The city of angels, a place that, to many hovers between dreams and reality. A once near forgotten colonial outpost, the pueblo metamorphosed into an agrarian paradise owing to its sandy beaches, towering palm trees swaying in the gentle ocean breeze and hospitable climate before once again reinventing itself as the central hub for the burgeoning motion picture industry. While the palms and climate remained, they were forced to take a step back to the glamour and glitz of high-profile celebrities sashaying about the busy shopping districts of its Beverly Hills suburb and of course Tinsel Town itself, Hollywood. Visitors seemed to care less for the natural splendor and more for the gem studded fashionistas, expensive cars and homes which sprouted an entirely new industry, celebrity sightseeing. Tour busses roam Santa Monia Boulevard, one of the primary arteries to the city, their diesel fueled engines churning out noxious black clouds of exhaust. Street vendors line the sidewalks, their eagle-eyed gazes hunting for tourists, hawking maps of celebrity homes and chasing down anyone showing even the most remote interest.

A few short blocks north sits another vein of commerce, the even more famous Hollywood Boulevard where Chloe Benton strolls casually along the marble and gold walk of fame. Pausing every few steps for a glance at the gold stars emblazoned into the sidewalk bearing the name of movie stars, musicians, director and producers. Some display a list of achievements, others a simple camera or bullhorn and some bear a hand imprint in the cement. Recognizing the name of Aliens star Sigourney Weaver, she drops down for a closer look. Ignoring the assiduity of the street vendors trying to sell her various Knick knacks supposedly related to the stars represented by the walk of fame. Catching a glimpse of the stars’ handprint in the sidewalk she places her own inside of it, curiously comparing herself to the actress. She frowns, pulling it away, cradling the hand while resuming her trek.

“My hands are so tiny,” she mutters softly.

Continuing she crosses the notorious Vine Street ambling towards the Museum of illusions nestled into the corner of a tawny, non-descript concrete building resembling more a bank branch than a tourist attraction. The museum if flanked by the colorful signs of two offshoot attractions, looking to capture some of the spillage of the museum: Upside Down House and Giant’s house. Offering unique perspectives to the world the sites hold true to their names. Chloe passes them by, her eyes trained to her phone, specifically, the time.

“Oh fudge! I better hurry or I’m gonna miss the boat!”

Quickening her stride the ginger topped tourist blows past a number of hawks, squawking into her wake. Her simple black and white sneakers carrying her 100-pound frame nimbly over the rigid walkway, weaving in, out and between groups of tourists flocked together at a bus stop. The sun shines directly overhead, painting the honking cars, flat footed pedestrians and streets with afternoon rays.  Absently the trotting teenager adjusts the position of a silver and black Las Vegas Raiders ballcap and rambles on until spying a taxicab parked outside of a Starbucks Coffee shop. She breaks into a full run noticing a middle-aged man with a dark, sun-drenched complexion stepping to the vehicle. Just as he reaches for the door of the white Dodge Charger. She cries out, anxiously waving her hand to draw his attention. He regards the girl curiously through charcoal marbles as she approaches huffing,

“I-I need a r-ride please,”’ she wheezes. Reaching into the hip pocket of snug fitting blue jeans she pulls out a wallet and asks, “H-How much?”

“Where are you going?” he seems to demand in thickly accented, broken English leaving her to guess him as being from somewhere in the middle east.

“I-I’m g-g-going to the P-Port of L-Los Angeles,” she stammers breathily. “P-P-Pier 13.”

The thinly built man takes a sip of his drink, nodding softly, gesturing her into the back seat. With a grateful smile she dislodges the neon pink ‘My Little Pony’ backpack and tosses it into the vehicle, stepping in after it and slams the door shut. With the press of a red button the V6 engine roars to life voraciously feeding on the fuel supplied by a heavy foot and belching out plumes of caustic white smoke from the violently spinning tires. The four-wheeled barbarian obnoxiously careens into traffic, the honking protests of the plebian machinery drowned out by its bellicose battle cry.  Chloe, slammed back into the seat by the homicidal launch buckles up, snapping the over the shoulder harness across her simple white tee with a resounding click. She prefers not to watch the streets whizzing by and instead shoves her face into the appetizing glow of her cell phone. Activating the GPS service, she thumbs in the desired destination and is fed an estimated arrival time of just under fifteen minutes.

Two minutes and nineteen seconds later she is pulled from her reverie by the driver’s fragmented words,

“We are here,” he says, slapping the T-Bar console mounted shifter into park. He cranes his neck, turning around to face his disheveled client, “That will be one hundred thirty-seven dollars and twenty-four cents,” he mumbles.

“F-For a two-minute ride?” she stumbles over the words, her mind clearly not anticipating such an egregious sum. “I-I-Isn’t th-that a lot?”

“Don’t forget the tip.”

With a sigh of capitulation, she begins to rifle through her backpack for the appropriate sum. Her diminutive digits pulling out pieces of clothing, a makeup kit, hairbrush, perfume and finally a haggard nest of crumbled bills. She picks them out counting out loud as she goes,

“Twenty, Twenty-five, thirty, thirty-one, fifty-one… I-I-I’m sorry Mr. Taxi driver man, I-I’m a slow c-counter,” she offers weakly and returns to the bills. She manages to fish out an assortment of Twenties and tens, counting them until reaching the magical number, “One hundred thirty-seven dollars and twenty-four cents,” she says handing the money over.

“You forgot the tip,” he snipes.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she offers, demurely returning to her pack. A frown arcs over her sunken eyes upon noticing that all she has left are a clutch of ones. Preoccupied with the contents of her bag she fails to notice the gleaming white cruise liner being untethered from the pier. She rummages further still but is unable to find any larger denominations. “I-I’m s-sorry Mr. Sir, a-all I have left is a bunch of ones.”

“I will take them all,” he snorts, snatching the Two hundred sixty-eight one-dollar bills from the girl’s outstretched hand. “Now you must leave.”

Her hands are a blur grabbing and stuffing the scattered contents back into the bag, an effort that consumes several minutes of precious time while a foghorn pierces the air. With the last item hastily shoved inside she struggles to zip the bag closed and only by holding it to the floor with her feet and by using both hands is she finally able to close it. Slinging it over her shoulder she thrusts open the black leather padded door ajar and steps out onto the hot asphalt. No sooner than she can close it does the car fishtail maniacally back into traffic.

“Th-Thank you Mr. Man, sir!” she offers to the Dodge disappearing in a voluminous cloud of tire smoke. She shakes her head, confused by the breakneck departure and turns towards an unexpectedly empty pier. “Oh no!”

Heart pounding, her small feet explode into a full sprint, charging down the burnished plank jetty, dodging and weaving around clusters of people snapping pictures with their cell phones and waving goodbye to loved ones lining the promenade. She extends her arms hoping to grab hold of the synthetic black dock tie only to see the triple knotted far end fall into the azure waters lining the coast. Released from the ship the line is ratcheted back in by a dock worker who regards her critically.

“Miss your boat?” he questions indifferently, his sunbaked face focused on the task at hand. “Sorry kid but it ain’t gonna be back for a couple weeks,” he mutters in a dry southern twang, spitting out a dark brown wad of tobacco. “Come back in two weeks, ask if they’ll honor your ticket.”

“I-Is there a-another w-way?” Chloe gasps, her burning lungs dry heaving for gulps of the humid early summer air. “M-Maybe a boat th-that can c-catch up to it? I-I-It’s r-really imp-portent to me. M-My asshole b-boss just re-reinstated me, b-but if I m-miss the boat h-he’ll indefinitely f-fire me again.”

The man, tall and lanky, brushes aside an errant start of dirty brown hair, his grey-green eyes shimmering in confusion under an arced brow. He studies the girl’s round face, her gaze sullen and downturned, biting on her lower lip and sweating profusely from the sprint down the quarter mile long pier. He shakes his head in empathy.

“I’m sorry,” he grumbles, reeling in the last few feet of the dock line. “We don’t have anything like that…” a pause breaks his flow with a thought sliding into home plate. “But you might be able to hitch a ride on one of the fishing boats down yonder on the north end of the marina. They come and go all the time.”

Thanking him profusely Chloe turns and begins her third sprint of the day, legs pumping madly, thighs burning, lungs ablaze and heart playing a boogie beat. Her jaw is agape, having abandoned the limited supply of air available to the nostrils in favor of a more cavernous mouth. Her pace begins to slow. Gradually succumbing to the demands of her weary legs but the mind overrides her petite body, insisting on ‘just a few more steps’ until she is unable to run any further and collapses in a withered heap. Lined up along the much smaller docks are numerous fishing boats parading their sea worthiness in front of her desperate eyes. She takes a few moments to catch her breath and regain some of her depleted strength before swinging. But she misses, the small, open excursion boat has already been booked to capacity the captain tells her flatly. Dejected but not deterred she swings again, a speedy looking white deck boat with seating for six plus amenities. It too has been chartered and unavailable. Unwilling to give up she swings once more.

This vessel, a 30-foot red and white lobster boat sporting a black keel appears available at first glance. Chloe trots up a weathered wooden boarding ramp, her gaze fixated on a pilot house affixed to the top of the cabin. An older man wearing a ratty olive drab coat stands behind the antiquated looking boat’s wheel with six wooden spokes wrapped on the ends in tattered grey duct tape protruding beyond the felloe. The sturdily built man busies himself with a can of malt liquor, adjusting the brim of his grey leather ballcap to accommodate the changing position of the sun.

He casts a casual glance through steel-grey eyes towards her and offers a curt nod. She waves back, stopping just short of the edge of the boat. Reaching up he runs a huge, rough hand along a few curly strands of dark brown hair and turns to face her. His expression belies his demeanor, a coriaceous scowl framed by thick, greying sideburns and a thin mustache. He leans against the chest high brim of the pilot house, his body swaying ever so slightly, despite the absence of waves.

“What can I do for ya Missy?” he asks gruffly and a moderate, Boston accent.

“I-I-I n-need a ride please? I-I m-m-missed the cruise ship a-and m-my boss is g-gonna fire me again if I-I miss my m-m-match against J-Jessie Salco,” she whimpers, intimidated by the man’s rugged presentation. She tries and fails to follow his eyes as they appear to be wavering with his body. Fearing the worst, her eyes are drawn downwards towards the plank with a jutted lower lip, pouting. “P-Pretty please Mr. Sir?”

Draining the remains of the silver can of Steel Reserve, he crushes it and tosses it over his beefy shoulder where it lands with a clang beside five yellow 30-gallon plastic DOT barrels nestled in a sliding rack on the right of the stern.

“I’ll tell ya what I’m gonna do little lady,” he belches, reaching down for another can which is popped open. Taking a long swig he continues, “I’ll get ya to yer big ole boat if ya agree to give me a hand with what I wanna do.”

“S-Sure!” she agrees, bobbing her head eagerly with voluminous ginger tresses jumping for joy. “A-Anything you want Mr. Sir!”

“For starters,” he growls, firing up the inboard V8 engine. “My name is Quaid. Now, get on board and pull in that ramp, then go the stern and untie that tether.”

Still trying to catch her breath Chloe grabs the six feet by two feet plank by the corners. Planting her sneakered feet against the rough, anti-slip strips lining the sides and pulls the heavy object, reinforced with additional cross pieces lining the underside. Leaning back she grunts mightily, the platform grudgingly giving way to the demands of her body until it is slid into a fitted section of the water logged deck and latched securely in place.

“I-I…”

“The next thing is to drink this,” he interrupts. tossing her a 24 ounce can of malt liquor which is caught between her chest and arms. “I ain’t about to go out to sea with a first mate that ain’t drunk. So, chug that bad boy and let’s set sail.”

“B-B-But I’m n-not old enough t-to drink,” she protests hesitantly. “I-I j-just turned 18 a few m-months ago.”

“Out on the open water nobody gives a shit,” he snaps. “Besides, that stuff will put hair on your chest. Now pop that top and get to drinkin’.”

Cracking the thin, aluminum tab open to pop the opening Chloe raises the heavy can to her lips and takes a curious sip. Swishing the cold brew between her cheeks she notes a somewhat sweet blend of barley and corn before swallowing. The drink flows smoothly down her parched throat, grateful for the relief following an afternoon of running.

“That beer ain’t gonna drink itself,” Quaid cackles. “Turn that thing upside down so we can get goin’.”

She does as instructed, tilting her head back and allows the lager to rush down her open throat. She notices her head feeling lighter and skin growing flushed with each subsequent gulp until reaching the frothy bottom of the can.

“Now just toss it aside so we can get to work.”

The can hits the deck with a hollow clang against the hard wood and the boat is finally put into motion. The vessel lunges forward through the water thrusting Chloe from a seated position to prone. Bracing herself against the heavy, torn and faded gray leather pontoon seat which has been bolted down onto the flooring. Reaching up she grabs hold of a leather restraint draped over the seat and uses the strap to pull herself upright.

Then it hits her. Twenty-four ounces of 9.5% alcohol consumed in less than a minute has quickly been absorbed into the bloodstream and has worked its way through. The small young woman’s 100 lbs. body proves no match for the sugar fermented intoxicant, and she is forced to brace herself against the seat while the world spins around her.

“Wh-What is it th-that you n-need me t-to do?” she asks, shaking her head vigorously trying to depart the free spinning merry go round.

“There’s a shark swimming in these waters,” he replies hoarsely, the man’s voice struggling to be heard over the thundering engine. “A big un, and I aim ta catch it.” Turning around he notes her attempts to regain her equilibrium and grins, chuckling. With beefy index finger her directs her attention towards the row of barrels. “In front of the barrels is a five-gallon bucket with a lid filled with chum. I want you to take that lid off and shovel some into the water.”

“Wh-What’s it do?”

“It’s fish bait,” he says. “It’ll attract all the big fish in the water to it. That stuff’s like candy to ‘em, they can’t resist it.”

Popping the orange plastic lid Chloe is immediately repulsed by the foul odor and turns away from it, grimacing. The bucket is laden with bit and pieces of fish; meat, bone, internal organs and lots of blood. Shoving an aluminum single piece ice scoop into the putrid concoction she quickly tosses it overboard with a hurried flick of the wrist. The chum lands with a splash, some of the pieces sinking, with the bloated organs managing to stay afloat, enveloped by a crimson coated marker bobbing with the gentle waves of the slowly escalating current.

“Th-This stuff smells l-like my stepmother’s perfume.”

“Sounds like your stepmother and my ex-wife have something in common,” Quaid observes dryly. “Go ahead and drop one more marker,” he commands. “Then put that blasted lid back on. We’ll slow down ‘n see if we get anything.”

Slowly the afternoon sun continues its trek across the boundless breadth of the uncluttered sky. The ocean water laps lazily against the sides of the trawler. Quaid leans against the steel railing of the pilot house, his steely gaze trained on the horizon, staring into the aqueous abyss. The seagulls have departed in favor of the shoreline leaving him alone to his thoughts. Draining another can of Steel Reserve, he tosses the crumbled container over his shoulder and onto the deck. It lands mere inches from Chloe, seated on the deck staring absently into the darkening waters. Her gaze wavers with her head, a product of a third can of malt liquor. She contentiously shakes her cranium in another effort to depart the ceaseless merry-go-round to no avail. The ride proves as stubborn as a proverbial mule eventually leading her to rest it against the faded white paint of the side railing, spinning ever faster in a vortex of torpor.

Looking up over the railing she sees nothing of interest, only a maroon trail of cruor. Stifling a yawn, she glances up towards the pilot house where Quaid stares ahead muttering under his breath. With a sigh she turns her attention back to the water and frowns. For more than six hours she had been chucking the bait into the water with nothing more than a pair of seagulls to show for it. The seagulls have long since departed without so much as a squawk.

“M-Mr. Shark, sir? I-I-I know you c-can hear me. I-I’ve been t-t-trying to f-feed you for six hours n-now b-b-but you won’t eat, w-why? D-Do you like another k-kind of food, l-like cupcakes, or ice cream maybe? P-P-Please come out Mr. S-Shark. I w-want to be friends. Please?”

The water in the boat’s wake churns as a massive, pointed snout emerges from the surface. The shark stares at Chloe through lifeless black lenses, its massive dull grey head watching her curiously. A towering four-foot dorsal fin trails some ten feet behind it with a thinner, but equally rangy caudal fin following another ten feet back. She gasps in amazement, estimating the inquisitive Carcharodon carcharias at close to 25 feet in length.

“W-Wow,” she grins in admiration, “Y-You’re a big one. B-But are you a boy shark or a g-girl shark? I-I’m sorry if I-I mislabeled you. I-I want to use th-the correct pronouns.”

The shark inches forward to mere inches from the stern with its two feet wide jaws agape displaying rows of serrated, triangular teeth up to two inches in length. It closes its jaws at the sight of the diminutive hand reaching out towards it and angles its nose up slightly allowing her to pet it. She runs her hand along the rough skin feeling the edginess of the V-shaped dermal denticles lining the behemoth’s entire body. The shark flicks its tail from side to side, seemingly happy with the girl’s gesture of friendship and playfully bobs its head asking for more attention. Her eyes widen as her mind fishes up an idea nearly as substantial as her new friend. Removing the affable pink backpack, she begins to fumble about for some unknown object.

“D-Do you want t-to play?”

Quaid steps carefully across the pilot house, his badly scuffed work boots surrounded by crushed empty cans. Absently he kicks them aside, reaching for a sturdy looking nine-foot fishing rod tucked into the front right corner secured by a simple latch. He releases the latch with a metallic click, lifting the black and white fiberglass and graphite rod by the black foam spiral fore grip for a closer inspection. He runs his fingers along the extra-large reel seat, loaded with 200 pounds test line dabs at the lower roller guide with the tip of his index finger. Reaching for another can of malt liquor from a red and white ice chest bungee corded by the plastic handles to a pair of fastening hooks on the deck, he cracks the can open with a winded sigh.

“Don’t look like we’re gonna get to break you in today,” he mutters. “Thousand bucks for you, but not a blasted fish in sight. Been dropping chum markers for several hours now but it don’t look like it’s gonna be our day. Ah well,” cracking a toothy grin he cackles, “At least we got each other.”

Turning his gaze from the rod and back to the open sea his mind begins to wander, swimming away from the ebbs and flows of the present towards the wilder waves of yesteryear. He smiles reliving old adventures, from bagging a 2100-pound Great White after a seven-hour battle to harpooning an errant bull shark having swam its way from the Gulf of Mexico into the fresh waters of the Louisiana Bayou, and to nearly being eaten by a rogue tiger shark. Running the tip of his middle finger along a faded scar stretching from the left earlobe to the lower jaw he revisits an ill-advised slap fight against a Thresher shark. Several decades, hundreds of battles. Some won, some lost, but all memorable to the grizzled veteran of the sea. Taking in another swig he sets the rod down to his right leaning it against the barrier of the pilot house and cuts loose another elongated sigh.

“Show me the way to go home…
I’m tired and I want to go to bed…
I had a little drink about an hour ago…
And it’s gone right to my head.
Wherever I may roam…
By land or sea or home…
You can always hear me singing this song…
Show me the way to…

“Good boy Bruce!”

Caught by the unexpected high-pitched cry he spins on his heels shouting,

“Why do I always have to be interrupted when I… get… to... that… part...?”

His reddened eyes bulge in disbelief at the sight playing out mere feet in front of him. Chloe, all 5’1” 100 pounds of her playing fetch with the largest shark he has ever laid eyes on. His voice trips over distrust of his bugged-out orbs, watching Chloe hurl a football into the water and the gigantic elasmobranch fish retrieve and bring it back, placing it into her hands. He shakes his head, certain that the alcohol in his system has somehow altered his perception. He shakes it a second time, looking on dumbfounded as his passenger reaches over the edge of the stern to pet the beast on its pointed snout.

“Holy Jesus H. Christ,” he mumbles in a slurred Boston twang. “Almost 40 years of chasing after these bastards I ain’t never seen anything like this.”

Grabbing the rod, he steps to and slides down the short, aluminum ladder from the pilot house landing on the lower surface. Hurriedly he plops down into the fishing chair and begins to strap himself in, setting the rod into a cylindrical brass holder bolted to the deck. Reaching down to his left he snatches up an old, half rusted harpoon gun from beside the chair and tosses and end of rope to Chloe barking,

“Hurry up and tie that rope to the first barrel, we got us a shark to kill!”

“W-What? Noooo!” she cries, positioning herself in front of Bruce, obscuring Quaid’s view. “Mr. B-Bruce is m-my friend!” she laments. “I w-won’t l-l-let you h-hurt him!” Reaching over the edge she wraps her arms protectively around Bruce’s oversized head. “H-He’s my friend!”

“Hey ya little shit,” he snaps angrily. “I told you the conditions of this ride to your boat, help me catch and kill a shark. Now if ya ain’t gonna do it then jump your whiney ass overboard ya little brat!”

“No!” she screeches defiantly. “I-I won’t l-let anyb-body hurt my friend Mr. Brucie!”

“Fine,” he relents, unfastening the thick leather harness. “I’ll do it meself!” Reaching out he grabs Chloe by the arm and flings her across the deck where she lands with a thud against the side of the cabin, crumbling in a lifeless heap. “Now stay the hell out of my…?”

The shark has vanished, diving into the depths but Quaid remains undeterred. He pops the lid off the five-gallon chum bucket and turns it upside down, emptying its corporeal contents into the water. Quickly, he grabs a heavy slab of bluefish and affixes it to the end of the rod. He takes the rob into both hands, planting the rubber soles of his boost against the non-slip lining of the deck and heaves, casting the bait into the water. Setting the rod back down into its holder he attaches the rope from his harpoon gun to the first barrel as he had previously instructed his unconscious guest to do before strapping himself back in.

“Come at me ya big porker,” Quaid shouts bringing the harpoon gun to his shoulder, spying a fin off in the distance but closing in fast. “Just another hundred yards you scaly bastard and you’re all mine.” His lips quiver in anticipation, his eyes focused as a beam on the fin seeming to rise as the beast draw closer and closer. He places an agitated index finger on the cold, serrated trigger and draws a breath. “That’s it you…’

Bruce dives, removing himself from the line of fire. Slamming his fist in frustration against the arm of the fishing chair the man frantically loosens the harness and bolts to his feet. Approaching the end of the boat he peers into the water below, his crazed eyes rigorously scanning the royal blue surface for a sign of his quarry. Not satisfied he approaches the starboard side, again scrutinizing the tears of the Earth to no avail.

“Where are you ya overgrown bastard…?”

His question is quickly answered by a monumental thud against the port side sending the vessel careening onto its right and knocking Quaid from his feet. Desperately he reaches out grabbing of the iron footrest of the chair. He clings to it, gripping the metal piece with both hands as the barge is struck again, this time from the right side. Although the fisherman manages to hold on, the still unconscious Chloe is jettisoned into the salty pool along with the barrels, his fishing pole and harpoon gun. Panting frenetically, he scrambles back into the chair and works feverishly to strap himself back in, hoping to ride out the thunderous impacts.

Chloe lies face down in the water, but the warm, alkaline water flooding into her mouth and nostrils brings her to. She coughs madly, trying to clear her orifices and starts gently kicking her feet allowing her body to tread water, but the choppiness of the situation threatens to overwhelm the girl at any moment. Looking out she sees the boat listing heavily to its right side with Quaid, strapped into the chair scrambling to find something he can use against his toothy nemesis. One of the barrels is nudged up alongside her and she gratefully clamps her hands onto a pair of side handles. Looking down she recognizes her friend’s gigantic form swimming away from her towards the boat, determined to fight the man. She cries out, spitting a concerned cocktail of words and water,

“Mr. Bruce, nooo! H-He w-wants to hurt you!” Her distress falls on deaf ears however as he dives deeper. “Please, don’t let him hurt you? Run, Mr. Bruce, run!”

Digging through a pile of splintered rubble Quaid finds a large hunting knife which he places between his teeth. Looking up he notices the pilot house relatively unharmed and, making a quick survey of the area, detecting no signs of his enemy he decides to unfasten the harness once more. No sooner than the clamp is released the schooner is rammed again from the port side. Feeling his body threatening to tumble overboard the muscles in his legs tense up and he springs to onto the ladder leading the con. His hands flailing perilously, he barely scrapes by, clamping them onto the second rung from the bottom which he now uses to himself upward and out of harm’s way. Another blow is struck from starboard which sends him slamming into the banister. The knife still clenched between his teeth he takes hold of the wheel, using it to pull himself to a vertical position and anxiously fumbles over the ignition key to the right, but it only sputters, the inboard engine compromised by the violent assault. Angrily he slams the tip of the sharp blade into the wooden control panel.

“Son of a bitch!”

Bobbing in the water with her hands clutching the handles of the bright yellow barrel Chloe looks on helplessly as her friend engages the mad man, slamming full force into the crumbling craft yet again. The vessel sheds portions of its wooden hull sending splinters flying. Taking the knife into his hands Quaid braces against the lopsided boat, his eyes wide and psychotic. He snags a muddled red fishing spear with his free hand while Chloe pleads with him not to hurt her three-ton friend. He responds angrily, hurling a can of unopened beer towards her but she ducks behind the barrel, and rescues it from plummeting to the bottom. A piece of wood debris is chucked in her direction accompanied by a choice expletive,

“Shut the hell up ya snot nosed little brat!”

Bruce does not appear to take kindly to the verbal assault on the girl and leaps from the water onto the rear deck of the heavily listing boat. The sheer weight of the shark crushes the rear banister, sending more pieces of waterlogged timber flying. The boat begins to succumb to the new belligerent ballast, it’s rear deck almost fully submerged. Desperately Quaid thrusts the fishing spear at the beast, hoping to hit one of its obsidian orbs. He misses as Bruce violently thrashes his tail, pummeling the sides of the boats and rocking it aggressively. Chloe watches the scene unfold behind tear-drenched lenses, crying out and hurling various pieces of rubble in support of her friend. Another heavy thud of Bruce’s tail accompanied by a thunderous blow by his head effectively tears the stern from the vessel. It sinks silently into the depths with the former fishing boat ‘s bow lunging upwards causing the gruff old man to lose his grip and slide helplessly down what remains of the deck towards the shark’s gnashing teeth hysterically kicking his legs. Chloe screams in fear, her high-pitched shriek cracking through the thick, humid air,

“Nooo! P-P-Please, d-d-don’t kick poor Mr. Bruce! Y-You mean man!”

He tries to stab at the shark’s head with the knife, having lost the fishing spear but a single crunch of its expansive jaws clamping down puts a quick end to his struggles by severing his torso. A final, blood choked gurgle is heard as the legs are discarded in favor of the upper body, which is quietly dragged under the frothy waves. Scanning the scene intently for signs of her friend Chloe begins to weep openly, fearing the worst. She bows her head ready to mourn her loss until a splash nearby draw her attention. Looking up she recognizes Bruce’s formidable frame swimming towards her immediately lifting her spirits. In his jaws is Quaid’s bloodied head which he gently places into her hands. Clutching the head by a clump of hair she thrusts her arms around her friend offering a warm hug.

“You won!” She chokes, fighting back another downpour. “Y-You won! I-I’m so happy!”

Bruce accepts the congratulatory hug, remaining still for several moments until Chloe finally pulls herself away looking at him from behind a beaming façade. Lifting the head, she studies it for a moment and turns back to the shark who appears to be smiling at her.

“D-Do you want t-to play some m-more Mr. Bruce?”

Chucking the head into distance the massive Great White happily chases after and brings it back to her. She giggles, tossing it again and the pair plays until the translucent blue tint of the afternoon sky is threatened by the shadowy approach of dusk. The sun recedes towards the western horizon, doggedly hunted by the tenacious old moon. Exhausted, Chloe slumps onto her friend’s back her body finally succumbing to the excitement of the day with Bruce dutifully staying on the surface allowing her to sleep.

Christian Underwood, the co-owner of SCW gently hoists his soundly sleeping charge over his shoulder after she is brought aboard the 857-foot-long luxury cruise liner by members of the crew. The behemoth 77,000-ton monster dwarfs the ratty old fishing boat chugging alongside it, uploading Chloe’s belongings including a red and white cooler which he announces with a cackle,

“When she comes to, tell her the last round is on me, and make sure ta tell she’s welcome to hitch a ride on my boat any time she likes.”

Christian nods curtly, uncertain what to make of the fisherman’s haggard appearance. Carefully he loops the straps of her backpack over his vascular forearm, a layer of sunscreen offers gleaming protection against the early evening rays. He grips the ice chest by the handle and turns to walk Chloe to her assigned cabin but cranes his neck for one final glance at the boat as it starts to chug away. His hazel eyes pan down to the foamy white wake left astern and locks onto an abnormally large silhouette trailing it. A large dorsal fin quietly breaks the surface indicating the presence of a shark, a very big one. Staring through incredulous eyes at the creature for several moments he eventually pulls his attention away from the sight and back onto the task at hand muttering under his breath,

“That’s one big fucking shark.”

He is met by his husband of many years, Scott Schreiner at the top of the stairs who takes the bag and chest off his hands. For a moment he stares at Christian from behind a pair of black Arnette Swinger shades, pausing to thoughtfully stroke his white goatee. With Chloe draped over his shoulder he turns to Scott, studying the tanned, shirtless massively pumped 270-pound physique. The big man, clad only in a pair of black, spandex shorts and flip flops pulls his gaze down onto the varnished wooden deck, his unspoken worries bubbling to the surface as a clouded frown.

“Hey, you’re not mad at the poor kid again, are you?” He asks softly. “For missing the boat?”

“Nah,” Christian shakes his head resuming his trek with Scotty in tow. “Truth be told I’m kind of impressed that she was able to make it at all, shows she has at least some sense of professionalism. Come on, let’s get her to her cabin. Kat and Whisper will be delighted to see her.”

“I’mmm happy to shee you too Mishter Christian,” Chloe mumbles drunkenly, lifting her head slightly, her words slurred and completely out of sync with her thoughts, owing to the liquid courage coursing through her veins. “I can’t waiittt to beat up Jeshie Shalco.”

Her head drops again, thudding faintly against Christian’s sky-blue button down with folded sleeves as he carries through the narrow, barely three-foot-wide hallway, and loud snoring reverberating off the walls, following them closely.

Oliver Davis, a thin, balding man sporting a short cut, light brown beard with patches of grey sprinkled throughout which more closely resembles a five o’ clock shadow than a nurtured brush of facial hair to Chloe. She says nothing, opting to sit quietly while the British wrestling journalist sifts through a batch of notes hastily scribbled down onto a sheet of crumpled paper. The air conditioning in her small bedroom kicks on with a hum, despite the unusually cool day in North Las Vegas which prompts her to turn the volume on her laptop up. The fading roar of a jet engine briefly drowns out the chatter of birds stationed on a branch to a tree just outside her window. She looks on, oblivious to the sound of the aircraft, most likely a fighter jet from the nearby Nellis Air Force Base, taking its usual path toward a practice range 60 miles north. The Brit, engrossed in his preparation ignores the sound as well while busily organizing his notes. Finally satisfied he clips a small, black plastic microphone to the nape of his plain white tee shirt. With a gesture of his hairy, almost emaciated arms he signals his readiness.

Recognizing the signal, bobbing her head in affirmation, her thick, currant tresses bouncing in sync and straightens her posture. The black leather executive’s chair squeaks in protest despite the less than impressive load of barely 100 pounds as Chloe shifts her position. On the other end of the screen Davis holds up five fingers, slowly dropping them one by one in a silent countdown. Quickly she reaches down for one final adjustment, tugging at the hemline of her own white tee shirt and drawing a deep breath as her bottlecap brown eyes brighten.

“Good afternoon wrestling fans, I am Ollie Davis with Wrestletalk online”, he announces in a chipper inflection, his steel grey eyes drawing down on Chloe’s quartered off image on the monitor. “And we are joined today by SCW star Chloe Benton who, in just a few short days is scheduled to meet Masque DeLune at the Theodoros Vardinogiannis Stadium in Crete, Greece!”

“Chloe,” he begins, his once chipper voice drawing down to a decidedly somber inflection. “You are set to take on a woman who has taken SCW by storm. Not just a storm, mind you, but a bleeding hurricane of violence. Her style is unlike anything you, or anyone else for that matter, have encountered allowing her to rack up victory after victory and even the Bombshell Internet championship in about as much time as it took you to score your first, and only win.” A brief pause buys the fair skinned man, looking to be somewhere in his mid-thirties time to cough up the remnants of the recent change in weather into a tissue which is quietly disposed of. “How have you been preparing to deal with someone of such… notoriety?”

“I-I was scared at-at first,” she stammers. “I-I’ve seen a-all th-the t-t-talk ab-b-bout her on Twitter and it f-frightened me. A-at first, I d-didn’t want to g-go b-but I m-managed to exchange s-some t-tweets back and forth w-with her a-and she seems really n-nice”.

“Nice?” Ollie demands behind a bushy, furrowed brow. “Chloe, this woman, Masque DeLune has been on a rampage since her debut. The entire women’s locker room is terrified of her! In the span of just a few months she has drawn more blood than the Red Cross, how is she nice?”

“Because” she begins, unfettered by the high-pitched challenge, “P-P-People d-d-don’t understand-stand her. Th-They didn’t t-talk to h-her l-like I did. Th-TThey don’t understand Ms. Masque a-and they t-t-treated her wrong s-so she f-fought back. I-I don’t want an en-enemy s-so I t-t-took a d-different approach a-and…”

“As I recall,” he interrupts. “Your first Twitter dialog with her didn’t go so smoothly and you even posted a public apology.”

“N-No it d-didn’t.” she concedes in her characteristic demure tonality. “I-I-I thought she was th-threatening m-me, wanting to be mean. I-It turned out to be s-someone else, a-a-and I was wrong, s-so I apolog-g-gized. S-She accepted m-my apology a-and n-now we’re friends. B-Being n-nice to her worked a-and she seems to b-be sweet”.

“Hunh, I wonder if that approach will work on tornados,” he mutters, showcasing a classically British dry sense of humor.

“I-I don’t know,” she replies taken aback, allowing Davis’ fastball to fly right over her head. “I-I’ve never t-t-tried it”.

“Alright”, he deadpans, collecting the discarded barb while seeking to get back on track. “Who’s to say that she isn’t merely pretending?”

“P-P-Pretending?” Chloe bobs her small head disconnectedly, her alabaster complexion glistening beneath the overhead lamp. “Wh-Why would she d-d-do that?” Drawing in a gulp of dusty Las Vegas air she draws down on Davis, her chestnut lenses focusing intently. “M-Mister D-Davis sir, p-p-people are inherently n-nice. I-I-I mean wh-why would a-anyone lie on T-Twitter?” A frown slides across the 18-year old’s soft, round face in quizzical pediment. “I-It’s not n-nice to j-just assume th-that people are l-lying on the i-internet. B-Besides, like I t-told you, we’re friends now”.

“You’re right,” he ‘concedes’ with an underlying hint of sarcasm. “I’ve never seen anyone, in all my years online, lie on the internet”.

“Th-That’s right,” she responds genially, her delicate emotions buoyed by the prospect of a new friend. “A-And you’ll see, we-we’re g-g-gonna g-go out and have a nice, friendly m-match. We’ll even s-shake hands!”

“I bet you will,” he dryly offers. “Well, I for one, want to wish you the best of luck in Greece”, he adds, peppering his words with a sense of finality. Inwardly exhausted from deciphering Chloe’s stumbling responses. The glow begins to fade from his professional mask as he unobtrusively gathers his notes. “Chloe is there anything you would like to add before we wrap this up?” he asks, while discreetly reaching for the microphone pinned to his shirt.

“I-It’s g-gonna be fun!”

“Friendship is magic,” he says, offering a parting shot as the screen goes abruptly blank, leaving Chloe looking on in stupefaction.

Moths flutter agitatedly about a streetlamp near the corner of St Louis and south Industrial Road, a rundown district immediately south of the Stratosphere Hotel and casino known for illegal prostitution, thefts, burglaries, car jackings and of course, drugs. Referred to by the locals as ‘crack alley’, it is permeated with rows of dilapidated stores, long since shuttered, litter infested parking lots, and numerous broken streetlamps lining the pothole riddled streets rendering them something more akin to a minefield than an avenue. A vast homeless encampment sits along Industrial underneath the well-traveled Sahara overpass. The chain link fencing formerly surrounding the area has long since been torn down, left to lie in a heap and allowing the dredges of sin city to invade the gravelly boneyard of refuse. Drug dealers and prostitutes meander through the camp, enduring the ever-lingering odor of urine and feces, hoping against hope to be able to conduct business. They eyeball anyone who ventures near the shoddily constructed tents made of discarded clothing, sticks and the occasional tarp sizing up potential buyers… or competition.

The lamp flickers out, just another unchecked box on the city of sin’s ‘to do’ list and briefly confuses the moths as a pair of footsteps softly approach. Stopping, a shadowy figure turns towards the vagabond tract. Two more pairs of feet follow closely behind, decidedly more pronounced with a heavy footed, lumbering gait thudding against the concrete roadmap formerly taken as a sidewalk. The trio stops and the lamp flickers back on, delighting the moths and revealing two, beefy figures draped from head to toe in dark clothing which serves to blend them with the shadows, their faces obscured by matching wide-brimmed fedoras and a downturned chin. The third, considerably smaller but also decked out in similar raiment looks toward the site, with long, flowing tresses of burnt orange hair cascading from the hat and down to the middle of the back and takes stock of the situation.

Chloe Benton huffs “T-the f-f-f-fucker b-better have m-my damned money-money”. A breeze rolls through, swirling about the zone, picking up and dropping pieces of paper, rolling along tumbleweeds and carrying the wafting stench of rotted food and careless human evacuation to her now grimacing face. “I-I-I should-d-d bust a c-cap in his ass for m-m-making me wait. I-I n-need to get home a-and-d-d h-help with the d-dishes.”

Looking down the street, just North of the encampment one of the two men flanking the diminutive Chloe spies a slender figure with a spasmodic gait ambling towards them, stopping every few yards and gesturing to a vacant building with his hands. The face of the single-story building sports a faded coat of white paint, accentuated by graffiti and doors, barricaded shut. Slowly, he break dances past the former home of the scandal ridden Crazy Horse Too Men’s club towards the group.

“I think that’s him”, the hulking man to Chloe’s left says in a throaty, sonorous growl, gesturing softly in his direction. “Higher than a fucking kite too”.

“Either that or the mother fucker’s being electrocuted”, his companion offers in a hushed whisper.

A loud screech emanates from the overhead pass, hard tires desperately grinding against the warmed asphalt of an oft traveled lane accompanied by the angry blaring of a car horn and followed by the acrid smell of burnt rubber. Although a welcome reprieve to the nostrils of those dwelling beneath the bridge the unexpected noise serves as an unexpected jolt to the jittery figure approaching them. He freezes momentarily, his hooded head gazing upwards towards the source of the commotion and assesses the situation.

“Man…” The man to Chloe’s left grumbles under his breath. “You’d think this idiot was a strung-out deer during hunting season. Taking a single step away from his companions towards the spooked representation of the local wildlife, he reaches towards the man and shouts, “Man, get your dumb ass over here, we ain’t got all night!”

Sparked back to his senses he resumes his trek, hastening his pace to a trot until reaching the group. The two bodyguards take station on either side with Chloe standing directly in front of him, each placing a meaty ham hock on a corresponding shoulder, a not-so-subtle hint to stand still while their boss searches him. She runs her delicate digits along the dirty grey blue jeans, pausing at the waist band and then to the insides of the battered black hoodie. Finding nothing she resumes her posture, nodding to her goon squad.

“So…” she begins in a softened tone. “W-wh-where is m-my money?”

“I haven’t sold it yet!” The fidgety ferret cries. His voice is acute, a sewing needle into the ears of the others and drawing a grimace from Chloe. “But I will get it, I’m supposed to be seeing a buyer tomorrow”. His limbs, agitated by his flying heartrate and exacerbated by nerves begin to twitch excitedly which prompts the bodyguards to grip him tightly by the arms. “I promise!”

Looking up at him she places her palm against his five o’ clock shadow, patting his cheek. Still caught in the vice-like grip of her cohorts, he clenches and unclenches his fist rapid fire mandating them to tighten the clamps, lifting the squirrel off his feet, exposing a series of faded red needle tracks running along his pallid, emaciated forearms.

“Oh, I-I k-know y-you will”.

“No!” He slobbers, his eyes glossy and red, brimming with tears. “I-I promise!” Escaping the barrier of his lids, the tears now freefall down his pock-marked face as he quivers in the grasp of her henchmen. “Please, please don’t hurt me”.

“N-No”, she replies, shaking her small head. “Th-that would be mean”.

Her reply draws a bemused response from her friends, but rather than say anything they instead stare blankly at the other as their queen reaches into the hip pocket of snugly fit black Wranglers with a soft, cream-colored hand and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper and a pen. Holding up before his streaked, alabaster face she uncrumples it and demands…

“W-wh-what d-d-d-does this s-say?”

“Uhh…” Straining his wildly dilated brown eyes he scrutinizes the irregular penmanship, hastily scribbled as if by a chicken on its way to the chopping block. “It says IOU 1 brick or $5,000 and it’s signed… Dale”.

“Th-th-that’s right”, she nods, folding the paper up and returning it to the confines of her pocket. “I-I-I g-gave you a b-b-b-brick of cr-crack cocaine. Do you r-realize how hard-hard it was t-to h-hide that from m-my stepmother? D-don’t you think m-my friends and I d-deserve compensation?”

Yes! Absolutely!”

“S-so do we”, she says, nodding at her men to set the struggling lab animal down. “A-and th-this time w-we’re g-going to make sure that you give us what we d-d-deserve”.

“H-How?” His heart skips a beat as images flood his mind bringing with them a riptide of emotions. “How are you… what are you going to do?”

“W-we’re go-going to say p-please”.

The words, though penetrating his ears, do not immediately hit home. Involuntarily he cringes at the expected answer, his wobbly knees giving way to the dirty sidewalk. His bloodshot eyes peek up over bushy, unkempt brows as her words finally hit home. A weak grin slides across his face upon realization as he leans forward, kissing Chloe’s black Chinese knockoff Air Jordans.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” He sputters. “You won’t regret this”.

With a nod from their boss the two henchmen pull Dale back to his feet. The limp smile slowly fades as Chloe places her hands on his shoulders, gripping the dirty, fraying fabric of his hoodie, her pink sparkled talons digging into the meatless bone of his deltoids as she clears her throat.

“One m-m-m-more th-thing,” she says in a hushed tone. Lowering her gaze to match his. “W-We d-don’t like m-m-mean people s-so you-you’re g-going to have t-to prove that y-you are a n-nice man”.

“H-h-how?” His response is shaken, a by-product of the drugs coursing through his fitful veins. “What do you want?”

An unanticipated smile sets his mind at ease, though not his paroxysmal limbs which continue to dance in the collective grasps of Chloe and her sidekicks.

“You-you’re g-g-going t-to ap-apologize f-for wasting our t-t-time a-a-and not only are y-you going to pay for the b-b-b-brick, but you also owe us t-t-two d-dollars each for b-bus fare”.

The weary smile returns to his face, and he bobs his head up and down excitedly, mouthing the word ‘yes’ repeatedly.

“I am truly sorry that I was unable to pay you today he offers in a still unsteady, though decidedly more relieved southern drawl. “I promise I will get you your money… and the bus… fare. Confused by the unusual demand but not being one to look a gift horse in the mouth Dale nods eagerly in confirmation of the demands. “M-May I go now?” He asks hopefully.

Chloe dismisses him with a wave of her hand as she and her guards release the grateful junkie. “G-Go on, g-g-get out of here”, she says turning away from him. “The last b-bus runs in t-twenty m-minutes. We have t-to go”.

Dale follows suit, as his newly energized legs pump madly propelling him quickly from the scene leaving the trio to themselves as they turn north on Industrial breaking into a quickened stride of their own. Briskly they leave behind the homeless encampment and the breaching stench granting their grateful nostrils a reprieve. Two short blocks and they silently cross the decaying asphalt of the street and turn right onto St. Louis Avenue. Passing by a shuttered donut shop, it’s windows heavily boarded up with shards of glass glistening underneath the streetlamp. Graffiti lines the faded white paint of brick walls, battered by an endless convoy of vandals. Continuing down the path, they stride purposefully over the cracked concrete of the perilously neglected sidewalk. Tufts of grass spring though the cracks with weeds lining the erratic edges. In short order the dingy concrete jungle slowly begins to give way to the sprawling acreage of the Stratosphere. Towering above the city at a magnificent height of 1,149 feet the tower, with its observation deck, roller coaster and slingshot style ride atop the needle stands as the tallest structure in the western United States, and a beacon to site seers, thrill seekers and harried drug lords trying to make the bus. Chloe pauses, glancing up at the tower with its neon red needle.

“We-we’re almost-most th-there”, she offers. “J-just two m-more blocks”.

Invigorated by the news the group quickens their pace which carries them into a considerably more attractive neighborhood. Stores brightly lit and in good working order greet them, the whine of car engines greet their ears courtesy of motorists traveling to and from the casino and of course, the flashing neon announcing the amenities inside the tower awaiting guests. The street grows populated once more as regular people amble about the area, a stark contrast to where they have come from. Looking ahead Chloe makes out the familiar 7-11 logo, brightly lit, standing at the corner of St. Louis and Fairfield.

“Th-there”, she says, jutting her index finger towards the glowing signage. ”Th-the bus st-stop is at that c-c-corner.

Finally, with their journey nearing an end the group takes station at the sign marked stop, taking advantage of a covered bronze bench sitting beneath an advertisement laden canopy. Additional pedestrians meander about the sidewalk, mostly ignoring the somewhat odd triumvirate, preferring to focus on their own business. A quick turn of the head by the ringleader reveals that they are along in their wait for the public transport. The two bodyguards quietly converse among themselves briefly before turning to the boss.

“Hey, how are we gonna pay the fare? We don’t have any money, remember?”

“L-L-Leave that t-to me”, Chloe answers softly, her voice withdrawn to avoid any eavesdroppers. “I have an-an id-dea”.

Satisfied the pair withdraw from conversation and take up the time-honored avocation of people watching. Gone are the smelly, unkempt denizens of ‘crack alley’, in their place brighter faces, filled with youthful enthusiasm and a sense of purpose, a welcome change of scenery. So wrapped in their observations are they that the trio almost fails to notice the less than timely arrival of the buss. Only the release of pressure built up the vehicle’s air brakes alerts them. They rise from their shared seat with the two big men deferring to their dainty boss. A heavy-set man clad in dark blue slacks with a sky blue button up and black tie turns in the burdened driver’s seat which groans in protest. He glares at them expectantly from behind a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses, his vacant brown eyes matching the leathery tone of his face. With a beefy finger he gestures to the coin collector, a device to collect and count the coins so favored by his riders. Chloe pauses, looking behind to make sure that no one is behind them watching and again down the empty aisle of the bus. Satisfied she leans in towards the driver who regards her with a furrowed brow. Reaching into the pocket of her black wool, full length overcoat she produces a Ziplock bag, bulging with small, chuffy, soft pink rock-like pellets.

“W-we d-d-don’t have any money sir”, she begins guardedly. “B-but we n-need a ride a-and can p-pay you with this”.

Leaning over he pulls down his glasses to inspect the package asking through an irritated inflection, “Young lady, is that what I think it is?”

“I-I-It’s P-Peruvian Pink, 99% purity. Th-this bag is worth $5,000 on th-the street. I-it’s yours i-if you g-give us a ride”.

The driver’s reflection remains unchanged, despite the highly unusual offer, most likely conditioned by driving overnight in Sin City, dealing with drunks, prostitutes, addicts, gang members and other assorted inhabitants of the city of sin. He shakes his head; the man’s jowls swaying in motion and then turns his gaze back upon her.

“Girl, what the hell kind of drug dealer are you?”



“I-I’m n-not a drug d-d-d-dealer mama!” Instinctively, she cowers in the looming presence of her stepmother looming over her. Backing once more into the breakfast bar she finds herself trapped in the face of the imminent threat posed by Jessica Benton’s inflamed disposition. “I-I can p-prove it!” she cries, raising her arms to protect her face from the expected blow, a blow which does not come.

“Alright, how can you prove it?” she demands through clenched teeth, still glowering down at her errant stepdaughter.

“I-I’ve had several m-m-matches already,” the girl stammers nervously, hoping not to further enflame her stepmother’s notoriously volcanic temper. “S-some of them are on y-YouTube. I-I can sh-show you o-on my phone”.

“Alright”, Mt. Jessica relents, taking a step back, allowing Chloe to retrieve her phone from the white, scuff marked top of the breakfast bar. “Show me, and you better not be pulling my leg, or I’m gonna be pulling your hair, do you understand me?”

“Y-Yes mama, I u-understand”.  Activating the silver cased iPhone XS, she opens the YouTube app and types her name into the search bar. A split second later numerous videos are shown on the six-and-a-half-inch screen which she scrolls through with via fingertip. Eventually she settles on the only match she has ever won, a hotly debated contest against SCW washout Taylor Blazer. With a fidgeting index finger, she touches the encircled white arrow prompting the video to play as she sets the phone down for Jessica to watch. Training her eyes on the device the woman folds her fleshy arms indifferently across the chest and peers down as the video buffers momentarily before starting to play. Instantly she recognizes her stepdaughter in the ring, wearing a simple black leotard with matching boots, elbow and knee pads. The two women lock up and proceed to grapple, with Chloe generally coming out on the short ends of the exchanges. This continues for several minutes with the pair watching in silence.

Chloe’s mind, however, is a chaotic mess. A violently swirling torrent of fears and anxieties streaming through her conscious thoughts inflicting the teen with pusillanimous sentiments courtesy of a turbulent upbringing. Since the age of four, following the death of her mother when her father remarried, Jessica has proven to be temperamental and violent, constantly abusing Chloe and her elder stepsister Janice. Often for the most innocuous of reasons leading the youngest to develop a stuttering problem. Though her parents did try to get her help with this issue, they were never able to decipher the cause and eventually cast it aside leaving the girl to deal with the affliction on her own. The beatings never stopped, or even slow down. They continued unabated, aided by her father’s alcoholism leading his wife, Jessica to shoulder much of the burden, a task ill suited to a woman with no coping mechanisms other than violence. She grew up in fear of her stepmother and remains so, despite the proof of her argument staring the other woman right in the eyes, an argument to which only the unreasonable would not concede.

“Hmph”, the elder of the two grunts, folding her arms across her hefty chest.

Her gaze remains fixed on the spectacle unfolding before her eyes however, as she continues to watch the events as they unfold. Chloe stands by nervously, her gaze torn between the match playing out and her stepmother’s intractable façade. Several more tense moments pass in silence with the youngster anxiously shifting her stance until the match reaches its conclusion as Chloe wins in a surprising manner to the delight of the crowd. The screen goes blank as she reaches to shut down the append then glaring up at Jessica in nervous anticipation. The woman remains silent a moment longer before clearing her throat with a stout cough.

“So, this you what you do?” She asks in a raspy, smoker’s voice, “Roll around on the floor with other girls?”

“It’s c-c-called wrestling m-mama”, she pleads from behind glassy brown saucers. “I-It’s a c-competition. W-When you win y-y-you g-get paid more, a-and I won!”

“I see that”, she grunts. “And just how much did you get paid?”

Chloe falls silent, her mind racing feverishly in search of an acceptable answer to the question posed, a fair question but not one she wanted to be entirely forthright about. The Benton family has never had much in the way of money with the vast majority of her father’s earnings going to bills and necessities with what little that was left over invariably finding its way into Jessica’s pocket. If the family finances were a rope, Jessica would be Bill Pickett. She replays the events following her unexpected win and elects to tell the truth, albeit indirectly.

“R-remember a f-few months ago wh-when I p-p-paid the rent-rent a-and bought that n-new TV?” She queries with an uneasy eye on the big woman who remains with her arms folded, listening intently. “I-I b-b-bought it w-with the m-m-money I won th-that night”.

“You made all that money from playing with that one girl for ten minutes?” She asks in an even tone, surprising Chloe, her mind still occupied with the potential proposed by her stepdaughter. If she could pay the rent and then some after ten minutes…

“Now, what about this other match?” She asks. “How much can you make doing that?”

“I-It’s a gauntlet ma-match mama”, the girl explains, making certain to keep her already soft voice as smooth as she can to avoid triggering the ticking time bomb Jessica Benton is frequently known to be. “I-I’m wr-wrestling f-f-five other g-girls, Kat Jones, I-I told you a-b-bout her, M-Mercedes Vargas, L-L-L-Lavana Cade, Crystal Zurich… I-I-I’m n-not really sure h-how to pron-n-nounce her name and B-B-Bella Madison. I-If I w-win I c-can make t-twice as m-much!”

With a hefty sigh Jessica withdraws, still considering the argument posed, though her suddenly more relaxed demeanor, evidenced by her withdrawal and the slightest hint of a smirk edging out at the corner of her thin lips.

“All of that for letting other girls sit on your face for a few minutes?” She asks with a sarcastic leer. “Alright, you can go”, she finally relents. “Go on and play with your sex doll, I’ll finish up here”.

“Mama, it’s a…”

“Don’t argue missy, I’ve already given you my permission”.

“Y-Yes ma’am”, Chloe says demurely. Stepping towards her the much smaller teen leans up on her pink, painted toes, craning her neck to offer a kiss on the cheek. “Th-Thank you m-mama”.

Jessica’s response, is curt as she juts a corpulent hook towards the hallway, barking in a Southern Virginia twang, “Go on now, git!”

Chloe beats a hasty retreat, the soft thudding of her feet against the brown carpet reverberating through the hall as she darts back into her room feeling a jolt of energy surging through her reinvigorated body. The door shuts with a soft clank as the youngster is careful not to slam it and risk irritating the temperamental Mount Jessica and leaving the elder woman to her pecuniary thoughts.

Once inside Chloe drops down onto the edge of the unmade twin bed, the quilted blanket wrapped around a pair of teddy bears, with a blue unicorn peeking through the sincere wrapping. Drawing a gorged sigh she exhales emphatically, releasing the pent-up tension and anxiety in a grateful huff. Though thankful for this small victory, she realizes that the battle itself is far from won, a realization that propels her to reach under the well-worn bed to pull out the grappling dummy. Now it is time to prepare for the war, a contest against five other Bombshells far more experienced than herself. With the dummy now in the middle of the floor she straddles its plush torso but does nothing. Her vacant eyes are withdrawn into the thoroughly pelted pothole of her psyche.

“I need to do something”, she utters softly to herself. “But what?”

She considers the lineup against her in the upcoming gauntlet match, her mind reviewing the qualifications and records of each opponent in the SCW announcer’s voice. Kat Jones, a woman, larger than herself…

“Hunh, aren’t they all?”

… and an adept technical wrestler specializing in submissions. Levana Cade, an aggressive fighter known for her temper as well as tendencies towards brawling. Bella Madison, another technical wrestler, but also known to sprinkle in some catch techniques along with high spots from time a time, a very well-rounded individual. The remaining two opponents are Crystal Zdunich and Mercedes Vargas. A frown drops across her face as she can gather no recollections of having seen them in action, knowing only their faces and names, two names with whom she has yet to cross paths. An arduous groan drives through the narrowed corridor of her lips and she straightens her posture atop the dummy. She reaches for the phone jettisoned atop her bed and puts her fingers to work. She brings up the google search engine and types Crystal’s name into the blank bar, pressing enter. The screen promptly lights up, the blue text against a near blinding white background elicits a series of rapid eye blinks as they adjust the new conditions. Scrolling down the links, she selects one hosted by a site called ‘Wrestler’s database’ figuring it to be more detail oriented and reads aloud…

“Crystal Zdunich is a professional wrestler signed to SCW where she currently competes… yeah, yeah, I know that”, she mutters while scrolling for more pertinent information which is found in short order, eliciting an all stop from her fingers. Steadying the rolling page, she reads on, “Multiple time Bombshell, Roulette and tag team champion… four-time hall of famer… wait, what?” Her eyes zero in on the annotation as her suddenly flurried thought process attempts to nail down an obtrusive bone of contention. “How do you join the same hall of fame four times, what the hell?” With her mind devouring the meat off the bone she opens a fresh tab and revisits Twitter, the social media app where she has seen the most of Zdunich. Recalling the pompous bombast and self-aggrandizement so frequent in the woman’s posts she is quick to connect the remaining two pieces. “I get it, she probably made her own personal hall of fame”.

With a shrug, she closes the second app and returns to google, typing in the name of the final participant in the gauntlet match, Mercedes Vargas. Selecting the link which strikes as most promising she is returned to ‘Wrestler’s database’ and again reads out loud,

“From Buenos Aires, Argentina, currently living in Los Angeles, California Mercedes Vargas is primarily a technical wrestler who accents her offense with hints of Lucha Libre, a style favored in Mexico and strong style. A veteran of more than a decade Mercedes boasts a championship history consisting of The World Bombshell championship twice, The SCW Roulette championship four times, World Bombshell tag team championship three times, two-time SCW triple crown champion, Grand Slam Champion…” Her voice tapers off into a hushed silence as her eyes slam into a great wall of accomplishments, a list needing several additional pages and listing titles held, length of title reigns, records held, awards won and more. Regaining her bearings Chloe scrolls flippantly through the list, not bothering to read, merely curious as to its length. The robust catalog appears unending, spurring her to cease scrolling and glare incredulously at the rolling logs of credentials. “Holy… what the… talk about a wall of text. H-How did she even have time to breathe?” She shakes her head, her wavy mane bobbing in sync. “No,” she says with a degree of finality in her tone, driving it home by dropping the phone back onto her bed. “This must be made up, like Crystal’s stuff. It’s probably some wrestler wiki.”

“I’ve got a match to try and win”, she mutters, breathing in a fresh swell of resolve. “I’m not going to be intimidated by a bunch of fake accomplishments”.

Mounting the grappling dummy, she renews her preparation in earnest, propelled by a rush of adrenaline and heightened by a single sentence being relayed in the voice of the SCW ring announcer as she rains down bruising elbow strikes – grunting with each blow landed upon the misshapen head of the vinyl sparring partner…

“Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the 2022 Blaze of Glory Bombshell Gauntlet match and a guaranteed title match, Chloe Benton!”

Julius Caesar, regarded by many as Rome’s greatest general had served the empire tirelessly his entire career. The mighty leader was born into a patrician family on the 12th day of July 100 BC in the Roman capital. Some would say that given his family’s power and political influence he had wanted for nothing, but they underestimated the raging inferno of ambition that blazed within the cauldron of his belly. Through shrewd political machinations he managed to work his way from Soldier of Rome to dictator perpetuo. His life had been one of violence, from the eight years long siege of Gaul, to his famous Egyptian tryst and to quelling domestic uprisings against his claims, he became a man with a will forged in fire, wholly accustomed to bloodshed. Such a man would certainly develop many enemies over time, known and unknown.

Several seemingly innocuous incidents had taken place, leading to calls on his life by members of the senate. From a simple rejection of a gift offered by the senate, taken in severe umbrage, to refuting the tribune of Rex by his constituents and finally to his stubborn refusal to don a diadem given him by the plebs of the land and insisting it be used to honor the Roman God Jupiter through sacrifice. This final, adroit political maneuver proved a windfall to Caesar’s popularity with the citizens of Rome, much to the chagrin of the increasingly powerless senate. Finally, on the fateful day of March 15th 44 BC on the steps leading into the Theatre of Pompey the Dictator for life found himself surrounded by the billowy, flowing robes of up 60 Roman senators bearing knives and was stabbed nearly two dozen times. As he lay dying on the ornately decorated marble steps, his eyes trained on the clear sky on that cold, winter mourning he looked onto the faces of his attackers, seeing the expected and the unexpected and with the final droplets of blood pulsing from his wounds he uttered his final words,

‘Et tu Chloe?’

“I-I-I’m sorry,” Chloe nervously shifts in a plush backed black lounge chair, her body drawing a slight groan as it slides against the unwilling leather. “My m-mind was wander-wandering. C-could you repeat-repeat the question please?”

Seated across her in a matching chair, a stocky, bald, British man named Simon Miller peers briefly at his jotted down notes, smiles and nods his head. He shifts position himself, bringing his right leg up to drape it over the left. As he settles into his new pose his right foot casually shakes to the beat of an earworm while he returns to his notes.

“Sure,” he says in a warm, friendly tone. Having been advised by colleagues of the Chloe’s tendency to stutter and allow her mind to wander under questioning he had prepared himself for such moments. He continues, his glimmering baby blues making direct contact with her nervously shifting almonds. “Ever since your debut in SCW you seem to have been victimized by…” he pauses, allowing his mind to dig through the trenches of negative terminology in search of a suitably clean term, “shall we say… disaffected booking?” He prepares his case adding, “You debuted against a double black belt in martial arts. That was followed by a booking against one of the most notorious and dangerous women on the entire roster and this weekend you now find yourself going up against a woman standing six feet tall and weighing close to bloody 200 pounds in Taylor Blazer. A blind chap could see that this is not proper booking of a wrestler with your experience”.

Pondering his words Chloe allows her mind to dive into the murky depths of the questionable booking while her eyes explore the neatly appointed room. Between their respective seats a faux lion skin rug sprawls out on the varnished, wood inspired tiles which line the breadth of the 12 by 12-foot room. Metallic black floor lamps sit in opposing corners, their matching gold accents glimmering beneath white shades. Behind Simon on the far wall a What Culture Wrestling logo hangs in testament to the stewardship of the room. Drawing a breath Chloe exhales,

“I-I haven’t had m-much luck”, she says softly. “I mean I’ve h-heard p-people talking ab-bout it on s-social media and on TV, b-but I haven’t thought much on it. C-can I ask you a question Mr. Simon?”

A brief chuckle slips through his pursed lips, having been caught by surprise with the gesture of respect. “Please,” he says, thrusting his hand out. “I’m just plain old Simon, you don’t need to add the ‘mister’. Leaning back into his chair his smile brightens while pondering what sort of question she could possibly ask of him. He continues with a weak shrug of his thick shoulders.  “Normally I’m supposed to be asking the questions but hey, it’s a free country, so ask me anything you want”.

Glancing demurely down at her pink and white ‘Hare Jordan’ sneakers she nods. “Th-thank you sir. I was wonder-wondering… since you’re a wrestling man…” she pauses as her mind trips up on a stubble of words. “I-I mean journalist, maybe… c-could you tell me anything about T-Taylor Breeze?”

“Blazer,” he laughs, “her name is Taylor Blazer”.

“I-I’m sorry”.

“Don’t be!” he insists while showing her his palms. “Everybody makes mistakes. I do it all the time and that one was pretty funny. I don’t know very much about her to be honest with you, she’s fairly new to the business, like you. But what I can tell you, aside from her gigantism, is that she seems to be at home on the mat”. Rising the wrestling journo pulls his chair along as he inches closer to his interview subject, bringing himself mere inches from her. “My associates tell me that she has no qualms about cheating and has been known to bring a pair of brass knuckles to the ring from time to time but she’s pretty slick about it. She comes from Miami and wrestled in high school...,” he pauses to rifle through his notes, passing up lesser caliber bullet points on other topics in favor of researched notations on the topic at hand. “It says here she was a two-time state champion in Florida”. Setting the notes down he leans forward looking Chloe directly in the eye and, speaking softly says, “This bird is bonafide, and this is what I mean about disaffected booking. Somebody with her credentials should be starting a lot higher. It’s not fair to you and it’s not fair to her. I mean, who oversees booking here, Stevie Wonder?”

“M-Mr. Christian”, she offers the morsal nervously, her thoughts consumed with worry over possible reprisals from her temperamental boss.

“Christian Underwood, the co-owner? That’s as bad as Vince McMahon still booking WWE, and we all know how that’s been working out lately. Of all the things the owner of a national level promotion has to worry about he wants to handle the booking too?”

“I-I think so”. I-I mean I’m n-not really sure th-that it’s him b-b-booking me like this”. Her shaky attempt at damage control does little to assuage her fears. She considers the possibility that he would forget about it during the holiday break, but the kernel fails to sprout, and she quickly casts the raw morsel aside. This interview will become public record once it is aired. Anyone and everyone involved with SCW will have access to the fruit born within. “C-can you edit this p-part out, please?” She whimpers, her fluttering voice jousting her jitters to hold back a steadily cracking wall of tears. “I-I’m scared he m-might see it and and d-do something”.

“Yeah, sure”. Puzzled, Simon sets the notes down atop the well-padded arm rest and regards his subject curiously. Picking up on the quivering queues the man promptly surmises that she is frightened of him. Not just the man, but his power. Being a figurehead of one of the fastest growing promotions in the world, it stands to reason his reach would be commensurate. “A bloody Caesar complex”, he muses under his breath before turning his attention back to Chloe and the task at hand, calming her tattered nerves. “It’s a good thing I don’t have to wrestle for that dodgy chav”.

From behind an arced brow, he studies the expression of his guest, hoping she follows the breadcrumbs. Slowly her tormented visage softens to a hopeful realization.

“Y-you’re a wrestler too?” she asks.

Yes, I am”, he replies beaming. “I’ve been wrestling the indies back home in the UK off and on for about ten years now”. Leaning forward he offers a reassuring pat on the knee. “I too, have worked for, and reported on my share of disagreeable despots like your Mr. Underwood. I know exactly what you’re going through”.

“Wow, I had no idea!” Her tightly pursed lips crack through the final layers of protection, allowing a delicate smile to debut. “Is it hard, hard to do both?” She asks.

“Oh, you bet your arse!” he chirps. “It’s sort of like being Clark Kent and Superman”. Recognizing that the intended interview has flown too far off course the muscular mat man allows himself to slip into a more comfortable lane. “I see all sorts of shenanigans backstage at shows when I wrestle, but do I report on it or do I remain one of the boys?” he offers, reasoning that he could always put out a simple puff piece. But for now, he would rather get to know her better, especially after hearing the opinions on Chloe Benton from various colleagues. “Just like the movies, it’s a juggling act”.

“Wow”, a deluge of thoughts run rampant through her conscious mind, like a litter of puppies, each one begging for attention, and pawing at her with questions. Why become a writer and a wrestler, which one is more fun, and does he have any advice for a rookie? The largest of the pack manages to push through its’ siblings, making its presence known. “C-can I ask you something?”

“Sure Chloe”, he replies congenially. “We’re all friends here, ask me anything you want”.

“O-ok”, she mutters, slightly taken aback by the friendly tone in the big man’s baritone voice. “I-I-I was w-wondering if… if you m-maybe have some advice for me, s-something to help me get b-better?”

“Hmm…” He drops his head down, thoughtfully rubbing his clean-shaven cheek while considering what he could only see as a reticent plea for help. The young woman has certainly had a rough time since her debut and a part of him insists he give her the best advice he can. “Ok Chloe”, he pipes up, returning his gaze to her. “I’m going to ask you a question and I want you to be 100 percent honest with me, alright?”

She nods timidly, her billowy chestnut mane bobbing in agreement.

“When you start a match, what are you thinking the moment that bell rings?”

“I-I’m not sure”, she stammers, caught off guard by the unexpected question. “It’s… it’s hard to say really. I-I mean everything is happening so fast. I know what I have to d-do, but it’s like m-my brain is… arguing with me. Do I do this, or do I do that? W-what are th-they gonna d-do? So, I go in, hoping… hoping I can hurt them early and m-maybe get lucky I-I guess”.

“I see”, he nods in understanding. “Now, let me tell you what I see...,” he pauses, rounding up his thoughts and corralling them onto his train of thought. “I see somebody who – like you said – isn’t sure what the hell to do and just goes in guns blazing, and unless you’re the bloody Road Warriors it’s just not going to work. Seeing how, unlike Animal and Hawk, you’re a lot smaller than most of your opponents, I can bloody well guarantee it. I get the image of an actor suffering from stage fright”. Gesturing to the lamps stationed in opposing corners he continues, “once those lights hit you, your whole brain goes haywire. You have ten thousand different thoughts hitting you all at once, but you can only choose one and how the hell do you do that?” Shifting into gear he taps her forearm and rolls on. “You can’t, so you have to rely on instinct”.

“B-but I do have a plan!” She protests. “I always have something in mind before the the match starts”.

“But when that bell rings…” he clasps his hands and quickly spreads his fingers in a mock explosion. “Everything goes to hell, am I right?”

“Yes,” the teen moans, sinking into her chair. “B-but what do I do? H-how d-do I fix it?”

“That’s the hard part”’ he concedes. “Mind you, I am no psychologist, but I would suggest that you need to find a way to slow everything down”.

“How?”

“I’m not really sure”, he sighs. He badly wants to help the poor, pathetic soul in front of him, but her problem appears to be beyond his level of proficiency. “What I can offer is that you have to relax before your matches; take your mind from it. Maybe you could read a book, draw, play a video game… something, anything relaxing that puts your head somewhere else”. With a shrug of his hefty shoulders, he throws his hands up. “Maybe even meditate. My point is, you can’t go beating yourself up worrying about your match for hours or days on end. It will only drive you bonkers. Once you come up with a plan, do whatever you have to do to relax. Your mind needs rest as much as your body, and don’t worry about forgetting about your game plan – your young mind won’t do that – just don’t let it consume you.” Satisfied with his response the elder grappler leans back in his seat, his smile unwavering as he studies her face for a reaction.

“Well…” Chloe’s voice tapers off, consumed by an emerging thought making a fashionably late entrance. Reviewing it her chestnut almonds brighten noticeably, and she taps the man on the hand, eager to relay the message. “I-I do like to p-play with my hair. I-it’s something I do at home all the t-time a-and it relaxes me. I don’t think of anything else while I’m doing my hair”. Her thoughtful gaze is overrun by a whimsical reverie as fond memories of times since passed frolic on the lawn of former melancholy. “I can sit there for hours”, she states excitedly. “Whipping it into different styles, coloring, teasing it and trimming it, I’m constantly messing with it. I guess you could call it a hobby”.

Looking on through slit, blue lenses Simon further studies the young woman as she regales time spent cajoling her coif into a masterpiece, caught up in the moment and allowing the world to continue without her presence. She’s onto something, he muses to himself, but another revelation makes itself known, one that stops his mind dead in its tracks…

She isn’t stuttering anymore!

That must be it, he reasons. Her safe place where she retreats to from the arduous trek of life for shelter. No longer stuttering he assumes her mind to finally be clear of debris and a clear mind..., suddenly he snaps his fingers, the impact reverberates off the smooth white walls of the room drawing Chloe’s attention from the impromptu daydream and back onto him.

“That’s it!” he announces excitedly. “Your hair is what relaxes you, your quiet place… “I wish I could say the same for myself”, he quips, slapping his bald head with a chuckle, “but alas, I don’t have any. Again, I’m no expert, but if I were you, I would make a pre-match ritual of playing with my hair. Just, don’t get too involved with it and miss your match, you know?”

“I could set an alarm or ask security to notify me or something”, she suggests.

“There you go,” he says, extending his arms as if presenting her with an unseen gift. “Get your plan in place, that’s the most important part. Plan your work then work your plan. This Christian fellow may think he’s Julius Caesar but, despite conquering the entire bleeding world even Caesar succumbed to a well-executed plan. You can show this lad that you can handle Taylor Blazer, and you won’t back down”.

“Caesar will fall this weekend!”

“Good morning, everyone, this is Dave Alverez with Wrestlegab radio, and we are on the phone with the most recent SCW signee, Chloe Benton who is scheduled to make her debut this Sunday against another recent addition to the Bombshell roster in Adrienne Beaufort. Now technically a rookie the same as you Adrienne is a graduate of the notorious Go gym and has access to experienced trainers, managers and sparring partners. Do you have anything particular in mind to help you deal with this advantage of hers?”

It is just another lazy Monday afternoon in the cafeteria of Quannah McCall elementary school. Children grateful for the reprieve from the doldrums of study hustle about to and from the buffet style line, filling their trays with whatever appeals to their eyes, in this case spaghetti and meatballs with garlic breadsticks and the obligatory soda from a red and black automated dispenser emblazoned with the Coca Cola logo. Leaving the line they meander in between plastic picnic style tables in search of a suitable place to sit, preferably with friends, their sneakers squeaking against the freshly polished white tile floor. The chirping of their shoes intermingles with the high-pitched squeal of excited voices happily discussing their after-school plans, reverberating off the ivory hued cinderblock walls creating a makeshift echo chamber. Stationed against the far wall, several teachers line up, some leaning against the wall, and others simply folding their arms across their chests while they watch their charges mingle.

Paul Bunton, a balding, middle-aged man unimpressively decked out in a simple purple button up with grey sport jacket and matching jeans stifles a yawn, not much interested in the goings on within the cafeteria. Still, he has a job to do and attentively scans the crowd trying to locate each of his 19 students. Most are seated in proximity, with one group, the would-be athletes, assuming there is such a thing in the sixth grade having pushed their tables together. Twelve in all they playfully banter back and forth, five girls and seven boys. Cheerleaders, football players and basketball players, all of them school standouts having showed a precociousness for their chosen extracurricular activities. Scanning further along the aisle he spots another group seated together, six in all. He quickly identifies them as his academic standouts. Quieter than the rest they hover over textbooks, making use of the free time to catch up on their studies. No horseplay, no shouting, just staid concentration on the material laid out beside their mis-matched plastic food trays. He exhales another sigh, running his weathered hand through a thinning scalp. 18 have been accounted for laving one. Scanning further, his bespectacled eyes tightening under the intense glare of the ceiling mounted lights he spies a small, lone figure, seated by herself. Devouring the spaghetti, the loner pauses to wipe her mouth with a paper napkin, collecting the refuse from the corners of her lips and then takes a swig of what appears to be Coke to wash it down.

He recognizes the tender light brown tresses cascading down the middle of her back, accentuated by the gold-colored San Francisco 49ers football jacket. Chloe Benton the outcast of the bunch. A young girl with some serious problems who had already been held back a year. While the faculty attributed her problems to simple inattentiveness, Paul was not so sure. He believed there to be an underlying problem, perhaps something to do with her home life causing the issue with her schoolwork. While he looks on his mind attempts to wade deeper into the black hole of the youngster’s past, and he fails to notice a trio of his ‘athletes’ craning their heads collectively in Chloe’s direction while speaking in a decidedly more subdued manner. The trio rises from the table with their friends looking on offering encouragement as they approach the solitary girl who now has her face buried in a magazine.

“Hey there Clusterfuck”, a tall, black girl, a member of the basketball team named Denise Fry speaks up nudging the nonresponsive Chloe’s head with her hand. “Whatcha reading?” It’s just a wrestling magazine”, she replies softly, not bothering to meet the Cheshire-like gaze of her school mates. “And call me Chloe please”. Stepping beside Denise a boy sporting a sun-lit blonde crew cut reaches down and jerks the magazine from her grasp. “You don’t mind if we take a look, do you?” he asks in a non-rhetorical tone. Finally, she turns in her seat to face the trio but does not rise from it. The feathered bangs of her undulating tawny mane falling just below a pair of arced brows, masking her perturbance. “Give it back please?” Chloe asks in a soft, almost demure inflection. The trio ignores her plea, flipping through the pages of the periodical, cracking offhand jokes amongst themselves before returning their attention back to still seated Chloe. “You like watching fat guys dance in their underwear, don’t you?” Denise quips, nudging the third member of the trio, a shorter brown-haired boy sporting a wiry frame whom she recognized as Keith, another member of the football team. On queue Keith takes the magazine from Denise and holds it up high, taunting Chloe who has now risen from her seat. “You want it back?” he teases, holding it up high. Much shorter than the mirthic misfits she tries to no avail to reclaim her property, jumping as high as she can, her plain white sneakers squeaking against the tile upon landing. Another attempt is made without success before Denise snatches the magazine from her friend and takes it into both hands holding it directly in front of Chloe’s face. The smaller girl tries again but the bigger girl is faster and hoists it out of reach before tearing it into pieces. Tossing the shredded remains on the floor the group starts to laugh, high fiving one another.

With tears welling in her chocolate frosted orbs Chloe cries out and angrily lunges at Denise “That was mine, you bitch!” With her fingers extended like talons she slashes at the big girl’s face, but Denise blocks the attempt and responds with a swift right hook catching her target square on the jaw. The force of the blow sends Chloe reeling and she crashes onto the table atop the scattered remnants of her food. The impact causes the cheap plastic to break sending Chloe and her meal to the floor landing in a tangled heap. Before Denise can pursue her assault, it is broken up by several teachers who physically place themselves between the children forcing them apart. Chloe’s teacher Paul Bunton kneels to gather the sobbing victim as security rushes in to whisk away the combatants.

Suffering from anxiety Chloe has long been acquainted with adversity, be it verbal, emotional, physical or even internal. Classified as a feeling of fear, dread, and uneasiness the disorder tends to creep into every facet of the individual’s life from the mundane to the extraordinary and is known to manifest itself in a variety of ways including difficulty breathing in more severe cases, to feeling weak or tired physically, to trembling and shaking and even stuttering in social settings. To the afflicted it is an omnipresent disorder which can consume the thought processes of an individual by whole, a collapsed star that takes everything with it leaving nothing but rubble in it’s wake.

“I – I’m sorry, I was d – distracted”, she offers as a subdued form of apology. “B – but yeah, s – she h – has all of th – these p – p – people to help her a – and other stuff but like M – Mike Tyson said… I forget when… I – I think it was him… anyway h – he said e – everybody has a plan until they get punched I – in the face. So, I – I don’t know, maybe A – Adri – Adri- she can b – beat me up, b – but I’m going to be t – trying to win too…”

An audible groan, while soft and low key is detected by the subject emanating from the other end of the conversation, she says nothing, allowing the thoughts fluttering about her mind to converge as birds into a flock and retreat into the sanctuary of the nest tucked away within her deeper consciousness.

Her cheek stinging, Chloe raises her right arm while sliding along the cold alabaster tile floor or her family’s kitchen to defend from a second blow. Her efforts are in vain as the arm is gripped by the fleshy claw of her stepmother, a hulking, heavyset woman in her mid-thirties who relentlessly stalks the girl and violently pulls her back to her feet by the hair only to send her crashing back onto the unforgiving surface with another stinging slap which reverberates throughout the low - rent three-bedroom apartment.

“What on Earth possessed you to start a fight at school?” The seething bear-like woman demands while closing the gap to her prey. “This family has enough problems without you adding to them!”

“I – I – I’m sorry m – momma!” the fawn wails plaintively, her cries unheard by outside world, safely separated by the concrete walls of the single-story dwelling. “D – Denise… Denise t – t - t – tore up my m – magazine and I g – got mad. I – I’m sorry momma, p – p – p – please don’t hurt m – me!”

With the fawn desperately flailing about the bear raises her arm once more, moving in for the kill, but the lamentations prove too strident prompting her to turn to another member of the household Janice, her daughter by a previous marriage looking on from the adjacent living room. Snarling at the eldest of the two half – siblings she commands the dark-haired young woman of about 16 to turn up the television set in hopes of drowning the noise.

“I’ll show you mad!”

Muffled musings can be discerned on the other end of the call but try as she may Chloe can make no sense of them. To her, someone may as well be finger drumming the device. Patiently she waits, strumming her delicate digits to the muted beat of an earworm. After several quiescent minutes her reverie is broken by the cracked voice of the moderator.

“Forgive us for the delay, “he offers in a disingenuous tone while clearing his throat. She surmises that he is more interested in deflecting potential hearsay with an excuse than in the truth. “We were having some technical difficulties on our end, but we have them worked out now. Continuing with our conversation, Chloe, how do you see your match against The French Rose playing out? Adrienne, like yourself, is a rookie, but in addition to the advantages afforded by her team at Go gym she also holds black belts in both Judo and Karate. How do you plan on countering such a unique style?”

“I – I’m not sure j – just y – yet...,” she stammers. “I – I mean her style – style is a l – lot different th – than anything I – I – I’ve en – encountered b – before. B – b – but I do have five m – months of ex – experience to fuh – fall b – back on”.

“Describe your experience for our listeners?”

Sobbing loudly Chloe grips a red body pillow tightly, looking for the solace of a warm embrace. Tears free fall down her dimpled cheeks and onto the soft velour fabric of the casing. Wrapping her legs around the pillow she rolls onto her side into a semi – fetal position and pulls a blanket over her head, hiding behind an extra layer of security to protect her badly wounded psyche. Still, the tearful lamentations carry on through the heavy, quilted comforter resounding throughout the shared bedroom. To her left in an adjacent twin-size bed her stepsister Janice buries her face in a recent copy of Teen magazine sporting the smiling face of Khloe Kardashian on the cover. But try as she may the elder of the pair finds it troublesome at best reading the print, her concentration shattered by a hailstorm of sobbing, each distressed stone pelting the words from her thoughts before she can digest them. Angrily she tosses the periodical aside and glares at Chloe.

“Would you shut up already?” she demands. “You’ve been crying for almost an hour”.

“Th – that’s e – easy for you t – to say,” the younger one fires back through a choked whimper. “Y – you aren’t th – the one t – to get b – be – beat up twice in the s – same d – day”.

Janice, heavyset like her birth mother and much larger than her half – sibling rises, spinning onto the edge of her bed and glares through molten hazel slivers at the girl. “I’m trying to read you little bitch”, she insists. “If you’re gonna cry all fucking day then go into the bathroom and turn on the water or something because I don’t want to hear it”.

“Th – this is m – my room too… d - dummy”. Chloe fires back, clutching the body pillow more tightly. She hadn’t intended to shoot an insult at her sister, but antagonism has a decided tendency to fire indiscriminately and in delicate situations like this with the beleaguered girl trying to avoid her sister’s wrath the derelict projectile nonetheless finds its’ mark.

“What did you just call me?” Janice demands, bolting to her feet. Before a faltering reply can be offered, she savagely grabs at the younger sibling, violently jerking her from the ill – perceived security of the blanket and slams her into the wooden nightstand separating the two beds. Chloe’s head makes direct contact with the edge of the stand with her body weight collapsing against it. The brunt force of the impact sends a shared blue porcelain lamp with mis-matched tan shade toppling to the brick – colored carpeting and shattering on impact. The stand follows suit, one of its flimsy legs snapping under the weight of the victim. Janice, rather than pursuing further violence immediately stops upon noticing the broken lamp. Thinking quickly to avoid her temperamental mother’s wrath she pulls away and loudly announces, “Mom! Chloe broke the nightstand and the lamp!”

“I – I’ve been in a – a lot of fights a – and I learned a lot from – from them. I – haven’t w – won any yet b- but I – I’m g – getting better every – every t – time”.

“So.., you’ve been wrestling for five months but you have yet to win a match, is that right?”

“Y – yes… I – I mean I’m g – getting better uh all the t – time. I just h – have to uhh I mean… I – I can… I – I think I c – can..., I h – haven’t won any – any matches y – yet b – but I can… no! I – I mean… God damn it!”

The airwaves go silent, replaced by the steady hum of a dial tone. Having become frustrated with her own inability to communicate with others under pressure, perceived or otherwise, Chloe resorts to the only tactic to yield consistent, if not desirable results, running. The dial tone is greeted with laughter by the DJ on the open end who chuckles while shutting down the call for good.

“That’s one way to get out of a tough spot I guess”, he snickers before adding, “Man, this Benton girl is a train wreck, doesn’t know if she’s coming or going. This is legalized murder. Beaufort is going to murder her. Fans, I humbly suggest this match to be a good time to hit the concession stands”. He laughs again, a hearty chuckle lacking any sense of compassion or warmth, more focused on moving to his next segment. “Unless you’re a psycho like me who enjoys watching executions”.