Her knuckles are white with intensity, the strength of her grip against the dashboard having forced the blood into retreat. It flows through quivering arms and other limbs before flowing into a wildly palpitating heart which redistributes it; beginning the process anew. Cat Riley engages the madly undulate heaving of the road with a regard de la mort, her baby blue lenses keenly glued to every rapidly disappearing piece of gravel, wood, and other assorted debris. Despite the best efforts of the blue tooth entertainment system streaming music from the driver’s phone the woman’s mind steadfastly affirms to its current train of thought with images of bloody car crashes, mangled automobiles cast aside by the violent impact of a freight train, red Cross volunteers scratching their heads in confusion trying to decipher a manner in which to apply the jaws of life to a red and white Camaro that better resembles a modern art masterpiece than a sports car. The opening chords to the next song filter through the aftermarket Bose speakers; Carrie Underwood’s rendition of ‘Jesus take the wheel’. A fitting title to be sure although Cat could hardly imagine Jesus getting anywhere near such a spectacular disaster in the making when his time would be best spent preparing her tombstone.
Here lies the body of Catherine ‘Cat’ Riley.., at least she won a couple matches.
The visage of the concrete, engraved tombstone disappears into fluttering remnants, shattered by a pothole unrepaired by a non-attentive and probably underfunded city government and results in both the driver, Christian Underwood – no relation to Carrie and the passenger being launched from their respective seats. The tops of their heads slam against the roof of the car before they are reigned back in by the webbed, firmly fastened – especially in Cat’s case – three point seatbelts. Angrily standing on the horn he curses beneath his breath
“Take a note for me to sue the city for trying to ruin my car”, he growls through tightly clenched teeth. “I’m gonna sue them for so much money they’re going to rename this stupid burgh after me”.
“Maybe if you weren’t going so bloody fast..,” Cat retorts in a tawny, though vacillating British accent.
“Shut up already! We’re only going 96 miles per hour”.
“But it’s a 25 zone”!
“Stop being such a crybaby”, he mutters, about to return his easily diverted attention back to the road but is distracted yet again, this time by Cat’s swollen fingers digging into the dashboard.
“You’d better not damage my dash”, he warns with a wagging right index finger to his terror-stricken passenger. “That’s where Genie likes to sleep during our road trips and if you think I have a temper.., whoa nelly”.
“I’m not even going to ask how expensive the dash is, I’m sure you’ll bill me for it any way”. The exhausted Briton states wearily as her mind scrambles to figure out what kind of person would even entertain the idea of sleeping on a dashboard, especially the dashboard of this furiously bobbing and weaving ballistic missile. “But who is Genie”?
“Mine and Scotty’s cat”, he replies calmly with his eyes finally returning to the road. “She owns this car. And yes, I’m keeping a running tab of your debt to me”.
“Wait..,” overwhelmed by Christian’s baffling statement, Cat releases her vise-like grip of the lavender scented vinyl dash to stifle a yawn and then brings the overly tense fingers to her face to massage the twisting veins about her temple. Drawing another deep breath to collect her vigorously dispersed rationalization she turns to the driver, her mouth agape. “So the cat not only likes to sleep right here..,” she begins, rapping on the dash with her knuckles. “But she owns this bloody stunt plane as well?”
“Sure”, he answers with a light shrug of his taut shoulders. “I titled and registered it in her name; she gets much better insurance rates than I do”.
“Hunh, I have.., no idea .., why”. She offers while fighting through an overwhelming yawn that causes her neck muscles to tense up and responds in kind by rolling her neck to loosen them.
“I know, it’s hard to imagine, isn’t it”?
Sleep deprivation has long been regarded by the medical community as a legitimate disease, despite what employers and government would have their subjects believe. Numerous scientific studies have concluded that the human body requires between six and eight hours of sleep daily and any less, no matter how much caffeine or other stimulants is consumed is practically guaranteed to display negative effects in short order. It can start simply enough; with irritability, excessive yawning and daytime fatigue. From there the symptoms only get worse leading to mood changes, difficulty remembering things and trouble concentrating, among other ascending maladies.
Peering through heavy eyelids over the long, angular snout of the Camaro to the road ahead as it is ravenously consumed by the circumrotary Chevy with a palette for pavement. Cat feels a yawn forcing its way to her mouth and subconsciously blocks the opening with the palm of her hand, but it proves inadequate and the drowsy yawp escapes noisily alerting the driver to his passenger’s predicament.
“Not much sleep, I take it”? He asks, jerking the car around and in front of a police cruiser with its lights and sirens flashing. Ignoring the angrily gesturing man in blue he offers a feeble wave of his hand, allowing for the K9 unit to reclaim its previous lane and speed on ahead. “Just kick back and take a nap, we’ll be home before you know it. I’ll handle the driving, no charge”.
“That’s what I’m afraid of”, she answers. “I’ve had maybe..,” another pause ensues as she attempts to stifle, again with little success, another oncoming yawn, “Maybe eight or nine hours for the week. This has not been the best of weeks for me. Between the lack of sleep and owing a bloody fortune to everybody and their dog.., err cat, I don’t know which end is up any more. I can’t even afford a meal now”. She shrugs her shoulders with a helpless sigh. “I don’t know what to do”.
“You can start by just closing your eyes”, Christian advises. “You’ll find that you think a lot more clearly after some rest. Just cover them with something; a hat or a blindfold, whatever works. I’ll even play some sleep music for you, see if that helps”.
With Cat fidgeting with her ball cap, trying to cover her eyes with the black and white cover Christian reaches for the infotainment system, shuttling between radio stations via the touch screen, as well as various music services giving them a quick ear test for suitable content before moving on to the next until settling on the Songza music service upon noticing an ethereal classical piece softly serenading the listener with low-key orchestral movements. The roar of the American V8 engine dulls to a throaty purr once Cat finds a suitable nook between the passenger seat and door on which to nestle her head. Her eyelids, weary over the course of several days of nonstop work gratefully shutter down, enticed by the smooth rhythm emanating through the speakers and her heart slows to match the leisurely cadence. The music does its job, drawing her thoughts from the primordial chaos of conflicting impulses and emotions and leading them to the silken embrace of slumber. Feeling the effects of the velvety report, Christian also stifles an oncoming yawn.
”Prepare to attack”, the command, hollow and tinny comes from behind the oversized black aluminum helmet sporting angular lines belonging to the commander, ‘Darth’ Christian. The leader of the SBW, an acronym for Space Ball Wrestling stands at the front of the bridge to the mighty inter-galactic vessel SBW -1 with his hands clasped behind his back carefully watching the events unfolding on the monitor before him. A small, dragonfly – like space fighter hovers in front of them, zig zagging between asteroids and other debris which litters the heavenly highway 160 enroute to the planet Las Vegas while the considerably larger and far more ominous SBW-1 simply smashes them to rubble with its heavily reinforced hull. The pilot of the prey is a random stranger ‘Darth’ Christian had met on the streets of Planet Reno three days before. The driver was destitute and hungry so Christian, feeling benevolent gave the scruffy looking middle aged man with a face bearing the mileage of freighter $1.00 with which to purchase a single slice of plain white bread. Little did the vagrant suspect that the helmeted supreme leader of SBW would return the following day intending to extract repayment in addition to the accumulated interest. Promising to repay Christian the deadbeat quickly fled to the vastness of space in hopes of becoming another needle in the cosmic haystack of debtors to the richest man in the entire known universe. He did not count on that man spending hundreds of millions of times the amount meant to be repaid in an effort to obtain what was his. Extending his right arm, he holds three fingers aloft as a signal to his second in command, ‘Colonel’ Cat Riley.
“Prepare to attack”! Cat bellows, repeating the order for redundant clarification.
“On the count of three..,”
The would be escapee continues to deftly guide his craft through the lunar litter while machinations are being enacted aboard the larger vessel to ensure his capture, and certain fleecing at the hands of the most ruthless money grubbing tyrant in the solar system. And while she could sympathize with the man, being massively in debt herself to ‘Darth’ Christian, Colonel Cat still has a duty to perform if she is to expect any hope of digging herself from the fiscal agglomeration of debt accrued over the years for reasons varying from fuel charges related to ‘free’ rides aboard his spaceship to fees of fealty and many other assorted and unstated charges. Through hard work, dedication and relentless hoarding of a palisade of promissory notes she had risen through the ranks of Christian’s imperial army of debtors to the rank of Colonel and she would not jeopardize her job short of seeing the debt to Christian repaid.., or his death, whichever would come first. She watches his hand intently, waiting through the tense moments for the inevitable signal with her hand hovering over the weapon launch button.
“One.., Two..,” In an instant the small craft disappears from the Sony labeled combat display screen and prompts Christian to about face to his second in command, his voice lacerated by confusion. “What happened, where’d he go”?
“I don’t know sir”! Cat cries in a fearful response, instinctively reaching for her wallet. “They must have hyper jets on that thing”.
“And what do we have on this thing”, he demands, “a Cuisinart”?
“No sir”!
“Well find them, catch them”.
“Yes sir,” she acknowledges and reaches for the PA system intercom, a simple hand held device resembling a CB transmitter. “Prepare ship for light speed”.
“No, no grandma, light speed is too slow”.
“Light speed is too slow”?
“We’re going to have to go right to ludicrous speed”. The unexpected proclamation catches everyone in the command center, including Cat herself off guard and induces an audible gasp throughout the room; everyone except Christian who snatches the transmitter from Cat’s hand. “Now hear this..,”
“Sir, shouldn’t you buckle up”? She asks in interruption.
“Ah buckle this”, he replies indignantly while grabbing his crotch. “Ludicrous speed.., go”!
In an instant the steel plated behemoth accelerates as the reactor-sized thrusters in the rear ignite. Massive plumes of blue and white flame burst from the opening; the force of the reaction serving to propel the mechanical monstrosity forward at a break-neck pace. The comparatively tiny Dragonfly fighter tries mightily to outrun the bigger ship but its engines are no match for the three madly burning thrusters and it is quickly caught up to and blown past like tumbleweeds on a busy interstate by the warping vessel.
On board the bridge of the pursuing craft the crew sits motionless, locked into their seats and unable to move; all except one. ‘Darth’ Christian clings desperately to the top rung of a guard rail, his body straightened out horizontally and now parallel to the gleaming white tiled flooring; a victim of the extreme inertia brought about by the violent acceleration.
“Agh what have I done” he gasps breathlessly while gripping the rail tightly and clinging to it as his body gyrates like a stubborn leaf in a tornado. “It feels like my brains have gone into my feet”.
“Sir, we have to turn around”, Cat advises in a strained tone, her face warped by the g forces generated by the still accelerating barge. “We over shot them”.
“Then stop it you idiot”!
“We can’t stop, it’s too dangerous. We have to slow down first”.
“Bullshit, stop this thing now before I dock you a week’s pay. Now, stop”!
Reaching to her left Cat grips a large lever bearing a bright red handle along with a written admonition to never use the device. Ignoring the note she slaps the handle forward and causes SBW-1 to shudder to a maddened stop. Items and objects on board left unsecured during the wild ride are thrown forward, including the ship’s commanding officer as Christian is launched from his in-flight perch and urgently propelled across the bridge and helmet first into the opposing wall. He lands with the sickening crunch of metal to metal contact, the battered remains of his helmet schliking as he collapses in a heap. A mutilated moan skids from under the shako. Cat unbuckles her seat belt, looking on in apprehension; watching her boss being nervously propped up on shaky legs by a pair of trepid crewmen.
“Shit, this is gonna cost me”.
Coming to from her reverie Cat’s eyes flutter momentarily, adjusting to the navy blue sky overhead with a smattering of stars strewn about on a cloudless night. Gone however is the burbling power plant of the car, replaced by the crooning of crickets. A corn field comes into focus, teeming with countless rows of corn, each separated by a beaten dirt pathway less than two feet in width, save for the dozens, possibly hundreds of pummeled stalks scattered about the strangely quiet boulevard bruiser. In wonderment she gently opens the door, which creaks in protest and steps out. Flattened crops crunch beneath the soles of her sneakers as she surveys the unexpected landscape, pausing to ply an errant stalk from the bite of the grill and to dislodge a second, pinned under the driver’s side wiper blade. In the distance under the faint blue hue of moonlight she identifies the familiar silhouette of a farmhouse. A wailing of bloodhounds joins the chorus of crickets in the distance, alerting her to Impending trouble. She steps carefully around the car, lifting her feet to avoid a shattered fence post wrapped in strands of barbed wire to the driver’s side of the vehicle. Peering inside she finds Christian curled up in a pink and blue snuggie and clutching a white, stuffed cat resembling a Persian.
“Christian, wake up”! She demands, rapping anxiously against the window. “Get your arse up”!
“Rnnghh, it’s your turn to wear the rubber fisting mitten Scotty”, he moans groggily and lifts his head but almost immediately allows it to plop back down against the padded steering wheel.
“The hell?..,” alarmed by the unexpected utterance, Cat is taken aback, but only briefly as her concerns are redirected to the yowling of the pack closing in. Thinking quickly she bypasses the debris on the ground opting to slide across the wide and flat hood of the idle Chevy and darts back into the beast through the passenger side door. Reaching over she grabs Christian by the shoulder and shakes him urgently. “Wake up! Wake up! Wake the hell up”!
“What is it, what’s wrong”? He asks in a collapsing inflection. “Ooh a cornfield..,” he opens his eyes drowsily and utters noticing the crops surrounding them. “I’ve been meaning to go shopping and Scotty loves fresh corn on the cob”.
“Maybe later”, Cat caterwauls and points out in the general direction of the bawling bloodhounds. “We’re in the middle of a bloody cornfield and some arsehole sent a pack of dogs after us, we have to get out of here”!
“I think I see ‘em pa”! A voice blurts anxiously in a thick southern drawl that is accompanied by the rasping boom of a double barrel shotgun blast. “Gosh darn it I missed, lemme reload. I’ll get ‘em this time”!
Feeling the shockwave of the blast Christian quickly shakes the cobwebs loose and with a flick of the wrist he fires up the engine. The throaty power plant bursts to life with an agitated burble which heightens to an angry thunder as the car is slipped into gear and the accelerator mashed to the floor. The wide steel belted radials spin madly, kicking up mounds of dirt and assorted debris before hooking up and launching the 3800 pound lance through a fresh row of corn stalks. With Cat acting as lookout, trying to keep the redneck posse in sight the driver plows them all down as he guides the car in a haphazard manner, unable to find the road and creates scores of new pathways through the formerly neat farmland. Looking ahead he spies an overhanging light and thinking it to be a street lamp makes a bee line for it. Appearances often prove to be deceiving and this case is no different when he finds an elaborate chicken coop. Constructed of balsa wood and painted a matte white the coop resembles a small, Palladian-style stone temple complete with mesh surrounding the mock estate, shrubbery, an aluminum crafted ‘iron wrought’ fence as well as a functional air conditioning system. Caught by surprise he is unable to steer clear of the palace and simply barrels through it, reducing the coop to splinters and sending upwards of 20 squawking fowl into a frenzied flight. He spots another light further ahead which Cat identifies,
“”That’s a driveway”! She shouts. “Go”!
Dashing down the dirt drive way the ZL-1’s tires squeal madly as Christian jerks the wheel hard to the left, sending the car careening off of the dirt road, spitting up plumes of dust and rocks and onto an unlit two-lane blacktop. Seeing no signs of oncoming traffic and with his petrified passenger watching the rear he switches on the xenon bulb high beams and throttles down drawing a heavy sigh of relief.
“I think we lost them”, he heaves breathlessly. “Now then..,” he continues, turning his attention to his co-pilot. “Would you mind explaining to me how you ended up in a cornfield”?
“Me”? She cries aghast. “I’m just the passenger; you’re the one taking a nap behind the wheel of this rolling riot squad”. Angrily swatting at the snuggie still draped over his torso and the stuffed cat in his lap she glares venomously at him and demands, “What the hell were you doing taking a nap at 100 mph”?
“Oh please, it wasn’t even a real nap, it was just a cat nap” he scoffs, picking up the stuffed toy and the small blanket and tossing them into the back seat allowing an extra moment to reclaim his memory of the events leading up to the incident in question. “At any rate I saw you all curled up looking so peaceful and thought I’d join you that’s all”.
“Oof,” she huffs, folding her arms across her elevated chest. “I don’t think I’ll ever go to sleep again”.
“Me too..,” Christian yawns. “That was too much for this old heart. Where are we any way”?
Without waiting for an answer which she obviously does not have he brushes his right index finger against the touch screen infotainment system. The small 10 by seven inch viewer flickers briefly and comes to life. Scanning through the options he selects GPS and activates it with a double tap of his finger. The screen dissolves from the blue and black background into a brown and beige map. Leaning forward he scans the map closely looking for clues to their current location.
“I hate maps,” he mutters sullenly. “They never tell you where you are only..,” cutting his words short he spies a hopeful looking blue and white indicator in the upper left corner of the screen, but his brow furrows on closer scrutiny. “According to this thing we’re in Idaho”.
“Idaho? How did we end up in Idaho”? Cat vociferates in a scratchy maw, glaring accusingly at the driver.
Christian simply shrugs, “Don’t look at me, I was asleep”.
“The hell you say”? She challenges in indignation. “You’re the one with the keys, you bloody prat! Does Genie know you drive her car like this”?
“The kitty caboose goes round and round..,”
His normally hardened expression beams in contentment; fumbling with the black joystick control pad burrowed between burly hands. Operating the red tipped black handle Scott Schriener looks on in amusement, watching his long haired Persian cat ‘Genie’ seated behind the wheel of a small convertible Mini Cooper replica as the remote controlled ‘pet taxi’ follows his silent instructions by rolling about the passionately polished hardwood canvas. With a whir of its tiny electric motor the car scoots across the stained finish parquet floor out of the living room and into the kitchen. The vehicle performs a U-turn, rebounding back to the living room with the occupant cleaning her front paws, exhibiting apathy typical of a well-cared for feline companion. With the front paws taken care of Genie settles onto her haunches to tend to another region of her fleecy frosted coat. Scott merrily whirls her throughout the spacious Victorian manor; circling around chairs and the sofa, driving under tables and stopping for imaginary red lights.
“Speed racer Genie leads the pack! She’s light years ahead of second place in the inaugural Big Pump 500”!
“Scotty, I’m home”!
Interrupted by the voice of his partner in the foyer, Scott abruptly stops the circuit de la pump and turns his attention to the doorway where a weary Christian Underwood stands flanked by an equally weary Cat Riley. Heaving a breathy sigh of relief, grateful to finally be home the co-owner of SCW drops his keys on a white, ornately carved entry table beside a small laced jewel table lamp. The beaded fabric shade teeters upon being brushed by Cat’s hand as she plods past but it issaved by the wall.
“Bitch, where the hell have you been? You’re three days late and I’m starving”!
“Not now Scotty”, Christian pleads, “We have a guest. Cat, Scotty. Scotty, Cat,” he continues jutting his thumb from the former to the latter and back again in a perfunctory introduction. “Cat, your room will be..,”
He is cut short by the heavy thud of Cat’s burned out body collapsing in a languid heap on the floor at the entrance to the living room.
“…On the floor”.
Genie, fresh off her victory in the Big Pump 500 carefully approaches the snoring throw rug for a closer inspection. The Persian climbs atop the young woman’s bulging grey gym bag, poking curiously at her rumpled black sweater while Scott grabs Christian forcibly by the elbow and, stepping over Cat leads him towards the kitchen. Consideration tends to rule the day when dealing with others, especially around guests but being a creature of habit Scott Schreiner is not one to observe etiquette, especially in times of need.
“You dumb broad”! He shouts, his booming voice reverberating off the walls, having dragged his partner to the stove. “I’ve been living off of protein shakes for three days, three days damn it! Not only have I not eaten anything I haven’t had a piece of ass in just as long. Where the hell have you been”?
“You didn’t get my messages?” Christian asks pointedly. “I texted you and left messages on the answering machine. Don’t tell me you didn’t even check them”?
“Do I look like a geek?” The bulked up bruiser of a man demands from behind a pair of icy blue orbs. “I don’t know how to work that damned contraption”!
“And you couldn’t order take out either I suppose”?
“Do I look like a woman, bitch? Now cook me some dinner”!
Faced with the overly aggressive nature of his partner Christian sighs softly, resigned to his fate and reaches into the refrigerator to pull out a plastic wrapped hamburger picked up from a nearby delicatessen. Tearing the end of the bag open he slides the frozen sandwich into the microwave and turns the carousel oven on. With the appliance humming Christian leans with his back against the refrigerator, looking on at Scott who has taken a seat at the splendidly crafted solid pine dining table. Boasting gothic carvings of rosettes, scrolls and laurel bows highlighted by a hand waxed, rich golden finish, lightly distressed to create an aged patina, the table could easily sit six to eight guests comfortably but for now only has to contend with one famished patron who eagerly grasps a knife and fork in anticipation.
“Scotty, about Cat..,” Christian begins tenderly, “I decided to allow her to stay with us to help work off her debt. She owes me at least a couple grand and..,”
“Can she cook”?
“Umm.., I guess”, he stutters, his tongue tripping over the unexpected question. “I don’t know, I never asked. Anyway, I also need to try and help her find a place to train for her match at Into the Void against Kira Phoenix. She got thrown out of her last gym after breaking another student’s arm”.
“If she can at least order take out for the next time you take a joy ride for three days I’m cool with it”, Scott replies with a covetous grin as the bell chimes indication that dinner is about to be served. He watches prospectively as Christian removes the burger from its clear plastic wrapping and drops it onto a paper plate alongside a sprinkling of Doritos and a can of Budweiser. “Finally.., a home cooked meal!” Digging into the table d'hôte the robust former wrestler pauses in between voracious bites to offer a suggestion, “You could ask Gabriel if she could use his place. Lots of your guys go there”.
“Yeah, I can do that; I’ll call him right now”.
Polishing off his plate in short order however, the Big Pump has other ideas. Rising abruptly from the table the swollen spouse of Christian Underwood grabs his partner and abruptly throws him over his shoulder, stepping from the kitchen and leading up the burnished, richly decorated wooden staircase carved in similar fashion to the dining table with a stained finish to match the floor.
“It’ll have to wait until morning”, Scott says precipitously in his typical baritone inflection. “Right now I gotta get in my workout”!
The skies are clear on another unremarkable Las Vegas morning with barely a handful of cotton ball clouds floating lazily overhead against a baby blue backdrop. At ground level traffic buzzes by a long Valley View boulevard with commuters tending their daily business while pedestrians meander about the sidewalk in front of a non-descript brown and white stucco encased strip mall. A bus makes a pre-determined stop in front of the shopping center, letting off a gaggle of passengers and replacing them with more. Cat Riley stops at the base of the sidewalk, where the edge meets the parking lot and gazes ahead towards the neatly lined buildings. Reaching into the right front pocket of faded blue jeans she pulls a crumpled slip of paper and reads it, checking the hand written address and matching it to one of the units; the largest unit in the center. It sports a comparatively high profile sign emblazoned with red and white block lettering above the entrance reading ‘Gabriel’s Wrestling Club”. She steps onto the still cool asphalt; the onslaught of sunlight having barely begun, which is relatively clear of parked cars and strides purposefully towards the darkly tinted glass front. Approaching the double doors she reads a notice posted at eye level, a taped up and computer printed notice informing would be visitors that this is a private gym and guests will be required to display valid credentials. Earlier in the morning Christian Underwood had told her about the gym and gave his assurance that he would make a call to see that she be allowed in, and so trusting in his word she reaches for the handle to open the door, which is unlocked and steps in.
A waft of crisp, heavily conditioned air caresses her face in a welcome embrace as she stops to survey the environment. The reception area is partitioned off from the main gym, it’s freshly coated blue-grey walls bear testament to the purpose of the facility with press clippings, autographed photos, magazine articles and covers; lovingly framed and hung neatly about the room. To the left sits an enclosed trophy case displaying several championship belts, trophies and other assorted pieces of paraphernalia. To the far right sits a desk. The nearly bare varnished wood surface dispels any notion of this stead being open to the general public. Behind the desk, on a rolling base sits a brown, leather backed executive chair and inside the chair Cat is barely able to discern a tuft of light brown fur peeking above the edge of the davenport. Taking a step closer Cat is startled by an unexpected announcement,
“Identification please”,
Startled by the high pitched voice she spins, searching the room for new arrivals but finds none. Perplexed she looks up to the ceiling at a security camera figuring the voice to be coming from a remote monitoring station.
“I’m Cat Riley”, she says. “Christian Underwood said he would clear me to train here for my match against Kira Phoenix”.
“Identification please”,
“Umm.., I just told you”.
Expecting a receptionist or security officer to be stepping in to check her credentials, Cat turns her attention away from the camera and back to the desk. Peering over it she spies a small teddy bear nestled in the chair. The bear is dressed in a tiny blue and black security outfit, replete with miniature radio, baton and badge. The site brings a smile to the young woman’s face and moves her to grab the stuffed animal for closer review. Reading the name tag on its shirt she coos,
“Angel, you’re an absolute doll”. Cradling the bear gently she nuzzles it lovingly. “Such a cutie you are but are you a boy bear or a girl bear? Angel is one of those names that can go both ways”. Flipping the bear end over end for a clue but finding none she frowns. “Only one way to find out I guess..,” Grabbing the bear by the belt she pulls its pants down in search of an answer to her question.
“Rape”!
Shocked by the sudden shriek Cat drops the bear to the floor, and spinning around to find a dark haired young man of roughly 20 years staring at her, his bulging dark eyes glaring accusingly at her as he jumps atop the bear, protecting it from the aggressor and continuing to cry out,
“Help, Help! This woman is trying to rape Angel”!
Uninterested in explaining her position in the face of an incendiary accusation Cat instead elects to take flight. Bursting madly through the door leaving an elongated crack in the glass she darts across the parking lot which is slowly beginning to fill; snaking her way around parked cars, across a dangerous intersection drawing the ire of several drivers and into a crowd of people where she quickly blends in with the mob and disappears from sight. Despite the lack of a pursuit however; she does not stop and continues to run, hightailing it through crowds of pedestrians, across more busy streets, through a fountain and into a row of small shops lining the side streets off of Spring Mountain Road just west of the famed Las Vegas strip in Sin City’s version of China town. Finally she begins to slow as the sun rises directly overhead, slowly bringing its full heat to bear. Wiping her brow with the back of her hand she looks around the tightly packed stores and kiosks for a place to get some water, having dehydrated during the abrupt cardio session. Spotting a small red and yellow kiosk tended by an elderly man sporting a sign advertising ice cold water she steps forwards. The man, Chinese in appearance with a yellowish skin tone and flat cheeks regards the new arrival with a warm smile as she approaches.
“Two bottles of Dasani, please. I’m really thirsty”.
The man politely obliges the request, handing her the water in exchange for payment. Popping the first bottle open Cat takes a deep gulp and then turns the bottle upside down, dowsing her head with the icy Adam’s ale.
“Wow, you look like you just had an amazing cardio session”.
The world works in mysterious ways it is often said. When it seems to fall apart pieces may land in different places. Some may be lost and unable to be put together again replaced by new pieces landing in front of you, waiting to be picked up. Many people take the approach of repairing their broken worlds, arduously toiling to recreate what has been lost. A brave few souls however will dare to pick up the new, unknown pieces, pieces which will direct their worlds in an entirely new direction.
The voice belongs to a young Hispanic woman, also in search of water. Roughly the same age as Cat, and sporting a toned, athletic build she too appears to have been engaged in vigorous exercise as evidenced by the sweat drenched black crop top and matching Nike branded athletic shorts. The woman leans forward, lunging a few times before switching lead legs and pops back up to accept the bottle of water from the kindly vendor whom she thanks with a smile before turning back to Cat.
“You’re Cat Riley, aren’t you, from SCW”?
Cat nods, studying the other woman’s rounded face with pronounced cheeks, soft brown eyes, unusually small chin and thin, wide lips framed by long, prepared curls which gently frame her youthful features; regarding her curiously. She speaks in a breathy voice with a mild Spanish accent, obviously not from around here but she sports a physique far above that of the average woman leading Cat to believe her to be a professional athlete of some kind.
“I’m sorry”, the woman apologizes with a light snicker. “I’m usually not so forward. It’s just that I don’t see many professional wrestlers around here”. Extending her hand she introduces herself, “I’m Viviana Fuentes”.
Accepting the hand Cat smiles cordially and the two strike up a conversation. Minutes soon turn into hours as the two trade stories of their childhood; Cat being bullied as a young teen leading to training by her uncle Ernie Riley at the Snake Pit and Viviana living homeless on the streets of Medellin Columbia. The Columbian relays how a chance encounter became the opportunity of a lifetime resulting in her training Muay Thai boxing at Muay Thai Columbia in the Antioquia district under the stewardship of five time world champion Naoufal EL-HAMCHOUI, a Moroccan born man who migrated to Columbia as a youth and founded the academy. She goes on to detail her history on the Thai Boxing tournament circuit where she competed as an amateur until the age of 17 before being untimely banned from further tournaments due to numerous complaints from other teams relating to excessive violence. It was at this point where the Columbian born young woman found herself with no other options but to join the professional ranks, continuing under the banner of Muay Thai Columbia where she eventually mastered the art becoming a six time world champion in the process. With the sun passing further along and well into the western half of the sky, the two women, now seated at an outdoor patio at a round, wrought iron table under the shade of a large umbrella they pursue their discourse with Cat talking about her difficulties finding adequate training due to various reasons, and feeling comfortable with her new friend she even passes along the story of the teddy bear incident from earlier in the day which draws a raucous bout of laughter from both. Viviana chimes in, confiding in Cat her plans to transition from Muay Thai to full time MMA, going on to explain it as the reason for being in Las Vegas; having established a training center not too far from where they currently sit with her coach. The tidbit immediately piques the Briton’s interest and she listens intently as Viviana explains her current dilemma.
“But if I want to compete in MMA full time I need additional training to compliment my stand up, some grappling skills..," she pauses, flashing a brief, wry grin to her blonde companion. “That is why I’m so glad to have met you. I believe we can help each other. You need a place to train and you said you are also studying Thai Boxing, and I can certainly help with that. I need a qualified sparring partner for grappling, somebody with experience, and you have a world class pedigree in that. Are you interested”?
Stunned by the proposition Cat looks on in silence, her mind rolling over the hope inspired by the events having unfolded. Looking over her shoulder at a pair of pigeons dawdling on the sidewalk looking for bread crumbs dropped by errant patrons of the adjacent sandwich shop; she casts her gaze skyward, blinking rapidly as the fading but still bright sunlight blitzes her soft blue eyes and causes her to blink rapidly. She can hardly believe it as evidenced by her inability to draw a full breath. Bringing her attention back to Viviana she offers a reply in the form of a wide, toothy grin.
“I take it you’re in?” Viviana asks, returning the grin.
“As we say back home”, She replies extending her hand. “Warts and all provided you don’t knock me out”.
“Cat, wake your ass up”!
“Bitch”!
“Cat, get up. I have to talk to you”.
“Bitch”!
“Cat”!
“Bitch”! Despite Christian’s efforts, Cat remains steadfast asleep, curled up on the queen-sized antique style panel bed bursting with intricate wood details including grand ovals centered on the foot and headboard, eye catching raised wood accents, hardy corner posts topped with traditional finials and finished with an elaborate shell motif at the peak of the headboard; comfortably nestled under a heavy, quilted blanket. Sharing the seven foot by five foot bed with three large pillows, her head rests atop one while clutching the second close to her body and the third tucked between her legs. “Damn this girl is a heavy sleeper,” he mutters against the roaring backdrop of Scott’s bellowing voice. “Okay! Okay, I’m coming”! He gives in to the thundering demands and turns away from Cat grumbling under his breath, “Lazy good for nothing.., he probably wants me to wipe his ass for him”.
Hurrying down the stairwell Christian hastily adjusts his tie, preparing to head into work eventually, once the duties of the household have been properly attended. He bounds into the well-lit living room, pausing to glance at his long time pet Genie; snoozing comfortably on the elegantly-appointed sofa with a sturdy wood frame with padded, rolled arms featuring elaborate carvings of scrolling acanthus leaf details and a Palmette motif which is accentuated by gold tipping. Numerous softly colored decorative accent pillows line the back of the opulent sofa and sit atop three even toned pocketed coil cushions. To the right a pair of matching high back chairs sit catty corner to the sofa with a matching loveseat to the left surrounding a similarly flushed marble top coffee table all hosted by a six foot by eight foot throw rug like patterned throw rug to complete the Tuscan set. Reaching down to offer the Persian a scratch behind the ears, he is reminded by a redoubled shout to the original reason for coming downstairs. Leaving the living room he follows the obstreperous trail of Scott’s voice and rounding the corner finds him seated at the kitchen table.
“Grab me a fork,” demands his turbulent spouse. “Make it quick, I gotta eat”!
“You called me all the way down here just to grab you a fork?” Christian asks in an inflamed timbre. “Scotty.., I wanted to give Cat the good news”.
“What news”?
“Well..,” he begins, dropping a plastic fork into Scott’s twitching hand and watching as he digs into the ‘home cooked’ microwave dinner. “Do you remember Cat’s incident in Henderson”?
Scott nods with a mouthy grunt.
“Our lawyers looked into it and found video evidence which got that woman whose arm she broke to drop her lawsuit by threatening to countersue on behalf of the little boy she body checked”.
“Uh huh..,” Scott grunts in between mouthfuls. “That’s cool. So tell me, are you really charging her all that money for bail, gas, food and all that other stuff? She says you’re keeping a tab of it all”.
“That’s right”, Christian answers, delving into his front pocket to fish out a notepad. “I have it all right here”, he tosses the blue spiral pad onto the table beside the TV dinner. “Go ahead, read it”.
Grabbing the pad into his paws, Scott clears his throat and reads it aloud, “The Sixth sheik’s sixth sheep’s sick.., what the hell”?
“Read it fast”.
“Alright, the shit shit’s shit shit’s shit”.
Unable to articulate the tongue twister the big man’s delivery resembles a profane invective which draws a hearty chuckle from Christian who retakes the pad and returns it to his pocket.
“Honey bear, I’m not charging that girl a dime. I just want her to think I am to hopefully instill a sense of responsibility in her, that’s all. Truth be told she reminds me of myself at that age”.
“What about all the work around the house and stuff”? Scott asks, stuffing another forkful of sausage into his mouth.
“You know me; I’ll end up doing it myself regardless. All I really ask is that she cleans up after herself. “But please..,” he invokes, thrusting his palms up. “Don’t tell her a thing”.
With a curt nod, Scott returns to his meal freeing Christian to dart back up the stairs towards Cat’s room. Opening the door with a gentle rapping of his knuckles against the hard pine he steps inside only to find the bed empty with the window slightly ajar, the drapes fluttering indifferently in the cool morning breeze.
“Hunh.., the little shit’s playing hooky from school”.
“Class is now in session”!
Clapping her hands enthusiastically, Viviana Fuentes stretches her legs on one of the many grappling mats covering nearly half the concrete floor of the spacious gymnasium. The bare rafters are lined with numerous fluorescent industrial lamps illuminating the entirety of the multi-tiered hippodrome. From the single wrestling/boxing ring stationed off to the far left, to the MMA-style octagon situated next to it, an open sparring zone featuring red and blue mats assembled as a checkerboard with a back wall lined with an assortment of mostly black heavy bags, speed bags and agility balls coupled with random elliptical training devices to a free weight area set behind three rows of surplus treadmills and even the finer details of the ceiling with its iron rafters, sheet metal air ducting and water/sewage piping are thoroughly visible. Decked out in a red with white vertical striping warm up suit, Viviana finishes with her warm up. Reaching down the Columbian gathers a pair of black ten ounce Thai boxing gloves and matching headgear tossing them to her guest Cat Riley.
Accepting the pieces Cat first dons the black headgear, cinching the white nylon chin strap down and then fetters with the velcro straps of the gloves, clumsily applying them to her hands and noting to reverse the order of application next time. Her gaze pans over the intricate Thai writing across the front of the well-padded gloves until finishing with the adjustment. Taking a step back she draws a deep, collected breath taking in the familiar strong, cloying odor reminiscent of a public restroom and rears her head to reign in her thoughts ahead of the anticipated workout. A mere two days ago she had found herself without a suitable training location or coach to help prepare for the fateful confrontation with Kira Phoenix; uncertain of her employment status, accommodations and even basic necessities due to an unfortunate string of events but suddenly finds herself in the charge of a six time Muay Thai world champion kickboxer, a woman not only willing to help her prepare, but to do it free of charge in exchange for like consideration. The twists and turns of life have once again proven to be unpredictable. She has to laugh.
“What’s so funny”? Viviana asks while adjusting a pair of simple black focus mitts. “I haven’t hit you yet”.
“Just thinking,” Cat deadpans. “What a crazy last couple of weeks it has been for me”.
“Alright”, Viviana exhales, smacking the mitts together and producing an echo of slapping leather. “We’re going to start with the basics which will build your foundation, beginning with head movement and working our way up. Now, tell me why head movement is so important”?
“Well, head movement is used for avoiding punches, slips and rolls primarily, “She replies softly, reciting from memory her previous training under Walker Vivian at The Syndicate training center. “It gives you a chance to learn muscle memory and to get into the flow of moving your head in the face of an attack”.
“That’s right”, the olive skinned South American woman nods. “But it goes even deeper. Good head movement frees up your hands to throw counter punches. Head movement requires a lot of energy, it is a real draw on your stamina but it can also drain your opponent’s energy. Think of it this way; when your opponent misses a punch they just wasted all of that energy, not to mention keeping them guessing which way you’re going to move next which will fatigue them mentally as well. Not only that, but when they think they know your next movement, they are going to anticipate your head movement and throw the next shot with full power and drain a lot more energy if it misses. In additional to all of this, it can also cause your opponent to freeze up, which is what happens when they have to take a moment try and figure you out. If you haven’t seen it, I strongly suggest you watch Muhammed Ali’s fight against Michael Dokes. Ali displayed some of the best head movement ever seen and froze him solid”.
“I haven’t watched much boxing”, Cat confesses. “My entire focus has always been on catch wrestling”.
“In that case, you have some homework to do”.
Bouncing up on her toes Viviana exclaims, “Now, I want you to try to hit me. I’m going to demonstrate the different types of head movement. If you can learn these, you’ll have a chance to freeze up anybody coming at you”. Dropping back into a defensive stance and bringing her forearms into guard she nods, “Ok make believe that I am Kira Phoenix and try to hit me”.
“Aren’t you going to put on some headgear”?
“I’ll be fine, trust me. Just throw real punches and try to hit me”.
Beginning with a straight right hand Cat thrusts her arm out only to see ‘Kira’ bend back at the trunk taking her head out of reach. She tries a second time with a left hook but the blow is easily avoided as her trainer bends at the trunk to her left once more taking her head out of reach and evades an attempted right hook in similar fashion.
“What I am doing,” Viviana explains as she goes, “is allowing my body to go with the flow. Only you are dictating the flow”. Ducking forward, again bending at the trunk to allow her opponent’s right cross to sail harmlessly overhead she continues, “You don’t always have to move your head directly. You can move it with your torso as well as I am doing”. She goes on after avoiding an attempted left uppercut, “Basically, you imagine a circular path for your head to follow and just flow with it. You don’t have to use the entire path either. You can get away with just using a quarter of it if you make them miss which can also set up your offense”. With Cat’s fluttering exhalations filling the air, Viviana steps back out of reach holding her hands up requesting for time. She smiles as the young blonde leans over to catch her breath, “Notice how quickly you got winded? Missing punches will do that to everybody every time”.
“Kira just kicked my arse, and never even touched me”.
“On your feet”, the trainer chuckles, “Pretty soon you’ll be the one not getting hit”. Stepping back towards the center of the two inch padded practice mat and raising the focus mitts, showing the ribbed insides she beckons Cat forward. “Now I am going to demonstrate the angular style of head movement. This is fairly unique and much more difficult to master but it can pay huge dividends. Speed and quickness is the key to angular head movement”. She nods, indicating for Cat to begin. “Ok, I’m Kira Phoenix and I just insulted that teddy bear you tried to rape.., make me pay for it”.
“I don’t know why I told you about that”.
Pausing for a brief snicker Cat brings the cold leather gloves to her face in the guard position. Feeling her hot breath blasting off of the material and back towards her nose, she shrugs off the reminder to have breakfast next time before escaping Christian’s Victorian prison and starts forward. Showcasing her inexperience in Boxing by telegraphing a right cross with a wind up, Viviana easily evades the attempted blow by leaning forward at the torso, angling down towards her right and admonishes her student,
“And don’t telegraph your punches! Save the windup for baseball”.
Trying again, this time with a left hook she misses as the teacher – still leaning forward – simply angles to her left and out of reach. “So what you do here”, she explains while dodging an attempted right uppercut by angling her body up and to the right, “is imagine two triangles in front of you, joined at the bottom and picture your head moving along the lines. The three points of the first triangle are A, B and C. The second three are D, E and F. Always move in a straight line”, another pause ensues with Viviana evading a left uppercut by angling her body at the trunk up and to the left. “Wherever you are, using this technique you will always have two paths open to you. Whatever vertex of the triangle you come from you can always move to the other two. Using the top you can evade a blow by going down the sides like I’m doing and when at the bottom you can always go back up into the neutral position or to the other side and of course, you can use the bottom triangle”.
With her burning lungs lunging for every available molecule of oxygen Cat releases a grateful heave when her instructor calls for time. Pulling away she drops onto the mat with a muted thud, the sound absorbed by the nitrile foam embedded beneath the PVC rubber surface. Drawing slow, deep breaths she allows her debilitated arms to fall to the side and tucks her head between the knees.
“I don’t get it”, she complains wearily. “I thought I was in good shape, but my arms feel like wet noodles”.
“You are in good shape..,” Viviana offers taking a seat on the mat next to her, “for wrestling. Boxing and kickboxing uses entirely different muscle groups. Hey, you did run for about three hours the other day, didn’t you”?
“Because I thought I was being chased by the Bobby on account of that bloody bear”, she says, using the British slang term for Police. “Maybe we can try some wrestling this time”? She asks with a tinge of hope in her tawny voice.
“Hah ha you’ve already mastered wrestling”, her coach snorts thwarting her optimism. “I’m trying to add to your arsenal here. You need to be more versatile. I’m sure your opponent at Into the Void realizes that”.
“Ugh”! Cat grunts, dropping her back onto the mat. “Kira has been whipping my arse all day.., all of your head movement has me feeling like a wet sponge”. Try as she may however; she cannot ignore the long term benefits of supplementing her typical training with something this promising and effective. To be prepared mentally and physically for any possible manner of attack is the ultimate goal of every serious wrestler or fighter. This fact slipping into the forefront of her thoughts relegates the encompassing sense of fatigue to the back allowing her to churn over what she has just learned. Peering into the stew of combat philosophy she grabs hold of a small, curious nugget. “Alright”, she asks sitting back up feeling a renewing surge of energy beginning to pulse. “Now that you have shown me the importance of good head movement.., how do you beat it”?
Springing abruptly to her bare feet Viviana ditches the focus mitts in favor of a blue strap on thigh guard leaning against the far right side of the mat along with two small double looped kicking pads and almost gleefully exclaiming, “I’m glad you asked”. Carefully applying the protective gear Viviana drops to the mat extending her legs with the feet at a wide angle and leans forward, hinging at the hips to touch her toes; stretching the spine. “Learn what I’m about to show you and I promise you it will be lights out”.
Dusk has finally settled over the city of sin bringing with it a wishing well of evening stars shimmering brightly overhead in defiance of the metropolis’ obnoxiously dancing neon beacons. The smattering of feathery clouds overhead during the relatively mild daylight has long since receded, giving way to the awakening night owls squawking in annoying hoots as they stumble through the parking lot into a new Gentleman’s club on Industrial boulevard just behind the famous Las Vegas strip. A beefy bouncer seated on a bar stool at the door, clad in a two-sizes too tight blue blazer collects a cover charge from the gaggle before ushering them in. Walking along the sidewalk just beyond the Sahara overpass heading north on the same road, Cat Riley kicks absent mindedly at a pebble, watching as it skips along the concrete; her mind far removed from the unwelcome blaring of the high tempo music emanating from the club and reverberating through the overpass from which she has just emerged and instead focused on her opponent for the upcoming SCW Into the Void super card.
Just who is Kira Phoenix exactly? A peek at the SCW active roster earlier in the day revealed next to nothing about the newcomer, a woman, like Cat who is only beginning her professional wrestling career, at least in SCW. The enigma simply burst onto the scene scoring a win over longtime Bombshell standout Mercedes Vargas, but even after having watched the match the woman remains cloaked in secrecy. Her bio card lists her as hailing from Richmond, Virginia, a confederate era town established during the colonial period in the fledgling United States. Other than that however the reader is left with nothing but darkness; a shadow lurking in the depths of the night, unseen until it is too late. Continuing her trek down Industrial the unanswered questions ferment into a foaming broth of agitation which bubbles over at the sight of an empty plastic Coke bottle and prompts her to put the exclamation point of a swift kick to the object and send it tottering further down the road. From behind she discerns the soft vrooming of a non-descript approaching car which quietly passes her by; disappearing as quickly as it came leaving her once more to her self-induced inquisition. Having watched the match against Vargas as part of her preparation, Cat could clearly see her to be a foe unconcerned with the rules, ready and willing to use anything as a weapon and approaching her contests with the savagery of a wolverine. If unable to secure a hook she would surely be in trouble. Obviously she will have to take great care and remain vigilant for objects of opportunity.
But can she? In the wake of such a tempestuous week, battered by the lack of sleep and left groggy by the vertiginous ups and downs of her life as of late in Las Vegas she has been finding it increasingly difficult to maintain her sense of focus, as evidenced by being thrown out of two gyms and arrested twice for assault, not to mention being accused for the attempted rape of a teddy bear. Two lawsuits pending coupled with uncertain living conditions have thus far proven up to the challenge of derailing the 23 year old’s sense of momentum leaving her awash in confusion and unable to right the ship. Meeting a new friend in Viviana Fuentes and training with renewed intensity has certainly helped but the panacea remains elusive. Unless she can crack these remaining eggs the omelet of potential will remain uncooked, and right now Kira Phoenix has the match.
“Good show Dr. Watson, we have found our quarry”!
Startled by the unexpected utterance Cat abruptly spins on her heels finding herself facing a familiar visage from the morning before. Clad in a long, black double breasted, three button closure overcoat and matching scarf, despite the 80 degree temperature, and topped off by a matching wool, deerstalker hat the young man with a porcelain skin tone sporting scraggly long, dark hair glares accusingly at her through a magnifying glass while blowing soapy bubbles through a gentleman’s smoke pipe. Clutching a teddy bear dressed similarly and wearing a monocle and a top hat as opposed to a deerstalker cap he greets the bewildered Cat with a tip of his hat.
“We meet again at last Professor Moriarty. Surrender and I shall guarantee you a fair trial”.
TBC
