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Roleplay Boards => Archived Roleplays => Climax Control Archives => Topic started by: Cat Riley on June 15, 2018, 06:22:51 PM
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“I want her out of my home Scotty, that’s all there is to it”, with his arms crimped across his chest Christian defiantly huffs in an agitated response. He and Scott have been arguing for nearly an hour following the Cat vs cat showdown and the resulting destruction culminating in thousands of dollars’ worth of damage. Through mournful eyes Cat Riley, fearful of being evicted had sworn vehemently to make amends. But he isn’t ready to buy it. “God only knows what that woman could have done to Genie had we not returned when we did”, he continues.
A resounding flush reverberates throughout the master bedroom, emanating from the attached bath. The squeak of a not so well oiled door hinge heralds the return of Scott into the bedroom. Stepping over the threshold and onto the 10’ by 10’ softly colored blue and white throw rug and heaving a satisfied sigh he jettisons his grey tee shirt onto an ornately carved black trunk cocktail table with a centered gold carving aligned in the center with brass handles at each end, leaving him clad in a simple pair of black briefs. Pushing aside a simple, yet elegant sitting chair sporting a cream hued seat cushion atop a hand carved rosewood frame the self-styled ‘Big Pump’ pulls back the crepe-back royal blue satin comforter and slides his hefty frame into the bed alongside his spouse after designating a station for three of the six matching pillows. He sits himself upright, propping his broad back against the sturdy cedar headboard adjusting one pillow to provide a buffer between his bare skin and the midnight half-moon headboard. Reaching to his left he snags a remote control from the baby blue nightstand dresser beside him and uses it to power up a Sony 60 inch LCD flat screen hanging against the taupe plastered wall as Christian rambles on.
“She destroyed our entire living room,” he moans, his voice cracking in frustration over the events of the day. “We’ll have to buy a whole new set. Not to mention the pull down ladder to Genie’s main room, and let’s not forget the china laying on the floor scattered about the dining room now in pieces. I thought it was a good idea; to take this kid and maybe teach her some responsibility while helping her out but I was wrong. She’s beyond help so tomorrow morning I’m going to cut my losses and tell her she has to leave”.
With a disinterested groan Scott abruptly turns the television back off and turns to face his partner, a veil of mild annoyance stalking his chiseled jawline and dropping the remote to the floor where it lands with a light bump, muffled by the white and blue SmartStrand silk reserve throw rug.
“Would you listen to yourself”? He demands. “Cat did this, Cat did that”, he spits. “Cat didn’t do anything Chrissy, this one is on you and you alone”.
“How do you figure”? Christian asks in a challenging tone, clutching a pillow tightly across his bare chest. “Did Genie just decide to fill her own litter box with five pounds of cat nip”?
“C’mon babe, you gotta admit that was pretty clever”, Scott cackles smacking the pillow across Christian’s chest with a quick swat.
“You don’t see me laughing, do you”?
“Nope”, the big man nods in agreement, his short-lived grin abruptly inverting. “I’ll tell you something else I don’t see either; you, after talking about teaching her responsibility, accepting any for yourself”.
“What are you saying? I was trying to help the kid out, I bent over backwards to take care of her. She’s the one who failed me”! Releasing his grip on the pillow Christian casts it aside with a twitch of the wrist, allowing it to fall to the wayside with the frustration spilling over the brim of a tanned profile. Surely if anyone were to take his side in such matters it would be the man to whom he has been married for the better part of a decade, but the man sitting beside him appears more interested in arguing. His teeth grind together awaiting the expected reply; a nervous habit developed after years of fighting with a disagreeable father.
“Uh huh”, Schreiner replies dismissively. “Whose idea was it to allow her to move in”?
“Scotty I..,”
“And whose idea was it to have her sit for Genie, knowing that Genie doesn’t like her”?
“Wait, what”? Christian cries glaring at his partner incredulously. “I had no idea Genie wasn’t going to take to her”! Feeling a slight palpitation in his heart over the telling of a white lie he backs off, wanting to go further in his own argument but deciding against it for the sake of keeping his anxiety level down.
“Despite the fact that she spent a good part of the day destroying Cat’s clothes right in front of you”, He presses on from the observation. “You know damned well she doesn’t like Cat, but you still asked Cat to sit for her, so how about telling me the truth”?
His tawny, bare shoulders slump in capitulation in the face of Scott’s surprising logic Christian heaves a raspy murmur of acquiescence. “Ok, to be totally honest with you”, he begins, “Cat is a handful. Hell, she’s more than a handful, she’s a trainload of truckloads and I underestimated her. I was sort of hoping Genie would do her thing and make Cat think twice about staying here, make her want to move out and do everything imaginable to get her money straight, you know”? Running his fingers through his sandy locks and gripping them tightly at the ends he exhales grievously but goes on, “I was only expecting it to be for a few days, but it’s starting to look like a long term deal and I just want out so we can get back to our lives. You can appreciate that, can’t you”?
Sliding back down into bed, beneath the double layered comforter Christian abandons the pillow against the headboard in favor of Scott’s bulging thigh. Looking up at his spouse of so many fun-filled years, into those deep, watery blue pools he feels a pang of guilt stabbing at his heart for lying to him. White lies are still lies his mother had always told him and from behind a remorseful visage, while gently stroking Scott’s vein laden forearm he says softly,
“I’m sorry I lied to you, it’s just.., I don’t know really. Cat is a train wreck. Did you know she broke the glass door at Gabriel’s gym”?
Grunting with a nod of his head Scott wraps his beefy right arm around Christian’s shoulder, “Yeah, I heard about that; trying to rape a teddy bear”, he chuckles, stroking his bleached goatee thoughtfully. “But look at it from her perspective; here’s a kid trying to establish a career, alright? She’s young and inexperienced so she’s prone to making mistakes. She starts off on the right foot, getting signed and winning her debut match and the follow up but she made a couple of mistakes and then found landed in trouble. So she..,”
“Scotty, I already know this”, Christian interrupts in a crumpled tone. “I said as much myself, I just..,”
“How is she supposed to dig herself out of this mess with you keeping an itemized list of every expense she’s accrued? A nickel here, a dime there, gas money for a ride to the arena, repairs to the house and now an entire new wardrobe thanks to your brilliant idea. The poor things gotta be worried sick, I mean, where does it all end”?
“Scott..,” he replies plaintively, “I’m not charging her a dime, I told you”!
“But she doesn’t know that”, Scott replies pointedly, flicking the tip of his partner’s nose for added emphasis.
“I figured she’d put two and two together once she got her check”, Christian shrugs. “Once she realizes her check is the full amount she’ll do the smart thing and save it”.
“Yeah, save it for when you come by to collect”, he retorts. “She has no idea that you have no intention of collecting so she has to behave accordingly”.
“I see your point”, the SCW co-owner nods softly, relenting to the unexpected reason of his partner. “I..,” his voice trails off allowing his mind to retreat into consideration. Retracting his gaze from Scott he draws it inward to more conscientiously address the situation before him. “What do you suggest”? He asks after several moments spent in silence, unable to see an immediate solution.
“I think it would be a good idea to take the kid shopping, help her get her clothes and stuff back together. Do you know what she wore to bed tonight”? He shakes Christian gently who sways his head from side to side in a silent ‘no’ and with a snicker adds, “She wore one of my tee shirts. Genie tore up everything she has”.
Stifling a snicker of his own Christian nods his head in approval saying, “I guess I can do that. But it can’t be tomorrow, I have a lot of fed business to attend, not to mention payroll. How does the day after sound”?
“That’s fine”, the ‘Big Pump’ answers in an accepting tone. “She can romp around the house in my tee shirt tomorrow, I don’t care”.
“I’ll take the money she’s given me so far and just stash it in Genie’s jar for the time being”, Christian offers, reaching up and snaking his arm across Scott’s chest, grateful for the clarity he has helped bring. With his anxiety ebbing he feels the waxing tide of a different emotion flowing in. “But for now..,” looking up at his husband through wryly gleaming eyes, he turns off the small bronzed lamp on top of the nightstand and whispers, “I have other ideas”.
“Oh, by the way.., have you seen Genie”?
The largest of the big cats, the Siberian tiger is widely regarded as the strongest and most dangerous of them all and has been known to hunt and kill prey up to four times its own size. This time however, the target is even larger, a certain record breaker. The gigantic beast’s legs alone tower above the great predator, so high as to render the upper extremities indistinguishable but this does not intimidate the true king of the jungle. Instead it merely serves as additional motivation for the ravenous carnivore crouching down, hidden in the shade of a wide, low slung tree which provides ample camouflage from the rays of early morning sunlight filtering in through the overhead cover and illuminating the hunting grounds. Its steely blue eyes locked onto the target the muscular man-eater follows its every movement unflinchingly, waiting in patience while taking in its surroundings; the smell of a fresh breeze delivered by an object whirling, the bristling of a strange looking tree branch being swept back and forth across a shiny hard ground, and stickies’ clinging to the bare skin covering the legs of its intended meal with an incessant screeching billowing throughout the land; most likely the result of a successful kill by another predator, an event soon to be upstaged by the mightiest of them all.
Busying herself with a short handle broom Cat sweeps it back and forth over the polished wooden flooring, ushering stray clumps of dirt into the open mouth of a black Rubbermaid dustpan which eagerly devours the scuz. Moved by the beat of Iron Maiden’s ‘Back in the village’ squealing from the bass enhanced box speakers to the bookshelf stereo system the blonde gyrates her body back and forth with the motion of the broom, her hips swaying to the rhythm along with her champagne locks being flung about by a wildly swinging head. The three blade ceiling fan whirrs along, providing a refreshing current, a draft she takes to dancing in, with her blue tee shirt, grossly oversized for her petite frame flowing whimsically to the convulsions of her body. She raises her bare feet, both adorned with a good half dozen band aids, bringing them into the game. Shuffling across the.., somewhat clean flooring towards the tattered remains of a loveseat; victim of recent events involving the house cat from hell and outstretching her arm she reaches for the furnishing pressing her body weight against it to push it aside and allow her to sweep beneath.
Such a strange beast this creature; it displays movements never before seen in the harsh environment of the underbrush, and a most unusual mating call. Watching in steadfast determination the stealthy ambush predator holds still, its hind legs tensing in preparation for the coming attack. The carnivore’s tail twitches in alarm while following the movements of the furless creature and notices it ambling towards the tree under which it sits in wait. The ground vibrates below its paws, perhaps an earthquake? Not quite. No, the bipedal monstrosity, in a mind boggling show of strength is attempting to uproot the entire tree! Forced into action the massive tiger leaps from its hiding spot; a white streak pouncing from seemingly nowhere and sinks its talons into the bare flesh of the surprised animal’s lower legs. It drops the gigantic tree branch held in its hands and collapses with a heavy thud and howling in pain.
“Damn it! That bloody cat attacked me again”! Cat cries out, reaching for her ankles. The sticky claret oozes from the fresh wounds smearing her fingers which she wipes off against the loveseat before using it as a brace to pull back up to a vertical base. Looking down at her two-toned feet with the juice pouring over them and onto the floor the wounded prey slaps her forehead, leaving a bloody handprint and redirects a simmering glare towards the corner where the white Persian sits still, back arched, ears pinned and growling; watching her through malicious blue monocles. “So that’s how you want it”? Cat demands sullenly. “Alright you flea bitten muppet, you got it. Just let me stop the bleeding and it’s on”!
Retreating into the bathroom and leaving her attacker behind in the living room she proceeds into the nearest of three bathrooms, actually half a bathroom considering that this particular unit, crammed into a space no larger than a walk-in closet with barely enough room for the distressed white antique vanity set with matching framed mirror and a black granite counter top housing a recessed porcelain bowl stationed opposite to a Victorian Trent sanitary closet toilet with autumn colored floral patterns. Walking over the low-sheen glaze of the subdued teal and golden yellow tiles and leaving a trail of cruor in her wake she digs through the cabinet beneath the sink to retrieve a roll of flesh tone gauze which she quickly opens and then proceeds to wrap around her lacerated ankles muttering various vulgarities. Securing the wrapping with tape the wounded woman rises back to her feet, inhaling deeply to prepare her mind and body for the battle to come and, boosted by conviction, steps back into the hallway towards the living room.
It looks angry, its chest heaving, filling its cavernous lungs with resolve and eyes burning in a blue flame as it rumbles back into the hunting grounds. Towering over the trees and bushes the giant creature looms over the landscape; a malicious monolith scanning the environment with a laser-like focus and bearing no sign of its recent injury. The mighty predator lies in wait, camouflaged by the surroundings and wailed by confusion. What happened to its wound and why no more blood and that curious new layer around the point of attack.., did it grow new skin? What manner of monster is this? Uprooting a tree the primal beast begins sweeping the dry lands as it had before while snarling in a guttural rasp.
“Come out come out wherever you are”. Cat chirps returning to floor duty. “I won’t hurt you little kitty. I only want to feed you.., to the garbage disposal”! Continuing to scan the room a white tuft slinking between the furniture catches her attention, prompting the attentive blonde to bring the broom to the ready, holding it just above her shoulder in a double-fisted grip like a Louisville slugger and coos menacingly with a few choice adjectives, “Don’t be frightened, you four legged, shite stained walking billboard for Dutch fur disease”. Stepping gingerly on the balls of her feet to minimize the sounds of her steps against the glossy floor boards she directs her gaze towards a small wooden oak table stand with a low sheen original finish and a small white tuft of fur protruding just above the surface, partially hidden by a hand crafted table lamp resting on a round base against the surface. The gold and bronze hued shade lined with like colored fringe glows brightly casting its shadow, along with Genie’s against the wall. Tensing up Cat pulls back, preparing to swing, “Batter up..,”
With a heave she swings the broom mightily, directing it to the silhouette of her target, but Genie quickly scampers out of the way leaving only the table lamp which is shattered by the blow to scatter about the corner of the living room in shards. Cursing under her breath she turns about to see the white streak zipping over the floor, across the throw rug, under the coffee table on her way to the far side of the room. Clenching the broom reassuringly Cat pops up onto the coffee table, stepping on the remote control. Assured of its destruction by the sharp cracking under her feet, she grimaces at the thought of Scott Schreiner without his ‘shooting iron’ but casts it aside with a shrug.
“It’s not like I don’t already owe Christian a fortune”, she grumbles. “I may as well burn down the whole bleeding house”.
Despite the creature’s immense size it is still slow, very slow and the great predator finds that her instinctive reflexes can easily avoid its attacks. Killing it however; is another matter. Shrouded by a curious veil of some sort of animal skin hanging from the sky the queen of the jungle carefully studies the behemoth perched atop the four legged rock formation searching in vain. Over its head flies the four winged bird, hovering in the same position for more than ten years now, its long wings providing the field below with an airy breeze. Distressed wailing echoes through the valley; perhaps a mother having lost her cubs and calling out for them in a pitiable tonality. Oddly enough the creature appears to be entranced by the blubbering sobs assaulting the air and starts to sway its head back and forth. The distraction unknowingly providing the white tigress with the perfect opportunity and her body tenses, the muscles in her rear legs binding tightly as her senses go on high alert detecting for any possible last moment distractions, but finding none. The time to strike has arrived..,
Without warning a white blur streaks across the floor and takes flight, diving towards Cat’s already injured feet with razor sharp talons fully extended. But the blonde is prepared, having been spying her attacker from the corner of her eye and jumps upwards, and grabbing hold of the ceiling fan and grasping it by the wooden blades which continue to spin despite the added heft of her 110 pound frame and allowing the assailant to fly by harmlessly beneath her coiled legs. Genie lands safely on the floor and spins around growling; an act which prompts Cat to spitefully remark,
“Hah, you’re too slow for this cat”!
But with her attention solely on the flustered feline the Brit fails to notice the pained protestations stemming at the bronze base of the fan that gives way with a final creak and sends its still spinning hitchhiker tumbling from the ceiling and through the coffee table where she lands with a jarring thud accompanied by the shattering of the glass top along with the snapping of two of the wooden legs. The propellers, now severed from the wiring lie atop her body in a mangled heap with the heavy russet seat lying beside her head after colliding with it on the way down. A broken whimper resounds, chaperoned by the melancholic mourning of ‘Timmy Turner’ by the mumble rap artist Desiigner through the surrounded sound speaker system. Reaching up with a trembling and bloodied right arm Cat latches onto the broken rotors of the fan with a shaky grip and with a harassed effort she manages to cast it aside to the floor.
“Unnnghh.., it feels like I’ve been hit by a busload of musclebound missionaries. I think I’m just going to.., lie here for a while”.
The queen of the Victorian jungle cautiously approaches her prone prey lying precariously on the floor amidst the wreckage and pauses briefly, just out of reach to observe its condition before taking a test swipe at the feet. The gigantic beast does not react, save for an anguished drawl. Confidently the mighty predator climbs atop the palpitating chest of her prey, looking down at it through satisfied blue lenses and bares her fangs, preparing to strike the final blow.
“Make it.., quick please” Cat huffs, turning her head to the side and exposing her jugular.
Genie inches forward, her claws digging into the supple skin of her victim when her ears are assaulted by a sudden high pitched ripping sound which is accompanied an equally piercing shriek followed by a rapid percussive thumping. Alarmed and fearing the arrival of an intruder she arches her back, her electrified tail standing on end and spins around madly greeting the unknown with a cautioning hiss, but there is nothing to see, save for the debris of the dead, four-winged bird; finally brought down from its ten year holding pattern. Clamorously she issues a hard-nosed warning, her blue eyes narrowing into menacing slivers but the squalling continues unabated and unable to locate the source of the vexatious cacophony she begins to back away, off of the chest of her intended meal, slowly retreating to a safe zone away from the pandemonium while shaking her head in a madcap effort to rid her stinging ears of the tumult.
Safe for the moment Cat turns her head to follow Genie’s curious movements, her mind running through numerous possible scenarios that could result in such an unexpected outcome. Although battered, bleeding and aching all over she does not notice the pain as her thoughts are temporarily consumed. Lifting her gaze away from the12 pound wrecking ball she too scans the living room for a possible source but the only thing she is able to discern is the obvious; the wreckage of the ceiling fan and the coffee table, the overturned loveseat and the lashing sounds of Leo Moracchioli’s heavy metal rendition of Michael Jackson’s classic ‘Beat it’. Glancing back to the anguished Persian and noting its attempt to bury its head into the hard wood floor she manages to put two and two together and answers with a warped sneer,
“The shite doesn’t like thrash metal”.
Reinvigorated by the revelation she fights through the pain wracking her body to pull up to her feet, using the overturned loveseat. Reaching down to wipe some of the blood off of her legs but only managing to smear it further, Cat limps towards the bookshelf stereo, leaving a sanguinary trail and begins to fumble with her phone which is attached to the Sony sound system by an auxiliary cord. Swiping through the music app she eventually settles on a suitable station, silently relishing the revenge about to be unleashed but she is interrupted by the booming voice of the man of the house Scott Schreiner,
“Cat, I’m done with my workout”! He shouts. “I’m gonna take a walk.., I want you to come with me”.
“I.., I, “caught off guard by the command she stumbles over her thoughts, derailed and now in search of an excuse to remain behind and finish what she is about to start. “I don’t have any shoes, “she offers. “Or underwear for that matter”. Looking across the living room towards the dimly lit foyer and the burly powerhouse, still outfitted in his gym clothes; a simple pair of black speedo shorts and black and white weight lifting tank sporting the ‘Superman’ emblem and finished with a pair of matching Adidas low rise sneakers and offers a faint smile. “I can’t go outside naked, can I”?
“I already thought of that”, he rumbles in a lumbering timbre, reaching up to stroke his neatly trimmed, bleached white goatee thoughtfully. “I got you a pair of Christian’s sandals and one of his girl type belts, some kind of chain; I forget what he called the stupid thing. Just put it on and let’s go, we need to have a chat”.
“Umm.., I don’t have any underwear either”, Cat offers in a fading objection quickly realizing that this is an argument she will not win and convinced of being the target of an ensuing diatribe.
“Girl please”, Scott snorts. “My tee shirt is big enough on you to wear as a full length dress and ain’t nobody in their right damn mind gonna go peeking up it while I’m around”. Stepping further inside he snatches up a silver and blue Detroit Lions gym bag and tosses it across the room to Cat, who catches it and peers curiously inside. “Now put that crap on and let’s go”.
Despite his indisputable brawn, the strapping bruiser also appears to have a good amount of brain as well, amply illustrated by his answers and obvious forethought. Respiring in capitulation she thrusts her right hand into the bag removing a pair of pink and blue floral print rubber sandals and a sterling silver belly chain bearing a heart shaped clasp which she fastens around the king-sized tee shirt at the waist before dropping the sandals to the floor and sliding her blood caked feet into them. Dropping the bag to floor she steps towards the foyer and her waiting companion, but stops short of a second step, instead spinning about and darting back to the stereo. She dials up the volume control raising it to an emphatic, wall shaking level. With a mocking grin directed at the hopelessly concaved kitty she joins Scott at the door, who regards her in a baffled inflection
“Why did you turn the music up”? He asks.
“So people think that we’re home”, she offers, curtly turning to the street not wanting him to press the matter for the truth and bracing for the inevitable jeremiad. “Come on, let’s get this over with”.
“Good thinking”, Scott replies in a soft acceptance of her explanation. Shutting the door with a heavy clump and locking it, he fails to notice the pitiable lamentation over the discordant symphony of chainsaws detonating in the living room. “Heh, Chrissy hates that music”. He observes and joins Cat on the sidewalk.
“He’s not the only one”, she says softly to herself.
It is a relatively mild afternoon in the master planned community of Summerlin, only 91 degrees with but a smattering of fleeting white clouds overhead, not enough to interrupt the journey of sunlight on its way to warming the ground and everything else in its path. Typical Las Vegas weather really, with spring mostly forgotten by the residents, having grown accustomed to jumping from their almost comical idea of winter directly into triple digit heat, separated by a handful of 90 degree days. A warm breeze slinks through the neatly trimmed trees already bearing fully green leaves and caresses the cheeks of pedestrians milling; bringing with it a waft of lavender courtesy of an obsessively groomed young woman passing the dup by along the meticulously up kept Trailwood drive. An elderly man takes refuge from the unrelenting sunlight on a bench thoughtfully stationed underneath a fig tree, his bespectacled eyes glued to a dog-eared hardback novel and rendering her oblivious to the sights and sounds of this lazy afternoon.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your living arrangement with us”, Scott begins softly, his gaze, though hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, bouncing off of the people and cars nearby as they come and go through the quiet neighborhood.
“Here it comes”, Cat groans dejectedly under her breath, her heart dropping in anticipation of the bomb about to be dropped. “How long do I have to find another place”? She asks.
“No”, we’re not throwing you out”, Scott reassures her. “Hell, I like having you around. You’re the best brand of entertainment we’ve had in years. If only I could package you as a television show”. He offers a fading chuckle, lifting his head towards a smattering of clouds which bear a striking resemblance to a dancing feline. “I just wanted to give you some advice to dealing with Chrissy”.
The pair stops upon being approached by a thin, wiry man of college age sporting a short coif of curly dark brown hair neatly tapered at the back of the neck with brown eyes bulging out behind a pair of thick lensed black-rimmed glasses. Pausing in front of the pair he adjusts the red book bag draped over his shoulder gawking slack jawed at Cat who mockingly returns his expression with one of her own. He opens his mouth, pursing thin, lightly chapped lips in an attempt to speak but is unable to find the words and instead drops his gaze downward to her blood stained legs stammering and stumbling through a scattered vocabulary, his mind anxiously turning over adjectives and verbs in search of the right manner to wrangle the macabre spectacle. Finally he exhales deeply and elects to tackle the matter head on, stating imprudently,
“Shouldn’t you be using a Tampax or something”?
Angrily Scott reaches out grabbing the youngster by the collar of his blue Avengers tee shirt and lifts him off of his feet. He gives the kid a violent shaking; his beefy arms coiled tightly and locked in place. The vice-like grip of his massive hands threatens to tear the shirt off of the lad as he is manhandled by the swollen powerhouse.
“Hey! If you got a problem with my little girl, you take it to me”! He shouts, his bass laden voice thundering through the air in a verbal storm drawing the attention of others who stop and look on in alarm. With a heave he sends the frat tumbling to the sidewalk and glowers over him with a stern warning, “You got two seconds to get your scrawny ass outta here before I use you as a medicine ball”.
A storm chaser he is not and the kid scrambles to his feet and beats a hasty retreat, his sneakers squeaking against the smooth concrete Leaving Scott to turn his glare onto the onlookers bellowing, “And that goes for the rest of you! Anybody who has a problem with my precious baby girl, you take it up with her old man”! Jutting his thumb at his capacious chest and bouncing his pectorals underneath the exceedingly tight fitting plain black tee shirt he growls. “Any of you got anything to say, huh”?
Not a sound is heard as the bruiser stares down the small crowd, none of them interested in taking him up on his challenge and they quietly disperse, fluttering on their way as so many leaves kicked by a strong blast of hot air, leaving Scott and Cat to themselves. With a hearty chuckle Scott drapes his massive arm around his ‘baby’s’ shoulder and continues with his train of thought prior to the disruption.
“Chrissy has you doing all this stuff around the house, but the fact is you don’t really have to do anything”.
“Oh that’s bloody brilliant ‘daddy’, like he hasn’t docked me enough money already”, she replies sarcastically.
“Listen to your old man”, Scott laughs while giving her shoulder a playful squeeze. “I know him better than anybody and I’m telling you straight up that you don’t have to do a damn thing around the house because he is completely OCD. When he gets home from work every day he does the exact same thing; he looks over the house and rearranges everything. I don’t care if you’re Mary Poppins, you can’t clean that house to his satisfaction. So why even bother if he’s just going to re do it all over again”?
“But he’ll dock my pay and..,”
“No he won’t”! Scotty insists. “Listen, cleaning the house is like a sacred ritual to him and when he gets started he gets into the zone and he won’t even think about anything else. Your time will be better spent with me watching sports”.
“That does sound a lot better”, Cat agrees hesitantly, “But I have a match this coming weekend with Lucy Seraphina and I still don’t have any clothes or money to get there”. Leaning against Scott’s sturdy frame as they trek down the street she finds her mind wading into the depths of SCW’s talent pool, Lucy Seraphina presents yet another stern test of her abilities being a former tag team champion and internet champion, whatever the internet championship is. It is a title she has never heard of before and the unknown crown pelts her consciousness with a rainfall of inquiry which prompts her to look up at Scott and ask,
“What exactly is the internet championship any way”?
“The internet belt was only around for about three years”, he begins. “It started in January of 2015. Joanne Caneli was the first champion for the women but she only held it for a couple months before leaving SCW. Any way it’s a defunct mid-level title meant to bridge the gap between undercard, mid-card and main event talent but it ended up being unified with the main title and dropped altogether”.
“How long did Seraphina hold the belt, and was she a good champion”? Cat asks, hoping to glean some new information about her upcoming opponent. “What else can you tell me about her”?
“She was alright, I guess”, his attention is diverted from the question at hand to a small kiosk tended by a middle aged man, balding with a lean, athletic build and wearing a white paper hat. Busily he sets up a small table and erects an umbrella over the kiosk, setting up a sign advertising ice cream on the table and draping a banner over the edge of the rotunda bearing a similar advertisement. “She held the title for a month before dropping it. She was the sixth internet champion I think”. He goes on, sharing some of his knowledge with the young lady, and recounts some of her opponent’s history, mannerisms and other penchants. Looking on at the man continuing to set up shop, laying out a small tin and calculator and then settling back into a lawn chair to await potential customers, Scott tapers off his recital and nudges his companion with a subtle elbow to the shoulder. “Hey, I could go for some ice cream, how about you”?
“Sure, why not”?
The exchange is brief with Scott and Cat making their purchase and leaving the vendor to his wares. Scott; ever health conscious digs into a strawberry yogurt parfait with a small spoon while Cat unwraps a Neapolitan ice cream sandwich, carelessly dropping the plastic wrapping to the ground much to the chagrin of a the Clark County Department of Corrections work detail tending the trash bins nearby.
“So let me ask you another question, “Cat says picking up her pace to match the stride of ‘the Big Pump’. “How do you know so much about SCW? You have all that stuff memorized”.
“I don’t have a job,” Scotty offers nonchalantly. “All I do is sit back, work out and watch the tube all day. Besides, I’m married to the co-owner so it kind of goes with the territory I guess”.
“So you’re the wife”?
“What”? Stopping abruptly he spins on his heels glowering at the diminutive blonde who regards him curiously. “What makes you say that”? He demands, flexing his massively peaked bicep in front of her face. “Do I look like a wife to you, hunh, would a wife have freakishly huge arms like these”?
“Not even close”, Cat admits nervously, grabbing hold of the swollen limb and struggling to pull it down and grant her a more direct view. “That’s why I’m so confused. If anybody should be the wife it would be Christian, but he’s the one who goes to work every day and makes the money. Isn’t the husband supposed to be the one working? I mean, that’s the tradition isn’t it”?
Although his first impulse is one of rage, Scott backtracks beyond Cat’s words and over 10 years into the past to his retirement from the squared circle. It was an event for the ages as he was inducted into the hall of fame for numerous promotions forever enshrining his accomplishments for the fans of yesterday, today and tomorrow. But what has he done since? While he is now a bit older than the average wrestler he has always dedicatedly maintained his comic book proportioned physique and felt he could step back into the ring at any time and against anyone. Instead he eschewed the gladiatorial endeavors of his youth in favor of a more sedentary lifestyle, electing to ‘take it easy’ as it were; staying at home with his pet and television while his ‘wife’, as he has always been keen on informing people and also retired, continued to go out and work, but on other things like a film career, guest spots on fashion shows, cleaning the house, cooking and even co-founding SCW with Mark Ward. He has never been one to dwell on the past, but in this brief introspection through hindsight he can clearly see that Cat has a point. Christian is the one who has kept busy with work, household chores and shopping while he has done nothing, effectively becoming a housewife and the very antithesis of manhood. His heavy footed gait, slowed by the brisk wind of memories blowing through his consciousness comes to a halt.
“Damn”, he mutters airily while stroking his goatee. “Maybe I should get a job”.
“Lots of retirees still work”, Cat offers. “But if you’re happy doing what you do now I don’t see any reason to stop”.
“That’s just it”, he counters, turning to meet the gaze of his companion. “I don’t do anything. Well, except for..,”
“Yes”, she interrupts hastily, hoping to avoid any sordid details of his nightly escapades. “I’ve heard Christian’s screaming”.
“I was gonna say work out, but yeah, that too. I need to find something to do, to bring home the bacon like in the old days. Do you have any ideas”?
Her mind turns briefly to her future opponent Lucy Seraphina, a woman she knows very little about. Scott on the other hand appears to bear an encyclopedic knowledge on not only Seraphina, but all things related to SCW. As the pair resumes their walk she explores various avenues and charting their potential. He would want to do something enjoyable obviously so fast food service is out, as is pretty much anything in customer service, especially given his temper. Ideally he would want something that could create new memories, memories like the ones he shares with Christian, but uniquely his own. Cat’s thin lips, tightly pursed in contemplation slowly crease into a wicked beam as a plan begins to take form from the muddled waters of conflicting ideas. “I have an idea”, she says, turning to him, “an idea that I promise will have the people once again chanting your name and heaping you with praise”.
“Cat, you are without a doubt the most ridiculous excuse for a woman that I have ever met”! His tanned, unblemished complexion awash in astonishment Christian looks on through incredulous hazel eyes at the young blonde standing before him in a pair of black strapped Christian Louboutin pumps with her feet awkwardly angled onto their sides owing to her inability to properly manage the stiletto and continues his dressing down of the Bombshell contender. “How God saw fit to give you a woman’s equipment is beyond me. You’re like a cat that barks. I swear you are the most inept..,”
“And what makes you an expert of women mister Underwood”? She hisses in venomous retort. “I don’t see any tits on you”.
“Honey, I’ve forgotten more about being a woman than you’ll ever know. How can you call yourself a female and not know how to wear heels”?
“Then why don’t you show me”? She challenges. “You probably don’t even know the difference between a garter belt and a garment bag”.
Go big or go home has long been one of Cat’s mottos and though it is highly unlikely that she had personal mistakes in mind when adopting the phrase it most certainly applies when challenging an openly gay man with more years of cross dressing experience than she has had on this Earth to prove his sense of fashion. Many moons ago Christian had graduated beauty school, earning the highest marks in his class, a class full of women no less while raking in certifications in hair, makeup, clothes, nails and skin care. Entering the world of professional wrestling he put his knowledge to good use developing the now infamous ‘Pink Flamingo’ persona. It grew into a legendary alter ego and he quickly became notorious for his sarcastic wit, flamboyant style once referred to as a ‘Liberace with muscles’ and an open ambivalence to political correctness. Christian was Ru Paul before there was a Ru Paul. With a confident smirk he picks up the gauntlet and ambles towards the shoe rack tucked against the wall behind Cat, his eyes scanning for a suitably sized fork with which to feed the impugning young lady a healthy helping of crow. Settling on a pair of Jimmy Choo Tacey powder mauve crystal and feather embellished sling back pumps he takes a seat on the adjoining bench to swap them out for his polished chestnut Bruno Magli loafers. Standing back up he peers down to inspect the footwear,
“Hmm, the sole is nicely arched but the bridge could stand a touch more support. Still, it’s not too bad for $1300”.
With barely a second thought the ‘artist formerly known as the Pink Flamingo’ breaks into a strut, imagining himself on the catwalk with fashion critics scribbling notes, cameras flashing and onlookers eagerly jockeying for position to better view the spectacle. His head, tilted slightly downward to project light attitude his lips closed in a natural position and eyes locked onto a fixed point on the far side of the nearly empty aisle he struts past various racks displaying other garments and reaching the end of the imaginary runway he spins expertly on the ball of his foot turning about face and sashaying back towards a dumbfounded Cat, who looks on through wide, glazed over eyes with her mouth agape. Reaching the awestruck Briton he stops to flash a wink before moonwalking back away drawing an audible gasp.
“Holy.., my own mum can’t do that in heels”.
“I can tap dance in them too sweetheart”, he says irascibly. “Now, are you ready to get down to business and do some shopping or shall I teach you how to wear a bustier”?
With Cat on board the pair proceeds to canvass the Galleria mall in Henderson, floating in and out of numerous outlets. She anxiously drags him into an Abercrombie and Fitch boutique, a store specializing in modern, casual attire aimed at the hip and trendy 20 somethings only to be yanked out by her scowling stylist. A Nike franchise grabs her by the eyelids pulling her inside to gaze over the rows and rows of custom sneakers inspired by hip hop artists, basketball stars and pop culture. She immediately gravitates towards a red bench stationed in front of a wall display featuring a life sized stand up of Lebron James touting his new line of shoes but before she can try on a pair she is forcibly grabbed by the collar of her oversized tee shirt and pulled out of the store and back into the gleaming white marble aisle protesting vehemently,
“But Lebron is the greatest basketball player in the world”!
“That doesn’t mean he has any fashion sense honey,” Christian remarks in a low growl. “But I’ll tell you what we’re going to do; since you’re such a bratty child we’re going to play a little game”.
“And what kind of game do you have in mind”? Cat demands, folding her arms indifferently across her chest, “Hide and go seek”? Though she says it hopefully she realizes that he has no intentions of doing any such thing and will most likely select something she would perceive as ridiculous and offers another half-hearted suggestion, “Maybe a rousing game of pin the tail on the arsehole”?
“Hah, you wish”. He spits, shaking his head in the negative. “No, I want you to imagine that you are in a life and death struggle against your opponent this weekend, Lucy Seraphina and your only chance at survival is to come up with the most killer outfit and..,”
“You can’t be serious”.
“Listen child”, he responds in a perturbed inflection. “I may joke about a lot of things but I take my shopping very seriously and if you want to beat Ms. Seraphina this weekend then I strongly suggest you get in line. Besides, this is the same method I used to teach Scotty how to properly shop”.
“Hunh that explains why he has so many tee shirts”, she observes dryly.
“Scott is a work in progress”, he acquiesces, “but you, supposedly being an actual female should be better able to grasp the concept than his poor, distracted male mind. So get to shopping and if I approve of the outfit I’ll buy it for you but if not, then Lucy wins and you’ll have to wrestle her naked”.
“Supposedly?” she demands, planting her hands on her sinewy hips defiantly.
“Yes dearie, I said supposedly. You’re gonna have to prove your womanhood to me by shopping like a professional. Now this is how it’ll work. I am the referee and each time I disapprove of an outfit it’ll count as one slap on the mat. Three slaps and Lucy pins you, got it”?
“I guess so, whatever,” she sighs, shrugging her shoulders helplessly.
Following Cat through the maze of kiosks and boutiques Christian busies himself by absent mindedly playing with his phone, allowing the younger girl to lead the way. She pauses at a puppy store featuring a small, enclosed pen out front populated by several young puppies playfully frolicking in the straw lining the floor. Leaning over the edge of the railing she coos softly at the fluffy pets who respond to the woman’s outstretched hand by congregating around and taking turns at licking the fingers. With her thoughts floating away in a cirrocumulus cloud of cuteness she finds herself suddenly whisked back to the present by her would be instructor’s hand abruptly pulling her away.
“You can be counted out,” he advises in an air of hostility. “And this match also has a time limit, now break Lucy’s count and get your ass to shopping”.
Renewing her trek through the spacious, well-lit caverns of the mall she scans the signs posted above the entrances to various outlets including Radio Shack, Spencers, Game Stop and others, none of which being clothing related until she happens across a sign promoting a newly opened A’gaci store. Recognizing the name as a retailer of young, trendy apparel directed towards fashion conscious young women she elects to step inside. The pair is immediately approached by a stylishly dressed woman of about 30 years sporting chestnut brown hair tied neatly into a bun and topped off with a royal blue stewardess cap with a gold head band and a feather tucked into it. Beaming the clerk thrusts her hand outward in greeting but is rebuffed by Christian as he grabs Cat by the arms and escorts her out of the store.
“Stewardess cap with a gold headband”? He whisks her around to face him. “That’s as tacky as a dress over jeans! And it is also strike one. Lucy knocks you down and gets the first count. Do you submit to her obviously superior sense of fashion or do you shop”?
“Wait a minute”, she protests, her husky voice rising to a squeal. “Just because she wasn’t dressed to your satisfaction doesn’t mean I would have been”!
“You chose the store”, he rebuts thrusting a finger into her chest. “And any store that employs clerks who can’t properly dress themselves I mean, she probably wears checked trenches with matching baseball caps, sparkly crystal earrings and argyle golfer socks and she certainly has no business selling clothes to women. I can promise you that Lucy Seraphina wouldn’t be caught dead in that place”.
“And what makes you think Lucy is such a bloody fashion plate”?
“Because she’s a woman, something I’m trying to teach you to become. Now kick out and get back to shopping”.
Grumbling under her breath Cat resumes her search for a suitable vendor of apparel while her mind occupies itself backtracking through recent memories of her conversation with Scott in relation to her opponent at Six Flags over Georgia in Cobb County. From what she was able to glean from his description she pictured Lucy Seraphina as a bit of a goth girl, with wildly colored hair, pasty skin tone and typically dark attire, and usually casual, much like her own choices. Indeed, having seen the Russian woman backstage at previous events the implied image seemed to play out to the proverbial ‘T’. Even her entrance music, ‘Assassin’ by Muse – a fast paced guitar heavy piece featuring low key vocals and strikingly reminiscent in tone to the hair metal band Iron Maiden suggests a woman with comparable tastes to her own. So why then is Christian depicting her as the second coming of Tyra Banks?
With Cat scratching her head in confusion and slipping deeper into her musings Christian elects to take advantage of the lull by exploring some of the nearby stores. Leaving the youngster to her own devices he fully expected her to emerge with some sort of sport themed ensemble, likely with the coordination of a mosh pit. And despite his fashion challenge he would then relent and buy it any way, never once intending to make her over; simply wanting to have a little fun at her expense. He exits a beauty supply store with a small bag and shuffles around the corner to a nearby Victoria’s Secret, emerging minutes later with another bag. From there he makes his way into the adjacent Bath and body works and proceeds to browse the displayed inventory with a critical eye, pondering another potential purchase.
Continuing to roam the halls Christian’s assortment of bags has now grown into a full blown collection of bags stuffed with goods, enough to impel him into adding a luggage dolly to more conveniently haul his expensive trappings. Another store equates to another purchase with him lugging yet another bag featuring a stylish ensemble he had seen advertised on Ru Paul’s ‘Drag race’. This is followed by a trip to the pet store and the acquisition of another five pound box of cat nip to replace the one wasted recently. His travels next carry him to the food court where he reacts to the demands of his growling stomach and weary legs by stopping at a Smash Burger; treating himself to a meal of bacon cheese burger, chocolate shake and fried pickles. Accenting his meal with a bit of people watching and running various fed related issues through his head he quickly loses track of time as Chronos, as he is wont to do, sprouts wings and leaves him to his thoughts with nary a clue until he reaches up to casually scratch the tip of his nose which provides him with a peek at the linked, gold plated Lucian Piccard time piece. He gasps upon realization of the time and hurriedly dumps the cluttered tray into a nearby white plastic receptacle and grabs the loaded luggage dolly.
“Cat, it’s time to go”. Exhausted from his own excursion Christian pays no mind to finding Cat precisely where he left her over two hours ago, still with no bags, in front of the central mall directory. His only concern is figuring out how to load everything into the car, get it home and take a nice, hot bath.
“But, what about my match”, she whines. “And I still don’t understand how the whole accessorize thing works, and what about makeup; do I use a heavy base or a light foundation”?
“Don’t worry about Lucy or any of that other stuff”, he offers. “She’s already won by count out. So let’s go home and you can figure out what you did wrong. Now, help me with my clothes, I’m tired”.
“Your clothes”! She cries. “Weren’t we supposed to get me something to wear”?
“Maybe next week, I’m tired and want to go home”.
“But I still don’t have any clothes”.
“Then you’ll have to wrestle naked”.
“This is bloody great”, her protestations echo through the halls but fall on deaf ears with the co-owner of SCW more interested in his own details. Trotting up to him she jerks a handful of bags from her boss’ shoulder and then drafts in behind him, continuing to grumble.
“I get my arse beat by Marilyn Monroe at the inaugural ‘Bashin with fashion’ and now I have to wrestle Lucy Seraphina naked in front of a crowd of people”.
“Eh, it could be worse”, he replies indifferently, quickening his pace and pulling ahead of his fashionably challenged protégé.
“Oh it will be,” she snarls on the nether side of a forked tongue. “Wait until I spring my little surprise you bleeding catfish”.