“Oh wah, wah, wah! I work and I slave, and this is the appreciation you show me”? Jesus, bitch, you sound more like a woman than Cat”! With a feigned vitriol Scott Schreiner mocks Christian who stands by with his hands planted firmly on his hips at the entrance to the kitchen with a decided lack of enthusiasm borne on his tensed face. Failing to notice the disdain of his partner however Scott continues; egged on by Cat who stands beside him rolling in laughter. “If you want some damned appreciation get your ass in the kitchen and bake us a cake”!
“And don’t forget the ice cream”, she adds. “That’s worth bonus points”. She turns to face Scott who offers her a high five while turning away from Christian, his mind switching gears to other matters.
“And be quick about it sister! Me and Cat can’t watch the hot dog eating contest on an empty stomach”!
The pair turn to depart the gleaming white tile of the kitchen floor, their feet stomping in unison over the wood grained flooring into the living room and leaving Christian to simmer quietly. With both feline and Neanderthal being prodigious eaters he had long ago adjusted his routine to accommodate their frequent meals, up to seven times a day. The kitchen with its gas burning stove, and oven serving as his second office he often found himself working harder after hours than during business hours. With a grunt he picks up a well-used pair of oven mitts and starts to apply them but pauses, staring at them in contemplation. His mind rolls over numerous images of the meals he had spent hours toiling away over in the hot kitchen, often without the simple courtesy of a ‘thank you’, and now once more he finds himself in a familiar predicament. Letting loose a forceful sigh he slaps the mitts down on the countertop and rolls up the light blue sleeves of his work shirt, which he hadn’t even the time to change out of before being bombed with more chores. His eye glaze over in shimmering determination as he departs the kitchen mutter under his tongue,
“Like dad used to say, ‘if you can’t listen you can feel’.
Twenty minutes have passed and the televised hotdog eating contest has ended with some rail thin Asian man taking the crown after downing 64 hotdogs in one minute. With her body strewn along the sofa Cat yawns unimpressed.
“64 hotdogs”, she utters in apparent disdain. “That’s barely an appetizer…, rank amateurs”.
“Yeah”, Scott snorts, bobbing his massive head in agreement. “And speaking of amateurs…,” Tilting his head up his bass laden voice booms through the house as he cries out, “Bitch! The hotdog eating contest is over! Why aren’t you finished”?
“We’re wasting away while you play with yourself in there”, Cat adds with a twisted grin.
“What the hell are you making, Pheasant under glass? You dumb broad, we don’t want chicken, we want cake”!
“With ice cream”!
The rapid thumping of footsteps against the steps of the staircase reverberate loudly alerting the pair to an arrival from the second floor. Shifting their position, they look on to see Christian, having changed into a simple pair of black and white nylon sweats standing by, glaring angrily at them with a duffel bag draped over one shoulder and his beloved pet Genie cradled in the other. Exchanging a bemused expression Cat and Scott shrug their shoulders in apathy with a smirk slithering across the vascular platinum blond behemoth’s face,
“It’s just like a woman to spend 45 minutes packing for a trip to the drive through”, he mutters with a suppressed chuckle. Turning his gaze back onto his significant other he adds, “You burned the cake, didn’t you”?
Rolling his hazel lenses towards the alabaster ceiling Christian snarls through tightly pursed lips, “I don’t burn food you twit, I’m just tired of living a life of indentured servitude to you two; cook this, clean that, wash these, buy those…, I’ve had enough so I have decided to take some personal time, effective immediately”.
With a chortle Scott and Cat turn to face each other and chime in unison, “He burned it”!
Groaning Christian turns towards the foyer, his sneakers squeaking in haste as he strides briskly across the hatch pattern wood finish of the floor. Reaching for a set of keys hanging on the wall beside the main door he pauses thoughtfully, gripping the cold metal in his determined palm.
“The fridge is fully stocked”, he offers. “There’s plenty of beer, pastries, cold cuts, soda pop and everything else. There’s a collection of coupons pinned to the freezer door, all of the bills are paid, and the sprinkler system is on a timer”. Reaching for the door he opens it with a twist of the brass knob and pauses once more, turning back to the pair who have resumed their binge watching of the television. “Oh, by the way Cat, you’re booked in Phoenix against Amy Santino, so you’re going to have to make your own twinkie milk shakes for your pre-match diet”.
Setting a foot over the threshold he pauses as a wave of uncertainty washes over the bow of conviction which leaves him grasping at the helm while being pelted with thoughts of reversing course. Scott is basically helpless without him, he reasons. The man can’t cook, is too lazy to pick up after himself and lacks the technological expertise to even change the channel without the remote. For years he has taken care of him; feeding him, clothing him and keeping the batteries fresh in the remote control. Thanks to his willingness to indulge Scott’s lethargy he had inadvertently created a monster. A monster that doesn’t do anything but a monster, nonetheless. Cat on the other hand had been self-sufficient at the beginning. She had no problem trying to cook for herself, usually with disastrous results, but at least she was willing to try. But thanks to his insistence of manning the kitchen he had unintentionally broken her of that habit, especially during her recent bout with depression. He loves her and won’t deny the fact but perhaps he loves her a bit too much as she has taken cues from Scotty, eventually becoming nearly as helpless as he. The predicament reminds him of an expression his mother had always admonished him with after making mistakes as a child, ‘you made your bed’, she wound tell him sternly. ‘Now you have to lie in it’. Hesitantly he turns back towards the interior of the house which reverberates with the aggravated rasp of Stephan A. Smith complaining about the Lakers trade for Anthony Davis, a rasp that is drowned out by the thunderclap of Scott’s booming exclamation,
“Hey bitch”, he cries. “Grab us a couple Frosties when you go to Wendy’s. And be quick about it, me and Cat are dying”!
“And a couple baconators”!
And with a single sentence his resolve is renewed. Christian quickly steps back through the doorway, slamming the heavy Oak hatch behind and disappears into the bright, Las Vegas evening leaving Cat and Scott on the sofa, blissfully unaware of the true extent of events having unfolded; their minds wrapped up on the pixelated blanket of the ‘idiot box’ as Cat often refers to the TV set.
Bringing herself upright Cat tucks her feet beneath her torso and leans back against the embroidered pillow protecting her back from the ornately carved armrest of the sofa. Turning her attention to Scott she asks,
“Hey Scotty, which one is Amy Santino, is she the punk rock bird with all the shite on her face”?
“Uh huh”, he nods. “But she’s been around a long time”, he advises while surfing through a row of channels in search of a program more to his liking. “And she knows all of the tricks, so you better have your game face on”.
“Yeah, I know that stuff, I just wanted to make sure I was cutting promos about the right person the other day”, she giggles. “Hey, didn’t she use to go by the name Amy Marshal”?
“Yeah, but she got married and changed it”, he replies gruffly while settling on a UFC broadcast. “But she’s still a veteran”, he warns her. “Hey, why don’t you watch this UFC fight with me, see if you can pick up an idea or two”?
” Sure”, she responds, bobbing her head in agreement. “Who’s fighting any way”?
“Umm…, not sure”, he mutters hesitantly. Studying the octagon as the participants enter, he spies a lithe young brunette, slim and muscular, with a Columbian flag draped over her sinewy shoulders. Entering the cage, she bounds across the canvass throwing a quick succession of shadow punches. She is trailed by an older, slightly heavyset man wearing a warmup jacket which matches the blue and yellow colors of the fighter’s ensemble and bearing a name strewn across the back which Cat reads aloud, her voice rising to an astonished pitch.
“Viviana Fuentes, holy shite”! she cries, reaching over and shaking Scott excitedly by his boulder-like shoulder. “That’s Viv”! She exclaims. “That’s my buddy! Oh my God I don’t believe it. I hardly recognize her with her hair braided up like that”.
“Yeah, they do that, so their opponent don’t have nothing to grab hold of”. Scott offers, drawing a patronizing glance from his viewing mate. “I remember her now, you told me and Chrissy about her, you said she’s the best in the world or something”.
“The best striker”, she corrects him softly. “I’ve been training with her to help square up her ground game, she’s alright so far, but still has a way to go. But for stand up? Oh, forget about it, she’s a monster at that; fast, accurate and strong…, ridiculously fast”.
His interested piqued Scott leans forward closer to the set while setting his black, plastic ‘shooting iron’ down on the coffee table as her opponent enters the cage. A beefy woman with a porcelain complexion decked out in a simple black and white martial arts ‘Gi’. Also trailed by her team the woman shadow boxes briefly and bounces up and down impatiently as the announcements begin. Already known to Scott and Cat Viviana raises her right arm in acknowledgement as her name is broadcast over the public address system. The other woman announced as hailing from Ireland is called ‘The Belfast bruiser’ and heralded as Brittany O’Malley.
With the festivities out of the way, the respective coaches and teammates of the two combatants exit the cage as the fighters are called to the center by the referee who proceeds to briefly review his pre-fight instructions as the scene cuts to a commercial.
The SCW logo splashes over the screen and quickly fades to a black and white image depicting two vertically opposed men gesturing into a seemingly endless stairwell announcing the promotion’s upcoming super card ‘Into the void 8’. The faces of Cat Riley and Amy Santino mean mugging are displayed prominently as a polished voice actor announces their upcoming clash in Phoenix. Footage of the two are juxtaposed displaying the in-ring prowess of both wrestlers while hyping the highly anticipated contest. Amy Marshal easily identified by the one of a kind surgical style mask used during her entrances and featuring a Cheshire cat grin flies about the six-sided ring showcasing a dazzling array of high risk moves supplemented with various brawling tactics. A vignette highlighting Cat follows in quick order as she displays an arsenal of submission holds against hapless opponents with a high energy musical background. Then, just as quickly as it began the screen once more displays the previous photo of the women mean mugging as ticket information scrolls across the bottom and fades out to a rolling laughter by Scott which brings a confused countenance from Cat who glares at him.
“What’s so funny”? She demands.
“You”, he replies curtly, albeit with a snicker. “Our kitty cat trying to mean mug”.
“Hey! I can mean mug”, she insists.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever”, the titan of testosterone replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Forget about it kitty cat. Let’s see what your friend has up her sleeve for this fight”.
“But I can mean mug”, she pouts while sulking for a moment until the UFC event returns. As the fighters are in their respective corners taking last minute instructions from their coaches the camera zoom in on Viviana, who swings her arms about to keep her body warm. “Did you know Geno hired Viviana to work with Fox on her boxing”?
“Really”? Scott replies throwing a darting glance to Cat. “Hunh, I was wondering what he was cooking up with her all that time”.
A shrill chirping reverberates through the sterile, white walls of the kitchen alerting Fox Riley to an incoming call on her cell phone. Wiping her fingers against the plain white apron strapped over her torso she reaches across the polished ivory coated counter top she reaches into her handbag settled beside a bag of flour to retrieve her silver iPhone XS and cradles the thin device in her hand, pressing it against her face.
“Hello”? She answers while grabbing a mixing bowl and whisking the batter inside. “Oh, Hi Christian, what’s up”?
Propping the phone against a tin of black pepper she activates the speaker thereby freeing her hands to attend other tasks.
“Not much on my end”, he replies as the whir of the road races by in the background. “What are you up to”?
“Oh, not much”, she answers, leaning over to clear ingredients off a portion of the countertop. Lifting a lid, she reveals a gas stove top tucked away within the fixture. “I’m just messing around, experimenting with different dishes for Mow Mow…, have you seen Geno’s kitchen”? She gasps as Christian chuckles on the other end. “This place is insane! Three microwaves that talk to you built into the wall with flush storage cupboards above, a four-door fridge that keeps a shopping list, a freaking gas stove built into the counter with two smart ovens…, it’s like…, holy bejeezus! It’s a chef’s wet dream”!
“Haha”, he laughs. “Trust me, I know. I go there sometimes to create new dishes myself. Which, by the way, is the reason for me calling you”.
“Oh”?
“Listen, Cat and Scotty have driven me to the end of my rope, and I need to recharge so I’m taking a few days of ‘me’ time with Genie which means they’ll be alone”.
“You want me to cook for them”? She asks, checking the oven.
“Hell no!” His voice is sharp, and tone pointed and catches Fox by surprise causing her brows to arc in curiosity as he goes on to explain. “I left the fridge fully stocked and a couple dozen Wendy’s coupons pinned to the door, but you and I both know that neither one of them can cook and I’m betting that they’re both too damned lazy and cheap to order take out and that’s exactly how I want it”.
“But why”?
“Like I said, they’ve been driving me crazy and show ZERO appreciation for what I do for them so, to paraphrase dear old dad, ‘if they can’t listen, they can feel’. But eventually Cat is going to remember that you can also cook and they’re probably going to try and butter you up…,”
“I get it”, Fox interrupts in laughter. “I like it, that’s good but, how long will you be gone, a week”?
“Oh God no! I can’t do that to them! Just two or three days”, he iterates. “Long enough for them to develop a sense of appreciation, that’s all. But…,” his tone hangs on his last word, an indicator of a caveat lying ahead. “But, while I’m gone and under no circumstances do I want you cooking or cleaning or anything for them, ok”?
“Hmm...,” Her eyes brighten as she pulls a steaming meatloaf from the oven as a smell resembling heated dogfood pricks the tip of her nostrils; the emanation subtly reminding her that this meal is intended for an animal. Setting it down on the counter to cool a wry grin slithers across her face. “I’ll do it on one condition”.
“Shoot”.
“I owe Scotty some payback”, she begins. “The last time he pinched my cheeks they were sore for three days. So, when they start to come on to me like a bunch of strays…,”
“Say no more”, he snorts loudly. “Go for it, take it out of his musclebound hide”!
“In that case, it’s a deal”!
“Great! I’ll call you to check up on everything tomorrow evening. Bye”!
“Bye”.
Ending the call with a tap on the screen Fox returns the cell phone to her black leather bag, shoving it into the gaping mouth lined by a layer of hungry tassels and returns to her cooking, adding a pinch of seasoning to the meal fit for a king of the jungle. Namely, a 900 plus pound tiger curled up on the frosted marble flooring in the far corner snoozing peacefully. Tilting her head upwards, suddenly in the mood for something to accent her endeavors she speaks aloud in a clear but slightly husky voice,
“Main kitchen TV channel five”, she says, commanding the automated home to turn on an ultra-high definition flat screen set hanging on the wall opposite the prep station where she continues to toil away. With a flicker the screen comes to life bringing the image of her cousin Cat Riley into view and heralding the return of her smirk. “Well, speak of the devil…,”
Standing by an unnamed reporter the blonde haired, blue-eyed devil stares back at Fox, her lips pursed tightly as she is flanked by her management team of Cassie and Gene Banton Jr. The duo silently stands by with their hands clasped in front as their charge glares at the camera, her brow twitching in agitation. Finally, with a raspy clearing of her throat Cat speaks,
“It doesn’t matter to me if she’s been in SCW for 40 years”, she snaps. “Once I get Amy Santino on that mat and in a suitable position she is going to submit. It’s an inescapable fact of life; like death, taxes, robocalls and Trump’s idiocy”. Pausing to swipe at a stray hair she continues, “Let me paint a little picture for you, Amy is an animal trainer with many years of experience. I am the new tigress added to the zoo’s collection. At first thought you figure that it’s no big deal, right? She’s done this sort of thing hundreds of times and always gets the job done. But this time is different…,” her tone lowers in inflection, followed by a downward glance. “You see…,” Rearing her head back up her façade has taken on a stern visage of warning. “This tigress is insatiable. She has been pacing her enclosure ever since she arrived, and no amount of food thrown into her pen by the zookeeper is able to satisfy her. She’s a perfect engine, an eating machine that wants more, she’s still hungry”. Casting a sidelong glance to the reporter Cat follows up with a question of her own, “Now, you tell me, would you want to enter the cage of a perpetually hungry tigress”?
“Bloody hell, I’m starving! When is Christian getting back”?
Cat paces about the living room anxiously with her stomach growling in discontent. Most original programs have long since ended as the hours slowly crept by, bringing them to the pre-dawn hour of 3 AM. Peeking at the clock for the fourth time within the last minute she rolls her eyes while Scott’s stomach joins in the symphony of discord. Following her lead he ambles his hulking frame from the dirty brown duct taped recliner with small tufts of cotton peeking out through newly worn holes in the upholstery which cedes to his wishes with a piercing squeak.
“Man, this is bullshit”! he churns while pacing his own road course. “He said he was going to Wendy’s…, that’s only three blocks away”!
“I don’t really know what he was saying with all that pissing he was doing”, Cat confesses. “All I remember is him saying something stupid about coupons on the fridge and plenty… of… food…”
Her voice trails off as she is struck by a sudden bolt of realization which stops her in her tracks. Scott, also hit by the lightning bolt stops as well and the pair look at one another wide-eyed while processing the information. Suddenly they bolt from the living room, their feet thudding madly as they race across the floor and into the kitchen. Grabbing the chrome handle of the modern refrigerator simultaneously the pair swings it open wildly. Their combined power, well, mostly Scott’s proves forceful enough to tear the heavy door from the hinges and they jump back in surprise allowing it to crash onto the tile of the floor. Leaning over the debris they peer inside through gawking lenses taking inventory of its contents. Several packs of deli meat, loaves of bread, two cases of Scott’s protein shakes and an additional case of Budweiser, a head of lettuce, a bag of peas, raw chicken, packages of yogurt and many other kinds of food are bulging against the side, anxiously greeting their famished faces.
“What the hell”? Scott mutters in dismay. “None of this crap is even edible”.
“I think you’re supposed to cook it”, Cat offers.
”Ain’t nobody got time for that junk”! He shrieks in a sonorous pitch. “We’re hungry right now”!
“Maybe there’s some food hidden underneath”?
Acting on Cat’s implication both sets of hands are thrust into the cooler, grabbing hold of various items such as chicken breast, eggs, milk and flinging it carelessly to the floor while they rifle through the trove in search of processed treasure. Several minutes fly by, escorted by a not so gentle shoving of their hands with the cache being discarded to the floor. Some of the packages burst upon impact spreading peas and carrots about their feet while the milk jug, a full gallon spills out as heavy packages of uncooked beef are jettisoned on top of it. Piece by piece the fridge is emptied out leaving the floor beneath them a soupy mess until nothing is left. Scott continues to scan the interior in search of some lost package or a hidden compartment while Cat withdraws her head with a sulking frown.
“I don’t believe it”, she whines. “Not a single piece of actual food! I thought he said it was fully stocked”?
“Yeah”, Scotty snorts angrily. “With building materials! Wait a minute…,” he pauses to stroke his goatee thoughtfully. “What about the cupboards”? he asks. “There’s usually something we can eat in those, like cupcakes and stuff”.
“Good idea”! Cat beams excitedly, nodding in agreement. “I’ll check, just let me climb up onto the counter…,”
“Get on my shoulders”, the barking behemoth insists. “We ain’t got time for you to climb Mount Everest, we gotta eat damn it”.
Hopping onto his broad shoulders Cat is lifted to eye level with the counters and hurriedly opens the chestnut doors which smack loudly against the adjacent doors and peers into a sea of canned goods. Wave after wave of soup, splashes her against her face as she looks on in frustration.
“Start pulling everything out”, Scott says gruffly. “Throw it on the floor until you find something that we can actually eat without having to jump through flaming hoops”.
Doing as instructed Cat begins jettisoning the cupboards, sending the can free falling to the floor with a metallic thump, followed by numerous small spice containers, a bag of crackers, more protein shakes – some of which burst open on hard contact with the floor, and other, various forms of cooking ingredients. She continues to the next cupboard and the one after, tossing spices, cans of cat food, bags of croutons and more to the wayside.
“I don’t get it”, she pauses in review. “This is supposed to be dry storage, right? So, where are the cupcakes, Twinkie and Chocodiles? Oh, that’s right, I ate them all”.
“Shut up and keep looking! I’m dying here”!
Reaching the final cabinet, she spies a collection of cereal boxes. The bright colors of Golden Grahams, Raisin Bran, Lucky Charms and more of General Mills finest greet her with a glowing welcome.
“Jackpot”!
“What”? Scott demands. “What is it”?
“Cereals”, she answers. “Tons of it”.
“Well pull it out, hurry! I’ll get the bowls”.
In his rush Scott inadvertently drops Cat, who lands with a thud against the countertop before rolling onto the floor but having held her grip she manages to bring a pair of cereal boxes crashing down with her. Rubbing her head while gingerly rising to her feet she shouts,
“You bloody oaf! That hurt”!
“Ah quit your whining and get the damned milk”, he snaps. “We got some eating to do”.
“Umm…, little problem here…,” she stammers as her eyes rove over the mess left on the floor, particularly in front of the refrigerator.
“What the hell is wrong this time”?
“The milk is on the floor”, she replies, pointing to the white swamp spread out over the tiling and encroaching the dining room threshold.
Following her finger Scott quickly surveys the scene and his mouth drops into a cavernous gape. “Oh fuck”, he mutters. “We can’t eat cereal without the milk”.
“So umm, what do we do now”? Cat asks, her hands slapping helplessly against her thighs.
The wind blows briskly from the southeast, sending Cat’s long silken tresses fluttering in the breeze as she leans against a shoulder high concrete wall separating public from private property. Gail Westrup, a sports reporter for Fox Sports holds a microphone to her face. Average in height but with a decidedly unathletic build the brunette, decked out in a red, knee length dress reaches down to adjust the hem line of her outfit while her target gathers her thoughts. Behind the camera, a lanky young man, a solid foot taller than the two women clad in faded blue jeans and a tattered burgundy tee shirt bearing the logo of the Washington Redskins Waits patiently for the signal from the reporter. Clearing her throat Cat absently tugs at her plain white tank top and adjusts the visor of a mis-matched blue ballcap and nods to the other woman who flashes the signal to her cameraman in the form of a thumbs up.
“This is Gail Westrup”, she begins in a polished tone. “I am standing here outside the DNB gym with SCW Bombshell Cat Riley who has graciously granted us a few moments to speak with her ahead of her Into the Void showdown with The Punk Princess Amy Santino in Phoenix”. Looking over the Briton’s lean, glistening figure she observes that it is coated in perspiration, despite the relatively ‘cool’ temperature of a mere 92F. “Cat, you look as if you’ve been hard at work preparing for your bout with Amy. Could you share with our viewers your typical routine when getting ready for a match”?
“Well”, she stammers slightly while considering her words. “Let me just start by saying that I am not your typical wrestler. I don’t need to spend six hours a day in the gym. Nor do I need to watch what I eat. I suppose you can say that I am genetically blessed with high stamina and a metabolism that Geno says runs on nitro methane”.
“The fuel used to power top fuel dragsters”, the reporter clarifies.
“Yes. So, I tend to get lots of sleep. I usually sleep until around noon or so and then I’ll have breakfast which generally consists of ice cream, cupcakes, sugary cereals or something else deemed unhealthy. My body can burn anything, so I don’t particularly care. Once fed I get cleaned up and I may review film with my manager, or I may get my training out of the way early”.
“And what type of training do you do”?
“I have a functional fitness routine that doesn’t require weights or a treadmill or any other gadget aside from a playing cards, which is why you’ll always find me with a deck of cards on my person”.
“Can you explain how the routine works with the cards”?
“It’s simple really”. She begins, reaching into the back pocket of her torn denims to pull out a well-worn pack of blue playing cards. “Each suit, Hearts, spades and so on has their own particular exercise like pushups, for example. And each card has a value with the ten, face cards and jokers being worth ten reps of their assigned exercise. An eight equals eight reps and so on. You can change up the exercises from day to day so long as it’s effective. Like, for example let’s say that diamonds are pushups, hearts are jumping jacks, spades are burpees and clubs are squat jumps…,” pausing in her dissertation she starts to shuffle the deck, taking care to ensure that the faces are down. “I like to have the faces of the deck down so as not to give my body any sort of preparation”, she says while turning over the first card to reveal a four of clubs. “The first card is a four of clubs which means you do four squat jumps”. Turning over a second card she reveals a seven of hearts. “A seven of hearts is seven jumping jacks”, she adds. “I will continue on until I have gone through the entire deck. It usually takes me a little over an hour”.
“That sounds very physically demanding, do you rest between cards”?
“When you first start this routine, you have to”, Cat answers. “But you keep practicing until your body doesn’t require any sort of rest. Now, for the fans at home; forget about my diet and forget about my sleep habits. If you want to get in wrestling shape, give this a try. If you stick it through, I guarantee that you will never get tired in a match”.
“Much has been said about your cardiovascular conditioning”, Gail notes. “What’s the longest you’ve ever wrestled”?
“Six and a half hours”, Cat states flatly drawing a look of astonishment from the reporter. “It was back home, and I was sparring with another Snake Pit student. My uncle insisted that we keep going until we had a clear winner”.
“Did you win”?
“Yes”, she chuckles. “My opponent got tired out and couldn’t move his arms and I was finally able to submit him”.
“You said him”?
With a nod Cat goes on to explain further, “There weren’t any girls training at the Snake Pit when I was there, so I didn’t have a choice but to spar with the boys. Believe me, it toughens a girl up which is why I can say with conviction that Amy Santino has no bleeding clue what she’s in for when we tango in Phoenix”.
“You certainly sound ready, do you have any finals thoughts on Into the Void”?
Peering directly into the lens Cat’s blue eyes shrink to enflamed slits as she speaks in a slow, ominous inflection,
“Amy Santino sits on a wall
Proclaiming to be the roughest and toughest of all.
But now Cat Riley has answered the call
And Amy Santino will take a great fall.
And in the bitterest of bitter ends
All of Mark Ward’s Horses,
And Christian Underwood’s men
Will not be able to put Amy Santino back together again”.
The screen fades to black as Christian Underwood powers it off and tosses the remote onto the 13-inch pillow topped mattress. Reaching over he offers a gentle scratch behind the ear of his Persian cat Genie, who briefly acknowledges with a flick of her puffy tail before curling back up against a gold velour body pillow with black fringe. With a yawn and a sigh, he stretches and kicks off his black Puma brand sneakers, a gift from Cat following her endorsement deal with the apparel maker and lies down, propping his left arm beneath his head while taking his cellphone into the right. He blinks to allow his eyes to adjust to the brightly lit screen and begins to scroll through his most recent text messages. He immediately recognizes the bulk of the messages as being from Cat and Scott and starts to read them only to forcefully tear himself from them, setting the phone face down on the king-sized bed. In the span of six hours they have accumulated 17 messages, including voicemail which alerts him to the apparent trouble they are experiencing in his absence.
Leaning onto his side he turns the nightlamp off engulfing the room in darkness, determined to stay the course. All he wanted was for them to show some appreciation, to express even a modicum of gratitude for the efforts he puts in on a daily basis to make their lives easier, but every inch of rope he offers is taken to the rodeo leaving him with no choice. Although recognizing his responsibility of breathing life into the monster with which he now contends he also is aware of the need to remain steadfast in his resolve. The pair have grown helpless because of his previous apathy, unable to cook or clean for themselves without looking to him for guidance but at the same time they remain adults, despite their penchant for child-like behavior and somewhere buried deep inside both Cat and Scotty is the ability for self-reliance and by hook or by crook he would unearth that latent talent in both of them.
Jettisoning his tee shirt to the floor he grabs the blanket and starts to pull it over but stops mid-way, his mind deluged in doubt. What if it’s too deeply buried and they can’t? Is he starving them? Is he neglecting them? With a groan he snags a Grumpy Cat sleep mask from the nightstand and applies it before rolling onto his side. He wouldn’t allow the doubts to creep into the tangled web of resolution and faltering confidence and forces the second thoughts out with a jaw straining yawn as he nestles his head against the pillow.
“Good night you two, whatever you’re doing”.
