training schools where she could watch different styles in action and question fans and other practitioners. She eventually settled on Thai Boxing which is near universally perceived by mixed martial arts competitors as the best all-around stand up technique and enrolled at the Syndicate Mixed martial arts academy, known for its exceptional MMA team and being home to several world class Muay Thai instructors.
“Again”, the coach barks “Use a sharp, upward thrust”.
Following his instruction Cat engages him in a standing clinch and twists his body to bend at the torso to land an uprising knee into the kidney area. Disengaging she pulls back while taking a deep breath and repeats the action several more times resulting in a muffled thud echoing off of the training center’s walls. For nearly 90 minutes she has been repeating the same series of moves, engraining them into becoming muscle memory, over and over to the point of becoming instinctive, going through the cycle tirelessly. Finally nearing the point of exhaustion her coach pulls back, thrusting his hands upwards indicating for her to stop. Disengaging she takes a heavy breath and steps back.
“That’s enough for now”, he announces while dropping his kicking pad to the canvass. “Let’s get 30 minutes of heavy bag work in and finish up with a bit of cardio”.
Thirty minutes later and having finished a grueling session of all out striking work on the heavy bag the bone weary Cat plods lazily across the gym, her feet dragging unwillingly behind her mind towards a sectioned off area in the far reaches of the training facility designated to cardiovascular conditioning. Unlike the primary training zone, the cardio zone is without mats, instead relying on black rubber padding, less than an inch in thickness, and significantly more solid, instead designed to prevent slippage due to expected heavy perspiration than absorbing the constant thudding of human bodies being tossed about the rest of the facility. To the far left sits a row of black with white accent treadmills, ten in all, with each facing a television set and bearing its own headset to allow users to listen in to the channel of the choice. To the far right three rows of striking dummies, speed bags and tethered agility balls are lined up neatly, each with their own personal space marked off by obnoxious yellow taping to prevent encroachment of other trainees into one another’s zones. Finally, the center between them is laid out in a welcoming manner with small trees to the sides offering neatly rolled jump ropes, a pair of battle ropes coiled up in each corner and an array of stepping stairs and jump boxes. Cat weaves her way past a smattering of trainees, each utilizing their own preferred tools towards the back where the jump boxes await her arrival. Bombarded by the strong, cloying odor every bit as common to a public restroom as it is to a gymnasium she wrinkles her nostrils and settles in behind the plyometric jump box; while not a box in the literal sense it is actually a stool with adjustable legs to allow for varying heights with a rubberized non-slip padding on the base. Adjusting the legs to a height of 24 inches she springs upward, her arms swaying in motion with her body and landing atop the box. Dropping back to the floor and into the swing of a hundred repetitions her mind slowly fades out of the conscious world and into the dream-like recesses of fanciful wandering. One sheep, two sheep, three sheep, and four..,
The sharp sound of ducks quacking echo about the tiny, studio apartment, and provoke a bleary eyed Cat Riley to emerge from the bedroom clad in a grey, oversized sleep tee shirt and trudging towards the coffee table to snatch the excitedly chirping blue Windows cell phone into her hands. Lifting the grey plastic cased device to her ear and brushing aside an errant strand of ‘pillow perm’ hair she answers in a sluggish raspy tone,
“This had better be bloody good”, she snaps.
Recognizing the voice on the other end as belonging to her employer Mark Ward she silently hopes he doesn’t take umbrage over her less than enthusiastic greeting and listens intently, or as intently as she can with her mind still trapped in the cobwebs of interrupted sleep. He drones on about the location of the next show being held in Reno with her once again being booked in the opening match and going on to name her opponent.
“Wait”, she cuts in while listlessly closing the shutters to the window and blocking out the invasive rays of early morning sunlight, still intending to return to bed. “Who is Brittany Williams, is she a Kardashian, maybe a cousin or something”?
Upon hearing the reply to her question Cat’s face slides from an expectant grin to a tranquilized frown.
“I didn’t tell you to book me against some nobody that never was; I said I wanted a Kardashian, Any Kardashian or all of them. Hell, I don’t care I just want.., Hello? Hello”?
“The bastard hung up on me, the nerve”.
Dropping the phone back onto the coffee table and with a soporific yawn Cat collapses into the sumptuous cushiness of her sofa. Allowing her body to sink into the enveloping comfort of the chaise lounge, anxious to go back to sleep. Despite the loving embrace of the divan however; Cat’s eyes continue to flutter beneath their lids as her mind churns over the name of her announced opponent Brittany Williams. Despite her best efforts to focus on her desire for rest and repeated attempts to block out the name it continues to pound away relentlessly as would a jackhammer on a fragile slate of asphalt battering her conscious thoughts until her eyes flicker open like a piece of debris kicked up by the chaos.
“Damn it”. She groans under her breath and rises to an upright position looking intently at the white Google Home device. “Ok Google, search for Brittany Williams”.
Stifling an oncoming yawn she watches intently as the blue ring atop the device lights up at her command.
“Six billion, 44 million, 117 thousand, 832.4 results found”.
“Eight hundred and thirty two point four” She mutters in bewilderment.
“Six billion, 44 million..,”
“I know, I know, she’s bloody popular with you, just start at the top”.
“Brittany Williams is the daughter of Crystal Hilton and is an heiress to the Hilton family fortune. She is employed by Sin City Wrestling as a professional wrestler and is currently studying to become an actress. She is known under several pseudonyms including ‘Princess Brittany’ ‘B – Brat’ and ‘Lil Dream Machine’. Brittany Williams was signed by Mark Ward and Christian Underwood on..,”
“Why is she so famous”? Cat interrupts.
“No results found”.
“She is a bleeding Kardashian”, she stammers in a confounded realization. “The cockney did it, he signed a Kardashian”!
“Kim Kardashian’s signature is currently selling on E bay for a listed price of four million..,”
“Shut up Google”, she asserts, popping eagerly to her feet having discovered an unexpected source of energy. Darting into the bedroom articles of clothing begin to flutter through the doorway landing in an agitated heap about the floor during a frenzied search for fresh exercise gear. “I’ve gotta get to the gym, I’ve got a Kardashian to kill”.
“No results found”.
“Shut your bloody arse up”! She shouts, her normally taut voice extending to a shriek.
“You shut up”! A voice returns from outside and down the hall.
With a flustered grumble Cat ignores the gruff reply of her neighbor in favor of resuming the search for the elusive clean piece of clothing suitable for public use. Grabbing a red sports bra she presses the garment to her face giving it the sniff test. Her nostrils recoil at the stench of day old perspiration, prompting a grimace as she tosses it somewhere in the open concept living room/kitchen. An appropriate pair of black athletic shorts presents itself which she accepts by throwing it onto the bed alongside a well-worn pair of black with white trim Nike sneakers. Looking up she spies a pair of socks draped over the edge of the bathtub and pops to her feet to retrieve them only to find they have yet to fully dry. She also notes a white sports bra draped over the bathroom sink and it, like the socks has yet to dry out. Nonetheless she grabs them all and marches intently to the cramped kitchenette, pausing over the crowded sink to make sure the clothes are wrung out completely before tossing them into the microwave. Setting the black and gold General Electric Microwave on high she jogs about the apartment playing football with the clothes strewn about, kicking them towards the bathroom door as a reminder to wash them until hearing the chirp of the oven indicating completion of its task. Withdrawing from the playing field and retreating to the sidelines of the kitchen Cat retrieves the clothes from the oven. Holding up the sports bra and socks for inspection her brow furrows upon recognition of light burn marks. Regardless, the apparel is dried to her satisfaction and she meanders back into the bedroom to get dressed shrugging off the charring.
“I can beat Brittany Williams-Kardashian naked if I have to”.
“Did somebody set you on fire”?
“What.., why do you ask”? Cat questions with an edge of confusion, having forgotten her earlier, more modernized take on the ‘Burning times’.
“Your clothes”, Walker Vivian, her lead Muay Thai kick boxing trainer gestures to smattering of burn marks about the form fitting ensemble of white sports bra and black athletic shorts says. “They look like you were burned at the stake”.
“Oh that..,” Cat replies with a dismissive brushing of her hand across a few of the marks. “That’s nothing; I just had set the temperature on my dryer too high”.
The trainer dons a pair of heavily padded focus mitts to his hands and the training session begins in earnest with him calling out a variety of strikes and Cat following through with a repertoire of kicks and punches. Exhaling sharply with each strike to conserve energy the youngster’s hissing rings all through the training center and is accompanied by the piercing thud of limbs smacking harshly against cushioned leather. Mr. Vivian’s voice cries out with each clean landing encouraging a follow up strike which is quickly landed with increasing intensity. Spurred on by the zeal of his pupil Walker’s voice rises to match her unrelenting ferocity and queues the convergence of a small crowd of onlookers, other students driven by curiosity to interrupt their own training and watch the procession of violent intentions. They talk amongst themselves, exchanging hushed whispers relating to the perceived purpose of the high intensity with one heavy set older man sporting grey, almost white hair, appearing to be in his early 50s openly suggesting that she is preparing for a world title match. Another student, a young woman sporting chestnut brown, shoulder length hair with purple accents posits that she is a visiting champion preparing for a title defense. The gossip continues unabated, pausing with each high energy impact and the follow up hiss of Cat’s breath being forcibly exhaled until the trainer, looking exhausted by grinning widely thrusts his hands outward calling for a stop. Breathing heavily the man shakes his head while starting to remove the black and red focus mitts.
“Holy crap that was intense”, he huffs while casting a quick side-glance to the slowly dispersing crowd. “You got a big match coming up”?
“You bet I do”, Cat answers with a few shadow punches. “I’m booked against one of the Kardashians this weekend in Reno”.
“A Kardashian..,” Walker asks in a challenging tone, “No way”.
“Believe it”.
“What’s her name”?
“Brittany Williams, I think she’s like, a second cousin or something but she’s definitely a Kardashian”.
“Oh I see..,” Walker Vivian, aside from being professional Muay Thai kickboxer is also a lifelong fan of professional wrestling and puts his knowledge to use, drawing the name from the banks of his memory. “I’m afraid you got it wrong”, he offers with a chuckle, pausing to toss a towel to his perspiring student. “Brittany Williams is a wrestler but she’s not related to the Kardashians. “She’s Crystal Hilton’s daughter, a world famous wrestler, but certainly not a Kardashian”.
“Don’t try to bullshit me”, Cat rumbles aggressively. “I did my own research. I mean, who else but a bloody Kardashian could get over six billion listings on Google Home”?
“Google Home..,” He crows obnoxiously. “There’s where you went wrong. “I have Google Home myself and trust me; it’s about as accurate as a teen’s spelling in a text message”.
Withdrawing from the contentious discussion with her coach Cat notices several of the remnants from the crowd watching her training now sharing a laugh at her expense. She does her best to ignore the good natured ribbing and proceeds to collect her gear and gym bag a nearby wrought iron bench. Reaching into the grey bag sporting a familiar black Nike swoosh she hastily yanks a plain black sweatshirt which she throws on followed by a clashing pair of red sweat pants and her trademark ball cap. The guffaws continue unremitting with the butt of their buffoonery doing her best to pay them no mind, even fishing out a pair of headphones from the bag in hopes of drowning the noise with music, but donning them brings nothing more than a static buzz to the Bluetooth connection, courtesy of a lightening enhanced overcast day outside; a rarity in the Las Vegas Valley but a welcome one to the residents, all but one. Angrily she rips the blue headset from her ears and manipulates it back into the crowded bag, once more becoming subjected to the hearty banter being exchanged by her peers in the gymnasium. With a supple murmur she casts the bag over her shoulder and makes her way through the bantam congregation but stops short of the door after overhearing a remark about taking the easy way out. Spinning on her heels Cat turns to face the antagonist, a thick, burly woman likely in her late 20’s sporting a dusty colored marine style buzz cut and decked out in a matching black and gold accented martial arts Gi.
“Excuse me..,” Stepping towards the woman Cat stops mere inches from her and locks onto her with a steely glare. “What did you just say”?
The woman stares back, unimpressed by the frosty chill of Cat’s gaze and encouraged by the support of rolling laughter by some of the others around her. She stands her ground, preparing to take to proverbial bull by the horns. Walker Vivian, Cat’s kickboxing instructor has left the mat and retreated to his office poring over notes relating to the day ahead of him and unaware of the confrontation taking place near the exit. A smirk crosses the tightly pursed lips of the other woman who matches Cat’s stare with one of her own.
“I said, the only reason you want to fight a Kardashian is because that’s about the only way you can win a match”.
“Oh really”, Cat answers the challenge by dropping her bag to the floor as her body tenses in anticipation of a physical escalation. “Kardashian or not, I’m going to treat Brittany Williams like one, and if you like I can extend the same courtesy to you”.
“Give it your best shot”, the woman replies with a subtle gesture to the black belt cinched around her waist holding the jacket closed. “You’ve been warned”.
Her arm ached but no matter how many times she tried to wring it out the pain, resultant of a nagging childhood injury just would not subside. Sicily Sheraton has always considered herself to be a trooper however; and she would not allow a minor inconvenience to grow into anything more; Rising from her desk the long time receptionist for Sin City Wrestling LLC strides purposefully into an adjacent room. Sporting a small number of metal folding chairs situated around a fold out picnic-like table with an assortment of snacks including chips, pretzels, a candy jar and a box of plastic cutlery to room more resembles a makeshift break area than the former bedroom of a converted 1950s era duplex nestled into the Howard Hughes industrial center of Las Vegas near Desert Inn road and Paradise. Off to the side, adjacent to an open window sporting a set of yellow and red floral patterned drapes fluttering in the gentle breeze outside stands a refrigerator. The modern, double door appliance boasts a built in ice maker and water dispenser with digital display and gleams against the fading white paint of the wall behind it bearing testament to the changes in home furnishings between the two time periods. Sicily reaches inside to remove an ice pack which is promptly applied to her elbow and secured in place via the beige gauze wrapping sitting on the window still. The shrill chirping of the telephone diverts the young woman’s attention from an apple resting inside the door and pulls her away. Darting into the other room she lifts the receiver to her face,
“Sin City Wrestling”, she answers in a practiced, congenial tone and pauses to listen to the unknown male voice on the other end. “One moment please, I’ll transfer you”. Shifting around to the other side of the desk she takes her seat in the high backed and luxuriously padded black leather executive chair and punches a button to place the caller on hold before depressing another. “Christian, we have the Clark County Detention Center on line one”, she flatly states, ignoring the throaty, though wordless objection emanating from the office immediately behind her.
“She did what”? Christian Underwood cradles the phone against his cheek, listening to a voice on the other end in obvious discontent as illustrated by an irritably twitching sneer. “How much is the bail” he asks irascibly. “Oh for crying out loud”, he laments in reaction to the answer. “Fine, fine, I’ll post her bail. But only because she’s booked this weekend and I don’t have the time to find another opponent. I’ll just dock the bail money from her check I suppose”.
Rising from behind his desk, the co-owner of SCW hangs up the phone and steps to the door. Stopping at the receptionist’s desk he leans over the well-groomed thirty year old woman busily hammering away at her keyboard with a grievous perturbation.
“Sissy, cancel my two o’clock and let Mark know when he gets back that I had to go bail out Cat Riley”.
“What did the barmy bird do this time”? Mark asks, emerging from the restroom nestled between the two offices with a resounding flush. Wiping his hands on a crumpled paper towel he pauses to drop the refuse into the white plastic basket next to the receptionist’s desk. “No wait, let me guess..,” he offers with a playful grin. “She shot a Kardashian; she seems unusually obsessed with that lot”.
“She got into a fight”, Christian explains in a drained drawl while pulling his jacket from the coat hanger just inside the main door. “Apparently she separated some other woman’s arm at the elbow and got tossed in jail for it, tore a bunch of ligaments, cartilage and stuff. It’s going to cost $500 dollars to bail her out”.
“Lovely”.
“And if you call ever me lovely again..,”
“No comprende! No comprende”!
Distracted by a sharp clanging across the cold steel bars of the damp, dimly lit and crowded concrete cell, Cat turns her attention from a heavyset Hispanic woman glaring up at her through frightened brown eyes curled into a semi fetal position on a bench while gingerly cradling her left arm towards the source of the racket. The Mexican woman continues to mutter in her native tongue to Cat even after the Briton has been diverted away.
“Por favor”,
“Catherine Riley..,” the voice belongs to a chiseled young man smartly clad in a navy blue uniform bearing a striking resemblance to a police uniform only bearing the insignia of the Clark County Department of Corrections as a badge neatly stitched on the upper shoulder.
“What the hell do you want” she sneers at him in pent up agitation and jutting a thumb back towards her latest victim. “I was busy”.
“Let’s go”, he announces in a well-exercised authoritarian tone, replacing the glossy black, PR-24 polycarbonate Police baton into a plastic ring on his weaved leather utility belt alongside a pair of chrome handcuffs, mace, flashlight and holstered radio. “You made bail”.
“You’re joking”?
“I wish he was”, the perturbed voice emanating from around the corner by the release area is recognized by Cat as belonging to one of her employers, Christian Underwood. Leaning up against the steel bars separating him from the checkout station to which she is led silently by the guard, who directs her attention to a paper form lying on the counter top alongside a cardboard shoebox containing the young wrestler’s personal effects. “You and I are going to have a nice little chat Catherine”. He regards her coolly as she accepts her belongings from another guard, a rotund, poorly dyed redhead woman with a waist size to match her 40 plus years and spilling over a stool while mechanically going through a pre-programmed routine; oblivious to the menacing chill in Christian’s inflection. “You picked the perfect day to pull this shit”.
The Monza red Chevrolet Camaro ZL1 sporting twin white racing stripes running length-wise down the body careens wildly out of the parking lot leaving a patch of rubber in its wake accompanied by white smoke and the noxious tang of scorched Michelins. The screeching of the wheels against the heated asphalt is accented by the burbling roar of the 6.2 liter pushrod V8 engine working in concert to fishtail the 3800 pounds of steel and fiberglass in front of a crawling black Honda prompting the driver, a middle aged woman peering wide-eyed through the smoke-filled cockpit to prematurely slam on her brakes and bring the smaller car to a squealing halt while standing on her horn. Christian addresses her concerns with a simple, one finger salute and continues to guide the red and white missile into traffic. With the press of a button he brings up the driver’s side window, effectively shutting out the gentle afternoon breeze, the horn of the Honda and scattered cries of fleeing pedestrians in favor of the relative silence inside the vehicle.
“Alright Miss Riley”, he says sternly while bringing the car to a stop at a traffic light leading to the I15 on ramp. “Spill it. What possessed you to tear the arm off an untrained woman”?
“Untrained my arse”, she replies starkly, bracing herself against the vinyl dashboard of the careening projectile as it launches into crowded traffic, blissfully ignorant of the numerous signs and construction cones instructing drivers to drive safely through the expansive widening project of the freeway in anticipation of increased traffic due to the arrival of the Oakland Raider’s arrival in little more than 18 months. “That bird was a black belt in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu”, she explains. “She challenged me”!
“Mm hmm,” Christian mumbles while rolling over a group of bright orange pylons in an effort to overtake a lumbering gravel truck. “So that gives you the right to tear her arm in half”?
“Well.., yeah, I guess” Cat stammers as her mind races in pace with the rocket guided by her boss in search of an appropriate excuse though unable to find one until after the words had slid through her lips. “That and the fact she was teasing me over Brittany Williams”.
“What the hell does Brittany Williams have to do with you being an imbecile”? He demands.
“Well, it wasn’t all about Brittany”, Cat begins to fidget uncomfortably in the passenger seat as traffic starts to thin, drawing the driver of the bow tie bullet from the coned off breakdown lane and back into a standard lane. “I mean, I’m convinced that she is a distant cousin or something of the Kardashians and..,”
She is abruptly cut off by the rolling peal of laughter erupting from her boss who unexpectedly withdraws both hands from the thickly padded steering wheel to rummage through the glove box in front of Cat for a tissue and provoking her to reach anxiously for the wheel. In a panic she peers through affrighted eyes at the road ahead and draws an audible gasp upon noticing the rapidly approaching rear end of a blue garbage truck.
“Oh shit.., Brake”! She cries emphatically, managing to pull the driver’s attention from the glove box and back to the road just in time to slam on the anti-lock brakes which click madly but are able to slow the vehicle down to match the pedestrian pace of the other cars having slowed down to gawk at an accident to the far right, three lanes over.
“You dumbass”, Christian chides her and assume control of the four wheeled wrecking ball. “All you had to do was steer it into the breakdown lane”, he says and follows his own example by doing just that.
“There are workers in the breakdown lane”, she stutters nervously.
“They’ll move”, he retorts with a sigh. “Not only do I have to teach you how to behave in public I have to teach you to drive as well”. Ignoring the assorted cries of construction workers as they scramble madly to escape the murderous motorcar the boss’ mind rewinds to moments before Cat’s rude interruption, “Now, where were we..?” he mutters softly to no one in particular before arriving at his previous thought with a chuckle. “Oh yeah, the Kardashians, Mark was right, he said it probably had something to do with them”.
Reaching over he grabs Cat’s left hand and places it on the steering wheel which she grips with a nervous strength.
“Take the wheel”, he says. “I need to get the Kleenex”.
“Umm.., how about you drive the car,” she counter offers apprehensively as Christian renews his rummaging through the glove compartment, “While I grab the tissue”?
“Don’t be stupid”, he snaps in annoyance. “You don’t even know where they are”.
“Neither do you apparently”.
“Hmm, come to think of it.., I tossed the box in the back seat yesterday when Genie caught the sniffles”.
Reacting quickly, and in fear of her safety Cat lunges over the top of her seat, madly scanning the cramped backseat area, affectionately referred to as the penalty box by Camaro aficionados she spies the blue and white cube and snatches it eagerly, and handing it to the driver.
“What the..?” Christian mumbles, taking the box and removing a tissue from it which he uses to dab at his eye. “I said I’d grab it”.
“Well I beat you to it”, Cat replies smugly. “So just drive the car and get us home, safely please”.
“We’re not going home”, Christian announces. “I’m taking you to Reno so you can wrestle Brittany Williams and pay back my $500”.
“Oh my God.., how about.., how about you pull over then, and let me drive the car so you can play with your tissue”?
“Pfft, I know I drive like an old man. I’ve really slowed down a lot with age”, he acknowledges while swerving into the on ramp for highway 160 at a slightly more than modest pace. “I used to drive so much faster when I was young”.
“But.., you’re doing 110”!
“Like I said, I’ve slowed down a lot”.
Closing her eyes as they rocket towards a Greyhound bus, Cat crosses her hands in front of her chest in a mock crucifix and whispering a silent prayer; opening them just in time feel the car pitch violently to the left as the driver maneuvers around a black Toyota Cressida. Feeling the solid axel rear end break loose with a shriek from the tires accompanied by the tangy, acidic with a touch of carbon and sulfur she peers skyward through apprehensively fluttering eyelids to offer a Hail Mary. Opening them she spots a dark figure scurrying across the grassy countryside just outside the city limits and into the road. With the blacktop speeding by in a blur the figure quickly comes into focus causing her to gasp and reach for the steering wheel.
“Coyote”! She cries while jerking the wheel harshly to the right and directing the car off of the road and away from the dusty colored canine and knocking down a thing wooden post in the process.
“What the hell is a matter with you”? Christian demands, angrily snatching the wheel from his passenger and guiding the speeding red and white artillery shell back onto the road. “Thanks to you we missed it”! He checks his rearview mirror briefly and then adds, “I don’t like dogs”.
“The hell you say”?
“Mmm, speaking of which that reminds me, I need to call the office and have them forward my calls”. Releasing the wheel he leans over to feel beneath the driver’s seat for his cell phone leaving it to Cat to grab the wheel and keep the zipping metal zeppelin on its current trajectory. “Now, where did I drop that thing”?
“I have an idea..,” Cat offers nervously. “How about we go back to the office and I can just catch the bus to Reno, you’ll save a lot of gas money that way”.
“I’m not worried about that,” he answers while continuing to fumble about in search of his elusive Samsung. “You’re going to be paying me back for the gas money too”.
“What about ambulance fees and hospital bills”?
“Don’t be stupid, I haven’t had an accident in three days. We’ll be fine, trust me”.
“If anyone should be fine it would be Brittany Williams,” she retorts as her boss returns his attention to the road in front of them, cell phone in hand. “She’s probably going to end up wrestling a bloody cadaver”.
