Post by hawkeye on Jul 12, 2019 0:33:39 GMT
She stands there in the dim light, hands clenching and opening. The din of the thousands-strong spectators, just on the other side of the curtain before her, fills her ears, and she can feel the throb of the crowd in the cement floor beneath her feet. Her every sense seems amplified, but rather than indulging in it, she seeks to shut out the world around her.
The wounds and bruises she suffered in her last match have healed…physically. But at this moment, she feels them all anew, as if they had just happened to her. But this does not weaken her; rather, it invigorates her.
In just a few moments time she will make her way down the aisle, and she will engage in one of the most dangerous confrontations in all of pro wrestling, a steel cage match. The cage itself is as much a weapon as it is a prison, and she has no doubt whatsoever that her opponent will make every attempt to use the cage to not simply beat her, but to inflict cruel damage.
Suddenly, she is shocked from her thoughts by the sound of a voice piercing above the cacophony over the arena’s public address system: “This next match has a sixty minute time limit, and will be fought in a steel cage! Introducing first, hailing from the Queen City of the South, Charlotte, North Carolina...standing five feet and seven inches, and weighing one hundred and twenty-one pounds...she is CYNTHIAAAAAAA MMMMMMMITCHELLLLLLLLL!" Demi Lovato's "Confident" hits and as the curtain tears open (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwLRQn61oUY), the crowd roars its approval. She strides purposefully, her eyes focused on the four-sided construct of welded steel that crowns the ring, paying no heed to the outstretched hands that reach for her. If she notices a sign held aloft by a devotee ("Unleash the CYNful Beast Tonight!!!"), she gives no indication of it, but the sentiment is firmly in accord with her own determination.
CYNTHIA MITCHELL
Mitchell is clad in a familiar ‘one-piece’--said outfit a deep purple number with a plunging 'V' neckline that goes all the way to her navel, and a backside that generously puts her fabled derriere on ample display. She wears matching purple ankle books. Finally reaching ringside, Cynthia ascends the metal steps and slips between the ropes and through the open door of the cage. She gives a perfunctory raise of her right arm to acknowledge the fans, but it remains clear that her thoughts are elsewhere.
Those with a long memory might wonder if she's thinking of Mexico City. There, many years before...before Cynthia had even been born, truthfully...her mother, Natalie Roberson Mitchell, battled her arch-nemesis, Belle Butler Armstrong, in what remains for many the most brutal cage match in wrestling history. Indeed, both women were so badly injured, they each chose to retire from the sport rather than return to the ring wars after they recuperated. Could the daughter of Natalie (and, curiously enough, the protege of Belle) be wondering if her career might also come to a savage terminus tonight?
Whatever her reveries, they are shattered as the voice of the announcer is again heard.
“And her opponent. From da space where Da Man ain’t got no place…standing five feet four inches tall and weighing in at 112 pounds…Vanilla Chill…Kylie Sanders!”
The Platinum Pixie RIPS her way through the curtains, jerking them wide to the sounds of Iggy gettin’ ‘Fancy’. As is always her ability, though in the increasingly distant past for a completely different reason, Sanders brings the crowd to its feet. The collective hate moves like a presence in its own right toward the silvery bob and the elfin beauty it topped.
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O-zpOMYRi0w )
With no J-Dogg covering her flank, Vanilla moves to center stage, the FAWNatics unleashing their revulsion upon the organization’s most infamous traitor. Unlike others, Kylie had been disloyal and deceitful to the hopes of her admirers, a felony much worse than backstabbing another member of the roster, and the assembled make that known with ever-increasing decibels.
KYLIE SANDERS
Drawing on echoes of her original gear, Sanders sports a multi-strapped, yellow-gold sports bra topside with black boy-cut shorts, black boots and pads.
(https://www.yandy.com/Multi-Strapped-Microfiber-Sports-Bra.php )
On the FAWNtron behind her, ‘‘VANILLA CHILL IN DA HOUSE BYTCHES!’ appears in ten-foot high, gold letters. If any occasion called for such an over-the-top announcement, a battle between two legends with unrivalled enmity inside a steel enclosure would be the time.
Sanders heads for the battlefield as if the arena holds only her and Mitchell, focusing on the brunette like a laser, Cynthia matching her stare for stare. Never held in the same wrestling regard as other survivors from her time, Mitchell, London, Armstrong, it could be argued and certainly would by the Hawkeye she surpassed them all in bare, naked, brass tacks success, even while possesing not near the same in-ring ability as any.
With that in mind, FAWN’s Most Hated makes a bee line for the fateful structure, clearly confident in her ability to deal with anything the second-generation superstar could dish.
Mitchell nearly always found a way to best her throughout the many intersections of their careers, but tonight, in likely their last, the fight would be all about sheer will and NO ONE could match Kylie Sanders for that.
Reaching the squared circle, Sanders ignores the booming chants of “TROLL”. Not even those could reach her tonight. She ascends the steps and slides through the ropes, the cage door CLACKING shut behind her.
The sounds causes Ky to reflexively look over her shoulder, a millisecond of uncertainty, then gone, her hazel eyes turning to the vile creature in purple who had plagued her with no room for anything but evil intent.
Kylie mouths “You’re mine” and Cynthia snorts in response.
“Aren’t you cute,” Mitchell informs. “Still believing in miracles at your age.”
As the sounds of Iggy and Charli fade from the speakers, Sanders moves to her corner, no pre-match speeches tonight. The violence with which she would finally and ultimately end one of FAWN’s most bitter rivalries would be her statement.
And then comes the clang of the bell.
The two battlers exit their corners cautiously, each slightly crouched as they circle one another. The distance between them in their gyre diminishes, until at last they are near enough to go into a standard collar and elbow lock up. Their soles dig into the canvas as each tries to power the other back. At first it is a stalemate, as Cynthia's greater height is checked by Kylie's lower center of gravity.
But that stalemate is suddenly broken by an unanticipated shift in tactics, as Mitchell in a blur of motion converts the lock-up into an armdrag, flipping the startled blonde over her hip. Sanders bounces a few times on her butt as she skids across the mat, but without any hesitation she jumps back up to her feet.
The two beauties again circle, a small smirk of satisfaction on the brunette's lips for having scored the first strike. They again lunge together for a lock-up, but this time Kylie's hands flash toward Cyn's face, her nails raking at the Hellion's blue eyes. Mitchell shrieks and stumbles backward, hands covering her watering eyes.
"F*ck playing nice," the blonde snarls. "I'm gonna make you suffer!" She follows up with a boot to the belly that doubls her opponent over with a whoosh of escaping breath. That allows the Iowan to clamp on a side headlock, grinding away with corn husking muscles that draw whines of discontent from her victim.
If Cynthia is formulating a plan to escape these straits, they’re foiled as next Sanders suddenly rushes forward, executing a Bulldog. The impact snaps through Mitchell's whole body like an electric jolt, dazing her.
"Now we're gonna have some fun," the blonde says with malicious glee. She pulls the brunette up into a seated position on the mat, and sits behind her so that they're back-to-back. Reaching backward, Vanilla Chill grasps the North Carolinian's wrists and pulls her arms back, stretching them painfully in their shoulder sockets. To add to the discomfort, Kylie starts to sing, "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands!" She then forces Cyn's palms to slap together, stretching the tendons in her limbs to the point where the brunette lets loose a sharp yelp.
Continuing their hold for a while longer in order to inflict more pain to Mitchell's arms, the blonde finally releases it. Moving swiftly she turns around, getting to one knee behind Cynthia, while pressing her other knees squarely into her adversary's spine. Cupping her hands beneath the brunette' chin, she yanks her foe’s head back. The Hellion tries to bring her own hands up to tug at the grasp, but they're still too numb from the previous maneuver to respond with anything other than hapless flailing.
Yanking her victim's head back even further, Cynthia's face is finally upturned to the rafters. Kylie leans forward so that her own face hovers over that of her opponent. With evil tinging her angry eyes she hisses, "I'm going to destroy you tonight. I'm going to not only make you wish you had never set foot in this cage...I'll make you wish you had never been born. They're going to carry you out of here on a stretcher a bloody, broken mess. And that's the last anyone in FAWN will ever hear of Cynthia Mitchell!"
The aching Hellion doesn’t respond to Sanders, rocking from side to side, vainly trying to break free of the Hawkeye’s grasp. But it’s the refusal to give Kylie what she wants, namely a submission, that eventually frees Mitchell. The Platinum Pixie rises and places a boot between Cynthia’s shoulderblades.
“Say good-bye to your front teeth,” Sanders growls.
The blonde curb stomps Cynthia’s face into the deck, the crowd reacting to the vicious impact with a collective groan. Mitchell’s hands fly to her face as she rolls to her back, boot soles pattering against the canvas while Ky looks down with satisfaction.
There’s no pinfall attempt, Sanders well knowing she’d need to force Cynthia to quit or escape the cage, either over the top or through a door chained with a combination lock. Both women had been given the numbers as they’d entered so it was a viable third option, but Bethany Christian made sure entering the combination would be time consuming enough for dramatic interventions from behind.
Pre-match, Kylie reiterated there was only one true way to finish the war with Mitchell, to make her confirm once and for all, Kylie is and always was the better woman. Vanilla Chill sets out making her prediction a reality. Sanders snatches a wrist and guides the dazed second-generation superstar to her feet, bullying her into the ropes. The women rebound and Kylie leads her foe across the canvas, bum-rushing Mitchell to the far side at sprinter’s speed. From short range, Sanders heaves Cynthia up and over the top cable.
Thankfully for the many former members of the Kylie Corps, Mitchell gets her hands up but it’s still a rough CLANG into the chain link of the cage, the Carolina Hurricane puddling at the base of the cage, the match being turned to ‘11’ right off by the Pleasant Valley Pariah.
Kylie raises her arms high and wide basking in the success and the displeasure it brings to her former followers.
There isn’t a flinch toward the door by Kylie. Instead, she eases her way through the rubber-coated steel of the cables and wraps her hands around Cynthia’s noggin, pulling Mitchell up to wobbly haunches, head facing the nervous crowd.
Kylie settles in a crouch next to the brunette and fish-faces Mitchell’s cheeks, putting her on display.
“This is the face of FAWN?” she shouts.
When the affirmative comes, Ky shrugs then forces her foe’s features against the cage, grinding Mitchell’s mug against the steel, Cyn’s face flushing from the abrasions. After several scrubs, Sanders draws back Cynthia’s head and SLAMS her face into the chain link. The Hellion’s cranium snaps back from the collision and again she’s down at Kylie’s feet, the match quickly devolving into the fans’ worst nightmare.
“We all knew I’d write the last chapter!” Kylie informs the back row.
She turns as Mitchell is trying to crawl back between the ropes and plants a boot sole on the back of her rival’s neck, pressing Cyn’s windpipe across the lowest cable. Mitchell flails wildly, unable to breathe, but with no referee in the cage with them, it’s much easier to ignore the calls from Castle. Ky turns to him while continuing her throttling.
“You’re just here to acknowledge Mitchell’s surrender. Keep your mouth shut.”
During the exchange, Cynthia’s works her way from underneath the distracted blonde and rolls back into the ring’s confines. Kylie gives her foe a mock ovation for the effort and easily slips through in pursuit.
“I showed I’m tougher. Everyone knew that. Now I’ll show I’m a better wrestler.”
Kylie collects Mitchell from her hands and knees ’guiding’ the brunette to her feet. She dips and slips and arm between Cynthia’s legs and ‘hups’ Mitchell onto her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. It’s a warning sign for anyone not under a rock for a decade-plus and the crowd reacts with worried murmurs. But as Sanders holds her foe aloft, she shakes her head and waggles an index finger. She mouths ‘not yet’ to the throngs then begins to spin.
Treating Cynthia like a propeller, Sanders twirls in place at ever increasing speed until the Airplane Spin is a sight of old-school beauty. Chill makes a full ten revolutions before tossing Cynthia off her shoulders, the brunette taking the final half-revolution on her own on the way down. She lands on her chest with a ring-thumping SPLAT.
Mitchell reflexively rolls to her back, baby blues still spinning. She appears airsick and an attempt to sit up ends with her flopping to her left shoulder. Ky takes a few moments to compose herself, drunkenly weaving to the ropes before grabbing and holding on, shaking her noggin.
Balance recovered, Kylie arrogantly strolls to Cyn’s side and leaps into a cannonball, tucking her knees in tight and landing with the joints pointed into Mitchell’s midriff. Chill bounces off the gagging Hellion, Cynthia jackknifing once Kylie is off, hugging her busted gut.
This doesn’t seem to suit Sanders in the least and she lands a kick to Mitchell’s chin that flattens the Carolina Hurricane to horizontal, eyes glazed, limbs pointing to each corner of the cage.
On her feet, the Hawkeye marches to the nearest corner, climbing to the top buckle. Kylie feints like she’s going to continue her ascension to the cage, reaching toward the chain link before pulling her hand away with another finger wag. She looks over a shoulder to take a peek at the splayed Cyn, barely stirring below, and settles into a slight crouch.
Clearly not paid by the hour, Ky goes big, launching from her perch in a not ungraceful moonsault. It and she would never be compared to Shea London, Domi Daly, Lily Burlingame or any of the newest high flyers but gravity brings her toward a perfect tummy-on-tummy collision that would force out whatever air remained in Mitchell.
Alas, the veteran draws her knees in and up, pointing them at the dropping Chill. Kylie’s ivory tummy is impaled by the bony caps. Sanders rolls away moaning as she thrashes on the canvas, embracing her belly as if she means to keep internal organs in place. The crowd roars its approval and the walls of noise only grow when Mitchell kips to her feet.
She holds an unsteady landing with a self-conscious hint of a grin then pumps her arm, further awakening the crowd. Mitchell moves to Ky’s side as the Platinum Pixie slowly rises, unaware of Mitchell’s placement. And when Chill reaches her feet, Cynthia springs into action, leaping high and grabbing Ky’s braincase as she floats by, legs extended in front of her. The Hellion lays out and SPIKES Kylie’s face into the deck with her Carolina Blues, Sanders languidly flopping to her back from the brutal force of the collision.
Carolina Blues (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4tXjmTPxmUo ).
Cynthia rises to her haunches next to the splattered Pleasant Valley Pariah.
“How many times do I have to beat you for you to get the message?”
The question remains unanswered by the gobsmacked blonde, Sanders’ hazel eyes offering a faraway look after learning the Blues the hard way.
Mitchell hops to her feet and takes a few steps toward the door. She stops and motions to it, seemingly asking the FAWNatics for their advice. Cyn shakes her head emphatically when the assembled plead for more punishment, drawing a delighted roar from the crowd.
Cynthia makes an about-face and walks calmly toward a rising Sanders. She pivots into a lightning-fast super kick that collides with Kylie’s chin. The Platinum Pixie goes board straight and timbers like a diminutive, silvery-bobbed tree, landing in a wide starfish, unmoving once hitting the deck.
“Let’s show the people how it’s done,” Mitchell informs.
The brunette in purple saunters to the nearest corner and pops to the top. She turns and places Ky in a window made of Mitchell’s thumbs and forefingers, lowers into a crouch and elevates. Collapsing into a tight tuck at the height of her leap, Cyn opens wide on the way down and CRUSHES Kylie’s gulping alabaster belly with a textbook frog splash that has Chill melting under the domineering frame of the second-generation superstar.
Already in a pinning position, Cynthia hooks a leg for fun and the crowd makes up its own count, chanting ‘ONE…TWO…THREE!”
Thunderous approval echoes through the arena though they all understand Sanders taking the mock pinfall means nothing more than a joyous moment of shame for the Hawkeye, the match continuing.
Her point exceedingly made, Cynthia pushes up off of her splayed opponent and she sits back on her haunches. Her head craning about, she looks first at the padlocked door, then upward toward the top of the cage, seemingly contemplating which exit would be more suitable. But then she looks down at the puddle of jelly mewling before her, and she opts to defer her departure a little bit longer.
Rising up, Mitchell grabs Chill by her ankles and drags her from center ring to closer to one side of the cage. Then she hooks Ky's legs underneath her knees with her arms, and with a sudden motion throws herself backward to the canvas. The subsequent slingshot lifts Sanders and sends her flying forward, right up over the top rope. But while ordinarily this would deposit her with a thud to the arena floor, here it results in the Iowan taking a face full of steel mesh to the kisser.
Kylie now hangs hung up over the top rope, all fours limbs pointing downward as her tummy rides the cable. Going upright, Mitchell surveys the situation. The smile which now dances on her lips makes it plain she knows just how to exploit this situation.
Groaning, the dazed and disoriented platinum pixie does not react as her adversary's fingers tug at her boy cut shorts, tugging them down just enough to reveal Kylie's thong-clad butt. Drawing her right arm back, the Hellion then delivers a spanking that swiftly turns the alabaster skin bright red. The pain shocks Ky out of her stupor, but hung over the rope and with her back pressed against the cage, she is helpless to escape, and can only yelp and squeal in pain and frustration, her feet kicking furiously in protest. "If your mommy had done this to you more often when you were little," the brunette teases, "you might not be such an insufferable brat now. But I doubt it."
One last spank echoes throughout the arena, and Cynthia mercifully steps back, allowing Sanders to awkwardly extricate herself from her compromising position. Back on her feet, she whirls around to glare at the brunette, her pouting face flushed red with embarrassment and fury. She manages to gingerly pull her shorts back up over her sore tushy, and then with a roar she rushes at Mitchell, right arm raised for a clothesline.
And it might well have been a mighty blow, had the North Carolinian had any interest in receiving it. Instead, moving like quicksilver, the purple-clad beauty easily ducks under the proffered arm, and with a twist of her body and a hook of Ky's limb, executed a hiptoss that bounces the blonde on her aching derriere, which twists her deceptively cherubic features into a mask of pure pain.
Given no time to even think about recovering, Kylie finds one hand grasping her short locks at the scalp, another slipping between her shorts and her skin, finding the recently glimpsed thong, and giving it a sharp tug upward, which makes the Hawkeye honey quite pliable for getting back up to her feet. Her handholds also allow Mitchell to guide her opponent to the ropes in order to slam her face into the mesh, then drag it across the cage, painfully mashing and distorting Kylie's features against the unyielding steel. "When I'm through with you," the brunette snarls grimly, "whatever I do to your face will be an improvement!" Sanders lets out a "meep" of fearful concern at these words.
But she also delivers a desperate blind elbow that finds Cynthia’s jaw. Feeling the collision and the loosening of Mitchell’s grip, Sanders follows with another and another until she’s freed from the Carolina native’s ‘bar bouncer’ grasp.
Kylie turns to face her foe and finds Cyn wielding a right-handed clubbing blow toward her cranium. Sanders ducks while throwing an arm across the chest of the brunette, wrapping it around Mitchell’s neck, locking down. Connected, Kylie throws her weight backward and delivers a flatliner sending the Carolina Hurricane’s face CRASHING into the cage wall.
Cage Flatliner (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iDrG8__0TAY )
The crowd groans in sympathy as Mitchell melts to her haunches in a daze. Behind her, Chill slowly climbs to her feet and surveys.
“You were saying, bytch,” Kylie growls, pushing her boot sole into the back of Mitchell’s skull to bang Cynthia’s forehead into the chain link then pressing it tight, the battling brunette’s face flushing, her features twisted in pain.
After a dozen seconds, Sanders relents, dropping her boot to the canvas and pulling Mitchell back toward the middle where she scoops the bewildered brunette onto her right shoulder and plants her into the mat with a body slam. But the move is only the precursor, as Vanilla Chill moves to a standing straddle of the downed Hellion and leaps in the air above her foe, DRIVING her boots into Mitchell’s bosom. The Platinum Pixie flattens Cyn’s gurls then maliciously grinds the boot leather into the tender tissue and the thin spandex covering them.
Feeling like the initial storm is passed, Kylie takes a triumphant stroll around the aching Mitchell, landing a stomp to Cyn’s right shoulder when Mitchell tries to sit up. Her revolution complete, Kylie sends a punt to Cynthia’s ribs to convince her foe being on her chest is preferable and it’s then Kylie jumps into a reverse straddle of Mitchell’s back.
Lifting a curved right hand high, the crowd can’t help but reflexively call out “FARM…HAND” from Sanders’ more popular days and Chill applies the infamous hammy clamp, sinking her digits into the nerve bundle just where Cynthia’s upper left thigh connects with her gluteus. Mitchell yips in pain as Ky digs in, pressing left hand stop the clawing right.
Castle’s voice from the PA asks if Mitchell wants to give in. She offers an emphatic shake of her head while biting her lower lip and clenching her lids.
“You sure?” Ky asks, forcing her ‘massage’ of Mitchell’s thigh even deeper, the limb starting to spasm from Sanders’ unique and expert technique.
When the response from the Carolina Hurricane is an expletive-filled negative, the Hawkeye shrugs, removing her grip and pounding a couple punches into the searing muscle.
Sanders gives Cyn’s backside a retaliatory smack and pushes to her feet. She looks up at the 12-foot wall, a two-foot wide row of scaffolding at the top to make for a more dramatic transition to the opposite side then down at the fidgeting Cynthia, working at her deadened left leg with both hands. Ky’s hazel eyes turn toward the door and Chill decides a win is a win.
The Platinum Pixie strides to the exit and collects the padlock in her hands. She starts twisting the handle to reach the required numbers when she feels a tug on her ankle. Having crawled after her opponent, Mitchell latches onto Sanders, distracting her if not accomplishing much else.
Dropping her grip on the lock, Chill instead sinks her digits into the lush dark locks of her longtime rival. She yanks Cynthia to her feet and, with Mitchell facing her, she dips her silvery bob between the still rubbery stems of Mitchell. Wrapping her arms around Cynthia’s thighs, Sanders grunts as she elevates her foe. Half of the risen brunette is draped down Chill’s back and Ky allows gravity to do the rest. She drops top her derriere, pounding Cynthia’s head and chest into the deck with her Iowa Waterwheel.
Iowa Waterwheel (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L78bbjcEtWw )
Cynthia absently flops to her back and a kneeling Sanders plucks a leg off the deck. She slips her head into the pit of Mitchell’s left knee and pivots the brunette to her chest while moving perpendicular to her rival, Vanilla’s Chill Out secured.
Chill Out (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVtOcOoAjCA )
The Stretch Muffler viciously works Mitchell’s already tender left leg and when the Platinum Pixie snatches her foe’s left arm, the Hawkeye ingeniously increases the stress points on her submission.
Cynthia howls in pain, with the Farm Hand preceding her lower limb being ’chilled’, the agony seems unbearable, but somehow the Carolina Hurricane bears it, screaming out a “NO” when Castle gets on the PA and asks if she wants to surrender.
The frustrated Sanders works her stretch another half-dozen seconds, trying to change her foe’s mind but the stubborn second-generation superstar refuses to give in and Kylie pulls her head from the crease, lifts Cyn’s limb as she rises and SLAMS Mitchell’s left knee into the deck.
Kylie swipes her fingers through her platinum pixie cut, staring down at the Hellion, her face flushed, apparently unsure if she’ll be able to make Cynthia quit. With Mitchell balled, protecting her throbbing limb, Sanders pumps stomp after stomp into the leg as best she’s able then walks determinedly to the door, mouthing the three numbers making up the combination.
Reaching her destination, Kylie twirls the face of the lock to reach each numeral. She tries to open but the lock doesn’t come undone. Sanders shrieks in exasperation and starts over. This time the bolt slips free from its mooring and she twists it loose of either end of the chain.
A beaming Kylie grandly tosses the lock away ‘breaking’ the chain, each end spreading wide from the other. The Platinum Pixie slips through the ropes and reaches for the handle of the door when a set of nails sinks into her scalp.
“WHUUUH! NO! REF! HAIR!” Kylie pleads.
But Castle is left to motion it’s fair in this war.
Chill is anything but, wailing as a sneering Mitchell tugs her back through the ropes. Kylie’s ankles catch on the middle rope as she’s stretched out horizontal from the cable, Cynthia with a front facelock surrounding Kylie’s noggin.
While the Hellion makes both the FAWNatics and Sanders wait for the inevitable, Castle motions for an attendant to collect the lock and put it back in place since neither competitor is trying to depart, the door placed back in its initial state.
The baby blues of the Carolina Hurricane flash mischievously as Kylie squirms for an escape that only comes when Cynthia lays out and SPIKES Chill’s skull into the canvas with a rope-assisted DDT.
Rope-assisted DDT (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hpPAjMXM6lw )
Sanders’ head remains stuck in the canvas like the tip of a lawn dart for a second then the rest of Chill’s body fall flat to horizontal, Mitchell next to her foe, on her back, sighing deeply in satisfaction at pulling FAWN’s greatest traitor back from the brink of victory and leaving her splayed and semiconscious.
Both women lay side by side for what seems like an eternity, their chests rising and falling as they suck in air, their glazed eyes blinking up at the overhead lights. A near-deafening chant of "CYN-THI-A! CYN-THI-A! CYN-THI-A!" erupts from the thousands-strong crowd, and in response the Hellion begins to kick her right boot heel to the mat in rhythmic time.
Suddenly Mitchell sits up and rolls to her left, her arm bracing her up as her body threatens to teeter over again. Getting to all fours she crawls the short distance over to the ropes, and grasps the strands so as to use them to pull herself upright again. Back on her feet, she starts to head to the cage door, reeling in an unsteady progression until she finally reaches it. There, she takes the combination lock in her hands...and stares at it. First her eyes go wide as saucers, then narrowed into slits. As the seconds tick by, it becomes apparent to all that the Second Generation Superstar's noggin is still too punchy to be able to read the fine print of the dial numbers.
With this avenue of escape closed off to her, at least for now, Cynthia looks up at the looming cage wall. Then with the sound of a pained groan behind her, she cranes her head back over her shoulder to see the insidious Iowan beginning to stir, struggling to prop herself up on her elbows. But even as she does, Mitchell staggers back over to her and flattens her with a stomp to the bread basket, drawing a whoosh of air from the blonde.
Reaching down, the Hellion grabs Kylie by her wrists and lifts her upper body up 45 degrees from the canvas. She then places the sole of her boot against the pernicious pixie's chest and delivers a reverse curb stomp, the back of Chill's skull thudding against the thinly-sheathed plywood of the ring's floor.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=g-9SPKoDtSE
Satisfied that her rival will stay put, the brunette heads over to the wall of the cage, her fingers slipping between the links, the toes of her boots finding purchase, and she slowly begins to scale the side. Her own body feels like deadweight, the steel mesh pressing painfully into her fingers, but still she rises. She is halfway up the cage when she suddenly feels a hand grasping her left ankle; startled, she looks down to see the fiercely determined visage of Sanders making it's way up the side as well.
It's a thin line between love and hate, and those in attendance and around the world who once loved Kylie Sanders so unstintingly now, almost without exception, despise her for her treason to their affection. Nevertheless, the most fervent Kylie-hater cannot help but be impressed by how she drives herself, long past the point of exhaustion and endurance, to continue with the battle. It would be inspiring, were it not for the fact that virtually everyone in the arena wants to see her lose, and badly.
Cynthia halts her ascent as Sanders now climbs up alongside her. Each then releases a hand from the cage, balls her fist, and begins to pummel the other with punches to the face and head. They continue with this for several more moments until suddenly, as if on some silent cue only they can hear, they cease their blows and instead each uses her free hand to grasp the hair of the other at the back of her head, close to the scalp. Both then pull the other backward, before ruthlessly slamming each other's faces simultaneously into the steel cage.
The end result is predictable, as both battered beauties lose their holds on the mesh, and gravity works its magic, sending them both plummeting downward. Ordinarily being only about eight feet above the mat would mean a landing that, while uncomfortable, wouldn't be debilitating. However, that's only if one factors in the absence of an integral part of any wrestling ring: the ropes.
Their legs falling past the outside and inside of the ropes, they find their descent suddenly, jarringly halted by the top strand, with the steel cable wrapped in plastic tape slamming up into their tender womanhoods. The impact draws a cringing "OOOOOHHHHHH!" from the spectators. And there Kylie and Cynthia remain, facing one another, their hands clutching the top rope as they each ride it, their crotches grinding agonizingly into it with each bounce, their mouths agape and their eyes wide. No sounds other than high-pierced chirps escape their mouths.
The FAWN originals stare at each other through welling eyes, Kylie’s hazel and Cynthia’s blue. Out of spite, Chill bounces the top cable to cause Mitchell more pain seemingly forgetting she’ll be a beneficiary as well.
Kylie cries in anguish, quickly joined by Cyn from the added vibration of the rope.
“You moron,” the brunette yelps. “You’re just…”
Sanders interrupts with a stinging slap to Mitchell’s cheek. Cynthia responds in kind. Kylie ups the ante with a punch that spins the brunette’s noggin, but Cyn comes back with a response that not only does the same to the Hawkeye’s head but sends the blonde’s face RAMMING into the chain link with a nasty CLACK. The Hellion places pigeon-toed boots on the middle strand and stands as best she can, reaching for the nearby steel and curling her fingers around it.
Carefully, she dismounts the rope, getting all ‘spider monkey’ on the side of the cage. Maybe drunken spider monkey as a wincing Mitchell is slow to climb, plucking purple from amidst her undercarriage.
Still on her uncomfortable mount, Chill shakes out some extra cobwebs then is ‘awakened’ when the Hellion dips her boot under the cable and yanks upward, setting the rubber-coated steel into another brutal bounce that bites Kylie where it counts, her thin yellow-gold spandex no protection against the further abuse.
“AHHHHL KILL YOU,” Sanders sobs.
“Buh bye, loser,” Cynthia responds, turning her full attention to scaling the wall with a healthy head start.
It’s a slow process with the recent attacks sustained and, when a grimacing Chill raises her inner leg and pivots to chase, Mitchell has barely a body length in front. Sanders reaches for the brunette’s ankle but Cyn kicks free and continues her vertical march to the top.
Kylie turns to look down, makes some quick calculations, and after Cyn’s tail she goes, ascending behind the woman that seemed to always find a way to beat her. This would likely be the last chance saloon tonight. Mitchell had to end the night with the ‘L’ and a hell of an ‘L’.
Never accused of being among the top athletes in the organization, even in her prime, Kylie nevertheless shows her bulldog tenacity in closing the gap and she’s half-a-body length behind to Mitchell’s right when Cynthia wraps a palm around the scaffolding at the top.
The Carolina Hurricane tries to pull up the rest of the way but the Platinum Pixie is making a nuisance of herself, grasping at any piece of Mitchell she can find, mainly stretching out her foe’s spandex gear. Cynthia swivels her hips and heaves her way to a horizontal position on the two-foot wide walkway at the top. On her chest, a glance to her right and down shows a huffing Sanders, desperation showing in her frantic hazel peepers.
The blonde picks up her pace as Mitchell downs a couple deep breaths and balls a right fist to welcome Kylie to the penthouse and simultaneously send her plummeting to the outhouse.
Chill gets her armpits over when Cynthia fires at the flawless features of the Pleasant Valley Pariah. Sanders blocks with a raised forearm and before the Hellion can reload, Ky swings up her legs in the opposite direction. Each woman scrambles to kneel on the thin catwalk atop the cage. Their bodies SLAM together with a meaty thud, arms wrapping around the other in a skyscraping bearhug. Chins rest on shoulders as beads of sweat pour over the vaunted veterans, the crowd chanting “THIS…IS…AWESOME” from far below.
Both grapplers seem unprepared to let go, both in worry the other will make the floor first and perhaps more poetically that they’ll each be lessened with their final war over, no matter the winner and loser. The embrace on each side finally loosens and after a dozen seconds, blonde and brunette leaning against the other and nothing more.
Kylie initiates separation, carefully back tracking on her knees to build some space between them. But instead of swinging her boots over and heading down, Mitchell is in a low-speed chase, not wanting to give up her proximity to Vanilla Chill. They scoot their way to a corner, Ky backward and Cyn forward, where the right-angle meeting of one wall with another creates enough of a base for Sanders to feel comfortable standing, if crouched.
The FAWNatics roar with a mix of excitement and concern and the noise only grows when Mitchell, not about to be outdone when it comes to the drama of the moment cautiously rises to go eye-to-eye with the blonde.
“What you have in mind Vanilla Chump?” Mitchell asks.
“Making sure I never have to see you again, let alone wrestle you.”
Kylie starts to lower toward all fours, apparently wanting to climb down the corner of the cage. Cynthia bustles forward as quickly as she dares to halt the descent when Kylie changes course, surging toward Mitchell and swinging an arm through the ivory stems of the Carolina Hurricane.
And then gasps though the crowd as Kylie ‘hups’ Mitchell across her shoulders and straightens into a fireman’s carry, somehow keeping her balance with a wriggling, panicked Cynthia set for the Mother of all Chilly Valley Drivers to the canvas far below, Sanders presumably calculating a way of tossing the Hellion to Hades without taking the trip herself.
As the assembled gird themselves for the end of one and possibly two careers, Mitchell’s elbow pumps like a piston, CRACKING into Kylie’s right temple four, five, six times until finally Sanders collapses to hands and knees on the narrow catwalk on one side of the corner, Mitchell ending on her back side across the 90 degrees of the corner.
The hearts of both combatants are pumping nearly out of their chests and the spandex covering them. It’s Chill who recaptures her bearings and nerve first, crawling forward, reaching across the corner to grab an alabaster stem of the Carolina Hurricane so she can send her foe plummeting back within the cage.
But Cynthia shakes her limb free of the grip and, in so doing, sends an off-balance Kylie plopping forward, the blonde’s chin landing on Mitchell’s crotch. Reflexively, even in this otherworldly atmosphere, Cynthia’s legs clamp down around Kylie’s cranium. The brunette leans forward, snatching the left leg of her rival, first around the shin, then sliding her grip to an ankle then around the top of Kylie’s boot, continuing to add length to the reverse Crab-like grip. As Kylie turns her head, right cheek resting on the thin sheath covering Cynthia’s mound, she squirms for her freedom in the precarious heights and the FAWNatics leap to their feet as one, hardly believing their eyes. It’s a fucking Mortal Cyn.
Mortal Cyn (https://i.imgur.com/k4tEriy.jpg )
The Hellion cinches her figure-four scissors tighter and tighter, Kylie’s face turning rosy, Cynthia adding to her left-handed grip on Kylie’s left boot with a controlling right-handed grasp of Chill’s left bicep.
With the sky-high ‘Mortal’ locked across the corner of the catwalk, Kylie’s head is trapped on one side, her free leg lies on the other, her curled tummy and spinal column above nothing but air in between. There’s no worry of falling with a teeth-gritting Mitchell pouring on the pressure, locking Chill down, threatening to break the back of the Platinum Princess while pressurizing Sanders’ head and neck to the unbelievable proportions that once made both Kylie and Shea tap in the same simultaneous Mortal Cyn.
The “HOLY SHYT” chants grow in force at the celebrated submission being applied to the hated Chill twelve feet above the mat and more than fifteen above the floor on the outside. It’s a sight unrivalled in the crazy war the two waged throughout FAWN’s lifetime. Now, Cynthia demands Kylie’s unconditional surrender to bring the conflict to a close.
Mitchell increases the power in her scissors with a flex of her thighs.
“I can knock you out bytch,” the Hellion growls. “Leave you sleeping in the clouds while I ease down the cage. But I want to hear you say it. Once and for all time.”
Sanders shakes her head the very little she’s able.
“No,” she grunts weakly, the Mortal Cyn already working its magic, draining her, her vision dark and cloudy. “I won’t.”
A snarling Cynthia pulls the tip of Kylie’s toe to the crown of her silvery bob, Kylie shrieking in agony but suddenly muffled as Mitchell works her scissors a little higher from around chin and jaw to pressing against mouth, nose, cheeks and temples.
“SAY IT!” Mitchell shouts.
The Hellion lowers her scissors to reveal a greasy-faced, bleary-eyed Chill but even in her state, the burning pain forces Kylie to understand, the fear breaks through the daze and the Platinum Pixie taps Cynthia’s backside as she screams out.
“I SURRENDER!”
“And…” Mitchell encourages.
“YOU’RE THE BEST...”
“For how long?...”
“FOR EVER AND EVER!”
A beaming grin emerges on Cynthia’s features.
“See. Was that so hard?”
Mitchell loosens her scissors and lets the leg of the squealing Sanders flop next to its counterpart, a breathless sigh escaping Kylie’s lips along with a line of spittle from the demolished Chill.
“I daresay you’ve given me a cherry on the sundae of my career, farm girl. And for that I won’t toss you to the canvas.”
Mitchell carefully slips out from under the spent blonde. She sneaks her legs over the outside and slowly, judiciously descends, dropping the last few feet to the floor. The toll of the bell and the roar of the FAWNatics are simultaneous while a depleted and defeated Kylie lies expended, suspended and sobbing, realizing her white whale would swim away with every bit of the glory she should have had.
The announcer rubs salt in the wounds with his announcement.
“Your winner…by submission…Belle’s Hellion…CYNTHIA MITCHELL!”
The Carolina Hurricane pumps a fist then points at Kylie’s carcass high and slack in the sky.
“Get your pictures boys and girls!” she shouts toward the nearest lens. “Of a wrestling star and the little girl who wanted to be one but became a fraud instead!”
Cynthia moves inches from the hand-held.
“Ivy girl. Pull out your Daisy Dukes we’re gonna party country-style tonight!”
The wounds and bruises she suffered in her last match have healed…physically. But at this moment, she feels them all anew, as if they had just happened to her. But this does not weaken her; rather, it invigorates her.
In just a few moments time she will make her way down the aisle, and she will engage in one of the most dangerous confrontations in all of pro wrestling, a steel cage match. The cage itself is as much a weapon as it is a prison, and she has no doubt whatsoever that her opponent will make every attempt to use the cage to not simply beat her, but to inflict cruel damage.
Suddenly, she is shocked from her thoughts by the sound of a voice piercing above the cacophony over the arena’s public address system: “This next match has a sixty minute time limit, and will be fought in a steel cage! Introducing first, hailing from the Queen City of the South, Charlotte, North Carolina...standing five feet and seven inches, and weighing one hundred and twenty-one pounds...she is CYNTHIAAAAAAA MMMMMMMITCHELLLLLLLLL!" Demi Lovato's "Confident" hits and as the curtain tears open (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwLRQn61oUY), the crowd roars its approval. She strides purposefully, her eyes focused on the four-sided construct of welded steel that crowns the ring, paying no heed to the outstretched hands that reach for her. If she notices a sign held aloft by a devotee ("Unleash the CYNful Beast Tonight!!!"), she gives no indication of it, but the sentiment is firmly in accord with her own determination.
CYNTHIA MITCHELL
Mitchell is clad in a familiar ‘one-piece’--said outfit a deep purple number with a plunging 'V' neckline that goes all the way to her navel, and a backside that generously puts her fabled derriere on ample display. She wears matching purple ankle books. Finally reaching ringside, Cynthia ascends the metal steps and slips between the ropes and through the open door of the cage. She gives a perfunctory raise of her right arm to acknowledge the fans, but it remains clear that her thoughts are elsewhere.
Those with a long memory might wonder if she's thinking of Mexico City. There, many years before...before Cynthia had even been born, truthfully...her mother, Natalie Roberson Mitchell, battled her arch-nemesis, Belle Butler Armstrong, in what remains for many the most brutal cage match in wrestling history. Indeed, both women were so badly injured, they each chose to retire from the sport rather than return to the ring wars after they recuperated. Could the daughter of Natalie (and, curiously enough, the protege of Belle) be wondering if her career might also come to a savage terminus tonight?
Whatever her reveries, they are shattered as the voice of the announcer is again heard.
“And her opponent. From da space where Da Man ain’t got no place…standing five feet four inches tall and weighing in at 112 pounds…Vanilla Chill…Kylie Sanders!”
The Platinum Pixie RIPS her way through the curtains, jerking them wide to the sounds of Iggy gettin’ ‘Fancy’. As is always her ability, though in the increasingly distant past for a completely different reason, Sanders brings the crowd to its feet. The collective hate moves like a presence in its own right toward the silvery bob and the elfin beauty it topped.
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O-zpOMYRi0w )
With no J-Dogg covering her flank, Vanilla moves to center stage, the FAWNatics unleashing their revulsion upon the organization’s most infamous traitor. Unlike others, Kylie had been disloyal and deceitful to the hopes of her admirers, a felony much worse than backstabbing another member of the roster, and the assembled make that known with ever-increasing decibels.
KYLIE SANDERS
Drawing on echoes of her original gear, Sanders sports a multi-strapped, yellow-gold sports bra topside with black boy-cut shorts, black boots and pads.
(https://www.yandy.com/Multi-Strapped-Microfiber-Sports-Bra.php )
On the FAWNtron behind her, ‘‘VANILLA CHILL IN DA HOUSE BYTCHES!’ appears in ten-foot high, gold letters. If any occasion called for such an over-the-top announcement, a battle between two legends with unrivalled enmity inside a steel enclosure would be the time.
Sanders heads for the battlefield as if the arena holds only her and Mitchell, focusing on the brunette like a laser, Cynthia matching her stare for stare. Never held in the same wrestling regard as other survivors from her time, Mitchell, London, Armstrong, it could be argued and certainly would by the Hawkeye she surpassed them all in bare, naked, brass tacks success, even while possesing not near the same in-ring ability as any.
With that in mind, FAWN’s Most Hated makes a bee line for the fateful structure, clearly confident in her ability to deal with anything the second-generation superstar could dish.
Mitchell nearly always found a way to best her throughout the many intersections of their careers, but tonight, in likely their last, the fight would be all about sheer will and NO ONE could match Kylie Sanders for that.
Reaching the squared circle, Sanders ignores the booming chants of “TROLL”. Not even those could reach her tonight. She ascends the steps and slides through the ropes, the cage door CLACKING shut behind her.
The sounds causes Ky to reflexively look over her shoulder, a millisecond of uncertainty, then gone, her hazel eyes turning to the vile creature in purple who had plagued her with no room for anything but evil intent.
Kylie mouths “You’re mine” and Cynthia snorts in response.
“Aren’t you cute,” Mitchell informs. “Still believing in miracles at your age.”
As the sounds of Iggy and Charli fade from the speakers, Sanders moves to her corner, no pre-match speeches tonight. The violence with which she would finally and ultimately end one of FAWN’s most bitter rivalries would be her statement.
And then comes the clang of the bell.
The two battlers exit their corners cautiously, each slightly crouched as they circle one another. The distance between them in their gyre diminishes, until at last they are near enough to go into a standard collar and elbow lock up. Their soles dig into the canvas as each tries to power the other back. At first it is a stalemate, as Cynthia's greater height is checked by Kylie's lower center of gravity.
But that stalemate is suddenly broken by an unanticipated shift in tactics, as Mitchell in a blur of motion converts the lock-up into an armdrag, flipping the startled blonde over her hip. Sanders bounces a few times on her butt as she skids across the mat, but without any hesitation she jumps back up to her feet.
The two beauties again circle, a small smirk of satisfaction on the brunette's lips for having scored the first strike. They again lunge together for a lock-up, but this time Kylie's hands flash toward Cyn's face, her nails raking at the Hellion's blue eyes. Mitchell shrieks and stumbles backward, hands covering her watering eyes.
"F*ck playing nice," the blonde snarls. "I'm gonna make you suffer!" She follows up with a boot to the belly that doubls her opponent over with a whoosh of escaping breath. That allows the Iowan to clamp on a side headlock, grinding away with corn husking muscles that draw whines of discontent from her victim.
If Cynthia is formulating a plan to escape these straits, they’re foiled as next Sanders suddenly rushes forward, executing a Bulldog. The impact snaps through Mitchell's whole body like an electric jolt, dazing her.
"Now we're gonna have some fun," the blonde says with malicious glee. She pulls the brunette up into a seated position on the mat, and sits behind her so that they're back-to-back. Reaching backward, Vanilla Chill grasps the North Carolinian's wrists and pulls her arms back, stretching them painfully in their shoulder sockets. To add to the discomfort, Kylie starts to sing, "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands!" She then forces Cyn's palms to slap together, stretching the tendons in her limbs to the point where the brunette lets loose a sharp yelp.
Continuing their hold for a while longer in order to inflict more pain to Mitchell's arms, the blonde finally releases it. Moving swiftly she turns around, getting to one knee behind Cynthia, while pressing her other knees squarely into her adversary's spine. Cupping her hands beneath the brunette' chin, she yanks her foe’s head back. The Hellion tries to bring her own hands up to tug at the grasp, but they're still too numb from the previous maneuver to respond with anything other than hapless flailing.
Yanking her victim's head back even further, Cynthia's face is finally upturned to the rafters. Kylie leans forward so that her own face hovers over that of her opponent. With evil tinging her angry eyes she hisses, "I'm going to destroy you tonight. I'm going to not only make you wish you had never set foot in this cage...I'll make you wish you had never been born. They're going to carry you out of here on a stretcher a bloody, broken mess. And that's the last anyone in FAWN will ever hear of Cynthia Mitchell!"
The aching Hellion doesn’t respond to Sanders, rocking from side to side, vainly trying to break free of the Hawkeye’s grasp. But it’s the refusal to give Kylie what she wants, namely a submission, that eventually frees Mitchell. The Platinum Pixie rises and places a boot between Cynthia’s shoulderblades.
“Say good-bye to your front teeth,” Sanders growls.
The blonde curb stomps Cynthia’s face into the deck, the crowd reacting to the vicious impact with a collective groan. Mitchell’s hands fly to her face as she rolls to her back, boot soles pattering against the canvas while Ky looks down with satisfaction.
There’s no pinfall attempt, Sanders well knowing she’d need to force Cynthia to quit or escape the cage, either over the top or through a door chained with a combination lock. Both women had been given the numbers as they’d entered so it was a viable third option, but Bethany Christian made sure entering the combination would be time consuming enough for dramatic interventions from behind.
Pre-match, Kylie reiterated there was only one true way to finish the war with Mitchell, to make her confirm once and for all, Kylie is and always was the better woman. Vanilla Chill sets out making her prediction a reality. Sanders snatches a wrist and guides the dazed second-generation superstar to her feet, bullying her into the ropes. The women rebound and Kylie leads her foe across the canvas, bum-rushing Mitchell to the far side at sprinter’s speed. From short range, Sanders heaves Cynthia up and over the top cable.
Thankfully for the many former members of the Kylie Corps, Mitchell gets her hands up but it’s still a rough CLANG into the chain link of the cage, the Carolina Hurricane puddling at the base of the cage, the match being turned to ‘11’ right off by the Pleasant Valley Pariah.
Kylie raises her arms high and wide basking in the success and the displeasure it brings to her former followers.
There isn’t a flinch toward the door by Kylie. Instead, she eases her way through the rubber-coated steel of the cables and wraps her hands around Cynthia’s noggin, pulling Mitchell up to wobbly haunches, head facing the nervous crowd.
Kylie settles in a crouch next to the brunette and fish-faces Mitchell’s cheeks, putting her on display.
“This is the face of FAWN?” she shouts.
When the affirmative comes, Ky shrugs then forces her foe’s features against the cage, grinding Mitchell’s mug against the steel, Cyn’s face flushing from the abrasions. After several scrubs, Sanders draws back Cynthia’s head and SLAMS her face into the chain link. The Hellion’s cranium snaps back from the collision and again she’s down at Kylie’s feet, the match quickly devolving into the fans’ worst nightmare.
“We all knew I’d write the last chapter!” Kylie informs the back row.
She turns as Mitchell is trying to crawl back between the ropes and plants a boot sole on the back of her rival’s neck, pressing Cyn’s windpipe across the lowest cable. Mitchell flails wildly, unable to breathe, but with no referee in the cage with them, it’s much easier to ignore the calls from Castle. Ky turns to him while continuing her throttling.
“You’re just here to acknowledge Mitchell’s surrender. Keep your mouth shut.”
During the exchange, Cynthia’s works her way from underneath the distracted blonde and rolls back into the ring’s confines. Kylie gives her foe a mock ovation for the effort and easily slips through in pursuit.
“I showed I’m tougher. Everyone knew that. Now I’ll show I’m a better wrestler.”
Kylie collects Mitchell from her hands and knees ’guiding’ the brunette to her feet. She dips and slips and arm between Cynthia’s legs and ‘hups’ Mitchell onto her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. It’s a warning sign for anyone not under a rock for a decade-plus and the crowd reacts with worried murmurs. But as Sanders holds her foe aloft, she shakes her head and waggles an index finger. She mouths ‘not yet’ to the throngs then begins to spin.
Treating Cynthia like a propeller, Sanders twirls in place at ever increasing speed until the Airplane Spin is a sight of old-school beauty. Chill makes a full ten revolutions before tossing Cynthia off her shoulders, the brunette taking the final half-revolution on her own on the way down. She lands on her chest with a ring-thumping SPLAT.
Mitchell reflexively rolls to her back, baby blues still spinning. She appears airsick and an attempt to sit up ends with her flopping to her left shoulder. Ky takes a few moments to compose herself, drunkenly weaving to the ropes before grabbing and holding on, shaking her noggin.
Balance recovered, Kylie arrogantly strolls to Cyn’s side and leaps into a cannonball, tucking her knees in tight and landing with the joints pointed into Mitchell’s midriff. Chill bounces off the gagging Hellion, Cynthia jackknifing once Kylie is off, hugging her busted gut.
This doesn’t seem to suit Sanders in the least and she lands a kick to Mitchell’s chin that flattens the Carolina Hurricane to horizontal, eyes glazed, limbs pointing to each corner of the cage.
On her feet, the Hawkeye marches to the nearest corner, climbing to the top buckle. Kylie feints like she’s going to continue her ascension to the cage, reaching toward the chain link before pulling her hand away with another finger wag. She looks over a shoulder to take a peek at the splayed Cyn, barely stirring below, and settles into a slight crouch.
Clearly not paid by the hour, Ky goes big, launching from her perch in a not ungraceful moonsault. It and she would never be compared to Shea London, Domi Daly, Lily Burlingame or any of the newest high flyers but gravity brings her toward a perfect tummy-on-tummy collision that would force out whatever air remained in Mitchell.
Alas, the veteran draws her knees in and up, pointing them at the dropping Chill. Kylie’s ivory tummy is impaled by the bony caps. Sanders rolls away moaning as she thrashes on the canvas, embracing her belly as if she means to keep internal organs in place. The crowd roars its approval and the walls of noise only grow when Mitchell kips to her feet.
She holds an unsteady landing with a self-conscious hint of a grin then pumps her arm, further awakening the crowd. Mitchell moves to Ky’s side as the Platinum Pixie slowly rises, unaware of Mitchell’s placement. And when Chill reaches her feet, Cynthia springs into action, leaping high and grabbing Ky’s braincase as she floats by, legs extended in front of her. The Hellion lays out and SPIKES Kylie’s face into the deck with her Carolina Blues, Sanders languidly flopping to her back from the brutal force of the collision.
Carolina Blues (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4tXjmTPxmUo ).
Cynthia rises to her haunches next to the splattered Pleasant Valley Pariah.
“How many times do I have to beat you for you to get the message?”
The question remains unanswered by the gobsmacked blonde, Sanders’ hazel eyes offering a faraway look after learning the Blues the hard way.
Mitchell hops to her feet and takes a few steps toward the door. She stops and motions to it, seemingly asking the FAWNatics for their advice. Cyn shakes her head emphatically when the assembled plead for more punishment, drawing a delighted roar from the crowd.
Cynthia makes an about-face and walks calmly toward a rising Sanders. She pivots into a lightning-fast super kick that collides with Kylie’s chin. The Platinum Pixie goes board straight and timbers like a diminutive, silvery-bobbed tree, landing in a wide starfish, unmoving once hitting the deck.
“Let’s show the people how it’s done,” Mitchell informs.
The brunette in purple saunters to the nearest corner and pops to the top. She turns and places Ky in a window made of Mitchell’s thumbs and forefingers, lowers into a crouch and elevates. Collapsing into a tight tuck at the height of her leap, Cyn opens wide on the way down and CRUSHES Kylie’s gulping alabaster belly with a textbook frog splash that has Chill melting under the domineering frame of the second-generation superstar.
Already in a pinning position, Cynthia hooks a leg for fun and the crowd makes up its own count, chanting ‘ONE…TWO…THREE!”
Thunderous approval echoes through the arena though they all understand Sanders taking the mock pinfall means nothing more than a joyous moment of shame for the Hawkeye, the match continuing.
Her point exceedingly made, Cynthia pushes up off of her splayed opponent and she sits back on her haunches. Her head craning about, she looks first at the padlocked door, then upward toward the top of the cage, seemingly contemplating which exit would be more suitable. But then she looks down at the puddle of jelly mewling before her, and she opts to defer her departure a little bit longer.
Rising up, Mitchell grabs Chill by her ankles and drags her from center ring to closer to one side of the cage. Then she hooks Ky's legs underneath her knees with her arms, and with a sudden motion throws herself backward to the canvas. The subsequent slingshot lifts Sanders and sends her flying forward, right up over the top rope. But while ordinarily this would deposit her with a thud to the arena floor, here it results in the Iowan taking a face full of steel mesh to the kisser.
Kylie now hangs hung up over the top rope, all fours limbs pointing downward as her tummy rides the cable. Going upright, Mitchell surveys the situation. The smile which now dances on her lips makes it plain she knows just how to exploit this situation.
Groaning, the dazed and disoriented platinum pixie does not react as her adversary's fingers tug at her boy cut shorts, tugging them down just enough to reveal Kylie's thong-clad butt. Drawing her right arm back, the Hellion then delivers a spanking that swiftly turns the alabaster skin bright red. The pain shocks Ky out of her stupor, but hung over the rope and with her back pressed against the cage, she is helpless to escape, and can only yelp and squeal in pain and frustration, her feet kicking furiously in protest. "If your mommy had done this to you more often when you were little," the brunette teases, "you might not be such an insufferable brat now. But I doubt it."
One last spank echoes throughout the arena, and Cynthia mercifully steps back, allowing Sanders to awkwardly extricate herself from her compromising position. Back on her feet, she whirls around to glare at the brunette, her pouting face flushed red with embarrassment and fury. She manages to gingerly pull her shorts back up over her sore tushy, and then with a roar she rushes at Mitchell, right arm raised for a clothesline.
And it might well have been a mighty blow, had the North Carolinian had any interest in receiving it. Instead, moving like quicksilver, the purple-clad beauty easily ducks under the proffered arm, and with a twist of her body and a hook of Ky's limb, executed a hiptoss that bounces the blonde on her aching derriere, which twists her deceptively cherubic features into a mask of pure pain.
Given no time to even think about recovering, Kylie finds one hand grasping her short locks at the scalp, another slipping between her shorts and her skin, finding the recently glimpsed thong, and giving it a sharp tug upward, which makes the Hawkeye honey quite pliable for getting back up to her feet. Her handholds also allow Mitchell to guide her opponent to the ropes in order to slam her face into the mesh, then drag it across the cage, painfully mashing and distorting Kylie's features against the unyielding steel. "When I'm through with you," the brunette snarls grimly, "whatever I do to your face will be an improvement!" Sanders lets out a "meep" of fearful concern at these words.
But she also delivers a desperate blind elbow that finds Cynthia’s jaw. Feeling the collision and the loosening of Mitchell’s grip, Sanders follows with another and another until she’s freed from the Carolina native’s ‘bar bouncer’ grasp.
Kylie turns to face her foe and finds Cyn wielding a right-handed clubbing blow toward her cranium. Sanders ducks while throwing an arm across the chest of the brunette, wrapping it around Mitchell’s neck, locking down. Connected, Kylie throws her weight backward and delivers a flatliner sending the Carolina Hurricane’s face CRASHING into the cage wall.
Cage Flatliner (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iDrG8__0TAY )
The crowd groans in sympathy as Mitchell melts to her haunches in a daze. Behind her, Chill slowly climbs to her feet and surveys.
“You were saying, bytch,” Kylie growls, pushing her boot sole into the back of Mitchell’s skull to bang Cynthia’s forehead into the chain link then pressing it tight, the battling brunette’s face flushing, her features twisted in pain.
After a dozen seconds, Sanders relents, dropping her boot to the canvas and pulling Mitchell back toward the middle where she scoops the bewildered brunette onto her right shoulder and plants her into the mat with a body slam. But the move is only the precursor, as Vanilla Chill moves to a standing straddle of the downed Hellion and leaps in the air above her foe, DRIVING her boots into Mitchell’s bosom. The Platinum Pixie flattens Cyn’s gurls then maliciously grinds the boot leather into the tender tissue and the thin spandex covering them.
Feeling like the initial storm is passed, Kylie takes a triumphant stroll around the aching Mitchell, landing a stomp to Cyn’s right shoulder when Mitchell tries to sit up. Her revolution complete, Kylie sends a punt to Cynthia’s ribs to convince her foe being on her chest is preferable and it’s then Kylie jumps into a reverse straddle of Mitchell’s back.
Lifting a curved right hand high, the crowd can’t help but reflexively call out “FARM…HAND” from Sanders’ more popular days and Chill applies the infamous hammy clamp, sinking her digits into the nerve bundle just where Cynthia’s upper left thigh connects with her gluteus. Mitchell yips in pain as Ky digs in, pressing left hand stop the clawing right.
Castle’s voice from the PA asks if Mitchell wants to give in. She offers an emphatic shake of her head while biting her lower lip and clenching her lids.
“You sure?” Ky asks, forcing her ‘massage’ of Mitchell’s thigh even deeper, the limb starting to spasm from Sanders’ unique and expert technique.
When the response from the Carolina Hurricane is an expletive-filled negative, the Hawkeye shrugs, removing her grip and pounding a couple punches into the searing muscle.
Sanders gives Cyn’s backside a retaliatory smack and pushes to her feet. She looks up at the 12-foot wall, a two-foot wide row of scaffolding at the top to make for a more dramatic transition to the opposite side then down at the fidgeting Cynthia, working at her deadened left leg with both hands. Ky’s hazel eyes turn toward the door and Chill decides a win is a win.
The Platinum Pixie strides to the exit and collects the padlock in her hands. She starts twisting the handle to reach the required numbers when she feels a tug on her ankle. Having crawled after her opponent, Mitchell latches onto Sanders, distracting her if not accomplishing much else.
Dropping her grip on the lock, Chill instead sinks her digits into the lush dark locks of her longtime rival. She yanks Cynthia to her feet and, with Mitchell facing her, she dips her silvery bob between the still rubbery stems of Mitchell. Wrapping her arms around Cynthia’s thighs, Sanders grunts as she elevates her foe. Half of the risen brunette is draped down Chill’s back and Ky allows gravity to do the rest. She drops top her derriere, pounding Cynthia’s head and chest into the deck with her Iowa Waterwheel.
Iowa Waterwheel (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L78bbjcEtWw )
Cynthia absently flops to her back and a kneeling Sanders plucks a leg off the deck. She slips her head into the pit of Mitchell’s left knee and pivots the brunette to her chest while moving perpendicular to her rival, Vanilla’s Chill Out secured.
Chill Out (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVtOcOoAjCA )
The Stretch Muffler viciously works Mitchell’s already tender left leg and when the Platinum Pixie snatches her foe’s left arm, the Hawkeye ingeniously increases the stress points on her submission.
Cynthia howls in pain, with the Farm Hand preceding her lower limb being ’chilled’, the agony seems unbearable, but somehow the Carolina Hurricane bears it, screaming out a “NO” when Castle gets on the PA and asks if she wants to surrender.
The frustrated Sanders works her stretch another half-dozen seconds, trying to change her foe’s mind but the stubborn second-generation superstar refuses to give in and Kylie pulls her head from the crease, lifts Cyn’s limb as she rises and SLAMS Mitchell’s left knee into the deck.
Kylie swipes her fingers through her platinum pixie cut, staring down at the Hellion, her face flushed, apparently unsure if she’ll be able to make Cynthia quit. With Mitchell balled, protecting her throbbing limb, Sanders pumps stomp after stomp into the leg as best she’s able then walks determinedly to the door, mouthing the three numbers making up the combination.
Reaching her destination, Kylie twirls the face of the lock to reach each numeral. She tries to open but the lock doesn’t come undone. Sanders shrieks in exasperation and starts over. This time the bolt slips free from its mooring and she twists it loose of either end of the chain.
A beaming Kylie grandly tosses the lock away ‘breaking’ the chain, each end spreading wide from the other. The Platinum Pixie slips through the ropes and reaches for the handle of the door when a set of nails sinks into her scalp.
“WHUUUH! NO! REF! HAIR!” Kylie pleads.
But Castle is left to motion it’s fair in this war.
Chill is anything but, wailing as a sneering Mitchell tugs her back through the ropes. Kylie’s ankles catch on the middle rope as she’s stretched out horizontal from the cable, Cynthia with a front facelock surrounding Kylie’s noggin.
While the Hellion makes both the FAWNatics and Sanders wait for the inevitable, Castle motions for an attendant to collect the lock and put it back in place since neither competitor is trying to depart, the door placed back in its initial state.
The baby blues of the Carolina Hurricane flash mischievously as Kylie squirms for an escape that only comes when Cynthia lays out and SPIKES Chill’s skull into the canvas with a rope-assisted DDT.
Rope-assisted DDT (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hpPAjMXM6lw )
Sanders’ head remains stuck in the canvas like the tip of a lawn dart for a second then the rest of Chill’s body fall flat to horizontal, Mitchell next to her foe, on her back, sighing deeply in satisfaction at pulling FAWN’s greatest traitor back from the brink of victory and leaving her splayed and semiconscious.
Both women lay side by side for what seems like an eternity, their chests rising and falling as they suck in air, their glazed eyes blinking up at the overhead lights. A near-deafening chant of "CYN-THI-A! CYN-THI-A! CYN-THI-A!" erupts from the thousands-strong crowd, and in response the Hellion begins to kick her right boot heel to the mat in rhythmic time.
Suddenly Mitchell sits up and rolls to her left, her arm bracing her up as her body threatens to teeter over again. Getting to all fours she crawls the short distance over to the ropes, and grasps the strands so as to use them to pull herself upright again. Back on her feet, she starts to head to the cage door, reeling in an unsteady progression until she finally reaches it. There, she takes the combination lock in her hands...and stares at it. First her eyes go wide as saucers, then narrowed into slits. As the seconds tick by, it becomes apparent to all that the Second Generation Superstar's noggin is still too punchy to be able to read the fine print of the dial numbers.
With this avenue of escape closed off to her, at least for now, Cynthia looks up at the looming cage wall. Then with the sound of a pained groan behind her, she cranes her head back over her shoulder to see the insidious Iowan beginning to stir, struggling to prop herself up on her elbows. But even as she does, Mitchell staggers back over to her and flattens her with a stomp to the bread basket, drawing a whoosh of air from the blonde.
Reaching down, the Hellion grabs Kylie by her wrists and lifts her upper body up 45 degrees from the canvas. She then places the sole of her boot against the pernicious pixie's chest and delivers a reverse curb stomp, the back of Chill's skull thudding against the thinly-sheathed plywood of the ring's floor.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=g-9SPKoDtSE
Satisfied that her rival will stay put, the brunette heads over to the wall of the cage, her fingers slipping between the links, the toes of her boots finding purchase, and she slowly begins to scale the side. Her own body feels like deadweight, the steel mesh pressing painfully into her fingers, but still she rises. She is halfway up the cage when she suddenly feels a hand grasping her left ankle; startled, she looks down to see the fiercely determined visage of Sanders making it's way up the side as well.
It's a thin line between love and hate, and those in attendance and around the world who once loved Kylie Sanders so unstintingly now, almost without exception, despise her for her treason to their affection. Nevertheless, the most fervent Kylie-hater cannot help but be impressed by how she drives herself, long past the point of exhaustion and endurance, to continue with the battle. It would be inspiring, were it not for the fact that virtually everyone in the arena wants to see her lose, and badly.
Cynthia halts her ascent as Sanders now climbs up alongside her. Each then releases a hand from the cage, balls her fist, and begins to pummel the other with punches to the face and head. They continue with this for several more moments until suddenly, as if on some silent cue only they can hear, they cease their blows and instead each uses her free hand to grasp the hair of the other at the back of her head, close to the scalp. Both then pull the other backward, before ruthlessly slamming each other's faces simultaneously into the steel cage.
The end result is predictable, as both battered beauties lose their holds on the mesh, and gravity works its magic, sending them both plummeting downward. Ordinarily being only about eight feet above the mat would mean a landing that, while uncomfortable, wouldn't be debilitating. However, that's only if one factors in the absence of an integral part of any wrestling ring: the ropes.
Their legs falling past the outside and inside of the ropes, they find their descent suddenly, jarringly halted by the top strand, with the steel cable wrapped in plastic tape slamming up into their tender womanhoods. The impact draws a cringing "OOOOOHHHHHH!" from the spectators. And there Kylie and Cynthia remain, facing one another, their hands clutching the top rope as they each ride it, their crotches grinding agonizingly into it with each bounce, their mouths agape and their eyes wide. No sounds other than high-pierced chirps escape their mouths.
The FAWN originals stare at each other through welling eyes, Kylie’s hazel and Cynthia’s blue. Out of spite, Chill bounces the top cable to cause Mitchell more pain seemingly forgetting she’ll be a beneficiary as well.
Kylie cries in anguish, quickly joined by Cyn from the added vibration of the rope.
“You moron,” the brunette yelps. “You’re just…”
Sanders interrupts with a stinging slap to Mitchell’s cheek. Cynthia responds in kind. Kylie ups the ante with a punch that spins the brunette’s noggin, but Cyn comes back with a response that not only does the same to the Hawkeye’s head but sends the blonde’s face RAMMING into the chain link with a nasty CLACK. The Hellion places pigeon-toed boots on the middle strand and stands as best she can, reaching for the nearby steel and curling her fingers around it.
Carefully, she dismounts the rope, getting all ‘spider monkey’ on the side of the cage. Maybe drunken spider monkey as a wincing Mitchell is slow to climb, plucking purple from amidst her undercarriage.
Still on her uncomfortable mount, Chill shakes out some extra cobwebs then is ‘awakened’ when the Hellion dips her boot under the cable and yanks upward, setting the rubber-coated steel into another brutal bounce that bites Kylie where it counts, her thin yellow-gold spandex no protection against the further abuse.
“AHHHHL KILL YOU,” Sanders sobs.
“Buh bye, loser,” Cynthia responds, turning her full attention to scaling the wall with a healthy head start.
It’s a slow process with the recent attacks sustained and, when a grimacing Chill raises her inner leg and pivots to chase, Mitchell has barely a body length in front. Sanders reaches for the brunette’s ankle but Cyn kicks free and continues her vertical march to the top.
Kylie turns to look down, makes some quick calculations, and after Cyn’s tail she goes, ascending behind the woman that seemed to always find a way to beat her. This would likely be the last chance saloon tonight. Mitchell had to end the night with the ‘L’ and a hell of an ‘L’.
Never accused of being among the top athletes in the organization, even in her prime, Kylie nevertheless shows her bulldog tenacity in closing the gap and she’s half-a-body length behind to Mitchell’s right when Cynthia wraps a palm around the scaffolding at the top.
The Carolina Hurricane tries to pull up the rest of the way but the Platinum Pixie is making a nuisance of herself, grasping at any piece of Mitchell she can find, mainly stretching out her foe’s spandex gear. Cynthia swivels her hips and heaves her way to a horizontal position on the two-foot wide walkway at the top. On her chest, a glance to her right and down shows a huffing Sanders, desperation showing in her frantic hazel peepers.
The blonde picks up her pace as Mitchell downs a couple deep breaths and balls a right fist to welcome Kylie to the penthouse and simultaneously send her plummeting to the outhouse.
Chill gets her armpits over when Cynthia fires at the flawless features of the Pleasant Valley Pariah. Sanders blocks with a raised forearm and before the Hellion can reload, Ky swings up her legs in the opposite direction. Each woman scrambles to kneel on the thin catwalk atop the cage. Their bodies SLAM together with a meaty thud, arms wrapping around the other in a skyscraping bearhug. Chins rest on shoulders as beads of sweat pour over the vaunted veterans, the crowd chanting “THIS…IS…AWESOME” from far below.
Both grapplers seem unprepared to let go, both in worry the other will make the floor first and perhaps more poetically that they’ll each be lessened with their final war over, no matter the winner and loser. The embrace on each side finally loosens and after a dozen seconds, blonde and brunette leaning against the other and nothing more.
Kylie initiates separation, carefully back tracking on her knees to build some space between them. But instead of swinging her boots over and heading down, Mitchell is in a low-speed chase, not wanting to give up her proximity to Vanilla Chill. They scoot their way to a corner, Ky backward and Cyn forward, where the right-angle meeting of one wall with another creates enough of a base for Sanders to feel comfortable standing, if crouched.
The FAWNatics roar with a mix of excitement and concern and the noise only grows when Mitchell, not about to be outdone when it comes to the drama of the moment cautiously rises to go eye-to-eye with the blonde.
“What you have in mind Vanilla Chump?” Mitchell asks.
“Making sure I never have to see you again, let alone wrestle you.”
Kylie starts to lower toward all fours, apparently wanting to climb down the corner of the cage. Cynthia bustles forward as quickly as she dares to halt the descent when Kylie changes course, surging toward Mitchell and swinging an arm through the ivory stems of the Carolina Hurricane.
And then gasps though the crowd as Kylie ‘hups’ Mitchell across her shoulders and straightens into a fireman’s carry, somehow keeping her balance with a wriggling, panicked Cynthia set for the Mother of all Chilly Valley Drivers to the canvas far below, Sanders presumably calculating a way of tossing the Hellion to Hades without taking the trip herself.
As the assembled gird themselves for the end of one and possibly two careers, Mitchell’s elbow pumps like a piston, CRACKING into Kylie’s right temple four, five, six times until finally Sanders collapses to hands and knees on the narrow catwalk on one side of the corner, Mitchell ending on her back side across the 90 degrees of the corner.
The hearts of both combatants are pumping nearly out of their chests and the spandex covering them. It’s Chill who recaptures her bearings and nerve first, crawling forward, reaching across the corner to grab an alabaster stem of the Carolina Hurricane so she can send her foe plummeting back within the cage.
But Cynthia shakes her limb free of the grip and, in so doing, sends an off-balance Kylie plopping forward, the blonde’s chin landing on Mitchell’s crotch. Reflexively, even in this otherworldly atmosphere, Cynthia’s legs clamp down around Kylie’s cranium. The brunette leans forward, snatching the left leg of her rival, first around the shin, then sliding her grip to an ankle then around the top of Kylie’s boot, continuing to add length to the reverse Crab-like grip. As Kylie turns her head, right cheek resting on the thin sheath covering Cynthia’s mound, she squirms for her freedom in the precarious heights and the FAWNatics leap to their feet as one, hardly believing their eyes. It’s a fucking Mortal Cyn.
Mortal Cyn (https://i.imgur.com/k4tEriy.jpg )
The Hellion cinches her figure-four scissors tighter and tighter, Kylie’s face turning rosy, Cynthia adding to her left-handed grip on Kylie’s left boot with a controlling right-handed grasp of Chill’s left bicep.
With the sky-high ‘Mortal’ locked across the corner of the catwalk, Kylie’s head is trapped on one side, her free leg lies on the other, her curled tummy and spinal column above nothing but air in between. There’s no worry of falling with a teeth-gritting Mitchell pouring on the pressure, locking Chill down, threatening to break the back of the Platinum Princess while pressurizing Sanders’ head and neck to the unbelievable proportions that once made both Kylie and Shea tap in the same simultaneous Mortal Cyn.
The “HOLY SHYT” chants grow in force at the celebrated submission being applied to the hated Chill twelve feet above the mat and more than fifteen above the floor on the outside. It’s a sight unrivalled in the crazy war the two waged throughout FAWN’s lifetime. Now, Cynthia demands Kylie’s unconditional surrender to bring the conflict to a close.
Mitchell increases the power in her scissors with a flex of her thighs.
“I can knock you out bytch,” the Hellion growls. “Leave you sleeping in the clouds while I ease down the cage. But I want to hear you say it. Once and for all time.”
Sanders shakes her head the very little she’s able.
“No,” she grunts weakly, the Mortal Cyn already working its magic, draining her, her vision dark and cloudy. “I won’t.”
A snarling Cynthia pulls the tip of Kylie’s toe to the crown of her silvery bob, Kylie shrieking in agony but suddenly muffled as Mitchell works her scissors a little higher from around chin and jaw to pressing against mouth, nose, cheeks and temples.
“SAY IT!” Mitchell shouts.
The Hellion lowers her scissors to reveal a greasy-faced, bleary-eyed Chill but even in her state, the burning pain forces Kylie to understand, the fear breaks through the daze and the Platinum Pixie taps Cynthia’s backside as she screams out.
“I SURRENDER!”
“And…” Mitchell encourages.
“YOU’RE THE BEST...”
“For how long?...”
“FOR EVER AND EVER!”
A beaming grin emerges on Cynthia’s features.
“See. Was that so hard?”
Mitchell loosens her scissors and lets the leg of the squealing Sanders flop next to its counterpart, a breathless sigh escaping Kylie’s lips along with a line of spittle from the demolished Chill.
“I daresay you’ve given me a cherry on the sundae of my career, farm girl. And for that I won’t toss you to the canvas.”
Mitchell carefully slips out from under the spent blonde. She sneaks her legs over the outside and slowly, judiciously descends, dropping the last few feet to the floor. The toll of the bell and the roar of the FAWNatics are simultaneous while a depleted and defeated Kylie lies expended, suspended and sobbing, realizing her white whale would swim away with every bit of the glory she should have had.
The announcer rubs salt in the wounds with his announcement.
“Your winner…by submission…Belle’s Hellion…CYNTHIA MITCHELL!”
The Carolina Hurricane pumps a fist then points at Kylie’s carcass high and slack in the sky.
“Get your pictures boys and girls!” she shouts toward the nearest lens. “Of a wrestling star and the little girl who wanted to be one but became a fraud instead!”
Cynthia moves inches from the hand-held.
“Ivy girl. Pull out your Daisy Dukes we’re gonna party country-style tonight!”