“I don’t know what you have me hooked on, but I’m going to recommend it to all of my friends”.
Peering through hazy eyes at the well-toned silhouette standing over her Cat Riley studies the visage hovering over her prone body while holding a small rectangular object. Although she cannot distinguish his features which are blurred by the ceiling light flashing from behind him she can readily tell that the unidentified man is athletic in build, sporting a chiseled frame topped off by long, shoulder length hair. And going by his apparent concern for her condition, looking on and watching her closely the woozy Briton detects a fuzzy sign like a faded image as seen through a pair of binoculars at close range, but a sign nonetheless. It is that one she latches onto as would a hungry lioness being offered a well done slab of prime rib; feeling his strong hand gripping her shoulder gently she snatches the beef and draws it to her ravenous canines sucking the tasty morsels from the bone.
Grimacing in distaste, Christian Underwood yanks his hand away and uses the hem of his dark double breasted blazer to dry his fingers off while steadily holding his cellphone in his other hand, the camera directed onto Cat, lying in the King-sized bed in the luxury stateroom suite. He says nothing, his attention focused on the mobile camera/phone directed at the young blonde eying him eagerly from underneath the beige and white quilted blanket. Jettisoning the covers to the warm apricot carpeting she moans softly,
“Mmmm.., I love a man who plays hard to get”.
Reaching down and grabbing her oversized blue tee shirt by the hem line she pulls it off and discards the fabric to the floor alongside the quilt exposing her fully nude body. Reaching down and running her slender fingers across waxen skin then smoothly sliding over a splayed torso towards exposed, heaving teats Cat lifts her flaxen maned head, glaring through molten cerulean lanterns and purrs in a husky, English accent,
“You’re like a wild animal, a sexy beast roaming about his territory and I’m a little girl who just wandered in. I want you to run your hair over my breasts like a feather duster then jump on and ravage me like the unsuspecting prey that I am. Treat me like a piece of meat”.
“Uhh..,” Stammering over the unexpected turn of events, Christian lowers his phone catching a good view of the double, ceiling to floor double sliding glass doors showcasing the expansive rolling blue waters of the open ocean and takes a step back towards the door. “No offense honey but..,” he stops himself mid-sentence hoping to avoid agitating the heavily drugged woman while trying mightily to suppress an obnoxious guffaw over the proverbial gold mine being fed to his phone’s video camera. Dropping into silence he subtly reaches for the door knob behind him and twists it into the unlocked position. Pulling it open he offers a smirking reply, “I’m late for my facial”, and quickly ducks out slamming it shut behind him.
In the brightly lit hallway he leans against the wall next to the door of Cat’s suite and rears his head back with a grievous sigh, only to jerk it away mere moments later as the crash and shattering of a porcelain lamp being hurled into it jolts him into an upright position.
“You bloody arsehole!” She cries angrily from within the room, her voice reverberating throughout the compartment and startling a pair of SCW fans filing past him in the hall. “Get back in here”! Exchanging bewildered glances, first with one another and then with Christian they stare at him, their blank expressions nonetheless asking an unnecessary question.
“Mystery guest for the show”, he offers with a sheepish grin and a meek shrugging of his shoulders. “She kind of didn’t want to come”.
“Come back love. Stick your bridle into my mouth and ride me like a Pegasus”!
Not wishing to delve any further into detail Christian excuses himself from the couple by diving into his cellphone and is quickly swept away by the rapidly flowing stream of information as the couple ebbs off with the tide towards the outside deck. With his mind still on Cat and the strange events taking place behind the soft, cream colored walls he begins to surf the waves of Google, hanging ten over a digital pipeline which directs him to a binary island explaining the effects of chloroform.
The chemical compound was first described and produced by German physicist Moldenhawer in 1830 by mixing chlorinated lime with ethanol believing he had prepared chloric ether. This was followed up by the American physician Samuel Guthrie who also believed to have prepared chloric ether in 1831. Guthrie immediately noted its anesthetic properties. Following their discoveries and notations the compound quickly found its way into use as an anesthetic during surgery for many years until the chemical’s harmful side effects on the liver and kidneys were noted along with occasional dizziness, nausea, disorientation and headaches and confirmed by multiple independent tests.
“All this science is making me sleepy”, Christian yawns softly dropping the phone to his side and muttering to himself. He slides the phone into his side pocket and pressed the right side of his head against the wall. Against the thrum of the ocean he picks up on the faint sound of snoring emanating from the room and sighs, shuffling his feet into action. “I guess I should go to the store and pick up some ibuprofen, she’s probably gonna have a whopper of a headache”.
“Ungghh, my head is killing me”.
With a prepared smile Christian reaches over to grab a cup of water from the nightstand and hands it to Cat with a couple of Motrin tablets. Feeling somewhat vindicated by his study he takes a seat in a nearby chair, having earlier dragged the wooden framed, delicately appointed cathedra alongside the bed. Leaning back he clasps his hands behind his head and kicks off his of painlessly polished black leather penny loafers and mentally prepares to answer the next expected question.
“What happened to me? The last thing I remember was wandering about the homeless encampment on Owens by the cemetery, then this big, dark suv pulls up and everything went black. Then I wake up here with you..,” gasping in recognition she shoots into an upright position. “You”! She cries. “You did this didn’t you? You intend to collect all of that money I owe you”! Plopping back down onto her back she presses the palms of her slender hands against her temples, grimacing. “I’ve got some bad news for you, I don’t have any money so you either have to make me work it off or kill me”. Rolling onto her side in the king-sized bed facing her boss Cat locks her blue and red eyes onto his while clutching one of the two pillows tightly to her chest. “On second thought please don’t kill me yet, this bed is rather comfortable. Where am I any way”?
“Ahh kitty Cat..,” he begins with a chuckle. “You don’t owe me a damned thing, and to answer your last question you are onboard the cruise ship Sun Princess as a guest of SCW for our annual week-long tour. Getting to your first question..,”
“Oh I get it,” she interrupts. “You pumped me full of drugs and plan to sacrifice me to one of those leviathans on your roster”.
“Not quite,” he snickers. “The story is a little bit more involved than a simple sacrifice at dawn”.
”You are without a doubt the densest human being I have ever met”, the words fly as daggers from his tongue, piercing their intended target with sharp vitriol. Christian glares through narrowed slivers at his partner Scott Schreiner who looks on helplessly from the stressed out living room sofa supporting his 290 pound heft. “I swear, I can’t leave you alone for five damned minutes without you turning the entire planet off its axis. I swear, what are you going to fuck up next”?
“Chrissy I..,”
“Shut up! Did I ask you a question”?
“Well actually..,”
“I said be quiet! I can’t believe you did that”! Folding his arms tightly across his chest the co-owner of SCW leans with his back against the door jamb leading out of the eclectic Victorian furnishings of the living room into the well-lit main hallway. His head drops along with his thoughts sinking into deep contemplation. Scott shuffles his bulk nervously, drawing a light squeak in protest from the hardy oak frame of the couch and looks down, feeling a softness rubbing against his bare leg. Seeing the couple’s long haired Persian cat Genie, he reaches down to pick her up, but the cat unexpectedly draws back, bearing her claws and swiping at his softball sized calf muscle.
“Oww! What the hell was that for Genie”? He cries, grasping his lower leg, rubbing the tender flesh.
“What do you think nitwit”? Christian snarls. “She misses her favorite chew toy..,” His voice trails off along with his thoughts before he adds, “and I miss my co-pilot”.
“It’s been over a week” the big man laments in a gravelly tone. “She’s gone and there’s nothing we can do about it. I’m not inspector gadget and I can only apologize so many times”.
“Maybe there is something we can do,” Christian lifts his head breaking from the reverie. You and I weren’t able to find her, but we’re not exactly detectives. So I’m going to hire a professional to find track Cat down and bring her back”.
“A professional, are you sure we can afford that”?
“I think the sock can cover it”, Christian rolls his hazel eyes replying sarcastically.
“Wait, you can’t take it from the sock”! Cut off by the loud hissing of his pet Genie Scott quickly backs off holding his hands up in capitulation. “Ok, ok, take it from the sock”.
The rainbow colored long sock dangles loosely from Despayre’s fingertips. He holds the moldy hand knitted garment up high, inspecting it with a keen eye, and a wrinkled nose. Reaching into his pocket to retrieve a clothespin the raven haired young man uses it to pinch his nostrils shut before reaching inside.
“Fortunately,” he says while digging through the contents, “I keep my list of contacts in the world’s most secure location, a place no one would dare venture”. Grabbing hold of something he snags it with his fingertips and pulls a crumpled piece of paper with names and other information hastily scrawled in crayon from the mildewed sack and unfolds it for a closer inspection.
Christian looks on and smiles knowingly, himself very well acquainted with the use of socks for odd purposes. It is nearly 10 PM in the sleepy Summerlin neighborhood, with the residents living in the neatly lined homes behind delicately manicured lawns having long since retreated indoors leaving him and Despayre alone underneath the street lamp at the edge of the youngster’s father’s driveway with Angel, decked out in a black fedora and tiny trench coat seated on the ground facing south, vigilantly keeping watch while his partner conducts business.
“Ah yes, here it is,” the boy mumbles behind furrowed eyebrows while gazing at the paper. “I can take your case, but given the cold trail and the elusive nature of the subject it will be a difficult task thus, I must ask for twice my standard fee; One half to be paid up front and the remainder upon completion. Do you have the payment”?
“I do”, Christian replies softly, reaching into his right front pocket as Despy casts a wary glance over his shoulder to ensure there are no prying eyes. He removes a bag of Skittles and, cradling the candy gently, he surreptitiously palms the bag to Despy who quickly stashes it in his pants.
“Very well,” Despayre announces softly. “I shall commence the investigation post haste. I trust that you will not mention our arrangement to anyone”? He asks. Nodding in acceptance to the bobbing of Christian’s head he continues, “So be it, our business is concluded. My associate will contact you once we have secured your friend. In the meantime I have another pressing case which requires my undivided attention. I bid you good night”.
Without another word, Despy picks up the teddy bear, turns and slowly begins his trek back up the driveway, pausing every few yards to ensure that he is not being followed with Christian Underwood turning towards his nearby parked car, departing. Clutching the bear tightly the would be detective leans over as if listening to something being uttered by Angel, an utterance which prompts him to rear his head back while glaring at the bear.
“Of course we’re not going out there to find her tonight, are you kidding? Golden Girls is about to come on! I’ll just call Uncle Guido and when his people find Cat we grab her and viola, free Skittles”!
Turning her head back while holding the small rainbow patterned bag to her mouth Cat taps the bottom hoping to entice any errant remaining skittles candies into the voracious cavern, and satisfied she crumples the wrapper into a ball dropping it into a grey concrete cylindrical waste basket. Reaching up with her right index finger she adjusts the aviator style Ray Ban sunglasses protecting her shimmering blue eyes from the intense UV radiation trapped within a high pressure heat dome on a typical Las Vegas summer day.
“I should have brought more sunscreen”, she mutters and pulls her arms fully inside of her white tee shirt to protect her porcelain skin from the overbearing sunlight. Ignoring the gaping stares of an elderly couple passing by, most likely gawking at the image on her tee shirt, a black and white screen printed pair of naked breasts than with the arms stuffed inside. Turning on the brown metal panel bench to face her companion she proposes, “Why don’t we go find a spot to sit outside of this bloody convection oven”?
Luke Owens, a lean man of average height with a wiry build bearing a pasty complexion similar to hers nods his head, which is topped with a carrot toned coif in agreement. The pair rises collectively to their feet as Mr. Owens, a man in his late 20s discards his beige flannel styled sport jacket in favor of the simple white tee shirt underneath, tucking a notepad and recorder into the left front pocket of his blue jeans and they begin their trek in search of a more hospitable climate to conduct the interview for his website.
“England has nothing on this heat”, he observes in a west London cockney drawl, his eyes scanning up and down Freemont Street in Downtown Las Vegas.
“It’s hotter than the Devil’s arsehole”, Cat nods observing the ramblings of tourists with their faces glued to maps, plodding about with no sense of direction and stopping every few feet to stare at another colorful neon sign. Up ahead beginning at the Main Street intersection her gaze fixes upon the large canopy sprawling the width of Freemont and extending for five blocks. Although initially intended as a featured attraction to night time show called ‘The Freemont Street experience’ The canopy, also known as ‘Viva Vision’ with its 12.5 million LED lights and 550,000 watt sound system has proven equally adept at protecting the people milling about the pedestrian mall below from the intense heat of mid-day. Gesturing to the canopy Cat says, “Let’s go there, to the Freemont Street experience under the canopy. There are plenty of seats and shade there”.
Moving along the duo eventually settles for a bus stop style bench similar to the one they had vacated moments earlier. They sit quietly while Luke Owens prepares his recording device and notepad and Cat stuffs a piece of chewing gum into her mouth, savoring the initial burst of apple flavored sweetness and blowing then cracking a small bubble once the rush of juice has dissipated. With his equipment prepared Luke brings the recording device to his pursed lips and speaks in a practiced, polished tone.
“Hello again everyone”! I am Luke Owens with Pro Wrestling Fangasm, your go to source for all things wrestling. I am here today with SCW star and the motherland’s own Cat Riley who is set to return to action this weekend against Brittany Williams in Irvine California following an unexpected layoff from the squared circle. Cat, can you tell what has been happening since your layoff, and why”.
“As many of you may already know, I am new to this business, to Las Vegas and the United States in general, “she begins in a slow, husky voice. “I had been staying with Christian Underwood and his Partner, or husband or.., hell, I don’t know, maybe his wife Scott Schreiner at their home here and things were a bit.., complicated”. A collage of imagery streams through her mind depicting the events leading to her eviction including the lack of payment for her matches which she later learned Christian had been saving for her while living with him, the destruction of several sections of the custom built Victorian style home to her would be hiring of Scott to serve as her manager in an ill-fated attempt to gain a leg up on her employer. “I was thrown out”, she continues. “Due to my previously mentioned complications, which I would rather not elaborate on, I was thrown out with no money and almost no clothes..,”
“You were living on the streets”? Luke interrupts questioningly.
“Yes, there are several homeless encampments near Owens and Main Street in North Las Vegas..,” a blast of air, heated by the high pressure dome extending over the valley smacks her into a pause and lends credence to her description of the valley weather as a ‘convection oven’. Re-boarding her train of thought she continues, “I found a tent village across the street from a soup kitchen where people usually stayed to wait for the kitchen to open so they could get something to eat. Most of us would stay there during the day until after dinner, which usually consisted of stuff donated from local casinos, stuff that was about to expire so it wasn’t very good. But beggars can’t be choosers, right? Any way after dinner some of us would retreat to the I-15 over pass near Bonanza, it was fenced off, but there were plenty of holes to crawl through and we would set up around the pillars supporting the overpass or against the concrete bank overnight. It was about as comfortable as Elton John in Moscow and smelled like the old shoe of an 800 pound man, but it is what it is I suppose”.
“Fortunately in your case the proper term is now ‘was’”. The interviewer observes. “Which begs the question, how did you escape such a vicious cycle”?
“I was homeless for a little over two weeks but then my memory becomes a bit hazy, like I was drunk or something..,”
It is just past midnight in North Las Vegas and Cat Riley tries to sleep on a perforated olive drab blanket which bears the sudoric odor of mildew. She tosses and turns on the blanket which tries in vain to protect her from the hard, rough surface of the concrete bank supporting the over pass of Interstate 15. She can tell by the cacophony of horns blaring, brakes squealing and the omnipresent hum of engines at idle that traffic has slowed from its usual breakneck pace to a crawl, probably due to a break down she surmises while reaching out to fluff the bundled collection of rotted, discarded shirts serving as a pillow. The air is still and hot without so much as a whiff of a breeze. Finally giving up, she gathers her belongings and stuffs them into a tattered, black sack and then stashes it inside of a thick, prickly bush before stepping away from the makeshift camp set up by the city’s homeless in favor of a walk down Bonanza road. The sky is clear and despite the lack of sunlight still bright enough to read the labels of various soda and beer bottles scattered carelessly about the road and sidewalk courtesy of the obnoxious lighting of overzealous casinos hoping to lure in other insomniacs. A dog barks from behind a fence as she passes by an old, dilapidated wooden home which looks to be more than twice her age sporting faded paint, cracked and split wooden storm shutters and topped off by a patchwork tile roof.
With her head bowed Cat continues along the sidewalk consciously avoiding the numerous cracks which ripple across the weathered concrete in a stormy web, her mind replaying the old children’s nursery rhyme recalled from childhood,
“Step on a crack, break your mother’s back”!
She pays no mind to the throaty bellowing of an engine behind her, figuring it to be another midnight maniac, probably late getting home from something they should not have been doing in the first place. The roar dulls to a loping idle accompanied by the high pitched squeal of brakes being hastily applied and then.., footsteps in tango with a hushed voice. Someone is approaching from behind. Quickly she spins on her heels finding herself face to fur with a teddy bear. Looking down at the small, stuffed animal curiously dressed in a black trench coat with matching fedora her brow furrows in familiarity, but before the mental connection can be made her nose is assaulted by the ether-like odor of a drenched rag clamping over the homeless Briton’s mouth and nose. She cries out for help but her voice is muffled by the rag which bears a slightly sweet tinge to it and despite her instincts to fight back she is overcome by darkness.
Despayre strains with the dead weight of his unconscious victim as he struggles with Cat’s limp body dragging it towards an open door of the black Lincoln Navigator SUV. “Quickly”, he shouts to the driver, an older Hispanic woman seated behind the steering wheel. “We have to get her inside and take an emergency shower”!
“A shower”, the driver asks. “What for, she doesn’t smell that bad”.
“I touched a girl and she might give me cooties”!
Exiting from the vehicle the slightly heavy set woman mutters beneath her breath in her native Spanish while proceeding to help him pull Cat into the third row folded rear seat. Between the two of them, or three if you include their fur laded accomplice resting atop Cat’s chest, they are able to drag her into the truckster with minimal fuss and the Lincoln belches tire smoke, spewing pebbles as it careens back onto the road with its cargo secured.
Inside, with the stereo tuned to a Mariachi station Despayre fiddles with a set of plastic zip ties. Looking over top of the bench seat into the third row behind them he glances at Angel still seated on the blonde’s softly heaving chest. “We have to secure her hands”, he states. “If we’re not careful she could give us all cooties and that can be very dangerous”. With the ties in hand he leans over the backboard and carefully grabs Cat’s wrists, but becomes distracted by the sweet smell of the rag used to secure their hostage. “That smells like Skittles”, he notes, dropping the ties in favor of the tattered and soaked white cloth. “Shut up” he snaps, glaring at the bear. “How do you know it’s not Skittles, did you taste it”?
Ignoring the silent protests of his partner in crime, Despy takes the rag in hand and lifts it to his face. Giving it a once over with his nose he frowns and glances back at the teddy bear. “Ok, you’re right”, he concedes. “It’s not Skittles, it’s more.., medicine-like..,” A pause ensues with his mind fast tracking over a list of possible candidates. “Kind of like.., mint”. A broad smile encroaches over his youthful features upon the sudden revelation. “I love mint”!
Peering through the rear view mirror the driver observes her passenger preparing to shove the rag into his gaping mouth. “Despayre, no”! She attempts to cry out in warning but is too late as he has nearly ingested the chemical laden wash cloth and promptly slumps over against the door. “Aye carumba”, she mutters pulling the vehicle off onto the side of the road. After checking on the passenger and ensuring that he is well, the woman retrieves a cell phone from the glove box and dials a number.
“Senor Synn”, she speaks slowly. “We have a small problem”.
“It’s a fascinating tale to be sure and we are all relieved that you are alive and well,” The wrestling journalist offers following a break in Cat’s yarn. “But this little adventure puts you in a bit of a pickle”.
“How so”? Cat asks, glancing at him over her shoulder.
“Training,” he states flatly. “I imagine it is rather difficult to train under the circumstances you had been subjected to and you’re scheduled for a match this weekend in Irvine against Brittany Williams, an opponent who already knows you. You don’t have much time to shake off the rust, especially against somebody who has sampled your brand of wrestling before”.
“Perhaps that may be true for most people”, she replies with a light shrug. “But I am not most people. When I train, I train properly; to the point of everything I do on the mat being from muscle memory”.
“Could you explain that a little bit for our fans”?
“It’s quite simple really,” Cat begins in an obligatory tone, pausing briefly to glance upwards to the LED lights of the massive canopy, which have yet to be turned on. “When most people practice, they stop when they feel they have a mental grasp of the concept. But my uncle Ernie insisted that I treat it like tying a pair of shoes, by doing it so often that it becomes instinctive”. Turning to face her interviewer she posits, “How often have you found yourself tying your shoes or brushing your hair or some other task you do daily without even thinking about it”?
“Quite often, to be honest”, Owens admits.
‘Exactly, you’ve done it so many bleeding times that it has become ingrained into your psyche, its automatic. You don’t think about it, you just do it and that’s where I am, every time I apply a head chancery, a three quarter nelson or a double wrist lock I am not thinking about it at all. I merely see an opening and move in for the kill. My conditioning on the other hand may prove somewhat lacking”.
“Why is that”?
“Have you ever seen a gym for the homeless”? She responds with a smirk. The journalist shakes his head in the negative allowing Cat to continue, “Neither have I. Fortunately the majority of my conditioning is through cardio and calisthenics and since you can do that almost anywhere I was able to work out a few times though not as often as I normally would. But I don’t think I’ll even miss it for this match considering the extra motivation I have been given”.
“You’ve already wrestled Brittany Williams,” Luke observes curiously. “What makes it so special this time around”?
“I just found out that she is a Kardashian”! Grinning wickedly Cat rubs her hands together in excited anticipation. “The beating I’m going to give to her..,”
“I hate to be a Debbie downer but..,” pausing to carefully choose his words Luke Owens winces subconsciously over the thought of being trapped in one of Cat’s notorious arm locks. Still, he elects to test the current calmness of Hurricane Cat, a woman who has become somewhat legendary among his peers for her temper and intrepidly pushes forward. “You thought that she was a Kardashian the last time you met her and it turned out that she was not. Has some new information been brought forth that we are unaware of”?
A fair question to be sure, a question which Cat takes in stride pausing ever so briefly to pop her knuckles and drawing an involuntary jump from her companion in the process before replying with a tinge of excitement in her husky voice,
“Have you read the program for Climax Control this weekend in Irvine”? She demands. Without waiting for a reply she reaches into the front pocket of her faded and torn blue jeans pulling out a crumpled copy of the program just mentioned. Unfolding it she hands it to him looking on expectantly. “Go ahead, read it out loud”.
“Very well”, he reluctantly agrees, stopping to clear his throat. “The Cat is back! Cat Riley, after taking much time off of SCW active duty for reasons as of yet undisclosed, is back in action! What has she been up to? Where has she been? Answers we hope to be answered, but for now she will find herself in a difficult position as she faces a familiar adversary in Brittany Williams! Cat has it in for Brittany, if for no other reason the flighty Bombshell is seemingly convinced Miss Williams is a, or resembles a -- Kardashian! And Cat HATES the Kardashians! The bosses know a money maker match when they see one, and seeing the former Roulette Champion Brittany against the upstart Cat fits the bill!” Refolding the paper he hands it back to Cat with a frown. “I’m afraid that does not implicitly state that she is a Kardashian. In fact it merely implies that you..,” he pauses on the word for emphasis, “are the only one who believes this to be true”.
“Did you read the Twitter announcement, what more proof do you need”?
“I did see the Twitter announcement, and if memory serves ‘Kardashian’ was in quote marks”.
“What the hell does that mean; that he was quoting himself”? Shaking her head Cat draws a beleaguered breath and pops her knuckles once more. “It doesn’t matter”, she resolves. “When I get my hands on Brittany I’m going to beat until she makes roadkill look cute. But I still think she may be a bloody Kardashian, probably a second or third cousin twice removed or whatever. I don’t care, either way I’m going to beat the trust fund out of her”.
“By the way, the announcement called you flighty”.
Cat spits, “That’s silly. I’m not a bird. Well, not literally at least”. Turning to face her interviewer Cat’s typically soft features slowly take on a stony façade of seriousness. “As I have said, it doesn’t matter. If she is associated with those bleeding Kardashians in any way, shape or form she will get what they all desperately need and if not.., then at least I will teach her that a dollar is not the only thing that can be stretched”.
“It sounds like you’re fired up for this”.
“I still think she may be a Kardashian, all that money and not enough time to count it all. Sitting around the pool in one of fifteen mansions while being filmed fussing over the color of her nail polish, I mean.., seriously? Their idea of entertainment is spending money, just like Brittany. Kardashian or not, when she gets to Irvine she’s going to learn that she is a bloody long way from la la land”.
“Speaking of getting to la la land, how do you plan on getting to Irvine”?
“It won’t be the same way I got to the cruise ship, I can promise you that much”.
San Pedro pier lies 18 miles south of downtown Los Angeles and has long served as the point of departure for various cruise ships and numerous other commercial vessels. Nestled against the rolling blue backdrop of the Pacific Ocean it has become the central hub of the port of Los Angeles as well as the home of the Princess Cruise line. At berth 54, one of two docks devoted solely to the cruise line a massive ship sits idle, moored to the dock with multi-colored nylon ropes nearly 90 mm in diameter the Crown Princess, with a dozen decks and 113,000 ton displacement sways gently on the water with the lapping tide. Below on the docks, men and women decked out in snappy white uniforms greet guests as they arrive at the loading dock. Tug boats meander about the vessels awaiting the anticipated command to get the 951 foot floating city under way, their job being to push and pull it into navigable waters. A young man sporting a captain’s style ball cap checks the boarding passes of guests as they line up awaiting their turn. From a railing just above the loading docks onboard Christian Underwood yawns while watching the passengers being herded through. From behind a pair of rectangular Ray Bans he scans the dock, his gaze sifting over a sea of people. He is joined by the former pro wrestler turned father Synn whose eyes are glued to his cell phone. He punches away at the key pad typing an unseen text message and turns to Christian,
“They’re almost here, about to pull up to the dock”.
He makes his way down the ramp to await the arrival of a gleaming black Lincoln Navigator SUV which arrives in short order. His housekeeper, Theresa slams the vehicle into park and jumps out from the driver’s side to greet her employer with a light tirade fired off in her native Spanish before leading him to the back door. He opens it up and peers inside where his son Despayre and his teddy bear Angel are fast asleep with Cat Riley curled up in the third row. Gently he scoops the trio out, one by one, hoisting them onto his chiseled, broad shoulders as Theresa gathers their belongings, stuffing everything from comic books, to medicine, to an assortment of DVDs into a blue nylon satchel and handing it to him. With a curt nod the grateful housekeeper is dismissed and retreats to the serenity of an empty SUV while Synn turns back to the ramp, pausing to show the group’s boarding passes to the usher who regards him in bewilderment.
“They had a bit too much to drink”, he explains in a white lie which the younger man acknowledges in an accepting nod, gesturing them aboard.
With the thudding of his father’s boots against the grated ramp Despayre lifts his head groggily and drunkenly slurs, “I told you we shouldn’t have climbed that beanstalk”!
