Author Topic: CAT RILEY v CRYSTAL ZDUNICH  (Read 3853 times)

Offline Christian Underwood

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CAT RILEY v CRYSTAL ZDUNICH
« on: October 17, 2022, 07:23:37 AM »
Post your roleplays here by deadline. Good luck and have fun!


“To err is human - but it feels divine.”
? Mae West

Offline Cat Riley

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Re: CAT RILEY v CRYSTAL ZDUNICH
« Reply #1 on: October 22, 2022, 06:13:18 PM »
The faint hum of current casually streaming through a delta of equipment is accentuated by the harried ruffling of papers on this typical autumn day at the Aria resort in Las Vegas, a five-star destination boasting a bevy of amenities for weary travelers ranging from a private spa to Forbes Michelin rated dining establishments, a host of heated outdoor pools, balcony suites and of course numerous luxury appointments. The pretentious features including fully automated lighting, entertainment centers and music are ignored by the occupants, a pair of mid -thirties men casually clad in blue jeans and matching black and red “WrestleTalk” tee shirts. Instead, they ripple about the brown and tan checkered carpeting of the 1050 square foot room, papers in hand sifting through a pile of dog-eared wrestling periodicals, underneath a shoe box sized ink jet connected to an open laptop and a tablet. Eventually a pen, spiral notepad and a small, handheld recorder are retrieved from the makeshift office leaving the duo to search for their scribbled notes taken from a phone conversation just days prior.

Seated in a carpet matching lounge chair facing the far-right wall, Cat Riley extends a tattooed hand to stifle a yawn, her listless blue eyes peering through the sliding glass balcony door into the cloudless, mid-afternoon sky. Shifting her half-exposed legs, courtesy of a violently ripped pair of stone washed jeans, she studies the gleaming Cosmopolitan hotel across the way, her eyes squinting under the mid-day barrage of rays, hoping to catch a glimpse of people actually doing something, anything. She is quickly rousted from her reverie by a high-pitched voice exclaiming in a distinct British accent,

“I think we’re ready”, he announces taking a seat, crumpled notes in hand, on the matching sofa set against plain, beige wall across a polished glass coffee table from her. Oliver ‘Ollie’ Davis, the senior producer of the WrestleTalk YouTube program settles onto the sofa with a slight groan. He is joined by a bald, pale skinned man sporting a bright orange beard, Luke Owens, a tenured associate producer who regards Cat with a curt nod. Ollie begins to thumb through the notepad as his partner sets the small, handheld recorder on the table with a hollow thud. “Okay,” he begins, pausing to run an osseous hand through a thin patch of grey sprinkled brown hair bearing the hallmark of onsetting male pattern baldness and retrieves a pen from behind his ear. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces for the recording device, “I am Ollie Davis, and I am joined by Luke Owens where today we have the distinct pleasure of a sit-down interview with Cat Riley! Cat, it is such a pleasure to have you with us today.”

“Sure,” she murmers succinctly. “My pleasure”.

“Cat, last week marked your surprise return to SCW after a prolonged absence so I have to ask, what have you been doing for so long away from home?”

“Oh, I haven’t exactly been zonked,” she deadpans “I went back home to see family and friends, filmed a couple commercials and vegged out a bit. Mostly however, I’ve been in Japan.”

“Japan?” Luke asks, jumping into the verbal fray. “I’ve never pictured you competing in Japan. What brought that about?

“Talent exchange of sorts I suppose” she replies in a husky, disinterested tone. “A friend of Gene’s has a training academy there, and they wanted to study catch wrestling. Sure, there are horses for courses but as you are likely aware, Karl Gotch was huge in Japan and is credited with bringing catch wrestling to the country. Obviously Gotch has long since passed but something you may not be aware of is that Gotch himself was trained by my grandfather, Billy Riley and he practiced the same style I do. They wanted to more closely study his style, so it only made sense to reach out to my family.”

“I can see that,” Davis interjects, “but isn’t your cousin Fox a trainer?”

“She is,” Cat acknowledges with a muted bob of her blonde mane. “But she is a bloody lunatic…” a pause ensues allowing for Cat to shuffle her thoughts into a more coherent dissertation. “Listen,” she resumes, planting her hands on her knees. “Fox is very good at teaching people but she’s a very off the wall sort of personality, even I have difficulty with her sometimes, she’s so barmy, and Japan is a very rigid society. They don’t play games as she often does and they’re quite intolerant of behavior they don’t understand. I think Christian summed it up best when he said, ‘If you send Fox, you may as well declare war on them. “A subdued chuckle ensues. “I love my cousin, but she is most certainly not cut out for a country like Japan.”

“How long were you in the land of the rising sun?” Luke asks.

“Almost a year,” she shrugs with visions of delicately prepared entrees floating through her path of thought. “I would have stayed longer but I terribly missed Christian’s cooking.”

“So, it was his cheeseburger meatloaf that brought you back to America?” Ollie asks, recalling a tweet from him that had tagged her.

“Partially,” she corrects him with a wry grin, her fingers strumming the thickly padded armrests of the seat. “Aside from the nosh I also need to take care of some personal business.”

“What business could that be, so long after you left?” Luke asks, casting a sidelong glance at his colleague who leans forward, his bushy brow arcing with interest.

The chair lands with a heavy thud atop the golden coiffed dome of Chloe Benton sending her harshly to the gelid concrete of the backstage floor. Her 110-pound body lands phlegmatically in a draggy clump of lusterless corporeity.

“I’ve never seen him with his knickers in such a twist before.”

“Excuse me, seen who so mad?” Oliie asks, subconsciously translating the slang term.

She stared blankly at a 15-inch laptop screen, watching the scene unfold while listening to the venomous narration of Christian Underwood through the phone. Helplessly he stood back behind the paramedics while they attended to the fallen youngster, a barely 18-year-old girl whom he had been trying to help. He relayed the similarities between himself and Chloe breaking into the wrestling business, how he saw himself whenever he looked at her. His verbiage slowly warps into an angry hiss while rattling off numerous four-letter words in a poisonous diatribe.

She watched in stunned silence with her friend’s eyes narrowing into viper-like slits, his once tanned skin flushing with rage as he paced back and forth like a caged tiger anticipating a meal only to be thwarted by an unseen barrier. A single toxic glare proves more than enough to ward off the buxom blonde backstage reporter recognized as Pussy Willow while Chloe’s unmoving body is loaded onto a stretcher. A phone call is tersely answered with a scathing ‘Go to hell!’ before the device is thrown against the wall, shattering it. He follows anxiously as the medics wheel her to the open doors of a waiting ambulance, looking on in simmering reticence as they are slammed shut allowing the vehicle to drive off. A camera approaches from behind as he turns from the departing medical transport growling, “Get that God damned thing out of here or I’ll force feed it to you”. The video goes blank.


“Nothing,” she replies absently. “Never mind.”

“Does this have to do with your personal business?” Ollie presses, intent on whittling further details from Cat’s ligneous reply.

“Look,” Cat leans towards them, her expression staked to a wooden determination, her blue eyes taking on a wintry tinge. “What I muttered was personal and I prefer it stay that way. I will, however, say this… I utterly detest and abhor bullies.”

The pair exchange bewildered glances, their slacked expressions indicating a mutual surprise. Clearing his throat Davis stammers, his thoughts tripping over a gravelly landscape of loosely connected questions,

“I – I’m sorry… I’m afraid we don’t understand.”

Drawing a breath, she rears her head allowing her thoughts and emotions to combine into an undercurrent of verbs and adjectives. They begin to swirl about the pool of her psyche gaining momentum with each memory trickling down until threatening to drown her in a teeming riptide of interred rage. Her breathing goes shallow and rapid, her face flushes against the overwhelming current, desperately trying to tread water before being struck by the calming flotsam of Luke and Ollies voices.

“Calm down Cat, calm down,” Luke says in a gentle, reassuring tone. “We can skip the question if you prefer.”

Grabbing hold of the unexpected flotation device she rides the steady inflection to the placidity of the surface. Exhaling heavily, she nods at the pair and resumes her oration in between deep, calming breaths.

“My kerfuffle notwithstanding, when I first started in SCW she had already earned a reputation as a flake. She would shamelessly beat up and injure aspiring young women and try to convince…” she reaches into the sea drift of words and terms in search of a suitable phrase but ultimately settles for none. “… I don’t know, maybe herself that it was their fault. She would go on camera constantly, whining about a title match or lack thereof, displaying a sense of entitlement I have never seen, bumping, pushing and shoving her way to the front of the line, mitigating circumstances be damned. She would constantly change allegiances to the point where even the announce team needed a bloody scorecard to further her agenda.” Withdrawing for a brief pause she shakes her head in quiet astonishment. “She’s shown more faces than the Rogues’ gallery in London.”

The three Britons snicker mutually at the expression recognizing the city of nearly 10 million inhabitants would certainly hold its share of mugshots. Loosening a curt whistle Cat leans back into the chair, corralling her observations into a pen of concentration.

“It didn’t matter if you were young or old, rich or poor, strong or weak, family or friend, she would gleefully tread on you to advance her own position. Case in point, I suffered a loss to her early in my career, a loss that sent me into an emotional spiral. Once the word got out about my condition, I received an outpouring of support; cards, flowers and letters from everyone around me… except for one. She made light of my situation, going so far as to mock it and me publicly. Mind you, this was a long time ago but if memory serves, she earned a title match for her efforts. They say that cream rises to the top, but she failed and like so much sediment, settled on the bottom where she belonged. Shortly afterward rumors began to swirl of her wife being granted a title shot and like the hydra she is, she showed still another face and assaulted the woman she married in hopes of taking it for herself.”

“I see…” Luke chimes in, his sprinting mind finally catching up to Cat’s train of thought. “You’re speaking of…”

“That blue haired psychotic bitch!” She interrupts, slamming her open palm against the thick glass of the coffee table for emphasis. “Yes, I am referring to Crystal Hilton, the most self-absorbed waste of excrement in existence.” Throwing her right foot over her left knee she draws another breath and continues, “While I was in Japan the thought had occurred to me that perhaps she had changed for the better. I know her wife Seleana, a lovely woman to be certain, and I figured she would have a positive influence on Crystal – I have really come to detest speaking that woman’s name – but I was wrong. Instead of being open and honest she cheated on poor Seleana with another woman and had the audacity to enter into a polygamous and unashamedly public relationship; Seleana’s thoughts and feelings be damned! The last I heard was them supposedly moving to Utah or something.” She shrugs. “I don’t know, the whole thing is so convoluted it gives me a headache. What I do know however,” she says, dropping a steely gaze onto the fixed orbs of her compatriots, “is that she hasn’t changed one bleeding bit. For the final nail in this bitches’ coffin, she violently assaulted little Chloe Benton, who had dared to show concern. I mean,” dropped her foot back to the floor with a muffled thud she rubs her forehead in a symbolic attempt to knead some comprehension into the described actions. “How the hell do you deliberately injure somebody expressing concern, somebody who genuinely has your best interest at heart? Crystal’s act is a load of tosh.”

“I think Chloe has everybody’s best interest at heart,” Ollie quips dryly. His anecdote falls on deaf ears with Cat ignoring his reply.

“I understand that she had just lost a match to her wife,” she interjects. “I forget which one, and I’m sure that some sort of title shot was on the line…” she sighs wistfully. “Why can’t she have a match with a divorce stipulation instead, or even better, a death penalty? At any rate, she hasn’t changed at all and remains a cancerous cyst on the over used cervix of hope for fans of this sport. Unlike Hilton, I care for this sport and its fans and it’s about time for something to be done. I’m going to take her into my operating room and remove that cyst from the sport once and for all.”

“This sounds personal.” Luke observes keenly, recalling her previous near outburst.

“It is,” she confesses, ejecting the proverbial cat entirely from the bag. “Now you know, so go ahead and report it I guess.” Wading in a skimpy splash of capitulation she sighs, “I really don’t care any road. The only thing that interests me now is getting my hands on her once more and finishing the job I should have finished long ago, for the benefit of everyone.”

“Have you given any thought to potential fallout?” Oliver asks, hastily scribbling something down on his blue cardboard back 3 by 5-inch spiral jotter.

“Like what?” Cat demands, singing him with an annoyed glance. “It’s not like she’s popular or anything. Bloody hell, the whole world will rejoice.”

“They probably will,” Ollie chuckles uneasily, feeling her tight gaze. “But I’m talking about Seleana. She is a friend, isn’t she? I can’t really imagine her being too happy with you if you manage to accomplish what you seem rather intent on doing.”

“In honesty, I haven’t thought about that,” she admits hesitantly. “Maybe I’ll talk to her, give her a bell or something. Maybe I’ll just take the lumps of losing a friend. Like I said, I am well past caring anymore. This is something I need to do not just for me, but for SCW, its’ fans and wrestling as a whole and if I lose one friend, it’s worth it.”

“In your own words,” Luke begins, picking up on the underlying intentions in her response. “Tell us how you see this match playing out, do you have anything particular in mind?”

“I’ve spent my entire life learning how to break bones, tear tendons and destroy the human body,” the response is pointed, her British cadence sharpening to an ominous portent. Glaring at both men through frosted blue lenses the famed graduate of the notorious Snake Pit licks her thin, downward turned lips, tasting the glossy, flesh toned surface of bad intentions. “I’ve separated shoulders, dislocated limbs, broken backs, necks and legs. I have studied neuroscience, osteology, and sports psychology for years. I can name every bone in the human body and tell you how to break it. I was trained to hurt people… badly. But all of that…” a pregnant pause ensues, adding weight to her gestating sentence… “…pain and suffering I’ve inflicted over the course of my career…” another interval occurs between contractions before finally delivering the injurious offspring of malevolent musings. “That is child’s play compared to what I have in store for Crystal Hilton. It is time people are reminded that catch wrestling is not just about submissions, it is about the utter ruination of the human body, and I intend to fully illustrate this fact against that beryl coated, brain damaged psychotic at High Stakes. If you are at all squeamish, don’t watch because I guarantee you it will be brass monkeys what I do to her.”



“Could you do it again, please, with my friend?” The voice, small and squeaky, belongs to a short chestnut topped fan having caught up to Cat as she exited the guest elevators, passing by the blue blazer wearing security officer acting as a key checker. A photo was requested and politely, Cat smiled and obliged, offering one of her popular goofy faced poses. She acquiesces to the solicitation with a weary nod.

“One more,” she says softly. “But then I really have to be going.”

Her equally diminutive ginger friend presses against the veteran of the squared circle, smiling widely and pointing a finger to her heroine while her friend readies the built-in camera of her Android. The pair’s smiles light up the periwinkle carpeted aisle leading past an expansive lounge appropriately named Lift bar as the picture is happily snapped. Caught up in their own gratification afforded by the chance meeting, they remain blissfully ignorant of the woman’s underlying hostility and anger. Two hours had been spent with a pair of wrestling journalists, but rather than conducting a wide-ranging interview as expected, the time was instead spent discussing a single, nauseating subject, Crystal Hilton, the woman she had come to dislike early in her career. Much like the rumbling in her stomach her dislike towards Hilton had grown over the course of the afternoon from simple animosity to an insatiable appetite for destruction, whetted by a nonstop single-minded inquiry and despite a high regard for her fans she wanted nothing more than to ingest a suitable sparring partner in preparation for the coming feast of carnage. Sensing a degree of urgency in her anxiously twitching body movements, the satisfied fans step aside, allowing her to briskly take her leave of them.

“Thank you, Cat!” The redhead calls out into her quickly widening wake. “Good luck against Crystal, we hope you beat her.”

“I’m going to do a lot more than just beat her,” the reply is barely audible but still picked up by the beaming besties looking on as the disappearing figure rapidly types into her own cell phone. “I’m going to inflict unimaginable suffering on that bitch.”
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Offline Cat Riley

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Re: CAT RILEY v CRYSTAL ZDUNICH
« Reply #2 on: October 28, 2022, 06:09:27 PM »
The Bristlecone ballroom at the Aria resort in Las Vegas, a sprawling 51,000 square foot auditorium located on the Promenade level decked out in a dazzling array of gold appointments accentuated by white on chestnut walls reaching 24 feet in height. 1,000 chairs are lined across the expansive, color matched carpeting sporting circular patterns. Bright lights shine down upon members of the media and visitors from overhead chandeliers, illuminating the cavernous chamber. At the head of the room, two rows of tables line the platform against the eastern wall, separated by a pulpit manned by the promotion’s co-owner Christian Underwood. Black and gold tablecloths featuring the SCW logo are draped over top, bearing the weight of an array of microphones, clear, glass pitchers of water and the personal belongings of SCW talent and management seated behind the table who patiently chat among themselves while awaiting the start of the pre-show High Stakes media scrum. The room is packed with an assortment of wrestling journalists, sports reporters, writers and vloggers. They too, exchange pleasantries with one another, their collective voices reverberating off the walls of the ballroom turned makeshift amphitheater until speakers embedded into the ceiling crackle to life, drawing their attention to the pulpit and the scratchy voice of Christian, who suppresses a cough.

“Excuse me,” he says, leaning into the microphone, offering a halfhearted smile. “This happens every time I return to Vegas following a trip abroad. At any rate, we are ready to begin. This weekend’s show features an historic card that will see two returning legends, six championship matches, a highly anticipated grudge match, the year end awards, and a live edition of under the bridge.” Gesturing outwards he directs the collective gaze of the assemblage to the lineup of talent seated on both sides including Fenris, Ken Davidson, Jessie Salco, Roxi Johnson, Krystal Wolfe, Goth, Miles Kasey, Agostino Romano and Cat Riley. “Our stars and bombshells have graciously donated some of their valuable time to speak with you today and are ready to take your questions, so let’s have at it, shall we?”

A throng of eager hands are promptly thrusted into the air, each of them waving excitedly while Christian’s steely gaze spans the room of wide-eyed faces before finally settling on a thin man, draped in a loud, bright orange suit that appears two sizes too big with a jab of his index finger. “You, what’s your question and who is it for?”

“Hey, how ya doin?” he offers in an over done nasal tone. The 20 something man rises from his seat, his hand glazing over a slicked back, black crew cut and adjusts a pair of black, horn-rimmed glasses. “I’m the Schmo from the YouTube channel The Schmo and the Pro and I got a question for Cat Riley, so I hope you’re ready?”

“Bob’s your uncle,” she nods casually, using a British slang term of acknowledgement.

“I don’t have a clue what that means,” his confession draws a muted chortle from several of the attendees. “But I’m gonna go ahead and fire away… what kinds of precautions is SCW taking ahead of your match with Crystal Hilton, and do you have any intentions of taking it beyond the mat, so to speak?”

“I don’t know,” she offers, setting down a glass of water and hastily unwrapping a hotdog from the concession stand outside. “Are you asking if I’m going CM Punk?” she shrugs, “that depends if I see her not. Listen, I don’t particularly care for shitting on my co-workers, but in her case, I’ll be more than happy to make it a double.”

A round of genuine, albeit nervous laughter ensues following her remark while Christian once more scans the room, “Eeny meenie, minie moe, catch a gossip monger by the toe…” and settles on a middle-aged brunette smartly dressed in a cotton, business casual, knee length mauve dress. “You,” he says.

“Liz Hunter with Pro Wrestling Illustrated,” she announces, rising from her seat. “My question is for Fenris, how do you feel going against perhaps the most famous name and longest reigning SCW champion of all time in J2H?”

A simple shrug is all the answer given as he nods to his employer, who smiles and nods back to him.

Moving on he selects Oliver Davis, one of the men who had previously conducted a sit-down interview with Cat mere days ago. He rises, his hands sliding down a wrinkled black tee shirt bearing the logo of the YouTube ‘WrestleTalk’ show.

“Ollie Davis with WrestleTalk news,” he announces. “My question is for Cat Riley… Since you’ve been gone, Crystal Hilton has been competing in and winning matches. Are you concerned about ring rust?”

“Ring rust?” she scoffs, rolling her blue eyes. “You know, Japan is a funny place. They’re so bloody steeped in tradition. One such tradition is to have new wrestlers serve as seconds or young boy slash girl to a veteran...

“So, you are rusty then?” he interrupts.

“You didn’t let me finish,” she snaps, her voice carried aloft by her rising temper. “I said it was tradition! I said nothing about having to do it. Oh, one of their veterans wanted me to do it… tried to insist no less, but much like your heroine Crystal Hilton, she had no idea what she was in for.” Stepping from the chair Cat draws an inquisitive breath from the onlookers by climbing onto the table. Snatching the microphone from its cradle she puts her unlaced, Puma high top sneakers to work by pacing across the surface. “Now, since it’s painfully obvious that you people won’t let me talk about anything but Hilton, we’re going to do this my way.”

His voice drops in apprehension, “and what way is that?”

“We’re going to play a game!” she grins, her black and white sneakers coming to a halt. “I am going to teach everyone here how to speak proper English… British English, using your favorite wrestler as an example. We will take some popular terms and phrases and put them into context.” The wood groans beneath her weight as the pacing is renewed. No more than a few steps are taken however, before she pauses in front of Fenris. Leaning down Cat takes a sip from his bottle of Icelandic water and grins, pinching his cheek. “I think you will benefit greatly from this lesson,” she smirks. “I’ll even throw in a few curses, just for you. In fact,” rising once more, “given who it is we will be discussing, I’m sure we will be cursing quite a bit. Now, let’s begin, shall we?”

Amused by his friend’s unexpected hijacking of the conference, Christian chuckles, waving away security and takes a seat behind the podium. Folding his arms over his chest he looks on through frolicsome apertures in blitheful anticipation. With an impish bob of the head, he silently lets Cat know that the floor is officially hers.

“We will start with a simple one, ‘a load of tosh’. Pretty easy to figure out really, unlike anything that may possibly be going on inside of Crystal’s barren blue head. For example, the mere idea that Crystal thinks she has a chance against me this weekend is, quite simply, a load of tosh. Now, with the first out of the way we are ready to move along.” Stopping in front of the center podium she notices Christian’s phone. Picking up the charcoal grey iPhone 13 she tosses it to him, “you’re going to need this,” she says in a mischievous inflection. “I plan on being here a while.”

“This next one is a favorite of mine; Christian is very familiar with this one… ‘I’m off to Bedfordshire’, which is just a funny way of saying you’re going to bed for the night. To put it into use we could say that the moment I get my arms around her neck, Crystal Hilton is off to Bedfordshire.”

“I hear it half a dozen times a day,” Christian adds, drawing a round of laughter. “That girl takes more naps than my Persian.”

“The bloody bed will not keep itself warm!” she answers, rolling her eyes. “Which brings us to the next one, ‘xtra’. Now mind you, this is not extra with an e, and it doesn’t mean ‘more’. We when want to say that something is really good, we say it is xtra. For example, beating Crystal Hilton’s sorry arse is xtra!” Extending her arm she points the microphone at the audience she reiterates in a louder, more firm tone, “Now I want you all to say it with me, beating Crystal Hilton’s sorry arse is xtra!”

“Beating Crystal Hilton’s sorry ass is xtra.”

“No, you twits, I didn’t say ass, I said arse. We’re speaking proper English here so get with the program! Once more from the top.” She offers an assist in the form of an extended finger acting as a makeshift symphony conductor while pronouncing the words slowly and carefully to ensure reception, “beating Crystal Hilton’s sorry arse is xtra.”

“Beating Crystal Hilton’s sorry arse is xtra.”

“Better but I want to see a bit more enthusiasm. Put yourselves in my position, you’re mere days away from whipping the piss out of the biggest flake this business has ever seen, get excited, now let’s go, one more time from the bloody top… BEATING CRYSTAL HILTON’S SORRY ARSE IS XTRA!”

“BEATING CRYSTAL HILTON’S SORRY ARSE IS XTRA!”

“Better, though you still sound like a chorus of school children reciting the alphabet. I suppose I will have to assign you some homework. When we reconvene following the show, I want to see it stated properly across social media; Twitter, YouTube, Truth Social, Instagram and even Tik Tok, assuming any of you can dance like an orangutan.” A chuckling pause follows as she exchanges a bright-eyed glance with Christian who laughs and nods. “In fact, I insist, I want to see some Tik Tok videos of you reciting what we’ve learned today. No video, no questions. So, charge up your phones and let’s make some stupid videos telling me how xtra it is to beat the blue out of Hilton’s haggard head!”

A shuffling amidst the crowd draws several members to their feet. One by one in the second row from the back members of the media rise to their feet to allow a diminutive figure to pass. Clad in a slate grey hoodie bearing a humorous ‘Monday Lisa’ iron on patch pulled over top of head, leaving strands of shimmering red hair to free fall past her obscured face. Scattered whispers are exchanged, some of them loud enough to draw Cat’s attention from atop the table where she stops pacing, her attention now squarely on the unidentified individual. Clearing her throat, she starts to speak but cuts herself off as the dainty, feminine figure stops upon reaching the aisle, holding aloft a wireless microphone. The murmurs turn to gasps as the hood is dropped to reveal the smiling face of Chloe Benton. Beaming widely the girl waves excitedly, her body bouncing in elation.

“Hi Ms. Cat!” She squeals happily.

“Hello Chloe,” Cat replies, her tone wrangled by the unexpected arrival. Bemused glances are traded with Christian, who shrugs, shaking his head. “What brings you here today, shouldn’t you be training?”

“Ms. F-F-Fox said I c-could come if I liked my own t-tweet!” she exclaims, her silken mane bouncing in sync with her effervescent demeanor. “I’m so ha-happy to be here, this is fun-n-n!”

“I should’ve known Fox would find a way to screw this up,” Christian mutters, leaning back and clasping his hands behind his head.

“Of course,” Nodding in agreement Cat turns her attention back to Chloe, replying “Yes, I suppose talking about Crystal Hilton is fun… like getting a tattoo on a thousand tits but being the apparent masochist that I am, I’m quite busy at the moment. What can I do for you?”

“Ooh C-Can I ask you a question p-please?” The girl’s bulbous brown eyes stare back at her pleadingly.

“I guess so, ask me anything you want about Crystal Hilton.”

“Why d-do I have to t-t-talk about Ms. C-Crystal?” The whine in her voice is palpable, bursting through the speakers with a sonorous balm of dejection. “I-I don’t even l-like her.”

“Ask me anything you want then,” Cat rephrases, lifting the dejection from Chloe’s face with a smile of her own. “Anything at all.”

“Yay!” She yips, bouncing joyously before regaining her composure. “Th-Th-This is C-Chloe with-th the Chloe news network…” the off seam start to her question draws a chorale of low-key guffaws and cackles. “I-I wanted to ask you if-if I could be in your c-c-corner th-this weekend?”

“Not a chance in hell.”

The answer is sharp and firm as it is ejected from her lips, a pointed dagger hurtling directly towards Chloe’s delicate heart. The impact reflects in her eyes, deep chestnut pools caught in a violent under current of sudden anguish.

“But… but… why?”

“Simple, she’s already hurt you once and may want to do it again,” Cat replies bluntly. “I can’t guarantee that I will be able to protect you. The best way to keep you safe is for you to stay at home. Besides,” she adds, “I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you apologize when it’s her who needs to do the apologizing… something I intend to make her do.” Referring to a recent Twitter exchange she remains steadfast on her position, and sharpens the point, “even if I have to end her bloody career.”

“B-B-B-But… but… M-Mr. Christian…” her voice tapers into a high-pitched whine, directing her attention to their collective employer Chloe begins to plead her case. “C-Could you tell Ms Cat th-that she’s not being nice? I-I work for you too a-and I have every b-bit as much right as s-she does to b-b-be there? I-I mean surely, I m-must have d-d-done something wrong t-t-t-to upset Ms. Crystal a-a-and…”

“And if you think you’re going to apologize to that schizophrenic bitch for anything after what she did to you, I’ll ban you from the building myself. In fact, consider it done.” His interruption prompts Cat to drop from the table to give him a high five in approval.

“B-B-B-But…”

“The only but I want to see is yours Missy, skedaddling out of here and getting back to your training. Now, go!”

“I-I’m sorry!”

Sliding across the table Cat jumps to the other side, landing with a muffled thud and approaches the glassy eyed lass. Stopping her she places an arm around the youngster’s shoulder in reassurance and whispers softly,

“We’re trying to protect you, sweety.”

“This is all m-my fault!” Chloe wails, the glass of her lenses having broken allowing the sobbing rain to seep over the windowsill. “I d-didn’t mean for any of th-this to happen.”

“Shhh,” Clutching the trembling teen into an embrace Cat hugs her tightly and attempts to dilute her distress, “It’s ok honey, everything is going to be fine, I promise.”

“A-Are you sure it’s not m-my fault?”

“No, it isn’t your fault.”

She glares up tepidly into the benign eyes of her mother, who had come to school to pick up the expelled six your old. The elder blonde woman leans over, tenderly brushing aside a straying length of blonde hair to inspect the swelling under her left eye, a gift from Kimberly Cobblepot, the biggest and meanest girl in Mab’s Cross Primary school near the Tesco district of Wigan, situated halfway between Liverpool to the west and Manchester to the east. An upcoming football game between Liverpool and Manchester United spurred the bigger girl Kimberly, a Liverpool fan to cajole Cat, a Manchester fan into a verbal sparring match. She severely underestimated the smaller girl’s agile mind however, leaving her classmates laughing obstreperously at her inept attempts to return fire. Repeatedly cut by Cat’s decidedly sharper tongue she elected to fight back in another way, by bombing the girl with fists. The considerably smaller Cat found herself unceremoniously dumped on the floor and forced into a fetal position to protect herself until the teacher could arrive to break up the one-sided contest, but not before Cat was left with a consolation prize under her eye.

Although the accounts of the witnesses bore out her story, school policy dictated both students be sent home, thus her mother was called in to pick her up. Despite her mother’s insistence that she was not angry, young Catherine Riley could not help but feel somehow responsible for her mother having to leave work for something she was involved in. Surely some of the blame would have to be shouldered by her. But the elder woman seemed unfazed by the incident, and even started to sing during the car ride home. Still unsure, the girl wiped away the last of her tears and looked up at Rebecca Riley behind the wheel for a final vote of reassurance asking if she honestly and truly was not angry with her and that she wouldn’t be punished.


“I promise,” Pulling away precipitously she spins Chloe around to face the crowd. Reaching up with her thumb she gently pushes away one last tear and grips her shoulders tightly to instill a sense of security into the distressed damsel. “Perhaps now you see what I’m fighting for,” she bellows into the congregation. “Chloe didn’t do a bloody thing wrong, and nobody deserves what she got at the hands of Crystal Hilton, nobody! Put your sister or daughter in Chloe’s place, or the little girl next door; how would you react, would you be happy, indifferent or would you lose the bleeding plot?” Her voice is frozen by an icy glare, blanketing them in a cold scrutiny carried along an unspoken challenge. Studying the men and women in attendance for several moments, she soon snaps from her reverie, satisfied. “I think you can all understand why I want to hurt that bitch… badly.” Spinning her back around she returns her attention to Chloe. “I think it’s time for you to get back to the center,” she says with a warm smile. “Your business here will be handled so you have nothing to worry about, ok?”

“Y-Yes ma’am,” she nods, her bright red mane bobbing up and down. As she is about to turn face, she feels Cat fingers digging into her shoulder, holding her in place and bringing an inquisitive countenance.

“By the way, how did you get here? You can’t drive and the center is 20 miles from here.”

“I-I took the bus,” she replies, her eyes alight in youthful innocence. “I-Is that alright? If not I-I’m sorry.”

“Are you daft? Cat demands, recoiling in astonishment. “That must have taken you all day!”

“Two hours a-and 45 m-minutes, M-M-Ms. Cat.”

“Bloody hell!” Shaking her head Cat slaps her jean clad thighs. “Unbelievable! Fine, whatever, I’ll drive you back myself. I’m done with these desk jockeys any road, let them talk to Fenris for a while.”

“That should make for quite the conversation,” Christian offers chuckling.

“Let’s go,” grabbing Chloe by the hand the pair make their way towards the doors. “We’ll be there in about five minutes.”

“B-But it’s 20 m-miles away...?”

“It’s alright, Christian taught me to drive, just like I’m going to drive my foot up Crystal’s arse this Sunday, fast and furious.”
« Last Edit: October 28, 2022, 06:13:49 PM by Cat Riley »
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@Cat_RileySCW The way wrestling should be.