Ms. Rocky Mountains, the aptly named, bespectacled brunette stands by outside of the SCW office building – a small, converted duplex – flanked by similar retrofitted former homes now serving as offices for lawyers, accountants and insurance companies. A crisp breeze filters through the budded trees lining the sidewalk bringing a welcome break from the high-pressure heat of the valley. While thus far has been a cooler than average year for the Las Vegas valley, many residents continue to hold out ‘hope’ for a blistering return of the customary summer heat. Wiping her brow with a handkerchief she glances expectantly at the freshly painted door sporting the logo of Sin City wrestling and quickly tucks it into the black satchel hanging from her shoulders as the door opens with a light squeak into a blue aperture as Cat Riley exits the building. Looking up into the cloudless sky the blonde Briton adjusts her silver and black Raiders ball cap, turning it forward to shield her marine orbs from the hammering rays of the sun.
“Cat, Cat Riley”, the interviewer calls out for her attention while trotting up to greet the wiry young lady by thrusting a microphone into her face and drawing a distasteful grimace from her 24-year-old target. “You’re scheduled to meet Seleana Zdunich for the second time in Phoenix as a lead in to the Into the Void super card. How do you feel about this match and would you have rather been matched against someone else”?
“First of all,” Cat begins slowly with her eyes gravitating down towards the other woman’s celestial objects while her own hands rise protectively to cover her own. “You’re supposed to leave the air bags in the car. Surely you don’t expect to have that serious an accident on the sidewalk, do you”? Without waiting for a reply Cat crosses her arms about her chest and continues, “Would I rather wrestle someone else? Of course, I would! I like Seleana. She is one of the few likeable people in a promotion permeated by the stench of self-absorbed, self-entitled, self-serving, selfish little scrubbers. Of all the people deserving of being tied into knots I assure you that Seleana is not one of them. Quite the opposite, in fact”.
“So, despite her marriage to Crystal Hilton-Zdunich, you’re not harboring any bad feelings heading into Phoenix this weekend”?
“Well no, I find it to be a bit humorous really. I mean, Sel is so much taller than me. I’m like a misbehaving little child trying to wrestle her mother! But so long as she doesn’t put me over her knee and spank me, I think everything will be alright. Yes, she has a great advantage over me but once I get her onto the mat, we will be the same size and I’ve shown before that I can handle myself against her”.
“And what about her wife? You have quite a history with Crystal, the only woman in SCW to have ever beaten you. Do you think that perhaps she can be the difference maker this time around”?
“Yes, I do actually, for me”.
“How so”?
“Seleana’s homelife is about as chaotic as they come while mine remains quite normal”, she expands while fidgeting in her Puma brand red, white and blue high-top sneakers. “She is caught in the middle of Crystal and Brittany Williams’ special blends of lunacy. They are busy angling for title matches at any and all costs while poor Sel is sandwiched between them trying to play peacemaker. How can she train properly under such circumstances? I have no such distractions; every day I go out and train cardio, agility, strength, film study and of course, plenty of sparring. I have been able to get myself into peak condition without complication. I am ready to go”.
“Cat, thank you for your time”.
“The Macy’s parade is that way”, Cat replies with a smirk, jutting a thumb out before excusing herself.
“Scotty, turn that thing off and come eat your dinner before it gets cold”, Christian Underwood calls out from the dining room where he hovers over a table full of bacon stuffed turkey with mashed potatoes, gravy and an assortment of vegetables. Looking on as his life partner props his feet atop the ornate carved Victorian replica coffee table, showing no signs of getting up he sighs and covers the food under a domed stainless-steel hotplate.
“That’s a good question Chrissy”, Scott offers stroking his black and white goatee thoughtfully. “Why did you book Cat against Seleana for the second time instead of Lukas or somebody else”?
“I have my reasons”, he offers, beginning to load the abundant banquet onto a cart to be rolled into the living room. “God forbid you miss a Snickers commercial”, he grumbles under his breath proceeding to steer the cart towards the television set and the perpetually occupied recliner favored by Scott. “Right now, it has to do with ratings”, he explains bringing the cart to a stop. “Cat and Seleana are both big draws so it made sense to have them on the card. Fans love them and they always sell tickets but with most of the roster already booked or otherwise indisposed of I had to find a way to get them involved to help boost the show’s appeal”.
“Yeah yeah, whatever”, the behemoth grumbles while waving his beefy paw dismissively, his notoriously short attention span getting the better of him as he slides deeper into the noisily protesting brown leather chair straining under his heft. The ragged seat barely manages to stay together with the aid of copious amounts of tacky looking grey duct tape. “Just shut up and feed me”.
While Christian dutifully spoon feeds him Scott hangs ten with the television remote looking for alternative sports programming over the reruns of sports center. Passing over a myriad of talk shows and reality TV he eventually settles on an episode of the Iron Chef. The host, flamboyant Chairman Kaga passes along instructions to a pair of contestants, who are actual chefs on the dish they are about to prepare. Leaning forward his shoulders tense up as he recognizes that the challenge is about to get underway. The two ‘combatants’ engage in a tense stare down, their unwavering gazes firmly locked in place only to see the anticipation broken with a timely commercial break.
“Damn it”! he grouses in between mouthfuls of glazed ham. “They always go to those damned commercials when its about to get real, you know”? Christian shrugs with apathy, his attention far from the TV set. “Wait, let me guess”, Scott resumes, sensing the lack of interest by his partner in the ‘grudge match’. “You don’t care because you think you’re every bit as good as they are”?
“Actually”, he replies. “I was just thinking about the kitty cat”.
“What about her”? he demands.
“She said she was going to spend some time on the strip”, Christian answers, shoveling a spoonful of peas and carrots into the goateed Gargantua’s’ mouth. “But there’s a lot about that place she doesn’t know, a lot of shady types like sex traffickers, pickup artists and prostitutes. I don’t want her to fall in with the wrong type of crowd so I’m a little worried”.
“Worried”, he scoffs and belches loudly as an advertisement for the nightlife amenities of Aria resort and casino airs showcasing a packed bar, busy bartenders, and free flowing alcohol in a lively, music-filled atmosphere. “She said she was only gonna be out for a couple hours. You’re just acting like her damned mother. Now, shut up and feed me some of that pecan pie”.
The Lift Bar in Las Vegas is easily one of the busier bars Aria resort owing to its 24/7 business hours and given its proximity to the guest elevators which inspired the name. A throng of convention goers have descended on the purple and gold appointed lounge like a swarm of locusts feasting on a bountiful harvest of booze and contemporary music. All of the more than 30 tables are occupied along with the matching sofas lining the gold-plated railing cordoning it off from the walkway to the guest rooms. A blue jacketed security officer stands watch at a podium checking room keys, offering directions to intoxicated patrons and answering non sensical questions while keeping an eye on the boisterous crowd in the lounge to his left. A trio of bartenders clad in grey twill vests hastily shuffle back and forth in a near frenzied effort to keep up with the insatiable thirst of the guests, their sneakered feet squeaking against the rubber floor matting made sticky by the nonstop flow of alcohol. A pair of prostitutes seated at the bar pretend to play the flat top multi-game machine in hopes of scoring a drink comp while keeping their eyes out for potential clients. Usually the first to arrive and among the last to leave they pass the time with idle chit chat with the bartenders pausing from time to time to talk with various guests as they make their way forward. Above the head of the liquor jockeys nestled in between a draping chandelier lining the tiled back wall a trio of large television sets keep the curious up to date on the latest developments in the world of sports while a harried lounge server, a young Hispanic woman dressed in a black cocktail-styled dress weaves her way through the obnoxious throng to deliver drinks, take new orders and clear the tables of debris and empties.
Cat Riley paces slowly along the softly colored marble flooring and turns her head for a peek into the lounge, her attention grabbed by the high-pitched chatter trying to be heard over the lively music emanating from the high-tech integrated sound system. Arcing a curious brow, she silently wonders why the place would be so busy in the middle of the week, typically a slow time for the vaunted Las Vegas strip as celebrants tend to save their energy for the weekends. Taking a step forward she ascends the two purple marbled steps and ventures in to find out. Although not one for drinking alcohol she pushes her way through the crowd, slowly working her way towards the bar deciding to order a soda while endeavoring to learn more of what’s going on. Making her way to the bar she finds herself tucked in between two heavier set black women, both of whom reek of cheap perfume with copious amounts of makeup caked onto their faces with lipstick that she imagines would better serve as a stop sign. Looking on she spots one of the bartenders approaching and reaches out to flag him down. The man, middle aged with short, neatly trimmed greying hair and a tanned complexion leans over the bar top in front of shouting to be heard over techno reimagining of Harold Faltermyer’s ‘Axle F’,
“What can I get for you”?
“Just a diet coke, please”, she responds, wrinkling her nose in recoil over the odoriferous assault by the two women flanking her.
With a nod the bartender turns to the liquor well to scoop a heap of ice into a tall glass. Grabbing a soda gun from the black, plastic holster attached to the counter he depresses a white button and sprays the glass full of the caramel colored beverage. His face is void of emotion while filling the Collins glass, an automaton response to an all too familiar request. Snatching a purple napkin from a tray loaded with napkins, straws, clear fruit picks and wooden stirring sticks he sets it down in front of Cat and places the drink on top.
“That’ll be $4.75, please”. He drones.
“Wow”, stammering in surprise over the cost of a barely eight-ounce drink she starts to fish around in the pockets of her sky-blue denim jeans for some loose cash. Pulling out a five she starts to hand it to the man but is stopped by a hand gentle pressing down on her forearm. “What the…?” Turning to face the owner of the impediment she finds herself looking into the molten chocolate orbs of a young man, not much older than herself, looking on at her with a warm smile.
“I’ll pay for that, if you will allow me”, his voice is deep and sensual and his gaze sincere. “Please, let me”.
Initially wanting to shrug off the gesture in preference of paying her own way, the man’s luminous, toothy grin accompanied by a subtle nodding of his head convinces her otherwise and she acquiesces to his request which he honors by handing the bartender a five dollar bill of his own telling the bartender to keep the change. Rolling his eyes, the man ignores the quarter and leaves it on the counter turning his attention to, hopefully, better tipping guests. Drinks in hand the dapper young fellow dressed in neatly pressed black slacks, polished matching leather loafers and a snappy, open collar silver button down topped off with a tuxedo sport coat with notched lapels. A waft of musk, marine breeze and sandalwood trails behind his athletic, lean body and he gestures for Cat to join him at a freshly bussed table. She follows apprehensively, unsure how to proceed but curious, nonetheless. Pulling out a chair he gently slides the leather wrapped lounge chair under her and joins her on the opposite side.
“So, what’s your name”? He leans forward to ask in a near shout to be heard over the thumping bass. The smile plastered across his tanned face is unwavering as is his sparkling gaze, piercing through her guard, and illuminating an aura of self-confidence. She shrugs apprehensively, her pewter eyes darting about the lounge, bouncing off the revelers trying to hop away from answering the question. Recognizing the uncertainty, he elects to take the initiative; “Wait,” he commands in a gentle vibe. “Let me guess…,” Although he had caught her name as listed on her driver’s license as she was about to pay for her soda he pretends to rummage through his mind for scraps of suggestion and brings his index fingers to his temples in a slightly, though mildly amusing pretense. “I see a letter…,” he grins, locking onto her gaze which has softened from uneasy to inquisitive. “Your name starts with a C”, he says, baiting her along. “Christine? No. Carmella? No. It’s a more regal name, something you might name a future queen.” Picking his words in a careful, practiced manner he watches as the pupils of her eyes subtly dilate as he closes in. Suddenly he drops his fingers to cradle her hands in his own and triumphantly announces, “Your name is Catherine”.
Cat draws her breath in surprise, not realizing that he had managed to peek at her license moments earlier and pulls back. “That’s good”, she mumbles. “How did you know that”?
“It’s a gift”, he lies taking a swig of beer while studying her tomboy-like ensemble of stone washed denim blue jeans, simple grey tee shirt worn loose, back facing black and gold ball cap sporting a crouching cat and grey Puma high top sneakers. “But you don’t think of yourself as a Catherine”, he adds, continuing the ruse. “No, you’re much simpler than that…,” his voice trails as he locks onto a banded ring of a cat wrapped around her index finger. “You’re more of a ‘Cat’ than a Catherine”.
Slack jawed, Cat stares in astonishment at the still unnamed man with the ever-present smile exuding self-confidence while pretending to take interest in his 12-ounce bottle of Budweiser; a front to hide the ongoing machinations taking place behind the meticulously groomed façade. Though she had only met him moments ago he already knew her name and personality. How much more does her know about her? She gives in to her temptation and moves to find out.
“I’m afraid you have me at a bit of a disadvantage”, she says somewhat softly, given the wall thumping electronic dance music reverberating throughout. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours”.
“Edward”, he replies, feeling more comfortable having gotten her to take the bait. “But you can call me Ed”.
“Well then Ed”, she replies thrusting her right hand across the table. “I’m Cat, pleased to meet you”.
“Likewise,” he grins while gently pumping her small hand. “So, what do you do for a living, or shall I take a guess”?
“Your guesses have been pretty good so far”, she smiles mischievously. “So why not take another”?
“Alright,” he sighs and sets his beer down atop a rounded purple cardboard coaster and mock cracks his knuckles. Leaning forward he stares at her underneath the soft overhead lighting to further study his subject. He recalls the rough texture and firm grip of her hand when shaking it and notes her choice of a non-alcoholic drink in a place overflowing with booze. While she is relatively small and thin, she still strikes him as a woman unafraid to roughhouse. “You’re more of an active sort”, he begins, picking up on the clues. “You do something physically demanding”. He speaks carefully and slowly, his gaze never leaving her eyes, and delicately choosing his words before allowing them to escape the confines of his mouth. “Something that I’m glad I don’t do”, adding the joke he offers a brief chuckle to allow more time to study the subtle changes in her expression. She smiles dutifully while he continues his ocular inquiry and notices a small deformity developing on her outer left ear, the type caused by blunt trauma and commonly known to wrestlers as cauliflower ear. Putting the pieces together he leans back in satisfaction grabbing the bottle from the table and taking another sip. Licking his lips, he allows an impish smile to bound onto his face. “You’re a wrestler”, he states confidently.
“Wow…,” she gasps in amazement. “You’re right but, how did you do it, how could you tell”?
“Like I said”, he shrugs it off looking to guide the conversation into the environment to more safely ply his tradecraft. “It’s a gift, something I’ve been good at ever since I was a kid, but that was just one thing”.
“Oh really”? she asks behind an arced brow riddled with curiosity before taking a sip of her drink. “But you still haven’t told me how”, she presses in a more determined tone. “How can you tell so many things about me”?
With a sigh Ed runs his hand over his slicked back raven coif and uses his nearly empty beer as a prop to buy more time to think. Holding it into the light to catch the attention of the hopefully attentive lounge server as she approaches with a tray laden in empty glasses. Listening closely, she jots down his order and offers a refill to Cat who accepts with a curt nod and sashays off back to the bar to drop off the glassware and place a new round of orders giving him precious additional moments to craft his response.
Narcissistic individuals know that getting a victim to trust them and feel comfortable around them is crucial to getting them invested and vulnerable. Pick up artists know how to do this in spades at the beginning of relationships. They assess their victim’s vulnerabilities and morph into what they may be missing from their lives. In the honeymoon stage of the relationship for example, they spend a lot of time grooming their victims. They use the time, paired with the early disclosure of ‘personal’ details to manufacture a sense of intimacy which doesn’t not exist yet.
It is his turn to spill the proverbial beans, yet she is insisting he explain his technique to her – something he would rather avoid – which leaves him in a conundrum. A conundrum that envelopes his immediate thoughts in a web of carefully concealed silken lies. Picking away at it strand by strand he cultivates a story around the deceit. One by one the strings unravel in favor of cocooning around a new, deeper set of details. Climbing aboard the stagecoach of chicanery he clears his throat to put the horses in motion but immediately pauses as the server returns with their order. Grateful for the precious extra moments he pays her and holds out a 50-cent piece in gratuity while attempting to make small talk. The harried hostess is uninterested however and abruptly breaks away from him leaving the 50-cent piece in his outstretched hand. With a smirk he re-pockets the change and turns his attention back to Cat.
“I was born in rural America”, he begins while mindfully annotating the bullet points of his new, improved fabrication. “And there was a lot of traveling circuses. My dad was a farmer, but times were tough; the big corporations were buying up all the land and moving in, polluting the streams and pressuring the real farmers to sell to them. So, he took a job as a psychic for the circus whenever they came to town to make ends meet”.
“A psychic”? Cat interrupts. With her attention solely on the man across from her she fails to notice that she brought him a different beer.
“Yeah”, he chuckles briefly, reaching for the fresh bottle of Coors lite. “He was a military man, served in Vietnam and learned how to read people’s faces. “He was pretty good at it and when I was six, I remember going to the shows with him and watching him perform. After the show was over, I’d go into the back with him and he’d explain how he did what he did. I suppose I was a pretty good student”, he laughs. “Because I remember everything he taught me”.
Rolling the story over in her mind, adding images to the words she pictures vast landscapes of wheat fields, corn stalks and vegetable gardens with a young boy in denim overalls chasing after his father riding a tractor. A vastly different past than she had envisioned for the meticulously groomed young man who strikes her more a suburban millennial than the simple farm boy described. Still, his gaze remains unwavering, his words clear and concise and his demeanor cast in stone. She could not help but to believe him.
“So, what brought you out here from rural America”? she asks, looking to fill in the blanks.
“Well, we lived there until I was 11…,” he allows his voice to trail, diverting his glance to the floor as if tripping over some unseen stone from yesteryear. “But my dad had a stroke and could no longer operate the farm”. He speaks more slowly, adding a calculated weight to his words”. Rearing his head up and back he draws in a heavy sigh and continues, “So, he sold the farm and we moved out here”.
“I’m sorry”, she offers with a frown. “I didn’t mean to…,”
A gentle pat of her hand interrupts the apology letting her know that it is ok. The conversation continues unabated over another round of drinks with the pair exchanging stories tit for tat with Cat detailing her upcoming match against Seleana Zdunich and how she has to leave in the following day for Tucson and Ed plying his craft as best can with a finely woven web of deceit carefully spun with delicate yarns tailored to catch unsuspecting flies and embroidered with the heartstrings of his latest would be victim; Cat. Enthralled by his tales she finds herself wrapped in his words, clinging to every syllable until the man across from her breaks in his story telling to pose a question of her,
“Hey, how about we go and get something to eat”? He suggests, ready to make his move. “I know a great little burger joint down the road. It’s quiet and out of the way where we can talk without having to shout”. A light smile and subtle bobbing of his head provides Cat with a subconscious answer.
“Sure”, she replies, and reaches for her burgundy hand purse. “This music is giving me a headache”.
Picking up their respective belongings the pair rises from the table and exits the lounge onto the busy casino floor. The subdued lighting is accentuated by the neon glow of the gaming machines inspired by pop culture and ranging from Wonder Woman to the Avengers with the random clanking of coins being dumped into the thin metallic catch tray. They pass by a café, which has been cordoned off with velvet ropes attached to brass stanchions towards the restrooms lining the ornately carved stone wall. Looking ahead past a mother scolding an errant child Ed recognizes a familiar face disappearing into the men’s room.
“Excuse me for one moment please”, he pleads. “I need to wash my hands”.
Not waiting for Cat’s nod of approval he briskly strides into the lavatory to find his friend, a heavier set man sporting a sunshine-like coif, neatly parted on the right and decked out in a blue suit with polished black loafers waiting for him by the paper towel dispenser. They smile and greet each other with a handshake.
“Looks like you got another, eh Ed”? The other man grins. “At the rate you’re going I’ll never catch up to you”.
“Dude”, Ed begins and places his right hand on his friend’s shoulder for emphasis. “This chick is fucking weird. She’s British and wrestles for some shithole place called SCW. She not only acts like a guy, she even dresses like one. But she has a pretty face and I don’t mind handing out charity, you know me”.
“Yeah”, the man snorts. “If she has a pulse…,”
“Whatever”, Ed sneers back. “Just make sure you have that crispy Benjamin ready for me at the end of the month and don’t break it this time”.
“The month is still young”.
“Andy, you want to know the best part”?
“What’s that”?
“I can almost swear she’s a virgin”.
“Are you for real”? Andy cries in disbelief. “Do you know how hard it is to find those anymore”? Pausing to check his reflection and settling for a quick smoothing over of the hair he returns his attention to Ed and adds, “Well buddy, there’s only one way to find out”.
“Damn right”, Ed agrees with a fist bump. “I’ll give you the scoop in the morning after I kick her to the curb”. The pair proceeds to spend a few additional minutes catching up by exchanging details on other ‘conquests’ and comparing notes with Ed arranging to use ‘the pad’ for the evening.
Standing outside the washroom Cat hangs up from a call and then busies herself by putting her fingers to work, composing a text message which she sends on its way with a smirk as Ed appears from the washroom, his hands wrapped in a paper towel.
“Sorry about that”, he offers in a half-baked apology. “Ever since working on my dad’s farm as a kid I got into the habit of trying to keep myself clean”. He snickers. “Let me tell you, it was a real job back then”.
With her blue eyes sparkling under a neon reflection Cat smiles and nods. “No worries, I was just texting a friend while waiting for you”.
“Ah”, he laughs while taking her by the elbow. “Gotta keep the girls informed, right”?
“Something like that”.
With Scott having been fed and busy digesting the meal in front of ESPN Christian busies himself in the kitchen pre-washing the dishes before setting them down into the dishwashing machine to his left. His phone, lying on the window ledge above the sink chirps twice, alerting him to an incoming text message.
He grumbles reaching for a towel to dry his hands. Picking up the Android phone he thumbs through the screen to bring up his text messages stopping at the name ‘kittycat’ and nods.
Eagerly he brings the minicomputer to eye level to read the message and frowns as his eyes give chase to his rapidly dropping heart. Biting his lower lip, he reads on finishing the message before rearing his head back with a grievous sigh. Dropping the hand towel onto the countertop he departs from the kitchen and beats a path towards the living room where the voice of Stephen A. Smith can be heard bombastically arguing another nonsensical point on a subject, he most likely knows nothing about. Scott nonetheless watches the deafening deliberation, albeit while casually nursing a bottle of beer.
“Scotty”, Christian speaks up entering the room and walks up to stand by his partner’s side, thrusting the phone into his beefy paws. “Read this, it’s a text message from Cat”.
“Alright”, he rumbles in agreement, training his eyes onto the illuminated screen and reads aloud, ‘met the most awesome guy, can’t wait for you to meet him xoxo – Cat’. He hands the device back to Christian with a grunt. “You know what to do”, he growls. “Go get the kit so I can introduce myself properly”.
“I’m on it, and I have an idea that will make this even more fun”, he calls back while darting down the hallway with an unmistakable sense of urgency, disappearing into the interior.
“I’m not terribly excited to be honest”, Cat confesses to her new friend behind the wheel of an expensive looking Corvette. But then, not being much of a car person she has trouble differentiating between a 2000 model and a 2018 model, the former of which she currently sits as a passenger. She drones on about her upcoming match in Tucson against a woman she considers a friend. “We’ve wrestled before when I didn’t consider her a friend. I tried to motivate myself to beat her by focusing on her family, some of whom I’ve had issues within the past, but she’s such a sweet person that I couldn’t make myself do the type of wrestling I normally would”.
“And what type of wrestling is that”? Ed asks, feigning interest. His mind wanders as she drones on about the upcoming match, much to his chagrin. His agenda was simple but some how she has managed to thwart his efforts and wrangle him into doing things he typically would never even consider. Get in and get out; that’s his game and a game he tends to play very well but with her distracted babbling about subjects he couldn’t care less about and an annoying penchant for distraction he somehow finds himself between the irresistible force of his desires and the immovable object of her scatterbrained impulses. Making a right turn onto Sherwood lane, he guides the American sports car down the dimly lit street tucked into a quiet suburban neighborhood, following the streetlamps with moths dancing around the ember glow. He resists the urge to roll his eyes back into his head while she chatters along about some woman named Seleana Zdnuch, and briefly pausing to advise him,
“It’s just a few more blocks”.
His fingers tense around the leather padded steering wheel as his visualizes kicking himself for allowing her to talk him into driving to this snoozy nook of suburbia. She had said that she wanted to change clothes despite his protestations, and over his strenuous objections she insisted to the point of asking for his address, offering to meet him at his place. With no intentions of allowing her to see where he truly lives, he was forced to either drop her and give up the hard work he has already invested in his ‘project’ or acquiesce to her inane demands. After a lengthy internal debate his mind was eventually overruled by lust. As a result, he has no choice now but to listen to the senseless, rapid-fire prattling of his easily distracted passenger. Letting loose with a sigh he mumbles inaudibly,
“Ah Eddie, the shit you get yourself into”.
“So, yeah, even though I beat her last time I’m not so sure I can do it again. I mean, can I keep my emotions in check”? having already divulged her issues with anxiety and the subsequent bout with depression back at the lounge she allows her lips to flutter in the breeze of trust. “Now she has her wife coaching her to help her prepare for me, I think so anyway. Not to mention she still has that size advantage which is not easy to deal with…,” a silent pause ensues as she revisits the drama from several months ago and groans softly. “Ugh! I wish they hadn’t made this match, know what I mean”? Not expecting an answer her eyes peer out onto the cookie cutter row of houses until spotting a lone standout. “Up here on the right”, she says while gesturing with her index finger. “The Victorian, you can’t miss it”. Suddenly she breaks from her repartee and begins rifling through her handbag looking for some unknown object. “Where did I put it? Maybe I left it back at the lounge, do you think I left it at the lounge? I bet I left it at the lounge, we might have to go back…,” another moment of tossing crumpled balls of paper aside, ragged bills, and loose change. “Maybe Seleana took it…, wait, how could she take it? She wasn’t even in the car with us”! Exasperated, Ed tries to tune her voice out while she refills her purse and then shoves her hands in the hip pockets of her jeans. “Wait, I found it, it was in my pocket all along. Isn’t that great news”? The driver grunts as they approach the proverbial ‘sore thumb’ as Cat had alluded to moments before. “Stop here”, she says.
Truer words were never spoken as Ed brings the rumbling V-8 coupe to a stop, his gaze attracted by a walled in yard featuring a manicured lawn with natural grass, trees and a row of pink rose bushes lining the sidewalk as it directs his attention to a two story Victorian home with lilac siding, navy trim and gold appointments. The angled Queen Anne style of architecture sticks out among the plain white home with brown shingled roofs with rich, British influenced ornamentation, porches with gables in combination with a short tower in a hexagonal form and numerous windows which could allow for huge amounts of light, and also functioning as decorative elements. Bringing the car to a stop he looks on in wonder as his passenger ejects herself from the vehicle by thrusting the door open. Gesturing him on he slowly exits and trots to catch up to her while continuing to admire the enormous variety of accents, textures and patterns.
“I’ve never seen a Victorian house in Las Vegas before”, he stammers.
“It was custom built”, Cat replies reaching out to take him by the hand and playfully pulling him up the sidewalk. “Be mindful of the sprinklers”, she warns. “They should be popping on any minute”.
As if on queue the sprinkling system activates to quench the thirst of the hungry verdure prompting him to quicken his pace to reach the shelter of the covered front patio. The pair sprint up the small flight of ten or so steps and stop under the awning as Cat fishes through her pockets for the key which is promptly inserted into the door. It opens with a gentle squeak allowing them to step into the foyer. Removing her ballcap and placing it on the key rack affixed to the wall just above the light switch she calls out in a cheery tone,
“Christian, I’m home”! she announces, adding, “Come and meet my new friend. You’re going to love him”!
“I’m coming”!
The clack of high heel shoes against the wooden floor echo through the room as Christian rounds the corner and comes into view bringing a saucer-eyed look of shock from Cat’s guest who stares at him dumbfounded. From the ground up the tanned, muscular man is clad in women’s clothing. From a pair of six-inch platform heels accentuated by rainbow colored nylons to a skintight black open front bodysuit with a matching pair of pasties dangling from his exposed nipples and to a long, blonde mane curled into the iconic ‘wet roller’ look favored by Marilyn Monroe. His lips are glossed in obnoxiously bright ruby red lipstick with blue eye shadow and fake, curled lashes to complete the look. Cat rushes up to offer him a peck on the cheek before excusing herself, trotting away from the pair and into the bowels of the home.
Already taller than his 5’7” guest Christian now towers over the startled man courtesy of the platform shoes. Approaching him with a light smile he reaches out with a satin gloved hand to run his index finger along the nervously fidgeting Ed’s jawline, who backs up against the wall.
“Mmm”, he coos, running his hands down the man’s heaving chest, reaching up to remove his jacket. “You’re a real cutie”.
Ed tries to squirm free but finds himself trapped by the wall behind him, a nearly six-foot potted plant beside him and Christian in front. Reaching up to grasp him by the shoulders Christian abruptly pulls off his sport coat and allows it to flutter to the floor while giving a playful squeeze to his biceps. “And such adorable little muscles! Oh, Scotty’s gonna love you”!
“S-Scotty”? he stutters anxiously. “Y-you mean there’s more people here”?
“Scotty honey”, the artist formerly known as ‘the pink flamingo’ cries out. “Come meet the kitty cat’s new friend, he has the most precious little muscles you ever saw”!
The heavy thud of footsteps against the floor resounds, growing louder with each step taken as the behemoth rises from his chair and makes his way to the foyer. He stomps directly up to the quaking ‘player’ and looms over the smaller man. His bulging arms are laden with tightly twitching veins protruding from a two sizes too small tee shirt and sport wrap around temporary tribal pattern tattoos. An unlit cigarette is parked behind his ear with dark, wrap around shades covering his eyes. With a scowl he looks down at Ed while stroking his goatee thoughtfully.
“So, you’re the new bitch around here huh”? He growls ominously extending his right hand. “I’m Scotty”.
Staring blankly at the fiver fingered catcher’s mitt offered the little man debates whether to accept it. But his debate is prematurely interrupted as Scott takes his hand into a vice-like grip and begins to squeeze.
“If you’re gonna be Cat’s new man I guess I better show you around then”, he says gruffly while dragging the flailing the would-be suitor along with him.
Tightening his grip Scott increases the pressure on Ed’s small bones until they begin to pop loudly in capitulation dropping the man to his knees. Releasing his hand Scott places his ham hock now on Ed’s trapezius, squeezing harshly while guiding him nose first into the wall.
“That’s the wall”.
Retaining his grip, the pickup artist is next steered into the living room while attempting to stop the flow of blood from his nose and trips over the retired wrestler’s size 14 foot and sprawls onto the floor. Christian follows closely behind, his eyes gleaming in giddy mirth as he leans over to pick up a fallen cell phone.
“That’s my foot”.
Grabbing him by the hair Scott directs the palpitating pick up artist back across the floor towards the foyer slamming his head twice against the unforgiving oak.
“That’s the door”, he says while Christian opens it up. Gripping Ed’s shirt with one hand Scott reaches for the belt line of his pants with the other and hoists him off his feet. He swings him back and forth to garner momentum and suddenly releases his hold sending him flailing off the porch, over the steps and into the yard with his jacket fluttering behind. Both man and jacket land with a jarring thud in a wet patch of grass under the active sprinkler system. “And that’s the yard”.
Scrambling to his feet Ed hastily grabs his jackets and beats a path to the gate only to find it locked, which forces him to jump over while retreating to the safety of his car. Scott emerges from the house, his face bearing the telltale grin of satisfaction as the car’s engine roars to life. The tires explode in a cloudburst of smoke as it careens down the street and fishtails out of sight.
Cat re-emerges at the doorway as the screeching of rubber sounds off in the night sporting an ear to ear grin which is shared by Christian and the pair erupts in a peal of laughter while Scott ventures further into the yard. Looking up at her friend Cat wipes an errant tear from her eye and clears her throat asking,
“How could you tell he was a pickup artist? We were only on the phone for a few minutes, but you knew everything he was going to say and do”.
“I’ve been around the block kitty cat”, he replies as the last guffaw gurgles from his lips. “Between that and being a gay man with dozens of close female friends there is nothing his kind can pull over on me. I knew the moment you told me about his cologne and how he forced his way between you and the bar”.
“I must admit”, she adds. “I did have fun on the car ride here, babbling on like crack addict with ADD”. A quick snort escapes through her nostrils as she continues, “I had him squirming hard in the car”.
“Damn it”! Scott’s voice booms as he returns inside.
“What’s wrong teddy bear”?
“I missed the record by about three inches, so damned close”!
“Don’t worry, you’ll get another chance”. Christian replies confidently. Reaching into his stocking he retrieves and grey encased Samsung Galaxy. “He dropped his phone”.
“Hopefully he returns before we leave for Tucson in the morning”.
