Less than two weeks away from SCW’s London Brawling super card Cat Riley finds herself back home in Las Vegas. Despite missing her family and friends she noticed that she had been booked against Apple Coren, a young woman from York of whom she knows nothing of and elected to make the trip to take advantage of her manager’s resources to prepare in earnest for the enigmatic bombshell. While her family possesses a wealth of wrestling knowledge, they could offer little insight into her upcoming opponent other than a few miscellaneous tidbits; she is a brawler with a decent amount of technical skill and favors submissions apparently – a trail of bread crumbs left to scatter in the wind. In the morning she would review Gene’s video library in hopes of finding match footage and try to compare notes with previous opponents in hopes of developing a working game plan.
In the meantime, however there are chores to be done; her bedroom could stand a bit of cleaning, at least according to Christian Underwood, in addition to a few other bits and bobs. Stepping through the doorway she reaches out with her left hand, sliding against the plastered wall searching in the dark for the familiar feel of the plastic light switch. Finding it she flips it upwards and with a faint click the room brightens as the overhead lamp flickers on. Looking across the room she tosses her grey gym bag onto the queen-sized bed where it lands on the rumpled white blankets with a muted thud and scans the 15 by 15-foot room.
Several pairs of discarded cotton leggings lay strewn across the floor, casualties of a mad dash to the airport. A sweater is draped over the lamp atop a chestnut nightstand with a pair of Scott’s oversized tee shirts hanging from the inner door knob and atop a 42” flat screen television. Several mis-matched socks are scattered errantly about the shaggy blue carpet. An alarm clock turned on its face fails to give her the time, although it may help if she were to plug it in. A fan leans against a glass computer desk with a UNLV sport jacket draped over the curved monitor. Stepping towards the desk and kicking aside one of at least five shoes lying about she approaches the high back leather computer chair with a stack of blue ray discs piled on top of it along with a half-eaten bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups. Reaching into the plastic orange and yellow bag she pulls out one of the chocolate candies and unwraps it. Stuffing it into her mouth she drops the wrapper to the floor with a shrug.
“I don’t see what’s wrong with my room”, she muses aloud.
While she continues to look about the ransacked room, she fails to hear the light squeaking of the pet door as it is flung open allowing the family pet of many years Genie, a twelve-pound Persian cat to slink in. With a furrowed brow she studies the bed, her aqua lenses fixated on the gym bag. She steps across the floor to the bed and grabs the bag, inverting it to dump its contents onto the floor and flops down on the vacated pillow topped 13-inch mattress. Genie follows suit, springing from the floor and joining Cat on the bed. She smiles as the furry cat greets her with a ‘kitty bump’ and scratches her behind the ear prompting the feline to purr in content.
“Hey Genie, have you been good while I was gone”? she asks, stroking the cat’s silken white coat. “Maybe you can tell me what’s wrong with this room”?
Rather than respond, Genie simply offers a lick to Cat’s nose before nestling onto the pillow. Sitting up Cat again scans the room; her gaze is curious with an arced brow as she looks about for an unknown object but is unable to discern its whereabouts. With a lightly frustrated groan she rises off the bed and reaches up for the small bronze chain attached to the ceiling fan. With a tug the fan begins to whir, circulating a cool breeze throughout. Unsatisfied however Cat gives it a second tug and the fan spins faster. Plodding back to her bed she is struck in the back of the head by a small, light device which falls to the floor with a muffled clunk. Rubbing the back of her head Cat turns around and looks down at the remote control and smiles,
“There you are”! she exclaims. I thought I had lost you”. Cradling the device in her hand she dives back into bed and depresses the red ‘power’ button at the top to turn the set on and is treated to a flickering of lights muddled by the tee shirt draped over the screen. “Bloody hell”, she grumbles in annoyance while debating internally whether to get out of bed, walk 12 feet across a field of debris and remove the huge blue shirt sporting a ‘Powerhouse Gym’ logo or stay put where it’s safe and warm. Before she can make up her mind though a rapping against the door alerts her to unexpected company. “Come in”, she answers.
“Hey kitty cat”, Scott Schreiner, the massive, self-styled ‘Big Pump’ and spouse of the actual man of the house Christian Underwood opens the door and steps over the threshold. “I got something I need to show you”, he says in a surprisingly soft tone given the booming nature of his voice.
“Sure”, she replies. Recognizing an opportunity, she looks at the vascular behemoth and adds, “Hey, would you mind pulling that tee shirt off the TV please”?
“Yeah sure”, he grunts and steps across the room with one of her plastic doohickeys crunching under his gait. Taking the shirt into his hand he drops it on the floor revealing a rerun of Family Feud and walks back towards the bed where Cat and Genie look on expectantly. “So, any way”, he begins, dropping down on the edge of the bed. His heft depresses the cushy mattress forcing Cat to plant a hand firmly against it to keep from rolling towards him. “I got this text message from Chrissy just a few minutes ago…,”
“And…?” She prods. “What does it say”?
“I’ll just let you read it”, he says, handing her his cell phone.
Cat accepts the phone and props herself up, scooting to the edge of the bed beside the 6’2” 285-pound mammoth. At barely 110 pounds and a standing height of 5’4” the disparity between the blonde and Scotty is almost comical, but her expression instead reflects a sinking feeling as she reads into a message of titanic proportions,
GIVE GENIE A BATH
“Uh oh”, she says swallowing with an audible gulp.
“Yeah”, the big man nods somberly. “Maybe we should go downstairs and figure out how to do this”? He suggests before adding in a hopeful timbre, “and you can nuke me something to eat”?
“Alright, fine”, she assents and rises to her feet. Kicking off her shoes as Scott does likewise, she follows up by ditching her socks, kicking them across the room to land behind the dresser and pulling her pants off leaving on nothing but one of Scott’s vastly ill-fitting shirts. “Let’s go see what we can come up with”.
“I think I have something”, Cassie’s voice rises excitedly from behind the blue glow of the computer screen before her. Leaning against the desk she taps away at the backlit gamer style keyboard, punching in commands to access her father’s digital video library. “Her name is Apple Coren, right”? She asks.
“Yeah”, but is she hot”?
“Fuck all if I know”.
“I don’t wanna fuck all, just her”, Junior yawns while extending his legs along the well-padded chestnut leather sofa, peeling his shoes off. “Assuming she’s hot”. A loud series of thuds reverberate throughout the exquisitely furnished Mediterranean style house accompanied by a guttural growling which he quickly casts off as belong to the ‘family pet’. “Now, hurry up and dig up her nudie pics”, he says, rolling onto his side. “And get me a pair of earplugs”.
A loud roar is followed by a crash and the trailing clatter of shattered glass. Another roar brings with it a chain of thumping. Briskly it echoes down the softly lit hallway, but Cassie shrugs it off and returns to her attention to the monitor in front of her. Scrolling through a series of links provided by her search query she begins clicking on them, starting with the top most link and reading through the results. Not satisfied she backs up to the original results and clicks the second link, and eventually the third and fourth until coming across something which piques her interest. Reading on she dives into the sea of text before her, swimming through waves of words until one of her father’s scouting reports splashes her blue eyes. Cassie wades through the undercurrent of biographical information, paddling past a montage of photos – no nudies – and a drizzle of press releases until finding a fishing hole teeming with a school of details.
“Ok, so she’s a brawler”, Cassie begins.
“And I’m trying to sleep”.
Before she can reply a thunderous cacophony of crashes occur in rapid fire succession followed by another load roar and, surprisingly, a child like ‘whee’ as the thudding and bumping returns to its previous levels. Casting a glance to the doorway but seeing nothing but the opposing cream-colored hallway wall she shrugs and returns to her stream of settlement and casts her line, reading along.
“She’s from an aristocratic family in York England”, she reads aloud for her fidgeting brother. “Her father, a British Lord was often away, and it was the staff who pretty much raised her”. Like a rock across water her eyes skip along stirring additional fry which she offers up. “She was taught to wrestle at a small school in Britain and, this is interesting…,” A pause ensues as she treads further along to ensure the correctness of her thoughts. “Despite a tendency for brawling she has an impressive arsenal of submissions”.
“So”? Junior demands sleepily.
“So, you moronic mackerel, a submission wrestler taught in Britain, what are the chances she learned submission wrestling at The Snake Pit”?
“Slim and none”, he replies, stifling another yawn. “I talked with her dad and uncle when we were in Manchester and they told me that Cat and Fox were the first two women they ever trained and Apple bottom Coren has been around longer than Cat”.
“Son of a…, Damn it”! The voice of their father crying out is quickly succeeded by a string of heavy thudding which grows louder and louder until the elder Gene Banton stomps into the office where the twins are working drawing a look of puzzlement from the pair.
“Hey pops, try to keep it down so I can sleep while Cassie works, alright”?
“Dad…,” Cassie stammers watching her father rummage through an attached walk-in closet. “What’s going on”?
“Nothing that a Burmese Tiger trap wouldn’t fix”, he grumbles.
“What”?
“Ugh”, he groans, casting a few miscellaneous items haphazardly to the side. “Fox gave Mow Mow a bag of catnip”, he says while continuing to dig. “Now she’s riding him around the house while he goes crazy”.
Emerging from the closet with a heavy rope Tiger snare bundled into his arms he heads for the door but pauses at the doorway and turns back to his children with a bit of a smirk.
“Remember when you two fed Mow Mow all that catnip so you could swipe your mom’s credit card”? he asks, shaking the rope in reminiscence of an event which ultimately prompted him to buy the heavy-duty nylon trap.
“Yeah”, Junior snickers at the memory. “God, she was pissed”.
“Good thing she’s out shopping right now”, Cassie adds with a smile.
“No kidding, she wanted to whip my ass for fathering you two”, Gene nods in agreement, turning towards the hall. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a cat to trap”.
The floor is littered with cardboard box traps lying face down, each of them, opened and empty are propped up on one side, held up by a stick taken from the yard. A string tied to the bottom of each twig runs across the deck where they all intersect in the living room at the sofa where Scotty sits, his bare feet propped atop a crochet coaster on an ornately engraved wooden coffee table, television remote in one hand and a beer in the other. With a smirk of satisfaction, he hangs ten, rapidly depressing the channel button with his thumb, surfing through the swell of programming. Behind him a crash resounds as Cat discards another burned out microwave oven onto the floor and steps carefully over the intertwining string to join him on the settee. Carpingly she reaches for an open bottle of Pepsi Max.
“Stupid made in America junk, bloody yanks can’t even make a microwave work properly”.
Yeah, I don’t know what’s wrong with that crap”, he agrees, suppressing a belch. “I keep telling Chrissy to buy Chinese, but the damned broad never listens”. Polishing off the bologna sandwich and chips he begins to tackle the can of Bud light in earnest, taking a healthy swig before looking over at Cat. “Just as soon as I finish this beer we’ll get started”, he says. “Where is she any way”?
“Fine”, Cat acquiesces with a shrug of her slender shoulders, “She’s sleeping on my bed, but I don’t think this is going to work”.
“Why not”?
“Those boxes are too flimsy; she’ll tear right through them”.
“They only have to hold her long enough for one of us to grab her”, he grunts. “Then we can give her that bath. How do you suppose we get her to come down here anyway”?
“We can entice her with dinner”, Cat offers. “We’ll set something out that she really likes and ring her bell”.
“Alright, cool, let’s get started”. Scott rises to his feet, crumpling the empty beer can in a meaty fist and starting towards the kitchen. Stopping in his tracks however he turns and looks to Cat with an arched brow asking,” Uhh, do you know how to work that refrigerator”?
“Open it with your right hand”, she explains rolling her eyes towards the newly reinforced ceiling fan. “Then scan the contents with your eyes and grab what you want with your left. Be careful though”, she advises. “The stuff in there is not a barbell. Once you have what you want, close the door carefully so you don’t destroy it”.
“Cool, thanks”.
She silently watches the gleaming metal blades spin slowly about, circulating air throughout the living room as Scott’s heavy feet clap across the recently polished cross hatch patterned wood floor. An audible click is heard as he flips the switch turning the light on in the kitchen, followed by a confused snarl.
“Hey”, he demands in a bellicose roar. “What the hell is this thingy in the door? Every time I touch it water comes out”!
“It’s a water dispenser”, Cat grouses softly, not wanting to come across too harsh at the alarming display of ignorance. “The one on the left is an ice dispenser”.
“Dumb broad, ain’t he ever heard of a damned faucet”?
“It’s filtered”, she offers, attempting to explain.
“What”?
“Never mind”. Propping herself to a vertical base the barefooted Cat makes her way to the kitchen, carefully navigating the minefield of tripwires, not wanting to trigger one on accident, despite merely being cardboard boxes bearing Amazon Prime logos. “Hold on Scotty, I’m coming”. Although she is more fearful of Scott’s exploding voice, and the damage it could do to her eardrums. “Just a sec, I don’t want to step on any of these strings”.
“They’re tripwires”, he says correcting the mistaken civilian. “And this is the plan; when she comes down here, she’ll trip one of the wires and get trapped under the case…,”
“It’s a box”.
“Shut up. When she gets trapped, you jump on it and grab her, got it”?
“What if she doesn’t trip any of the strings, err, wires, then what”?
Rolling his baby blues General Scotty does not bother to hide his irritation. “Then you grab her when she starts to eat”, he explains. “You are so lucky to have me here to plan this out for you or your little ass would be in a world of trouble”.
“But why do I have to be the one to grab her”? Corporal Cat cries in protest. “You’re the one with the huge muscles and giant hands, why can’t you do it”?
“Because I’m in charge here”, he bellows. “It’s my job to plan this operation”. He hands her an unopened can of sardines and barks his next order,” Figure out to open this damned thing and ring the bell”.
Exhaling a sigh of capitulation while under the glowering glare of the behemoth Cat pulls the tab up and slowly peels the aluminum lid back. Dropping to a bare knee she rattles the can against the side of Genie’s plastic bowl, shaking the contents loose, allowing them to fall inside.
“Good job” Scott offers up Genie’s gold-plated dinner bell having retrieved it from the hook on the wall. “Now ring it and let’s get this over with. I’m missing out on the Ecuadorian curling semifinals”
Cat takes the bell in hand and draws a deep breath. Genie is the darnedest cat she has ever come across, let alone gone rounds with and no matter how many times she has done so, no matter how often she’s changed up her strategy Genie has nearly always managed to thwart her efforts. Many bruises, headaches and repairs to the two-story Victorian manor later she is set to engage the frustrating feline once more. Exhaling slowly, trying to gather her composure she raises the bell and…,
“Give me that thing you little chicken shit”! Snatching the bell from her hand Scotty holds it aloft and rings it vigorously, calling out his pet, “Genie, dinner’s ready”!
A high-pitched meow emanates from upstairs in response and general Schreiner, satisfied, re-posts the bell on its hook and takes station behind Cat, who warily looks outward from the kitchen. The patter of tiny feet strums down the stairs and before the nervous blonde can draw another breath, she feels the familiar softness of long fur rubbing against her bare legs. Looking down she recognizes Genie, having made her way down and appearing none the worse for wear, despite the numerous traps lying about the house indulging in the sardines. Purring in content she eagerly devours the fish, squatting down on her haunches, still sitting between Cat’s now quivering legs.
“Well…?” Scott prods her. “What are you waiting for, grab her”!
Reaching down Cat quickly wraps her hands around the bloated belly of the beast, surprising the Persian mid-meal and hoists her to chest height. Snaking an arm around the fidgeting bundle of fur she grips Genie tightly against her chest.
“Quick, get the pet taxi”! she cries out. But Scotty merely stands there, his normally hardened visage muddle by a bemused brow. “Hurry, I can’t hold her forever”!
“What the hell do I look like, your valet”? He shouts in an authoritarian tonality. “I can’t do everything. Hell, I did more than my fair share already by planning this op. Now, just go get the pet carrier and stuff her in so I can get back to ESPN”.
“Where is it”? she asks, struggling to maintain her hold on the fussy feline.
“It’s out in the garage”, he says. “But it’s locked, so give me a few minutes to find the key”.
“You’re joking? With planning skills like that you should be working for the bloody city”.
“I know, right? I always told Chrissy that…,”
“Owww”!
He is interrupted by a squeal as Genie sinks her talons in the soft skin of her belly and slashes at it. Recoiling instinctively, she drops the cat who takes off like a shot, tearing out of the kitchen towards the living room.
“Quick, after her”! The General barks. “Maybe one of the traps got her”.
“Not bloody likely”, Cat replies under her breath stepping past the breakfast bar to give chase. Emerging into the spacious living room she notes that, in addition to a handful of family photos having been knocked to the floor all the boxes have been overturned with the sticks lying to the side and the string jumbled into a knot. “I knew that stupid idea wouldn’t work”! She hisses while surveying the scene. “Now what do we do”?
“I’m thinking”.
“Well think faster before she finds a place to hide that we don’t know about”.
Stroking his bleached goatee, Scott ponders his next move. The shattering of a lamp crashing to the floor reverberates in the background. “The damned cat is running like she’s high or something”, he deadpans. His voice trails off as his mind latches onto something. “I got it”! He cries with a loud snap of his fingers. “We’ll break out the catnip,” he begins excitedly. “She won’t be able to resist and will have to come get some and when she does… boom, we grab her again”!
“Sure”, Cat groans, rolling her eyes in disdain. “Like she’s not fast enough already”.
“You go set up one of the box traps in the living room”, he says. “I’ll go get the catnip and set it under the box so when she comes for it you just pull the string and we’re good to go”.
“Yeah, straight to the asylum”. Nonetheless Cat does as she is instructed. As Scott trots up the stairs, she leans over and carefully resets one of the traps, laughing at the flimsy cardboard while weaving the string towards the main sofa in the living room, knowing that General Scott will insist on establishing his command post there. While positioning the flimsy, rain soaked cardboard box, hastily rescued from the recycling bin for another chance at life she resolves to work on her own plan to set into motion once the current one fails. “As usual I’ll have to do it myself”, she mutters.
The heavy-footed boom of Scott’s feet as they traverse back down the carpeted stairway bounces off the walls as he makes his way back down and into the living room. His right hand is cupped to avoid spilling the finely cut herb as he leans over to sprinkle it onto the floor beneath the would be trap. Carefully he spreads his fingers allowing it to sift through, all the while mindful of Genie’s prying eyes, ever vigilant as she watches him curiously from the relative safety provided by the bulging behemoth’s broken-down recliner. The trusty old ‘captain’s chair’ as he prefers to call it shows its age; wrapped in faded, scuffed brown leather and bearing numerous battle scars accumulated over the years watching sports center, all of them doggedly held in place by fraying strips of duct tape. Rising back up he brushes his hands against one another and steps back to join Cat by the sofa. He holds up a single finger in a silent instruction to remain alert as she grips the string in her hands.
“Steady…,” Her muscles tense up in anticipation when Genie cautiously emerges from behind the recliner and into full view. Twitching her tail suspiciously she slowly approaches the pile of cannabis for cats, licking her chops in anticipation. “Steady…, steady…, now”!
“Gotcha”!
The loud cry is promptly followed by a cacophonous crash accentuated by the familiar sounds of a piano having its keys slapped. Looking up from the monitor Cassie casts a smirk to her brother, now sitting upright on the sofa, having abandoned the thought of sleep. He shakes his head pitifully.
“There goes mom’s piano”, he mutters. “Oh well, she never played it any way”.
“Yay! Mow Mow rules and Geno drools catch us if you can”!
“Hey Junior, do you think…”? Stopping herself mid-sentence, Cassie shakes her head as if in answer to the question she was poised to ask. “No, no way”, she says.
“No way what”? Junior insists.
“I was going to ask if maybe that catnip had affected Fox too”.
A series of pained groans echo through the spacious living room of the 21’000 square foot Mediterranean manor as Geno senior reaches up with a trembling hand and grabs hold of a white silk drape, suspended from the 20-foot ceiling where it gently cascades down to the top of the matching fireplace. Gripping the soft fabric, he uses it to pull himself out of the wreckage of the formerly grand piano. Unfortunately for him, the tapestry was never intended to support 270 pounds as evidenced by the shearing sound of the drapery which comes fluttering down to envelope him in a cocoon. Trying to wrestle free of his confinement he trips over one of a set of twin cream-colored sectionals and falls onto the ornamented glass coffee table separating them reducing it to shards and spilling the dirt of the centerpiece plant onto the cream and tan throw rug.
“You know, all of this chaos is making it really hard to concentrate”, the redhead observes from behind her father’s desk while listening to the discord downstairs. “If this keeps up, we’ll never find anything more out about Apple Coren”.
“Tell me about it”, Junior nods in agreement while stifling an oncoming yawn. “It makes it hard to sleep too”.
Another thunderous roar rips the air followed by heavy sounds of feet galloping through the house and accentuated by Fox’s child-like whooping. Banging her head against the desk in frustration Cassie selects another link on the dimly glowing screen and briefly reads before dismissing the information with a back click.
“Damn it”.
“Alright”, accepting the unissued challenge, Junior rises to the edge of the sofa, finally giving up on the idea of a nap. “What do you have so far”?
“Well…,” she begins, lifting her gaze to meet that of her brother while pushing back in the swivel chair which squeaks lightly in protest. “She favors brawling but also possesses a strong technical style with a subset of submission holds”. Gesturing to the computer she continues, “Going from what I’ve seen she’s not afraid of high spots, which is probably Cat’s biggest weakness, and she seems to be an aggressive wrestler, preferring to dictate the action”.
“I love a take charge kind of girl”, he smirks. “You said she likes to dictate the pace…, what kind of submissions does she favor”?
“Umm…,” caught by the question Cassie backpedals to the computer, burying her face once more into the screen and clicks through a series of links bringing up various clips of the Bombshell in action and applying various holds.
Junior waits patiently for his sister to complete her search, his ears tuning in to the chaos happening elsewhere; his father’s huffing and puffing as the elder man gives chase to the Tiger and Fox run amok, the agitated growling of the big cat and the supplemental ‘whee’ provided by its co-conspirator which brings a soft smile to his face; happy to not be the instigator for a change. His attention returns to Cassie as she clears her throat with an audible gurgle.
“It looks mostly like new school stuff”, she answers, “a blend of Japanese and European techniques”. Scratching the tip of her nose she looks across the dimly lit room to her brother whose gaze is turned to the floor, reflecting a mind wading deeply into a pool of thought. “She’s also extremely sure of herself”, she adds, “but other than that and everything else I just told you that’s about all I can find on Apple”.
Swimming with the current of her words Junior’s mind paddles along with the accompanying images as he pictures how he would counter such an attack. He reasons that when facing an opponent of extreme self-assurance, he would seek to test the limits of their confidence. Imagining the almost counter intuitive blend of styles of European and Japanese wrestling, like low- and high-density water fronts they don’t blend so much as collide to create the oceanic equivalent of weather or in wrestling, a confliction of means as both styles address the same problems but in different ways. Surely a single style would be more fluid? Before he can answer his own question however he is pulled away by a riptide which thrusts him ashore and washing him in an idea for good measure.
“It could work”!
“Huh,” Scott demands through tightened jaws, looking on through weary, water logged eyes. “What could work”?
She regards his quizzical glare delicately, knowing his notorious lack of patience while images revolve in her mind’s eye, circling around her thoughts as an idea begins to form. The key to getting the stubbornly self-centered big man to play along, as Christian has once shared with her is to make him think the idea is his. Holding up a finger asking for a brief pause buys her time to consider her choice of words while surveying the debris scattered about the living room; the sofa now lies on its back with the black, cloth underbelly facing the television. The coffee table has been shattered and now lays in ruins with bits and pieces strewn about. The ornamental throw rug beneath the coffee table has been shredded by Genie’s claws and the box ‘traps’ have all been trampled flat. Both nightstands flanking the sofa are overturned and the matching bronze leaf and vine Tiffany table lamps – having seen better days – have been cast to the floor, their shades crushed under Scott’s bulk. Catty corner to the sofa, the matching loveseat has seen its cushion torn out and shredded, the feathery stuffing scattered haphazardly with Scott’s ‘command chair’ his ratty old recliner being the only thing seemingly unharmed. It also serves as a temporary shelter for their quarry, unbeknownst to them with Genie tucked underneath watching like a prison escapee, waiting to make her next move.
“We tried my idea”, she begins slowly, still shuffling her intended words. “For that I thank you, but obviously my idea wasn’t very good, so I think we need to try your idea”.
“See”? Scott bellows in agreement. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you before we destroyed the house, it was a stupid idea that only as dumb blonde like you could come up with”.
Biting her tongue, though desperately wanting to tear into him verbally she instead keeps it in check and continues to listen.
“You need a man to plan this shit out, so it only makes sense to use my plan, right”?
Cat remains silent, her tongue still pacing within the confines of her mouth, anxious to break free,
“Now, for the sake of your memory, what was my plan again”?
“Remember that commercial we saw a few minutes ago”? she asks. “The one with the silly jingle and the giant squirt gun”?
Stroking his goatee thoughtfully Scott rewinds back to the commercial sandwich in between the junior varsity hotdog eating championships as the jingle implants itself once more into his head as an earworm,
‘It’s kitty time, kitty time, kitty-kit-kitty time, the sudsy soaker is online it’s time to make the kitty shine’.
“Oh yeah”, he says, recalling the commercial. “The Karrie Mae and Angie Oh so fun Super Sudsy kitty soaker”.
“And Christian’s text to you said to give her a bath”, she adds wryly. “It didn’t say anything about capturing her”.
“Yeah, that’s right”, he lifts his gaze in enlightenment, but abruptly turns it back to Cat in an accusatory glare, “So why did you want to try and capture her dumbass”?
“Because I’m a dumb blonde, remember”? Cat sneers, her tone taking on a sarcastic pitch. “Where do you keep the Karrie Mae and Angie Oh so fun Super Sudsy kitty soaker any way”?
“It’s in the shed out back”, he answers while shuffling to the overturned sofa. Too lazy to flip it over Scott instead plops down on the hard floor and leans against the bottom with his eyes returning to the ‘war map’. “Hurry up and get everything set, I gotta catch up on what I missed. Thank God for DVR”.
“Yes sir, Mr. General sir”. Standing just inside of his peripheral vision Cat snaps into a salute which the big man regards in a nonplussed countenance.
“What the hell are you saluting me for”? he demands in a throaty drum. “Go and get the stuff and set it up. I don’t have all day and I’m tired. All this damned thinking is giving me a headache”.
Thusly dismissed the corporal scampers from the living room through the sliding glass gateway into the back yard. Her bare feet trot over the moist, thick grass as she approaches the burgundy and white wooden shed. She opens the meticulously carved double doors and peers inside at a wall of boxed goods; Karrie Mae and Angie Tender Tushy Potty Paper, the Karrie Mae and Angie Kitty Caboose, Karrie Mae and Angie’s Colossal Kitty Condo, Karrie Mae and Angie’s spring clean air peen, Karrie Mae and Angie’s Fussy Feline Fur Freshener models 1,000 to 7,000 and more. Reaching the floor, she spies the target still tucked away in a long box she estimates to be at least one meter. Picking it up, she cradles the bulging package, wrapping both arms tightly around the surprisingly heavy object and proceeds to waddle back across the yard towards the well-lit patio and sets it down on the park bench style table. Tearing it open and pulling out the instruction manual she begins to read over the instruction manual, marveling at the thickness of the booklet and the amount of information contained within.
“I don’t believe this”, she sputters aloud, lifting her eyes from the plentiful pages. “I’m supposed to be getting ready for my match against Apple Coren, but here I am, outside in the middle of the bloody night trying to give Shere Khan a bath”. Shaking her head in capitulation she resumes reading. “Maybe Apple will go easy on me”.
