Oliver Davis, a thin, balding man sporting a short cut, light brown beard with patches of grey sprinkled throughout which more closely resembles a five o’ clock shadow than a nurtured brush of facial hair to Chloe. She says nothing, opting to sit quietly while the British wrestling journalist sifts through a batch of notes hastily scribbled down onto a sheet of crumpled paper. The air conditioning in her small bedroom kicks on with a hum, despite the unusually cool day in North Las Vegas which prompts her to turn the volume on her laptop up. The fading roar of a jet engine briefly drowns out the chatter of birds stationed on a branch to a tree just outside her window. She looks on, oblivious to the sound of the aircraft, most likely a fighter jet from the nearby Nellis Air Force Base, taking its usual path toward a practice range 60 miles north. The Brit, engrossed in his preparation ignores the sound as well while busily organizing his notes. Finally satisfied he clips a small, black plastic microphone to the nape of his plain white tee shirt. With a gesture of his hairy, almost emaciated arms he signals his readiness.
Recognizing the signal, bobbing her head in affirmation, her thick, currant tresses bouncing in sync and straightens her posture. The black leather executive’s chair squeaks in protest despite the less than impressive load of barely 100 pounds as Chloe shifts her position. On the other end of the screen Davis holds up five fingers, slowly dropping them one by one in a silent countdown. Quickly she reaches down for one final adjustment, tugging at the hemline of her own white tee shirt and drawing a deep breath as her bottlecap brown eyes brighten.
“Good afternoon wrestling fans, I am Ollie Davis with Wrestletalk online”, he announces in a chipper inflection, his steel grey eyes drawing down on Chloe’s quartered off image on the monitor. “And we are joined today by SCW star Chloe Benton who, in just a few short days is scheduled to meet Masque DeLune at the Theodoros Vardinogiannis Stadium in Crete, Greece!”
“Chloe,” he begins, his once chipper voice drawing down to a decidedly somber inflection. “You are set to take on a woman who has taken SCW by storm. Not just a storm, mind you, but a bleeding hurricane of violence. Her style is unlike anything you, or anyone else for that matter, have encountered allowing her to rack up victory after victory and even the Bombshell Internet championship in about as much time as it took you to score your first, and only win.” A brief pause buys the fair skinned man, looking to be somewhere in his mid-thirties time to cough up the remnants of the recent change in weather into a tissue which is quietly disposed of. “How have you been preparing to deal with someone of such… notoriety?”
“I-I was scared at-at first,” she stammers. “I-I’ve seen a-all th-the t-t-talk ab-b-bout her on Twitter and it f-frightened me. A-at first, I d-didn’t want to g-go b-but I m-managed to exchange s-some t-tweets back and forth w-with her a-and she seems really n-nice”.
“Nice?” Ollie demands behind a bushy, furrowed brow. “Chloe, this woman, Masque DeLune has been on a rampage since her debut. The entire women’s locker room is terrified of her! In the span of just a few months she has drawn more blood than the Red Cross, how is she nice?”
“Because” she begins, unfettered by the high-pitched challenge, “P-P-People d-d-don’t understand-stand her. Th-They didn’t t-talk to h-her l-like I did. Th-TThey don’t understand Ms. Masque a-and they t-t-treated her wrong s-so she f-fought back. I-I don’t want an en-enemy s-so I t-t-took a d-different approach a-and…”
“As I recall,” he interrupts. “Your first Twitter dialog with her didn’t go so smoothly and you even posted a public apology.”
“N-No it d-didn’t.” she concedes in her characteristic demure tonality. “I-I-I thought she was th-threatening m-me, wanting to be mean. I-It turned out to be s-someone else, a-a-and I was wrong, s-so I apolog-g-gized. S-She accepted m-my apology a-and n-now we’re friends. B-Being n-nice to her worked a-and she seems to b-be sweet”.
“Hunh, I wonder if that approach will work on tornados,” he mutters, showcasing a classically British dry sense of humor.
“I-I don’t know,” she replies taken aback, allowing Davis’ fastball to fly right over her head. “I-I’ve never t-t-tried it”.
“Alright”, he deadpans, collecting the discarded barb while seeking to get back on track. “Who’s to say that she isn’t merely pretending?”
“P-P-Pretending?” Chloe bobs her small head disconnectedly, her alabaster complexion glistening beneath the overhead lamp. “Wh-Why would she d-d-do that?” Drawing in a gulp of dusty Las Vegas air she draws down on Davis, her chestnut lenses focusing intently. “M-Mister D-Davis sir, p-p-people are inherently n-nice. I-I-I mean wh-why would a-anyone lie on T-Twitter?” A frown slides across the 18-year old’s soft, round face in quizzical pediment. “I-It’s not n-nice to j-just assume th-that people are l-lying on the i-internet. B-Besides, like I t-told you, we’re friends now”.
“You’re right,” he ‘concedes’ with an underlying hint of sarcasm. “I’ve never seen anyone, in all my years online, lie on the internet”.
“Th-That’s right,” she responds genially, her delicate emotions buoyed by the prospect of a new friend. “A-And you’ll see, we-we’re g-g-gonna g-go out and have a nice, friendly m-match. We’ll even s-shake hands!”
“I bet you will,” he dryly offers. “Well, I for one, want to wish you the best of luck in Greece”, he adds, peppering his words with a sense of finality. Inwardly exhausted from deciphering Chloe’s stumbling responses. The glow begins to fade from his professional mask as he unobtrusively gathers his notes. “Chloe is there anything you would like to add before we wrap this up?” he asks, while discreetly reaching for the microphone pinned to his shirt.
“I-It’s g-gonna be fun!”
“Friendship is magic,” he says, offering a parting shot as the screen goes abruptly blank, leaving Chloe looking on in stupefaction.
