“I don’t have any options, at least none that I can see”. Her words carry the somber reflection of her gaze, empty and defeated. For more than an hour after having learned of her opponent for the annual Violent Conduct pay per view super card Cat Riley has combed her mind, separating the strands of competing impulses and straightening her thoughts into a singular focus; how to deal with the inherent advantage of her opponent Kate Steele with her husband Todd in her corner. “I just don’t know,” she mutters, waving her hands in exasperation before allowing them to fall and slap her jean layered thighs. “I’ve never wrestled anyone who actively utilized a manager to her advantage the way she does. I’ve been wracking my brain for a solid hour and I still don’t have any ideas”.
“You need a second in your corner to counter him, that’s all”. The voice, throaty and gruff belongs to Scott Schreiner, the husband and significant other of the SCW co-owner Christian Underwood. Seated on his ‘throne’ a black leather recliner that stands out in direct contrast to the vintage Victorian décor. He stares blankly at the television screen as the daily baseball scores scroll by at the bottom of the screen, his attention distracted by Cat’s wailing over her predicament. “Just ask one of your friends”, he suggests, hoping to put the issue to rest and get back to his sports.
“What makes you think I haven’t tried that already”? She counters with a hint of sarcasm underlying. “That’s the first thing I did and frankly it was easy because I only have one friend and Viviana is out of town competing in a tournament and she happens to be my only friend and I’m not about to ask you after what happened last time.., bloody sidewalks in this country are filthy”, she mutters in a subtle jab at the man who evicted her slightly over a month again an event she is not yet ready to let recede.
“Cat,” Scott groans in annoyance. “I can only apologize so many times. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, ok? What more can I do? I apologized a thousand times; I gave you flowers..,
“Flowers that I am allergic to,” she interrupts.
“Hey, I was trying, and besides, it’s the thought that’s supposed to count isn’t it”?
“Forget it”, she replies, releasing him from the hook in favor of bigger fish. “I’ve got more important things to worry about, just watch your scores while I try to figure this out”.
“Chrissy should be home from the groomer in a little while, I’m sure he can help”. The big man offers, picking up his trusty ‘shooting iron’ to browse the other channels.
“I wish he would hurry his arse up”, Cat adds. “He always seems to have the answer and I could sure use some of his wisdom right now because I’m about to my wit’s end”.
“You’re not gonna get anywhere by beating yourself up”, Scott advises. “Take a seat and watch some baseball with me, give your mind a break. The Dodgers and the Nats are about to start”.
“You’re right,” Cat sighs and plods over to the Victorian style sofa adjacent to Scott’s recliner, “surprisingly”. She offers a curt smile before dropping onto the well-appointed padding, kicking off her sneakers and stretching out to watch the game.
“Home run”!
“You dumb broad that was a foul ball”!
“I wasn’t referring to your silly game Scott” Christian huffs while slamming the door closed. He sets two bags of groceries down and releases Genie, the 12 pound long haired Persian onto the floor who promptly waddles into the kitchen in search of her bowl. “I mean I hit a home run. I managed to get Genie’s fur groomed; her claws trimmed and do your grocery shopping for the week in one fell swoop”.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever”, Scott mutters waving his catcher’s mitt of a hand dismissively. “Now put that junk away and be quiet about it, I don’t want to miss anything”.
“The game is tied at zero in the bottom of the ninth,” Cat chimes in through a suppressed yawn. “Nothing has happened and both pitchers are working on a perfect game. I don’t think anything will ever happen”.
“Oh yeah”, Scott thunders in a challenging roar; “What about in the fourth when that fan caught that foul ball”?
“Oh silly me, “Cat sneers derisively while climbing out of the sofa. “How could I forget, my heart was beating like a jackhammer”. She plods across the floor, her bare feet squeaking against the freshly polished wood to the doorway and picks up a bag of groceries. “I’ll help you with the groceries”, she offers. “I want to talk to you any way”.
“You can help, but you will not set foot in my kitchen missy”, Christian growls, jutting his thumb to the faux ivory counter top. “Just empty the bags onto the breakfast bar and I will put everything away”.
“Fine, whatever”, she groans in annoyed acquiescence while starting to unload the bags one item at a time. “Any way”, she begins with her train of thought finally arriving at the intended station, “about my match at Violent Conduct.., “ she pauses briefly to ensure Christian’s attention which is confirmed via glancing eye contact and goes on. “I need a way to counter Kate Steele’s manager at ringside. I’ve seen some video on her and he seems to get involved in every match she has”.
“That’s true”, he nods in agreement. “I’ve noticed the same thing myself, but what do you want me to do”?
“I was thinking, given your experience in the business, that you may be able to help me find a manager to counter her husband, manager or whatever he is..,” he gaze goes blank, losing itself in the jumble of fine print on the label of a tin can of tomato soup while her mind takes flight to the squared circle. She sees herself in the ring with Kate Steele, a woman who is every bit as determined and skillful as she is. The match is hard fought with give and take from both sides. She can smell the noxious fumes of cigar and cigarette smoke. Her eyes flutter rapidly, desperately trying to adjust to the intense assault of the overhead lights and sweat pours from her brow but she manages to gain the upper hand and secures a calf slicer compression hold. Her grip is tight and unyielding as Kate flails away helplessly but her manager has a trick up his sleeve and manages to distract the referee while surreptitiously handing off an unknown object to his wife. Taking the object into her free hand Kate sprays a burning substance into Cat’s face, blinding the Briton and freeing herself from the hold. She is quick to take advantage and locks in neck crank. Unable to see and barely able to breathe, Cat is forced to concede. Triumphant, Kate is joined in the ring by her second and parades about to the chagrin of the fans who respond with a ringing chorus of jeers, tossing soda cups and other debris into the ring as the official tends to Cat. Kneeling over the wounded warrior and asking if she is alright.
“Cat..,” her reverie is broken by the sharpness of Christian’s voice piping up to gain her attention. “Are you ok”?
“Huh? Oh.., yeah, sorry. I was just day dreaming”.
“You can always borrow Scotty”, he offers while grabbing two loaves of bread. “I’m sure he won’t mind and he can certainly handle Todd”.
“Be serious”, she moans. “You and I both know he’s about as useless as I am at six o’clock in the morning”.
“Fair enough”, he concedes with a chuckle. “But I’ll give you a point for owning up to it”.
Returning to her labors Cat pulls out six more cans of food, stacking them neatly and in order of contents. Vegetables are stacked to the right, with soup to the left, frozen goods in the middle, breads in the front, spice and other various condiments beside the beads and meats in the back. She steps back, taking in the scene; the two foot by six foot breakfast counter is completely covered with food. The canned goods are stockpiled three rows high and the bags are barely half empty. “I don’t believe it”, she mutters in amazement. “H – How did you manage to get all of this into two plastic shopping bags”?
“Honey, unlike those kids at Frys, I know how to pack a grocery bag”.
“But I’ve been unpacking them for half an hour and the bags are still half full. My own mum can’t pack like this”!
“I can teach her,” he offers, returning to the cabinets. “But let’s get back to your problem; you need someone to look after you at ringside, somebody with your best interests in mind”.
“Yes”.
He pauses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, I think I may have just the right man for the job”. Grabbing a small white can of Fancy feast he tosses it to Cat. “Be a dear and drop that into Genie’s bowl please”.
Popping the pull tab to open the lid, Cat kneels down to onto the white tiled floor and scoops the meaty pate from the can into a small, plastic bowl. Hearing an ominous growl emanating from behind she turns to find the white furred cat sitting on its haunch, its leg muscles tensed as a coil, ready to spring. Genie eyes Cat menacingly, her blue orbs icily following the young woman’s every move. Recognizing the posture of a pending strike Cat freezes in place, carefully calculating her next move, wary of antagonizing her nemesis further.
“Are you seriously going to start this up again”? She asks while maintaining eye contact with the 12 pound ball of fur. “Don’t you remember when I came back? You jumped into my arms purring and nuzzling my face. You let me pet you and you even kissed me. Now you want to try to kill me again”? Genie twitches her tail from side to side in apparent response. “You couldn’t beat me then and you still can’t beat me, so why not just forget about it and we can be friends”? The answer comes in a blinding white furious flash of fur and claws as the Persian nightmare leaps onto her prey.
“So any way, as I was saying”, Christian goes on. “I’m going to introduce you to the man who managed mine and Scott’s careers. He’s about the best in the business; managed more champions than I can count and made a fortune for himself and his clients. Believe me Cat, this man can do wonders for your career, and if you want to make money..,” he pauses to let loose an incredulous whistle, “he will have you rolling on it. He’s the man who got my acting career off the ground.., he owns a production studio; can you believe that”?
Throughout the course of his rambling Christian remains blissfully unaware of the chaos taking place on the kitchen floor; single mindedly focused on stories of his career as a wrestler under the guidance of his manager while further organizing the already scrupulously standardized pantry into a coordinated grouping worthy of the library of congress. The ruckus is also lost on Scott, still seated nearby in the living room, his attention fixated on his baseball game, now in the 18th inning and still tied at zero but given the intensity of his glare one would be led to believe that a riot was in progress.
“Oh my God, help! She’s killing me”!
“So one of his best wrestlers was a woman by the name of Monica Stark..,” Shaking his head with a chuckle Christian drones on. “Man alive the shit she and I would get into, talk about crazy; 24 hour shopping excursions.., heh, excursions, more like rampages; pranks on the cashiers, heckling poetry readings, tormenting pantomimes.., talk about some wild times”.
“Hey! I’m dehydrating over here”! The voice pierces through the cacophony of the kitchen like the roar of jet fighter taking off in a cemetery. Despite his trip through the tunnel of memory lane Christian cannot help but to be shaken from his reminiscence and exhales a grievous sigh while opening the refrigerator door. Reaching inside he pulls out a cold can of Budweiser but pauses..,
“Hmm, I’d better make it two so he’ll leave us alone for a while”, he mumbles to himself and grabs a second can. “Cat, would you mind bringing Scotty his beer”?
In a quivering heap Cat lies on the floor, her skin pockmarked with small puncture and slash wounds as she cradles her knee, using a hand knitted napkin to try and stem the flow of blood. “I’m bleeding”! She cries.
“Rub some dirt on it you dumb blonde and bring me my beer”!
Slowly rising to her blood soaked feet Cat glares venomously in the direction of Scott’s voice. “What the hell did he just call me”? Pausing to cast a wary glance at her household antagonist who busies herself with her dinner bowl, purring in content she leans over to whisper a warning, “You’ll get yours, don’t worry. But first thing’s first”. Rising up fully she extends her hands towards Christian, “Hand me the bloody beer”, she snaps, to which Christian dutifully complies and Cat starts towards the entrance to the living room, giving both cans a good shaking but stops mid – stride and turns back to her employer, “I don’t suppose, by some odd, off the wall chance, that you have a centrifuge anywhere in the house”? She asks.
“Sure”, he replies with a casual shrug. “I bought one to mix Genie’s baby formula and when she outgrew it I put it in the guest room next to yours. Her bottles of formula fit inside perfectly and they’re about the same size as.., your..,”
“Thanks”, she says before turning back towards the living room.
“Cat, wait”. Being a master prankster in his own right Christian is quick to recognize her intentions and can’t resist the temptation to help. With a gleam in his eye he reaches into a drawer beneath the counter top and removes a roll of duct tape and a pair of scissors which he hands to her, licking his lips in gleeful anticipation. “You’re going to need this. It’s a little old and has seen a lot of use, so you may need this to keep the lid shut”.
Taking the tape and scissors into her arms she darts through the room and up the stair well towards the guest room offering a pseudo explanation to Scotty who looks on expectantly, “Just a moment Scott, I’m giving you a special treat that will make it nice and fizzy for you”.
“Oh good, I like a good head on my beer, but make it quick. I think I just lost a quarter ounce of water weight to dehydration”.
Turning back to the task at hand Cat shakes her head in disbelief, mumbling under her breath as she reaches the top of the stairs and turns to the indicated guest room, “Does this muscle headed, hairless orangutan even realize that beer causes dehydration”?
Christian listens intently to the goings on upstairs as the door slams shut with a thud, now completely torn away from putting up the last of the groceries. His mouth creases to a malicious smirk as the muffled sound of the whirring centrifuge reverberates through the halls of the Victorian manor. Feeling a sudden heft atop his feet he glances down to see Genie taking a seat. Having finished her meal the cat now rests atop her master’s polished black leather loafers, cleaning her face with her fore paws. He leans down and lifts the bloated feline, cradling her in his arms and whispers softly,
“You don’t wanna miss this baby; this is going to be good”.
Setting his beloved pet down on the counter the SCW co-owner rummages through the cabinet underneath the sink, pulling out two pairs of goggles, one normal sized and the other a miniature version of the first. Taking the first pair he carefully adjusts the nylon strap secured to the transparent rubber face before attaching it to Genie’s muzzle and then follows suit with the other pair for himself. Moments later the whirring stops and the squeaking of un-oiled door hinge is followed by footsteps muffled by the hall carpeting which alerts him to Cat’s impending return. Trudging down the steps she gives the now bulbous cans an extra shaking for good measure before entering the living room. Approaching Scott still seated in his recliner she slams the beers down on the coffee table with a resounding thud and hastily exits as he reaches for the first. Holding the bulging can in his ham hock he eyes it curiously but Cat, anticipating his questioning offers an excuse on her way into the kitchen where she takes shelter on the other side of the breakfast bar.
“I brought you the keg shaped cans”, she offers, trying to suppress a snicker without much success. “They hold a few extra ounces”.
“I don’t care about that”, he bellows. “I just need you to open the damned things. Can’t you see I’m busy”?
“Not a chance in hell”, she calls out in response. “I’m a dumb blonde, remember? I don’t even know how to open them”.
“Damn, you really are stupid”, he mutters while bringing the can to his face. “There’s a tab on the top, just pull it up and..,”
The blast rattles the living room with a piercing pop followed by a muddled boom and sprays beer and foam throughout, soaking the carpet, the drapes and the furniture; the force of which knocks Scotty backwards in his lounger, over turning it and sending him to the floor with a heavy thud. Christian collapses to the floor in the kitchen with an echoing thud accompanied by peals of laughter.
“What the hell?” With his entire body soaked in suds Scott groans and slowly returns to his feet after freeing them from under the over turned coffee table, which is now missing a leg after being kicked in his impatience to return to the baseball game “Chrissy, you dumb bitch,” he thunders in agonized discord. “Don’t you ever buy the keg shaped cans again”!
“Hey Scott”, Cat calls out in between spats of giggling. “Are you still dehydrated”? Looking over at her teary eyed partner in crime who gives her a high five she turns to him and wonders aloud, “I can’t imagine he’d be stubborn enough to open the second one”.
“Don’t bet against it”, he warns, taking cover behind the counter.
Following the brief thumping of the recliner being sat back up and as if on cue a second blast rocks the house that brings both Cat and Christian to the floor with a whump in the throes of hysterical laughter. Unable to suppress his convulsing Christian reaches out with a trembling hand; grabbing Cat by the sleeve and drawing her in tightly holding on.
“You.., you completely destroyed.., my living room again but.., but it was so totally worth it”! He says in between tear choked sobs.
“I.., I’m sorry..,” Cat apologizes while trying to fight back her own tears which stream freely down her beet red face.
“Fuck.., fuck the cost”, he chortles. “That was utterly priceless”.
Still snickering the pair, along with Genie peeks out from behind the counter to find Scott lying prone on his back amidst a pool of beer and foam, the victim of two consecutive blasts to the face; enough to render him unconscious. The 70 inch LCD flat screen television screen has gone black, shorted by the spraying of ale and sporting lengthwise concussive cracks.
“He’s gonna be so pissed,” Christian mumbles attempting to regain his composure and using the protruding ledge of the counter to himself back to a vertical base. “His TV is broken and he’s going to miss the rest of the game”.
“I’ll read him the box score”, Cat offers, also pulling her body upright and drying her eyes on the sleeve of her white tee shirt. “It was tied at zero in the 27th inning, no hits, no runs, and no errors for either team.., “ Suddenly she breaks down into another giggling fit. “Game called to inclement weather”.
“Pfffftt!” Christian once more joins her in another round of tittering. Finally, after several more minutes of cachinnation Christian and Cat manage to regain their composure. Instinctively he grabs a rag and a bottle of Pine Sol but stops in his tracks upon entering the living room. His eyes scan the place in its entirety, while compiling a mental checklist of the damage done; drapes soaked, wallpaper covered, throw rugs soggy and the furniture sodden. The television has lost its lease on life, along with the lamp; knocked over and broken by Scott’s 285 pound body tumbling over it and the coffee table missing a leg. With a snicker of a sigh he returns to the kitchen and drops the cleaning supplies onto the dining room table. “Forget it”, he says. “I’m not touching this mess. I’ll just hire a cleaning crew in the morning”.
“So what do we do in the meantime”? Cat asks, subconsciously stroking the purring Genie’s fur.
“Get cleaned up and get some rest”, he replies. “We have to go shopping first thing, and then I need to introduce you to my old manager”.
“Oh yeah, you were talking about that while we were putting up the groceries, but I didn’t catch all of it because I was busy fighting for my life”. Glancing down at Genie seated comfortably between her propped arms on the breakfast bar Cat rears her head back, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Wait a minute.., a few minutes ago she was trying to kill me. Now she’s half asleep between my arms and letting me pet her. What the bloody hell is wrong with this cat”?
“Game respects game”, Christian replies succinctly. “All that stuff she does is a game to her, albeit a violent one but still a game nonetheless. She can see how good you are, especially after the cat nip bit you pulled on her. Simply put, she likes you and respects you. You’re not the first she’s done that to. Hell, she used to give my manager nightmares”.
“Do you think your manager will agree to help me with Kate Steele and her wanker husband at Violent Conduct”?
“I don’t know”, he shrugs. “But you bring a lot to the table and I should be able to make one hell of a sales pitch. I think he’ll probably jump on it”. Stretching his arms upward and behind his back Christian yawns deeply and loudly. “Oh man, another crazy night, but it’s time we get ourselves cleaned up and hit the sack. Tomorrow’s gonna be a busy day”.
“Alright”, Cat agrees, stifling a yawn into the palm of her hand. Rising up, she leans over, looking Genie square into the eyes, bringing them nose to nose to utter a soft spoken word of warning, “now that I know the score with you, you can bet your furry arse there will be a round two. I hope you’re ready”.
Genie licks the tip of Cat’s nose playfully, offering a soft meow and a gentle love bite in reply.
The pair exits the kitchen with Cat following Christian and Genie and steps through the living room past Scott’s decumbent body and glancing back at the benumbed ‘man of the house’ she pauses. “What do we do about Scott”? She asks, looking up to the actual man of the house who has reached the top of the stair case.
“Just leave him there”, he says indifferently. “He’ll be asleep for hours, and with all of that beer hitting him in the face he has to be drunker than a nine eyed redneck. Hell, I don’t even think he’ll remember a thing in the morning. Now get your butt cleaned up and go to bed, set your alarm for six o’clock”.
“Didn’t I already tell you how I’m useless at six AM?”
“Ok, fine”, he relents. “Set it for 6:15”.
12:33 PM
The chirping of the alarm clock rousts Cat from her slumber, prompting her to roll over with a drowsy moan, slapping the top of it with her hand and silencing the shrill annoyance once more and through bleary eyes she sneaks a peek at the time, hoping to steal a few more minutes but the sudden realization strikes as a thunderbolt. Springing clumsily from the comfort of her bed she throws on a pair of cut off blue jeans, an oversized white tee shirt and a pair of fuzzy white bedroom slippers. Stepping over the threshold and into the hall, she reaches up with her right hand to stifle an oncoming yawn, but this one proves to be a force of nature and will not be stifled; the sheer force of which demands her to relent and allow it to reverberate through the hallway uncontested. She stumbles lazily down the stairs, past the work crew busily re-arranging and repairing the living room under Christian’s watchful eye, and into the kitchen.
“Bloody mornings..,” she mumbles, opening the refrigerator door and peering inside. “If I could get my hands around the throat of the wanker who thought it a good idea to start the days off this early I would..,”
“Hold it right there”! The voice, commanding and angry, belongs to Christian who stares at her, hands on hips; his face a mask of perturbation. “One more move and I cut your hands off at the shoulder”.
Exercising discretion, Cat slowly shuts the door and spins around, eyeing the master of the house through a pair of stuttering blue slits. “I’m sorry”, she begins apologetically. “I overslept”.
“Psh, I don’t care about that”, he says, waving off her comment dismissively. “Hell, I knew you’d sleep in regardless”.
“So why have me set my alarm then”?
“I just wanted to mess with you”, he replies with a shrug. “But this..,” he says sternly, pointing to the refrigerator. “This is something I will have absolutely no part of in my home”.
“What? But.., I’m hungry”, she whines. “I just wanted to make a sandwich”.
“Like hell”, he answers authoritatively. “Back away from the fridge, and keep your hands where I can see them”.
“Isn’t this a bit much? I was just going to make a sandwich with the food I bought the other day”.
“No you’re not missy, I am not about to have untrained hands frolicking about in my kitchen. Now, you just sit your little butt down at the table”.
“I don’t want to go hungry”, she says in a simpering inflection.
“You won’t”, he says softly while grabbing a skillet and digging through the drawers for utensils. “Just sit tight and I’ll handle everything. I can’t have you cooking in my kitchen. As destructive as you are you would most likely burn down the whole block any way”.
As Christian busies himself with the stove and a collection of pots and pans Cat looks over her should into the living room where the work crew continues unabated. Having replaced the wall paper and removed the furniture, they now toil away at cleaning and polishing the floorboards. Furrowing her brow upon noticing the lack of furniture having expected it to be set aside for its impending return she starts to ask on its whereabouts but stops herself short; recalling the condition of several of the pieces last night.
“Wait, you’re replacing the entire living room set instead of just those few pieces”? She asks, turning her gaze back to Christian who is whisking a bowl of some unusual mixture she does not recognize. He nods in reply with a grunt, his focus trained solely on the task at hand and leaving Cat to turn her eye back into the living room. Also conspicuous by his absence she notes, is Scott Schreiner, who had been left on the floor as the pair went to bed late last night. “Umm.., where’s Scott”?
“He woke up a couple of hours ago”, he answers while pouring the mixture into a sauce pan. “He took a couple of alka seltzer and went to bed”.
“So you were right”, she observes. “He was drunk”.
“As a Russian on Pyotr Smirnoff’s birthday”, he adds with a chuckle. “He didn’t even remember the game; just said something about a massive headache, grabbed the alka seltzer and went upstairs”.
With a snicker of her own Cat looks up, her expression abruptly taking on a more serious note, “Out of morbid curiosity”, she begins. “What is all of this costing”?
“The final tally came out to $9,785.13”, he answers without a trace of concern. The same however, cannot be said for Cat who winces audibly at the unexpectedly high number. Noting her concern, Christian is quick to reassure her and adds, “Don’t sweat it. Like I said, last night was totally worth it”, while shaking his head with a chuckle. “That was so epic. Just.., don’t plan on any encores any time soon, alright”?
“I’ll try, but Genie doesn’t make it easy for me”.
“And you wonder why she’s so protective of the sock”, he adds while stirring some unknown yellowish concoction in the non-stick frying pan. “How do you think we cover her expenses”?
“Alright..,” she starts but her voice quickly trails off as her mind is drowned in a tidal wave of questions washing over the shoal of her thoughts. “Why put my money in a sock then”? She casts a side-eyed glance to the corner where Genie, who is tucked into a plush, pink velvet pet bed, snoozes peacefully; curled into a furry, white and presently inactive wrecking ball. “I get that the security system is pretty good.., better than most actually, but still.., and that’s not to mention how the whole sock thing got started any way. I mean, it is a bit odd”.
“I felt similarly the first time I took note of it myself”, he says while loading an elaborately ornate ceramic plate with steaming mounds of food giving off a rich, invigorating aroma which mercilessly torments the palette. “Scott had been using a sock to store his money ever since we first started dating. I tried to get him to use a bank but that was one battle I couldn’t win. As time went on Genie took to protecting the sock as if it were the ark of the covenant and even I found myself giving tidings every now and again. As for you and your sock..,” he pauses with a knowing smirk, “I’ve seen how you manage your money young lady and if it kills me, I’m going to teach you how to be responsible with it”. Setting the plate before Cat he looks on with his hands resting on slender hips, subtly rubbing the grease from his fingertips onto the Grumpy Cat apron tied around his waist. “Now.., dig in”.
“Holy..,” her eyes go wide in disbelief as she scans over the contents of the plate. Two eggs, sunny side up sitting atop a stack of pancakes and topped with Hollandaise sauce with bacon and sausage links, corned beef hash, buttered toast and heated syrup with a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice round out the lip smacking smorgasbord. “I was going to settle for a bologna sandwich but this.., this is a feast for the Gods”. Taking a small bite she suddenly rears her head back, savoring the delectable pampering of her taste buds. “This is incredible,” she mumbles while shoveling another forkful into her mouth. “You can cook, do hair, decorate, pack grocery bags, run a wrestling promotion.., is there anything you can’t do”?
“Talking sense into Scotty seems to give me problems”. He answers. Untying the apron he sets it on the counter adjacent to the stove and excuses himself, heading into the living room. “You go ahead and enjoy that food; I’m going to finish up in the living room. They’re just about done. And when you’re done go put your clothes on so I can take to meet my friend”.
“You don’t want me to help with the dishes”? She asks.
“No way no how”, he replies curtly. “You’ll be happy with a spit shine and we don’t do things that way around here. “Just eat up and get your clothes on when you’re done so we can go take care of your Kate Steele problem”.
