Author Topic: Cat Riley Vs Amy Santino  (Read 613 times)

Offline Mark Ward

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Cat Riley Vs Amy Santino
« on: June 16, 2019, 04:14:08 PM »
 Post all roleplays for this match here.

Limits: 10,000 word maximum, 1 roleplay per week maximum

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Blessed is he who in the name of charity and goodwill shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brothers keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger, those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the LORD, when I lay my vengeance upon thee

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Offline Cat Riley

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Cat Riley Vs Amy Santino
« Reply #1 on: June 21, 2019, 06:13:48 PM »
 “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”.


“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”.


“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”!


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.


“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”.
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Offline Amy Marshall

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Cat Riley Vs Amy Santino
« Reply #2 on: June 28, 2019, 05:55:35 PM »
 Ooc: Apologies to Cat about the quality of this rp. I’ve struggled with ideas.

Climax Control 239
9th June 2019
Tuscan, AZ

Jack and Emmie going into this match were so mismatched and so dysfunctional it was unbelievable. On paper it should have been an easy go in kick their ass finish them pin them and leave... but in reality... they managed to sort their shit out and function a little as a team... they got their shots in... but the outcome would always be Vinnie and I walking away the winners of this match.

It was a shame that Jack and Emmie didn’t put more of an effort in... it would have made everyone work that little bit harder and give Emmie the experience she needs. But it’s not the end of the world as it would be a lesson for Emmie and Jack.

No sooner had my music hit over the p.a I climb to my feet as the ref and Vinnie move in as our arks are raised in victory as Vinnie and I and share a quick hug.

Vinnie grabs his cactus as he slides out of the ring just as I climb out and we then head up the ramp and all the way to the backstage area. Once backstage, I grab a couple of waters and hand one to Vinnie, as take in some water, as Joey joins me at my side as I look at Vinnie who is offering water to his potted spikey friend.

Vinnie: Sorry you were unable to help this time round… maybe next time.

I shake my head as I still haven’t gotten used to Vinnie’s weird obsession with his plant or him for the matter of fact, but I won’t swap him for anything in the world. Taking in some water, we move away from the curtain and bit further down the corridor away from the madness as we take in our win against Jack and Emmie.

Joey: Well done guys… good win.

Vinnie: Thank you Mr Joey… I couldn’t have done without Ms Amy.

Scott Oliver who see all three of us… strolls over to with a smile on his face…

Scott: Hey guys… a few words about your match tonight.

Scott asks.

Amy: Sure

Scott: As we all saw… you both picked up an impressive win against Jack and Emmie tonight.  Do you think you are ready to now compete against the other mixed tag teams including the champions?

Vinnie: Ms Amy, my faithful friend and myself are ready to face anyone who comes our way. Tonight, was merely a warmup for Ms Amy and I… next time we are ready to win the big one.

Amy: The tag team division is getting seriously interesting now and Gamer Inc should be scared. Now if you excuse me… I want to shower and change and then head home.

I turn and leave with Joey and Vinnie following close behind as we leave Scott to wrap up his piece, as we return back to the locker room, where we enter as Vinnie sits down and begins a conversation with his plant, while Joey sits and watches the rest of the show as I change etc… the scene soon fades out.


Monday 17th June 2019
Las Vegas, NV

The scene opens at Amy’ Las Vegas home, where we see Joey coming down the stairs in nothing more than boxers as he rubs his eyes, as he looks around.

Joey: Amy you down here?

Joey continues to look around, as he spots Amy’s cell phone sitting on the side, as he quickly realises that Amy must have gone out running. Her cell phone pings with a message but Joey ignores it but does see that its from the SCW bosses.  Turning, Joey climbs back up the stairs just as the door opens and in comes Amy out of breath and sweaty.

Amy: Morning… what are you doing up?

Joey: I had to use the bathroom… I didn’t realise you were going out for a run.

Joey says.

Amy: I know it was supposed to be a day off, but I woke up at 4am and couldn’t get back to sleep again. Sorry.

Amy shrugs.

Joey: It’s fine… you have a text message by the way.

Joey nods towards Amy’s phone, Amy advances toward her phone and picks it up.

From: SCW Staff
Subject:  Into the Void.

Amy Santino vs Cat Riley

Amy shakes her head.

Amy: That sucks.

Joey: What does?

Joey queries leaning on the bannister.

Amy: This match with Cat Riley… Just a match filler with nothing on the line. I was expecting some more.

Joey: Like what?

Joey queries.

Amy: Maybe a number one contender match for tag titles.

Amy again shrugs, as she drops her keys onto the table as she turns and begins to climb the stairs.

Joey: Is the tag titles on the line?

Amy: I don’t know. I will look later at the rest of the card.

Joey: At least you have a match regardless if they aren’t on the line.

Joey says as he continues up the stairs.

Amy: Hmmm….

Amy and Joe continue up the stairs, as the scene fades out as Joey heads back to bed, while Amy jumps into the shower to wash away her run.


20th June 2019

Cat Riley vs Amy Santino... this I think is the prime example when you are getting lost in the shuffle of new faces and those who have been working hard to get title shots. It’s also when some of us have been focusing on bringing a team together and working the small details instead of focusing on the main important things.

Well that is my opinion not sure what Cat's is but no doubt she is bemused about this as well. But at the end of the day a match is a match no matter how much of its an afterthought and to please those who should be on the show...

Anyway... Into the void. I have been in five into the void supercard’s... this year being my six. I have mixed results with the majority of the time losing, though twice I have won titles: one being from Roxi Johnson and the other in tag team action. But those don’t really make up for the other dismal appearances in the past.

Anyway... Cat Riley... I bet when you were planning your month or Into the Void that you would be in this position. Nothing on the line just a straight wrestling match... boring huh. Although the rest of the matches around us are just the same... but I guess we will have to make it stand out as the best we can. Put on a show that is unforgettable and show why we should be higher up the card challenging etc…

Unfortunately, Cat, while we can put on the show and raise the roof… I will be winning this match… to be honest I am not going to give the usual spiel of that I need this, and I am better than you… well I am… but there is nothing on the line other than pride. So, I am here to win and just build my confidence a little more.  Frankly I have other things on my mind like the mixed tag team titles and winning them…. But I am not going to let that distract me as they are not even being defended on the show.

So Into the Void…. We are going to put on a show and outshine every match that is around us… but… I will be walking away victorious. However, if you win… it’s no big deal really.

Good luck Cat.


2x GRIME Champion (10/07/2021 - 05/12/2021 (154 days)) (20/03/2022 - 15/05/2022 (57 Days)
1x Bombshell Champion
2x Bombshell Roulette Champion
2x Bombshell Internet Champion
3x Bombshell Tag Team Champion
- 1 x w/ Necra Kane
- 2 x w/ Jessie Salco
~ First three time bombshell tag team champion.
~ 2nd ever Bombshell triple crown winner.
~ 1st ever Bombshell Grand Slam Champion.
~ 2015 Woman of the year.
~ 2015 Feud of the Year vs. Roxi Johnson
~ 2015 Match of the Year vs. Roxi Johnson.
~ 2015 Hall Of Fame!
~ 2018 Feud of the year vs Jessie Salco
- 2021 Year End Awards: Story of the Year:Masked member Rainbow/minority GRIME owner unmasks to reveal herself as multi-time champion and SCW Hall of Famer Amy Santino

Offline Cat Riley

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Cat Riley Vs Amy Santino
« Reply #3 on: June 28, 2019, 07:07:08 PM »
 The sun peeks out through a smattering of billowy clouds rolling through the surprisingly cool summer morning. Outside of the multiple level Victorian Manor which stands out from its more contemporary counterparts like a purple thumb a thermometer affixed to the outside beam of the awning covering the entrance reads a mere 69 degrees; Spring begrudgingly refuses to relinquish its grip of the valley, which is a rare departure from the norm. Inside the exquisitely crafted custom home of Christian Underwood, the co-owner of SCW, a new norm has settled in in his absence. A trail of corn flakes leads from the kitchen into the living room where several empty boxes of cereal have been strewn across the hatch pattern wood floor. Their contents, mostly in the bellies of Cat Riley and Scott Schriener is also scattered to the wind provided by a heavily reinforced overhead ceiling fan. Lying underneath stretched out along the plushily appointed Victorian replica sofa the pair snoozes beneath a blue and yellow velour blanket with small, yellow ducks emblazoned all over the surface.

Scott, a back sleeper, lies awake, staring blankly at the overhead fan with Cat snoozing on top of him following an argument over who got to use the beloved ‘duckie’ blanket with a compromise eventually being reached following a best of 100 series of rock-scissors-paper. But Scotty miscalculated and failed to consider Cat’s sleep tendencies; 14 hours here, 12 hours there and finds himself trapped under the blonde unable to move so as not to wake her. He sighs while Cat snores, reaching over to swipe the remote from the coffee table which bears the battle scars of their mutual struggle; a broken pitcher with a gallon of water now residing in a pool on the floor, several bowls scattered about, some broken during the process of deciding which ones they liked better and bent spoons – victims of a brief food fight. Depressing the red button on the plastic remote he powers on the television to begin his morning routine of channel surfing. He swims through the channels, past morning talk shows, glossing over the omni-present reruns of Keeping up with the Kardashians and over the financial news with some porcelain doll appears near apoplexy while announcing a market drop of .000000001% while searching for the perfect wave. Rolling onto her side Cat curls into a semi-fetal position while tightly clutching Christian’s favored Grumpy Cat pillow as Scott settles on an ESPN repeat of the 2019 extreme Ironing championships.

“Oh man, this is gonna be good”, he mutters to himself as the shrill broken chime of the house phone reverberates off the walls to alert him to an incoming call. “Oh shit, that might be Chrissy”, he says, jettisoning Cat to the floor who lands with a thud. Springing from the sofa he darts across the floor to the wall leading to the dining room and snatches the white handle of the old-style rotary dial phone and answers breathlessly, “Hello”?

Listening to a voice on the other end his expression quickly twists from one of anticipation to annoyance and growls into the receiver, “A damned sales pitch? I ain’t interested! Besides, you dumb broad, I ain’t got no damned money”! With a loud clang he slams it back down and turns back to his ‘command post’ to find Cat eyeing him curiously, peeking over the edge of the sofa.

“Was that Christian”? She asks.

“Nah”, he grumbles, taking his seat and leaving Cat to the other end with the duckie blanket. “It was a damned sales call tryin’ to sell us a lifetime membership to for a carpet cleaning service”.

“Shite”, she mutters. “We don’t have any money…, unless we can get into one of the socks”.

“I’m scared to try and get into mine”, Scott groans, returning his attention to the image of an older woman trying to iron a burned dress shirt. “The last time I tried something inside bit my hand”. Turning his head to glance at Cat he asks, “What about your sock”?

“I’m scared too”, she shrugs. “When I checked it last night it was moving”.

The statement prompts a guffaw from the big man. “Hey, didn’t I tell you that sock was the best way to save money”?

“Yeah”, she nods in agreement but slumps her shoulders under the weight of a revelation. “But now we don’t have any money to buy food, and we ate all of the cereal last night”.

“Ugh yeah”, he sighs. “That’s the last time I try to mix cereal with water”. Shaking his head, he leans back against the padding of the bench-style sofa. “We need a plan”.

“Hmm…,” Cat pauses thoughtfully, pretending to stroke an absent goatee in a gesture mimicking the bulging mammoth to her right. “I think I have an idea how to get some money”. Rising from her seat she strides over to the corner of the room and retrieves a black handbag from a nightstand and digs through it on her way back pulling out a white iPhone. “Just let me make a phone call”.

Fox Riley lounges lazily in the opulent dining room in Goldenboy Gene Banton’s expansive Mediterranean style home, leaning over a polished transparent table. She absently scrolls through text messages on her cell phone, reading them and deleting the majority. Absent from the list, however, is the expected message from her cousin Cat, whom she anticipated would be calling her, or at least texting a message asking for her help. Christian had told her the other night of his plan to draw a measure of appreciation from her and Scott and all too familiar with Cat’s often disastrous forays into the kitchen and the world of cooking she fully envisioned a desperate plea for help by now. But other than a series of days old messages nothing awaited her attention which draws a frown upon her cherubic features. With a yawn she extends her arms upwards, stretching the remnants of a long sleep from her back with a resounding pop and returns her gaze to the glowing screen. With a furrowed brow she gazes down through round, blue eyes at the device past a short, stubby nose thoughtfully. If Cat and Scotty haven’t contacted her yet, she reasoned, then she would throw them some bait. Putting her fingers to work she logs into her Twitter account while opening a second screen from the photo album. Scrolling through the various pictures she selects an image taken by Geno himself of her working in his kitchen and smiles,

“Heeeerre kitty, kitty, kitty”!

A few hours have passed with her tweet finally gaining Cat’s attention with a single post of a Metal gear Solid style exclamation point. It was enough to prompt Fox to begin with stage two of her plan by borrowing a car from Gene – she chuckles at how much of a pushover he is for women wearing spandex leggings – and hitting the I15 northbound towards the spaghetti bowl. Traffic is light as she guides the blue Corvette through traffic, whipping around an old rusted F150, its bed loaded with scrap metal headed for the recycling yard presumably causing the overworked truck to nearly scrape the newly repaved road, just missing by mere inches. Passing over the Tropicana boulevard bridge she merges left, ignoring the rumble strips separating the normal, slower than a snail in quicksand lane from the relatively clear HOV lane. While technically against the law as the HOV lane is reserved for vehicle carrying two or more people the highway patrol rarely enforces it. How could they when they have one, two at the most, cars patrolling a 15 to 20 mile stretch of highway with thousands of motorists?

The sun peeks through the scattered few remnants of morning clouds with a bright kiss of sunlight, illuminating the golden exterior of the Trump branded hotel and showing off the gleaming beginnings of the recently re-started construction of the Asian themed Resorts World, directly across the famed Las Vegas Strip from an eerily similar looking Wynn resort with its light burgundy glass siding stretching from street level to over 600 feet in height, a gleaming beacon to a playground catering to the wealthy. Her eyes flutter under the warming rays prompting the younger of the Riley cousins to fumble about the black leather cased center console for a pair of sunglasses, which she hastily dons, pausing for a glimpse at the speedometer. Weaving the Nassau blue American made sports car around a highly burdened gravel truck carrying a load from the Construction site just passed she glides into the right lane wondering why such huge truck carrying such burdensome loads always seem to choose the fastest lane when they can rarely muster enough power to maintain the minimum limit?

With a sigh she settles into the right-hand lane tucking herself in behind a black Maserati and looks ahead for signs indicating her exit point. An overhead sign informs her that she still has another three and a half miles to go in the suddenly slowing traffic, a by-product of a rush of morning commuters making their own way to the spaghetti bowl. Now slowed to a relative crawl her bored eyes, tired of watching the school of white and silver fish swimming along leisurely take to the billboards lining the highway. Spying one such board advertising Cat’s upcoming match against Amy Santino her attention piques and she studies the huge ad platform intently. Cat is noticeably smaller than her upcoming foe. But that comes as no surprise as she has always been of slight build. Her cousin also finds herself at a considerable disadvantage in experience as Amy has been wrestling since Cat was still in school which, again, is not much of a surprise as she has faced many opponents, the majority of whom held more in-ring experience. Yet somehow, she has nearly always come out on top.

A testament to her training and the unrivaled experience of her management team Fox reasons. Although typically a happy-go-lucky sort, Cat still possesses an intensely strong competitive streak and has so since they were children growing up. She would give no quarter, not even in a simple game of tic tact toe or hand slapping. Another chuckle erupts briefly through her pursed lips; Fox has always had faster, and more accurate reflexes compared to her more awkward relative. Regardless she would steadfastly refuse to relent until she could manage to score a win, a win which was often given to her unspoken at which point Cat would quickly call the contest and declare herself the winner. Their Uncle Ernie often referred to Cat as having ‘3-D’, meaning, drive, determination, and dedication, an attribute he claimed would allow underdogs like David of the book of Samuel, or Rocky of the American film series to overcome the odds. Time and again she had proven him right, overcoming the odds consistently against often larger, stronger and vastly more experienced opponents. Can she do it again in Phoenix, or will she fall?


With wide, gleeful eyes Cat cries out as Scotty clutches his stomach and staggers up from the sofa with a heavy groan towards a stack of Little Caesar’s pizzas stack atop the breakfast bar. His hand trembles as he reaches out for another slice of meat lover’s, determined not to capitulate in his impromptu eating contest with the energetic young blonde. But how? How has she been able to devour 33 slices and still have room for more? He shakes his head in dismay casting a glance back to her as she cheers him on mockingly. Gingerly he steps on an empty box left on the floor, scattering the remaining crumbs across the floor, leaving them to be absorbed by the hand quilted throw rug, a gift from Christian’s mother.


“Oh, come on Scotty”! she moans cheerily. “Why don’t you just give it up and admit that I can eat you under the table any time I want”?

He nearly chokes in laughter at the unintended metaphor which causes her to try and correct herself,

“Umm, wait…,” she pleads, thrusting her palms outward. “That’s not what I meant…,”

Their exchange is interrupted by the cheerful chime of the doorbell which resounds through a series of small speakers embedded into the walls to alert the occupants of visitors. Groaning while holding the slice of pizza he drops it back into the box, grateful for the temporary reprieve and ambles slowly to the door. Opening it he is greeted by a chubby cheeked blonde beaming at him through a pair of crystal blue lenses. His own baby blues expand like saucer plates in recognition of Fox Riley carrying a tan leather tote bag affixed over her shoulder. She greets him with a bubbly enthusiasm, her smile bringing out a pronounced pair of dimples that causes him to tense up.

It is said that every man has his weakness. Some may have a soft spot for blondes, while others may show appreciation for more endowed women and others still, like his friend Geno may have a strong preference for toned legs in spandex leggings. Gay men as well are not immune to such weaknesses with his partner Christian displaying an affinity of tight posteriors and a well-defined abdominal region and Scott himself is no exception. Despite his vascular, mountainous physique, boasting a 65-inch chest and 27 inch arms eluding to him being the epitome of manliness, with the pride and self-assurance that comes with it, the self-styled ‘Big Pump’ has an uncontrollable desire to pinch the cheeks of anyone and everyone with dimples. A soft whimper escapes through his usual scowl as Fox puts her own dimples on full display, grinning with the assurance of a woman with a plan.

Already aware of his affinity for pinching the cheeks of those blessed, or cursed in her own experience, with dimples, having been on the receiving end in the past she nonetheless pastes him with a wide, toothy grin. Informed by Christian of his plan for getting him and Cat to learn appreciation she has been counting on the leverage afforded by her ability to cook to torment him as a form of payback for their last encounter which left her cheeks swollen and hurting for two days. She brushes by him confidently and strides towards the kitchen and sets her tote bag down on the breakfast bar.

“Christian sent me to feed you guys”, she confidently proclaims. “But we’re going to do it under my rules…,” her voice abruptly trails off as her eyes lock onto a huge stack of pizza boxes as she is joined by Cat, who nonchalantly swipes another slice and takes a bite of it.

“Hi Fox”, she purrs, leaning against the countertop. “Want some pizza”?

“I…, I…,” she stammers incoherently having been blindsided by their full bellies’ courtesy of Little Caesars. “I don’t get it”, she continues with her mind tripping over her words. “Wh-where did you get all of this food from”?

“I sold my car and ordered delivery”. Cat exclaims proudly, tapping her temple with the tip of her right index finger. “Christian tried to punish us, but we outsmarted him”.

Surprised even more by the announcement Fox steps back feeling a swell in her throat as she backs into a decidedly bumpy wall. Spinning on her heels she looks up in abject horror at the maniacally grinning face of Scotty - a mad scientist having located the perfect specimen – and starts to back away slowly thrusting her hands outward in a pleading gesture. Her backtracking takes her further into the kitchen where she is introduced to the now two-day old pile of foodstuffs discarded from the fridge, left to rot on the tile floor by two people too lazy to clean it up. Stepping into the pool of curdled milk she slips but manages to regain her footing by quickly taking another step back, only to find herself trapped between the advancing behemoth and the counter. Flexing his beefy fingers, he closes in on his desperately squirming prey.

“No…, No, please”!

“Smile for your uncle Pump”, he says, baring his teeth while waving his fingers threateningly as Cat looks on in amusement, having taken a seat at the bar to watch the proceedings.

“No, no! I – I’ll do anything! Please…, pl…, Aiyyeeee”!

“Stupid horror movies”, With the press of a button Christian shuts off the television and sits up on the edge of the plush, doubled thick mattress, and reaches over to scratch Genie behind the ears as she snoozes peacefully on the other pillow. With a jaw breaker of a yawn he stretches his arms and pulls himself onto his feet. Pacing across the thick, luxurious mango carpeting of his hotel room and reveling in the feel of the fabric against his bare feet his mind turns to other matters, matters which ultimately led to his stay at the Waldorf Astoria situated on the south end of the strip adjacent to the Aria resort. He was certain that he had left Cat and his partner Scott with sufficient means to care for themselves in his absence but when dealing with those two he had learned over the years to expect the unexpected. While Scott tended to be lazy to the point of helplessness Cat, on the other hand tended to display more drive and would attempt to fend for herself, often with disastrous results. Pausing mid-step, he ponders the situation while curling his toes in the carpet. Fox had offered to look in on them, hoping to gain a measure of revenge on Scott for his destructive treatment of her baby-faced cheeks and even by his own meticulous standards the young woman knew how to cook. Although not at his level she could more than fill in during his absence should the need arise, and she wouldn’t allow them to truly starve. So why then, are the butterflies dancing the salsa in his stomach? Everything should be fine; the refrigerator was left fully stocked, a dozen clipped coupons where pinned to the freezer door along with instructions for Fox should they be left wanting and of course the pair both had plenty of cash tucked away in their individual socks…, “Shit”.

The butterfly effect, a theory pushed forth by mathematician Edward Norton Lorenz states that the flapping of a butterfly’s wings in one part of the world can potentially cause devastating consequences in another. It has been expanded on by modern scientists as a part of Chaos theory which similarly states that the smallest change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later state; a slight miscalculation. He had forgotten that neither Cat nor Scott would dare touch their respective socks out of a combination of superstition, frugality and the simple fact that they have been planted under their beds for so long there was no telling what, in anything else could be inhabiting them. He had left them effectively broke as neither knew how to cook or had a credit card.

Cursing under his breath he strides briskly across the room and snatches his cell phone from the nightstand, which had been lying face down on the ornately crafted piece. Quickly he opens the messaging app on the Galaxy S10 and is greeted by an unseen message from Fox which confirms his fears…,

‘Mission aborted…. Cheeks destroyed…. #pain…. Dr. visit eminent….’

His fingers are a blue of activity as he punches in his username and password to his Twitter account and begins to scroll through his messages, pausing at one from Cat stating, ‘running low on food, may have to sell something else to order delivery’.

“Son of a…,” He gives voice to his frustration by way of a load groan which rouses Genie from her slumber atop the pillow as he hastily dons his shoes and starts to shove his belongings into a travel bag. “Wake up Genie, we have to go home”.

A silver Mercedes CL55 AMG pulls up to the Underwood residence and crawls to a stop at the curb separating the street from the lush green yard with an assist by an iron wrought fence. The throaty burble of the muscular German V8 dies out as the ignition is switched off while inside, behind the limo tinted windows Gene Banton Senior shift in the thickly padded leather driver’s seat to face his passenger, Cat Riley who is quietly nursing a black eye with an ice pack. He offers a lighthearted chuckle as she inspects her visage in the vanity mirror.

“Relax kiddo”, he grins. “You’ll hardly notice it tomorrow and by the time you get to Phoenix it won’t even be there, I promise”.

“I hope not”, she mutters, pressing the tip of her finger against the puffy red spot underneath and wincing. “It’d be just my luck that Amy Santino claims she gave it to me”. Flipping up the visor she turns her gaze onto her manager trying to offer up a smile of her own but failing miserably. “Still, don’t you think that sparring session was a bit rough? The idea is to get me ready for Into the Void, not kill me off”.

“I was hoping to rid myself of you once and for all”, he quips, drawing a gasp of astonishment from his passenger. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding”, he relents with a dismissive wave of a beefy paw. “Seriously, my purpose was two-fold; I wanted to test you at match speed ahead of Santino, and I wanted to test a new trainee”.

“That woman is going to wrestle too”?

“Well, they all hope to wrestle”, he clarifies in a gentle tone. “But yeah, I have higher hopes for her than most of the others. As you found out first hand, she has a fair degree of experience, and I wanted to see how she’d react under the pressure of a bonafide stud…,” his lips crease into a smirk as he reaches across the black leather appointed cabin of the luxury car and playfully pinches Cat’s cheek. “Besides, given the…, eventful week you’ve had so far…,” a pause follows his trailing words into the grassy plains of the expansive front yard being watered by a series of pop up sprinklers. “I thought it best to get you back up to competitive speed by putting you in a competitive situation. “Let’s face it, your mind hasn’t been on Amy too much this week, am I right”?

A subtle bobbing of her blonde mane signals him to be correct and she expands further saying, “You’re right. With Christian leaving me high and dry like that I’ve been a bit of a mess. Everything has been chaos this week for me, you know”?

Reaching forward to access the climate control touch screen, bumping the air conditioner up another notch to counteract the simmering blanket of heat Gene nods. “I understand but let me explain something about Christian to you; he loves you kitty cat, he really does. And, as God is my witness, I swear he’ll do anything for you”.

“So, why just ship off like that leaving me and Scotty out in the cold”?

With a raspy sigh, he cranes his beefy, almost non-existent neck towards the vinyl headliner while words swim around his pool of thought. Taking the moment to bait the rod he carefully selects a suitable target and casts his line…, “Have you ever had people take advantage of you, trying to get something from you or get you to do something just because they know that you don’t mind”? He asks, his blue lenses trained on the blonde bobber in front of him, watching for a nibble which comes by way of a slow, soft nodding of her head and, with the bait having been accepted he gently tugs on the line to begin the process of reeling in his point. “Scotty is insanely demanding”, he adds. “And, to be quite honest, you are becoming every bit as demanding. Give me this, do that, clean these, cook those…,” He allows some slack in the line to secure the bite before giving it a final tug. “Christian just wants you to show him a little appreciation and I’d bet the rent that he said as much – probably in the midst of a tantrum – he’s a very emotional sort”.

“But I do appreciate him”! she exclaims, writhing against the pull of his argument.

“I’m sure you do”, he replies, taking up some of the slack. “But when was the last time you showed it”?

With a furrowed brow she ponders her predicament, hanging on his words. “I see your point”, she mutters in capitulation. “I do tend to act a bit of a brat”.

“Just a little”, he snickers, holding his thumb and index finger an inch apart.

His joviality is not reciprocated as Cat delves deeper into her thoughts with a downcast glare, her gaze fixating on the finely woven floor mat bearing the famous silver arrow of Mercedes Benz. “It’s my fault”, she says in deadpan. “I had forgotten that he is as human as I am. But I got Scotty into this hole with me this time, and now I have to dig him out”.

“Or…,” Gene offers in a pregnant pause. “You can just let Scott be Scott while you worry about being you. Give him a beer and the remote and he’ll be fine”.

“But I promised him I would hold a yard sale to raise more money to buy food”, she counters as her smooth features suddenly become awash in concern. “I didn’t get much for my car and I’m broke again. “We both need food and I don’t have a car anymore, or money for that matter to get any”.

“Don’t worry about the car”, he advises with a reassuring pat on the back. “I know Christian extremely well; he’ll get your car back for you and Scott will live so long as the cable still works. You just worry about you until Christian gets home later today”.

“How do you know he’ll come home today”? she asks through glassy, bloodshot eyes.

“Trust me, he loves this place more than anything. Hell, this is the only Victorian style home in the entire valley and it’s all his and more importantly, he loves you too much to leave you like this for too long”.

Reaching for the chrome door handle Cat pulls at the lever and allows the high-tech device to open on its own. Setting foot onto the sidewalk she pauses in her disembark to glance back at the driver. Her face bearing the telltale sighs of a heart in distress. Brushing aside a tear she steps out and peers back into the vehicle with a final offering,

“Excuse me, I have a lot to do, and I feel like shite”.

The near two tons of steel, coated in red and white and motivated by a 650 horsepower American V-8 comes to a tire smoking halt in the driveway, leaving a trail of burnt rubber an enveloped by the accompanying sulfuric odor. The engine ticks steadily upon being shut off, a by-product of the heated steel trying to cool down. Christian Underwood steps out of the driver’s side, followed by his 12 pounds of house pet Genie and slams the door unceremoniously, breaking into a brisk, determined stride up the concrete walkway, his bronzed complexion marred by a mask of fury. Breaking into a trot he departs the driveway towards the front yard, his mind angrily churning over the heat of the moment, determined to give his friend and houseguest Cat Riley a stern dressing down over the suggestion of a yard sale and, expecting to see many of his prized possessions being offered at severely under valued rates. His pace slows however, as he encounters a vastly different scene, a pitiful vision of helplessness.

Seat on a metal folding chair in the middle of the lawn Cat bows her head solemnly in contemplation. She is wearing a tattered yellow raincoat to protect her from the ever-active sprinklers which continue to spray the lawn, keeping the freshly mowed grass green and healthy. Scattered about the five by three-foot wooden table lies several ruined, autographed 8 by 10 photos having been relentlessly pelted by the pulsating stream of water. A stack of clothes is set next to the pictures, thoroughly drenched as well, and seeping with moisture. Behind the hood draped over her head lies a pathetic expression with downtrodden eyes gazing into the abyss of uncertainty, a brow collapsing under the weight of futility and shoulders drooping in defeat. She fails to notice him looking on from the sidewalk.

His mood abruptly shifts gears from anger to concern and while his initial impulse is to chuckle at his own forgetfulness in neglecting to show her how to disable the sprinkler system, he forcefully pushes the thought back, refusing to make light of her sorrowful state. He drops his tote bag on the sidewalk and jogs to the front door, climbing the steps onto the porch and letting himself in with the intention of shutting the water off, but he pauses in reconsideration. Not wanting to make her look inept while in an already dilapidated way he instead reaches into the adjacent coat closet to retrieve a raincoat of his own and steps back to the yard, grabbing a second folding chair from the porch. Quietly he dons the coat makes his way to the table with the waterlogged memorabilia and joins her in the ‘rain’, leaving Genie under the threshold looking on, her head cocked to the side.

“When I was six”, he says softly, while straightening up her ring-worn gear marked for $10.00. “I took part in a donation drive to help raise funds for the school library. Most of the other kids’ parents bought them candy bars and marked them up for resale to make money. But my parents wouldn’t give me any. My dad wanted to teach me the value of a dollar by making me earn it from scratch, so I decided to have a yard sale. But I didn’t have much”, he continues, his tone growing somber. “Just a ragtag collection of tattered comic books and a few busted toys. None of my friends wanted to help me with it, and my parents had bigger fish to fry. Still, I made a sign and set up a table just like this. I remember being very enthusiastic that morning, convinced that I was going to get rich and blow the other kids out of the water…,” he trails off, his voice chasing after the old memory in retrospect. “I didn’t sell a damned thing and I had to go to school the next day with a big, fat, goose egg for my efforts. My classmates laughed at me, and teased me about being poor but I learned a hell of a lesson that day; one friend, who had been away, Selina, stood up to them for making fun of me and my attempt to raise money and that taught me that while a dollar is very valuable, it still doesn’t compare to the value of a friend”. Reaching out he drapes his left arm over her sunken shoulders and goes on, “I failed miserably that day, but she provided a rock for me to lean on. To hell with the money, or lack of it, I had something it couldn’t buy, a true friend”.

Lifting her head Cat gazes at him through glassy lenses while considering his words. He wasn’t talking about money; he was talking about the appreciation of a friend. He was offering to be that rock in her time of need as he had done before, no strings attached. He didn’t want money or servitude or anything else. The price for his help was less expensive than anything imaginable, simple appreciation. The dam of dolor starts to crack, allowing slivers of the pent of reservoir of regret to seep through as tears which stream unattended down her trembling cheeks.

“I’m sorry”, she stammers as the dam shudders and finally breaks in an explosive release of remorse. “I know I acted like a child and I’m not going to – to make any excuses…,” she sniffles. “I really do appreciate you. Sometimes I swear you’re the only friend I have. Please…, please forgive me”?

Taking the trembling young woman into an embrace Christian hugs her tightly and offers a reassuring kiss on the forehead.

“Of course, I forgive you sweetie”, he says with a warm smile. “How can I not forgive my kitty cat”? Pulling back from the table Christian stands up and takes Cat’s tiny hand into his own with a light smile saying, “Let’s go inside where it’s dry and see what we can do about that mess you made”.

“I’ve already cleaned it up”, she replies, following his lead away from the table. “The house is spotless. Well, maybe not quite up to your standards but I did the best I could”.

“Oh, really”? He rears his head back in surprise. “You took it upon yourself to clean up”?

She nods in affirmation as the pair beats a path to the porch, taking advantage of the reprieve from the water afforded by the awning and removing their raincoats. Suddenly she embraces him tightly, burying her face against his chest. A fresh stream of tears rolls down her cheeks, allowing her to taste in their saltiness as she mutters in a broken row of fresh, sobbing.

“Thank you”.

Returning her embrace Christian heaves deeply and kisses her tenderly on top of the head.

“You’re welcome honey”.
« Last Edit: June 28, 2019, 07:08:52 PM by Cat Riley »
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@Cat_RileySCW The way wrestling should be.