With Senior Vinnie playfully teasing the fans the screen fades into a commercial break. The familiar SCW logo, bearing the neon hued Las Vegas skyline momentarily lights up the darkened room and draws a rapid-fire succession of blinks from Cat Riley who lies on her side watching the televised replay of Climax Control. A steady, authoritative voice bursts through the silence jarring her attention announcing in a well-trained inflection the new lineup of paraphernalia available in the SCW shop with its web address scrolling by at the bottom in a good morning kiss of sunshine yellow. With her curiosity piqued she sits up on the edge of the 13 inch pillow topped mattress and casts aside the burgundy velour blanket which had been offering additional warmth on a surprisingly mild night in the valley. While the forecast had called for rain followed by heavy wind to bring in colder than normal temperatures she found herself instead sweating. An allusion of the warmth to the high humidity accompanying the recent rain she leans over, her bare, pasty white legs dangling over the edge of the bed, not quite long enough to reach the rich, blue carpeting beneath her bare feet and watches with interest the glitzy rainbow package promoting the wares of Sin City Wrestling.
“Introducing the SCW champions collection, featuring all of your Sin City Wrestling favorites including..,”
The first piece of apparel displayed is a simple black tee shirt bearing the image of Dani Weston layered in eye popping color with her name streaming down the right front side in bold, black and white print. A grey tee follows depicting SCW champion Fenris in a smoky backdrop, his stoic façade peering out from within a full moon overlooking a howling white wolf with his name emblazoned along the bottom in an ancient Norse inspired lettering. A soft gasp slithers between tightly creased lips, her eyes bulging in amazement at the artistic impression. Bringing her legs up Cat folds them beneath the red panties adorning her posterior while continuing to gaze longingly at the parade of apparel scrolling by. The familiar deep red coif of Sam Marlowe follows up characterizing the flaming vixen puckering for the viewer on a deep iron oxide scrim with a resolute caption asking ‘Have you seen this girl’.
“Wow”, a whisper piggybacks on the tail of an escaping breath as additional shirts march by in a procession of admiration for the promotion’s art department and peppering her mind with granular images of what her own shirt would look like. Having been with the company for nearly a year and enjoying a good amount of success she reasons that one bearing her likeness can’t be far off. “I hope mine is as awesome as Sam’s”.
Team Eggplant – an odd name she muses – are next with a white base and black sleeved jersey bearing their smirking, leather clad images pronounced with a cursive inspired purple 3-D dedication and are promptly followed by the sandy tinted, curly mop of Saint John Cross casually draped in a light blue button down with matching aviators dangling from the nape of the neck, secured by the top most catch. Skipping a beat she can feel her heart thumping against her breastplate attempting to catch up as the wrestling action resumes but the spectacle no longer commands her interest as the convoy of times past veers onto a different path, a path littered with jagged stones bearing the names of her peers after pelting her with their success. John Cross, Sam Marlowe and Dani Weston defiantly occupy the trail, their stony demeanor sneering at the cold, hard reality of it all; they have made it, they are success stories recognized by the carving of their names into various pieces of memorabilia. It is a feat she has dreamed of since deciding to enter the rough and unpredictable world of pro wrestling; to be recognized for her ability, to have her accomplishments lauded and broadcast for the world to see. Rather than accolades however; she is instead showered in praise directed to others – a misguided pedestrian walking too close to a puddle of water having pooled up during a rainstorm and getting drenched in reality by an ill meaning prankster tucked inside of a rolling testament to their status. Struggling to stem an onrushing tide, she brushes a shivering stray tear aside and turns the television off with the remote and then drops the plastic device to the floor where it lands with a muted thud.
Her mind’s eye harkens back to her visit with Dr. Stark who had diagnosed her with anxiety and depression but despite the newly formed tears she feels no sorrow, and no self-pity, only anger. She has worked as hard as anyone else on the roster and has beaten many of them; surely she is as deserving of recognition as they are? Her right hand trembles in agitation, reaching to the nightstand to collect her laptop she flips open the 17 inch Hewlett Packard and sets the black cased computer onto her lap and turns the machine on. The screen hesitates briefly before slapping the darkened room with a muddled radiance. Her blue orbs flutter in adjustment to the new swath of light before she turns her twitching fingers loose on the well beaten keyboard and opening the web page for Twitter. Her body surging with heated ardor she opens the comment box and gives her fidgety digits free reign over the rocky terrain of friends, enemies and strangers. Collecting them all together with a five pronged broom she finds herself trapped on a single lane path looping into a circle; why she has failed to achieve any recognition for her efforts, what makes them so much better, and what did she do wrong? Armed with an acerbic rancor she prepares to combat anyone and everyone who would defy her right to recognition. Like the undersides of bridges in fairy tales there are sure to be trolls lurking about but this time she is not only ready for a fight, she wants one.
Some comments are supportive, others appear neutral but none appear to be hostile; this can’t be right she muses in silence while furiously scrolling for comments to her post. They appear to die down after only a few minutes leaving her feed void of opportunity and, unsatisfied she feels no desire but to post again. The second post draws a few more replies, but once again none are openly hostile. Regardless, these people couldn’t possibly care about her; they have everything they could possibly want in their own perfect little world – fame, money, notoriety and recognition by way of hot selling merchandise. What is she to them? Nothing, just another in a long line of downtrodden losers cast aside on the road to glory. It has now been fifteen heart thumping minutes without another reply, the comments and posts on unrelated subjects whizzing by on the social interstate leaving Cat cast aside as roadkill by her busy friends commuting along the information super highway. They have no reason to care. One look is all it takes; scanning the exhaust vapor of their posts, each engaged with one another, a blare of the horn here, a tire screech there; each focused on their own lanes to even acknowledge Cat’s pitiful, untagged signal.
“To hell with them”.
If they won’t let her in then she will have to drive more aggressively and shoehorn her way into a lane, etiquette be damned. An unsafe endeavor, aggressive driving is generally chalked up to a ‘type A’ personality, that is, a person lacking in regard for the wellbeing of others often exemplified by the commission of unprovoked attacks. But this does not apply strictly to the automotive domain as such offenses can be carried into other practices, like engaging in social media banter with friends and followers. Although she has very few followers, roughly ten percent that of her peers Cat is nonetheless afforded ample targets, targets simply meandering their own way. Her fingers become jittery blur zig zagging through replies to her posts in search of a suitable target. Finding several, the young woman pushes a foggy apprehension aside, effectively running it off the road and then directs the verbally abusive vehicle towards the objective, an unwitting Fenris who had merely tried to cheer her up with a simple pun. But it is a pun she is in no mood to engage in, other than by way of a full frontal assault. Other replies whisk by but none are quick enough to avoid the wildly swerving road menace who is quick to change lanes; redirecting her anger onto them.
With several sharp retorts cast haphazardly onto the digital asphalt she slows upon recognition of law enforcement bearing the guise of her manager Goldenboy Gene Banton; but he lets the speeding saboteur off with a warning, free to burn rubber through her own ignorance on way to another target. Additional salvos are fired with each of them hitting their objectives leaving her road weary followers choking in the acrid fumes of puzzlement while the hunt continues with a pair of blockings and numerous posts lamenting her frustrations in a seething yet confusing psalm of inner turmoil. The pressure mounts with each scrolling down the suddenly arid avenue of affliction and yielding no new replies to attack save for one,
‘Untag me please’.
Her chest tightens as she re-reads the post from Ty West, and lacking the familiarity with Twitter terms she can only assume it to mean drop him from her friend list. Why? The knot is cinched into a vise-like clamp and followed by a sharp arrow of pain slicing through her left arm. The hair alertly stands at attention and signals the alarm to which she reacts by discarding the wireless mouse to clutch her thumping chest. Breathing becomes laborious, with each gulp of air reluctantly assimilated and quickly expelled. Raising to her feet she tepidly walks across the room as her lungs join the battle, reinforcing her body with fresh oxygen and eventually driving the invaders out. With her mind feverishly spinning she tries to decipher the cryptic tweet. Ty West is a member of the SCW roster who – before today – had been nothing but friendly to her so why would he ask her to unfollow him? The tweet appears to be lacking rationale until another glance at her feed alerts her to a post from Fenris, written in his native dialect of Icelandic. Fenris and Ty are in a relationship and the post followed her attack and subsequent blocking of ‘The White Wolf’. The pressure continues to mount in her chest, pounding away relentlessly at the stubborn barrier separating rationale from twitter rage, but its presence is felt nonetheless. The noose around her heart slackens and allows her to jump back into the verbal fray.
During her years of schooling she had learned to recognize the symptoms of a cardiac episode but other than the tightness in her chest these symptoms vanish as unexpectedly as they had arrived. Shouldn’t heart attack signs last longer or could it be a warning? Unsure she takes the mouse back into her and leans over the desk where a new reply awaits, a second post by her manager informing her of a car being sent for her. Still unfinished with her assault she sarcastically remarks about the car bearing a custom Fenris paint job before closing her Twitter feed to focus on more pressing matters.
Googling heart attack symptoms she stumbles across links associating the symptoms with anxiety attacks; the pain shooting through the left arm, the difficulty breathing and tightness in the chest among others and recalls the words of her therapist advising her that anxiety and depression – when left unchecked – can wreak havoc on the mind and body. Could this be what she meant? Her heart pulsates in a distressed cadence as her mind reels from an unexpected onslaught of unglued perceptions bringing with them a second jolt through her left arm which is punctuated with a new knot forming in her chest. Shutting the instrument of self-destruction off and bolting to her feet Cat rifles through the burnished cedar dresser for a clean set of clothes, constantly reminding herself of her manager’s car being sent to pick her up while the laughing images of Fenris, Dani Weston and Sam Marlowe dominate the immediate landscape. Beads of sweat form in the creases of her brow as she hastily slips on a pair of black cotton leggings and a white Fenris tee shirt rescued from underneath the bed. Goosebumps shoot up and down both arms bringing a tinge of electricity along as she hunts for a pair of shoes amid the chaos littering the floor and leaving her feeling the cold embrace of tributary confusion which effectively puts her plans of getting dressed on ice.
Dropping to her knees the perspiration is joined by tears rolling down the woman’s quivering face. Ignoring the salty excretion and the images once flooding her mind being evicted by the grim hammering of her heart she clutches at her chest and raises a glossy face to a callously indifferent ceiling.
“God..,” a quavering wad of phlegm pools in the back of her throat forcing an audible gulp. “What is wrong with me”? Collapsing onto the floor and curling into a fetal position as her thoughts retreat in the black, expressionless face of tramping turmoil she wails discordantly against the, tear stained and strife ridden stockade. “Please help me”?
The quartet of LCD flat screen televisions bathes the cream colored waiting room at Sunrise hospital with a gyrating palette of multi-hued tones which flash through the sterile atmosphere with an impassively random occurrence. Looking up from one of several rows of abutting, brown leather cushioned chairs held aloft by like-colored metal piping Cat Riley’s manager Gene Banton catches a glimpse of a religious sermon with a detached gaze. Seated three seats to his left is young mother whom he guesses to be around 23 years of age is doggedly trying to coax her elementary school aged son to sit still, going so far as to try to bribe the energetic young boy with a candy bar purchased from a nearby vending machine. The boy passes on colorfully wrapped serving of empty calories in favor of jumping from one yard sale seat to the next, ignoring the pleas of his mother. On his right is and elderly man sporting a bare dome with strands of white hair neatly combed down along the side who peruses the newspaper left behind by another visitor. Across the room on the far side of the television sets hung from the ceiling and angled for better viewing a young couple engage in an argument; exchanging hushed whispers which render their vocalizations mute to anyone on the opposing side. Extorting a begrudged sigh Gene turns his focus away from the arguing couple and drops his gaze to a clear, glass topped coffee table bearing a large assortment of magazines. Overhead an announcement over the public address system crackles through the aseptic air catches his ears by the lobe as he settles back into his chair with a copy of Sports Illustrated advising Dr. Hutchings of a phone call on line three.
Flipping through the magazine with no more interest than he could muster for a Pro-am golf tournament he eventually settles on a glossy pictorial layout of swimsuit models and realigns his body to the back of the seat to read the accompanying story. Try as he might however; his thoughts – like the others around him - are firmly entrenched on other matters. He had received the call from his driver advising him that his charge, Cat Riley had requested to go to the emergency room having relayed her words of experiencing angina-like symptoms. He promptly ditched his previous plans, driving to the hospital to ensure her wellbeing and making the call to her friend and landlord Christian Underwood who had been out to the park with Scott and Genie. Nearly 30 minutes have passed since his arrival but he has yet to obtain an update on her and leaving a string of unanswered questions which take precedence over Sports Illustrated for contemplation.
“Excuse me.., Mr. Banton”? The voice of the nurse is a high pitched chirp that violently yanks him from his detachment and pulls his eyes from the magazine. Clad in a blue smock which appears to be plastered onto the 30 something woman’s robust frame she regards him thoughtfully from behind a pair of wide lens, brown plastic mounted glasses and offers a halfhearted smile having gained his attention. “Dr. Saab is ready to see you now”.
With a grunt he lifts his vigorous bulk from the chair, dropping the magazine onto the table and follows her lead. The dark haired woman, as evidenced by the loose strands dangling from her light blue bouffant nurse cap leads him past the incessantly ringing phones on the white reception desk and through an open door. She walks with him down a well-lit hallway bearing a blue line painted dead center and past several doors. Some are open allowing his curious glare to peep inside while others are shut but all of them have one thing in common – the name of the patient inside with the physician’s name underneath, both of which are machine printed in slate block letters. A few more steps further and they reach a tan pine door featuring Cat’s name where she stops and turns to face him with a pretentious smile,
“Just wait right here, Dr. Saab will be with you in a moment”, and she waddles off towards the nearby nurse station, a round, ten by ten foot kiosk with a light brown finish and bright white trim to join her colleagues staring blankly at computer screens presumably in another round of gossip .
Although the door is shut he finds himself fighting the temptation to enter the room regardless protocol be damned, but his allurement is derailed by the timely arrival of a middle aged man with neatly combed back obsidian hair with slivers of silver accentuated by a bristle brush mustache who calls him by name, extending his hand which Gene pumps in greeting.
“How is she?” he blurts, “Is she going to be alright”?
The leathery complexion warps into a frown at the question and he reaches for the left breast pocket of the wrinkly frosted, knee length lab coat to retrieve a notepad and a pair of silver, wire-framed reading glasses. Donning the specs he contemplates the chicken scratch and rubs the cleft of his chin thoughtfully.
“We’ve run bloodwork, taken x-rays, ran a CT scan and administered a stress test and she came back fine.., better than fine actually. She has the best stress test score I have ever seen and her bloodwork paints a picture of health. The X-rays and CT scan turned up nothing as well, so on face value she’s as fit as a trout”, he paraphrases the old term substituting trout, which is regarded as a particularly healthy meal and well known for being low in mercury, for horse. With a tactful pause to realign his thoughts to one patient over the extra five or six he scratches his head and locks his chestnut optics onto Gene’s and continues, “However, I did notice that she was recently diagnosed with anxiety and depression so I’ve taken the liberty of notifying her Psychiatrist, who should be here momentarily. In all honesty there is not a damned thing wrong with her body but anxiety has been known to mimic these symptoms under duress which is why I called Dr. Stark”.
Unnoticed by Gene, as he was engaging with the Doctor was the departure of the nurse who announces her return via a painful squeaking of white, closed toe, slip on Crocs against the gleaming wax of the plain alabaster tile floor with Christian Underwood and Scott Schreiner in tow. The former of the two’s face is awash in undulation. Before he can formally approach Gene and Dr. Saab his voice shaken yet firmly resounds through the hall in a reverberating demand.
“What happened, is she alright? I want to see her”. His eyes, wide and insistent lock onto the attending physician. His normally tanned complexion is flush with concern having had the entire drive from the park in the South West portion of the valley to the hospital in the North East to coagulate. His breath has yet to catch up to his thoughts having run the distance from the parking lot to the ER where he now finds himself huffing for answers. “Tell me”.
“Physically”, the Doctor begins, turning to greet the newcomers, “She’s perfect, I didn’t find a thing wrong with her”. His gaze falls from Christian to his mastadonian partner Scott Schreiner who coolly regards him from behind a pair of dark wrap around shades while cradling the couple’s pet cat Genie and holding onto the red collar and leash; the color indicating the puffy Persian’s designation as an emotional support animal and rendering them – by law – able to bring her into nearly every building desired. “I ran a stress test, did blood work, took X – rays, performed a CT scan and double checked the EKG readings.., and her vitals are off the charts and inside everything is textbook perfect, no arrhythmias, nothing”.
“So.., what then?” he demands, planting his hands on the blue jean pasted to his hips. “You can’t tell me this happened by chance”.
“He called Gwen”, Gene offers deadpan. “She should be here any minute”.
Turning his attention from his friend and back to the Doctor he asks, “You think she had a breakdown”?
Nodding his head Dr. Saab reviews the charts clenched by the metal tab of the plastic clip board assembled since Cat’s arrival and replies calmly, “I noted that she is on medication for anxiety and depression and finding nothing wrong with her physically..,” he pauses to qualify his words, a habit formed by many physician’s in the modern litigious society in hopes of avoiding a potential law suit and resumes his explanation, “It stands to reason that she may have experienced an episode related to her condition. Therefore, in the best interest of the patient I elected to call her psychiatrist for additional diagnosis and..,”
“I’m sorry.., traffic has been a real bear”. The voice, emanating from the rear facing staff exit to the emergency room slices through the doctor’s remaining words and draws all eyes towards the ‘staff only’ sign affixed to the metal door which slams shut with a loud clang as Dr. Gwendolyn Stark bursts through in a slightly paced run. The woman’s black, Adidas branded sneakers wail against the polished protests of the tile floor. Reaching the group she fumbles about the right side pocket of a white lab coat to coax out a pair of black, plastic framed glasses which are promptly parked along the bridge of her short, button- like nose. Taking the chart offered by the Middle Eastern MD her azure eyes rove over the litany of charts, graphs and assorted notations before handing it back to him with an audible exhale. “Ok I need to talk to her”, the specialist begins, casting a glance at Saab. “I take it she’s awake”?
Following the man’s confirming bobbing of his head; she reaches for the hemline of the navy turtleneck sweater, pulling it down and let’s herself into the room, wavering at the door jamb to signal the assemblage of friends to stay put before disappearing inside. Dr. Saab is quick to excuse himself to attend other patients and leaves the trio of Christian, Scott and Gene to assemble the pieces of the puzzle lying at their feet.
“Do you really think anxiety can mimic a heart attack”? Reaching over to his partner Christian relieves him of the 13 pounds of emotional support and takes her into his own arms, cradling her snug against his pink tee shirt covered chest.
“I don’t know”, Gene admits with a perplexed drawl. “But it does make sense when you consider that you’re dealing with the human mind and that it basically controls everything in the body”.
“I suppose”, lowering his head into the comforting warmth of Genie’s fur laden body Christian mumbles while his mind furiously scrolls through ancient memories, trying to rewind through the aged footage of his own episodes in hopes of finding a parallel. “But I never had anything that”.
If the mountain will not come to Muhammad then Muhammad must go to the mountain – a proverbial phrase meaning that if one does not prevail then they must seek an alternative. With his mind in overdrive Gene casts a sidelong glance to Scott and Christian beside him discussing what could have brought about Cat’s most recent episode with each having his own opinion – Scott subscribing to a possible deep rooted, yet unseen emotional rung and Christian taking a surprisingly parental approach insistent on heaping the burden of blame onto his own shoulders, convinced that he could have done more. So where does Muhammad go? In Essays 1625 Francis Bacon used the word ‘hill’ as opposed to the more recent and popular mountain; the latter probably due to the connotation associated with mountain, drawing up images of an imposing rampart defying any would be adventurers.
“But if you remember what Dr. Stark said anxiety brings you to make mountains out of molehills”. Scott’s voice, though calm and even toned still carries with it a baritone rumbling which subtly threatens the subdued ambience. “You of all people should know that Chrissy. Hell, you’re doing it right now”.
Getting around a hill is easy enough, one simply places one foot in front of the other and walks around it. A mountain however – brings an entirely new series of challenges to contend with, obstacles to be overcome, a maze of paths to be navigated or ignored, and the treacherous footing of an ever shifting terrain, dictated by a mind at odds with itself; all in search of the elusive mole hill.
“Damn it Chris, it’s not you”. The rumbling escalates into a pointed peak which teeters on the edge of eruption with Scott doing his best to remain calm while countering the irrational musings of his spouse. “You’ve done everything possible to help the kid, but at the rate you’re going you’ll end up worse than she is, you are focusing on the wrong damned target”.
But in order to acquire the correct target one first needs to eliminate the associated apparitions peppering the jagged mindscape which proves next to impossible for one without proper reference. The mountain with its litany of traps and pitfalls proves to be a near insurmountable trial to even the most seasoned of climbers, especially when enveloped in a beseeming environment which leaves only one option; if Muhammad cannot go to the mountain then the mountain must come to Muhammad.
“Son of a bitch, that’s it”. His words are sharp, slicing through the parley of his friends and bringing them to a pointed regard.
“What are you talking about”, Christian demands somewhat heated over being carved out of his debate with Scott. “What’s it”?
“Don’t you see..?” Gene clasps his long time friends’ shoulders and shakes them in an eager grip engendered by his eureka moment. “It’s not you Chris, and it’s not Cat drudging up old memories..,” a pregnant pause allows Gene to collect and organize the quickly dimming rays of realization before they can fade back into the darkness from whence they came. “It’s the environment”.
In a seeming take of umbrage Christian steps from his friend’s grasp and regards him through a visage of open indignation, his lips curled tightly into a snarl. “Are you saying that Scotty and I are providing a bad home for Cat”?
“Since when did we become her parents”? Scott demands in a bemused bawl. “I never saw you give birth to..,”
“Shut up Scott”. His eyes heated and with laser-like focus are trained directly onto his suddenly fidgeting friend with Scott kowtowing to his acerbic ‘request’. “Speak up Geno; are we making a bad home for Cat”?
Recognizing Christian’s high emotional state he draws an elongated breath hoping to create some distance and afford his friend an extra moment to cool down. At the same time however; he finds himself bombarded from a different angle with rapid-fire questions and answers and he thrusts his palm outward, buying an additional moment while picking through the buckshot of ideas on how to separate the young lady from her current environment. While digging through the lead and with Scott and Christian’s focus squarely on him the group fails to notice the door behind them slowly opening and Dr. Stark’s neatly styled blonde mane emerging from behind the threshold. Not wanting to interrupt upon observing Gene’s angular jaw clenched firmly with his cobalt eyes drawn downward towards the floor, digging through the sod of speculation she quietly files in behind Scott and Christian, watching the man tapping his temple with the tip of a beefy index finger and nodding in acceptance to a yet to be shared find.
“Chris”, he begins with his head still bowed in cogitation. “Wrestling is what set this off to begin with, the perceived failure to uphold her family legacy, right”?
Rolling his eyes towards the acoustical, mineral fiber white ceiling tile the angst-ridden SCW co-owner replies with his typical trademark sarcasm, “I’d offer you a shovel Geno, but no shit”.
Undeterred by the challenging tone he presses on, “But she lives with you at your home and with you being the co-owner of the fed she performs for it’s impossible to keep her mind off it. She’s surrounded by the same catalyst day in and day out so it’s not a matter of ‘if’ she has another episode, but ‘when’. Do you follow”?
His brow furrowing at the realization of the point he is trying to make Christian strokes the tip of his clean shaven chin, “Alright”, he acquiesces. “You have a point but what do you propose we do? It’s not exactly easy to remove all of the stimuli”.
Finally having collected the nuggets Gene begins to sift through them one by one, his re-energized mind carefully evaluating each tiny fragment with the care of an archaeologist at a dig site; tossing aside those deemed as unacceptable while nurturing others that show even a spec of promise. He runs down his itinerary, gently brushing off the dust obscuring his view and streams it through his mind as a slideshow starting with his planned trip to Brazil to scout a prospect and followed by a meeting with the director of a new film being produced by his studio, a film starring Christian Underwood.
“Christian, you start filming next week, right”? The question draws a subtle nod from him, his wavy locks bobbing up and down in modulation. “I’ve had Cat taking acting classes on and off since I signed her, so how about we slide her into a role alongside you”?
“That’s brilliant”!
Startled by the surprisingly high-pitched interruption emanating from where Christian stands, all eyes gravitate towards the bewildered wrestling boss who returns the gaze with a sheepish grin; opening his mouth to speak he is cut off by Gwen who emerges from behind him, her petite frame fully cloaked by the larger man’s athletic frame, her lips upturned into a gentle smile.
“Sorry”, she offers apologetically. “I didn’t want to interrupt before hearing what Geno had in mind”.
“And what do you think”? He prods.
“I think its genius, provided she doesn’t have to draw on any deep psychological issues; something like that would be perfect for Cat”.
“What would be perfect for me”? Inundated by the brainstorm with Gene guiding them over the waves and Gwen leading them ashore they failed to notice Cat following her Psychiatrist out of the door inadvertently left open. Wearing nothing more than a blue hospital gown the barefoot subject of their odyssey approached from behind Scotty, the hulking mountain of muscle providing an excellent, if unintended shield, and regards them through deep, soulful blue eyes, her expression tenderly wrapped in concern. She shrugs her slight shoulders in response to the optic fray directed at her by the group, “I overheard you guys out here and wanted to see you”.
“That’s perfectly fine kitty cat”, draping his arm protectively over her shoulder Christian pulls her close, sharing the warmth of his body and fills her in, “We were discussing how to help you”.
Feeling the vibration of his iPhone Gene excuses himself from the group, taking a few steps further down the hall to afford a measure of privacy while taking the call. He nods in agreement, mumbles something unintelligible by the rest of his party and bobs his head again while listening. One more nod and he ends the call returning the device back to his front pocket and rejoins the others.
“That was Despy”, he offers with a tinge of confusion. “He said he has a business proposition for me”.
Christian snorts, “A business proposition from Despy? “He probably wants to start a lemonade stand or something for the ice cream truck but enough of that”. Turning Cat to face him he regards her with a warm, parental smile and rolls onward, “kitty cat, how would you like to be in a movie”?
