Post by dsb on Oct 19, 2018 22:18:19 GMT
Although they’d yet to be so heavily on the radar as to be subpoenaed by Robert Mueller, Collusion still gained enough momentum in the tag ranks to garner an unexpected opportunity at the gold in the biggest show on the FAWN calendar.
The invitation was in no small part due to the way they’d blasted past Riul Kanes, but perhaps Bethany might’ve gotten a little nudge from the Cheeto-in chief to place the bosom buddies from Russia and Buffalo in the highest profile tag match of the year.
The crowd waits, ready to let their feelings known regarding the Fox&Friendly blonde and her Putinista. Finally the arena’s speakers spark to life with the pounding of “America, Fuck Yeah” from Team America World Police, the crowd brought to life as with shock therapy.
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7R5A0pg4oN8 )
Blue America’s least favorite, little blonde antagonist strides to center stage. Beside her is the woman she’d introduced to the big time and who now stands poised to become a champion, Kira Koslova. The rooskie rookie is no destroyer-class redhead, though the vertically-challenged Lockwood makes her appear in that general direction.
Polly Lockwood
Kira Koslova
A few scattered ‘Polly Patriots’ shoot to their feet in delight despite her new cozy relationship with the Russian. The few and the proud salute her and her anthem crisply. The majority of the crowd make themselves known in a completely different fashion, raining a cascade of boos toward the obnoxious Trumpeter and her comrade.
The flaxen-haired hardbody brings a salute to her brow to signal her troops then lets the snowflakes know what she thinks of them by fashioning the knife-edge into a salute of the middle finger variety.
The Ugly American is in her battle fatigues, Polly proudly sporting her customary hot pants and bikini top. Lockwood alternates her country’s colors between a shiny, eye catching blue topside, white stars prominently placed in the appropriate spots; and shimmering red and white-striped spandex below, the space age polymer barely covering her biscuit butt. She finishes the ensemble with gleaming white pads and boots.
The ‘True American’ has her customary cape, Old Glory draped over her shoulders as a cloak.
Lockwood turns and accepts her new partner in a literal Russian bear hug. As the crowd’s jeers rise in volume, the duo separate and start down the ramp to their next and biggest challenge.
Kira throws off a full length grey fur coat and white wool hat to reveal a simple red one piece, with one unusual aspect — a cutout pattern displaying a portion of Kira’s tanned, toned abdomen in the form of a hammer and sickle, Koslova ready to embrace her roots even more forcefully than her hero, President Vlad. White pads and boots, the footwear with red hammer-and-sickles, complete the rookie’s attire.
Arm in arm, the international team march confidently to the ring, Polly occasionally jawing with the fans, who obviously have watched too much CNN, while Koslova is a picture of former Soviet stoicism, ignoring the free-flowing hate emanating from the FAWNatics.
Reaching the ring, an excited Lockwood seems particularly energized next to her powerful ally, bouncing with nervous energy, throwing insults at the proletariat.
The rookie leads her veteran teammate up the steps as the announcer makes the introduction official.
“Our next match is scheduled for one fall with a 30-minute time limit and is for the FAWN Tag Team Championships. Hailing from Buffalo, New York and St. Petersburg, Russia, respectively, at a combined weight of two hundred and forty pounds…Polly Lockwood and Kira Koslova, together they are COLLUSION!”
Anyone expecting the blonde to demand her less experienced partner widen the ropes for her entry is caught off guard when Polly is deferential to her comrade. Sitting on the middle cable, she pushes up the top for Koslova, who enters and claims the middle of the ring.
Polly, with microphone in hand, quickly joins her partner.
“Shut your mouths!” she shouts. They don’t.
“I’ve read what you’ve been saying about Kira and I on social media. That somehow our glorious leader maneuvered Bethany Christian into giving us a undeserved shot at the belts? FAKE F’N NEWS!”
The assembled don’t seem to agree, burying the duo in deluge of disparagement.
“You will see a tag title victory the likes of which has never been seen,” Polly continues. “We are your heroes and soon champions and none of you sad sacks and bleeding hearts can do one damn thing to stop it.”
Her monologue delivered, the Star-Spangled Bytch tosses the stick aside with a CLUNK, and moves to her corner, Koslova covering the True American’s bubblicious backside. The unindicted co-conspirators turn their heads to the upper stage in anticipation of the champions’ arrival.
Save for the lights hung directly over the ring, the FAWN Arena is plunged into darkness. Suddenly, a somber bell tolls.
BONG…
BONG…
BONG…
Then a serpentine guitar riff fills the air, as three spotlights suddenly race around the vast arena, dancing upon the faces of the crowd until they suddenly converge at the top of the ramp. As AC/DC’s “Hell’s Bells” battles for aural supremacy against the approving roar of the throng, the curtain tears open, and out step Ivy Armstrong and Cynthia Mitchell.
Ivy Armstrong
Cynthia Mitchell
“AND INTRODUCING NEXT…FROM URIAH, ALABAMA AND CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA, RESPECTIVELY…THEY ARE IVY ARMSTRONG AND CYNTHIA MITCHELL...THE FAWN TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS…BELLLLLLLLLE’S HELLLLLLLLLIONS!”
What had been a buzz amongst the crowd ramps up to the roar of a jet engine in a heartbeat, as the arena explodes. Few wrestlers could claim to be the 'faces of FAWN' more than these second generation superstars, both founding members of the league. Between them they had held more gold than any ten other wrestlers could ever hope to acquire. And tonight, they brandish their current acquisitions, as matching belt of leather and gold adorn their waists. They are garbed in what had become their traditional team wear: Armstrong wears a satin, lycra and lace bustier, red with black trim, along with black lace panties. Her hands wear fingerless black lace gloves, and for the walk down to the ring, she wears black stiletto heels. Her fiery hair, which usually hangs wild and loose, is now teased up in a manner that suggests both sophistication and tempestuousness.
Each also has a hand on a wooden staff held between them, upon which flutters a very large American flag. The message to Polly is made plain: WE are the real patriots, comrade.
Always the more gregarious of the two, Armstrong merrily slaps at many of the outstretched hands with her free hand. Mitchell exhibits more of a seeming aloofness from the crowd…but one look at the swivel of her hips makes it abundantly clear that she’s giving them a show they won’t soon forget.
It is instantly noted that the Hellions are minus their Belle; their manager, Belle Butler, is tied up elsewhere tonight, but her girls (biological with Ivy, spiritual with Cyn) are confident they'll do find without her tonight. As Collusion has no manager of their own, there's no one at ringside whom Belle will need to keep honest during the bout.
Reaching the steps, the Hellions respectfully hand the flag off to an attendant, both giving it a salute, then they scale the stairs up to the ring apron. There, Cynthia bends forward at the waist and sloooooooowly steps between the ropes, giving many of the fans a good, long and much-appreciated gander at what is quite possibly the most celebrated derriere in FAWN. Then Ivy enters the ring in her typically flamboyant way; facing the audience, she grabs the top cable with both hands and flips backward, making a leisurely graceful arc, her magnificent gams on full display.
Now, both wrestlers step out of the heels and an attendant takes them to the timekeeper's table. Reverently, the duo then unhook and remove their belts, holding them high above their heads so that the fans can get a good look at them, and then both turning to face their opponents as she clutch the straps close to their chests, smiling at Collusion in such a way as to say, 'These are ours, and you'll never get them'. The challengers scowl in return. The Champs then hand the belts to the referee.
Spotting the battalion of photographers massed on one side of the ring, the Hellions strike a pose: Cyn drops to one knee and flexes her arms, while Ivy slinks up behind her and seductively draws her hands across her partner’s shoulders, both giving smoldering ‘come hither’ gazes. The cameras flash for several seconds, and then the Hellions break the pose and Mitchell rises to her feet. Facing one another, they both raise their arms and slap their palms together, sharing cocky grins.
And who could blame them for their self-assuredness? Had they not proven themselves, collectively and individually, a thousand nights before this? And their adversaries, for all of their talents, couldn't possibly be as finely tuned a machine as are the Hellions. Both Armstrong and Mitchell know themselves to be at their absolute peaks. They came into this ring as the titleholders, and beyond a shadow of a doubt in their minds, they'll leave exactly the same way.
And now these visions from Dixie settle, like caged lionesses anxious for release, in their corner, awaiting the call for battle to be sounded.
The vertically challenged blonde directs her Russian counterpart to slide through the ropes and Koslova abides, Lockwood ready to bring the hellfire only a True American could. These so-called champions would melt under the heat and all the Hellions could do now is decide which witch would burn.
Polly motions both women forward. The titleholders huddle instead, discussing who would lead off their next successful defense. After a moment, it’s the Bama Slamma who steps toward the center, Cynthia taking her place on the outside, grabbing the tag rope and cheering on her longtime partner.
Ivy reaches the middle of the ring while Polly takes no more than a single step forward before the little hardbody turns on a heel and quickly shuffles to Kira, tagging in the St. Petersburg native.
“Go get her,” the Fox&Friendly blonde commands.
The Russian redhead slips through the ropes stoically as the crowd jeers the cowardly Polly, Lockwood departing and taking her cheerleader position. Koslova circles out of her corner and the auburn-haired beauties come together, slowly but surely, meeting in the middle with a collar-and-elbow tie-up that Ivy quickly transitions to a side headlock, grinding away roughly on the captured noggin of the Russian.
Kira’s hands move to the hips of Southern Justice and she shoves Ivy off with a heave, Armstrong sent racing to the ropes in front of her. Ivy barrels into the cables full speed and returns, roaring into a shoulder block of Polly’s comrade. The force of the redheaded collision is fierce and both women are driven back a couple steps, ultimately keeping their feet and balance.
Armstrong motions for Koslova to give it a try and Kira takes the opportunity, turning and sprinting into the strands. She rebounds at full speed, racing at the Hellion, dipping a shoulder. Just prior to the impact, Ivy flops to the canvas, her legs wrapping around Kira’s ankles. She levels the Russian face first into the deck with a precise drop toe hold.
Kira’s hands fly to her beak, checking if she has a new crease in her proboscis and while she’s busy doing so, Armstrong rises and elevates above her foe, DROPPING a big elbow across the back of the challenger’s cranium, again thrusting Kira’s face into the canvas. A dazed Koslova rolls to her back, but the second-generation superstar concludes it’s too early to go for a pin. Instead, she sinks her ruby-tipped nails into Koslova’s auburn locks and yanks the reeling Russian to her feet.
A frustrated Lockwood shouts at Kira to break free and pound the ginger hick into dirt. A smirking Ivy, amused by Polly’s demands, delivers a stiff European Uppercut under Kira’s chin that straightens the colluder, putting Koslova on her heels, crystal blue eyes glassy. Armstrong turns to the Star-Spangled Bytch.
“You see this?” Ivy asks. “This is what a REAL American does with a Russian. We damn well teach’em who’s boss.”
The Bama Slamma turns back to Kira, but finds Polly’s partner locked and loaded, Koslova delivering a similar Uppercut that seems to have twice the power from Ivy’s reaction. The Southern-fried redhead staggers to the ropes behind her, the cables likely the only thing keeping her vertical. She bounces in a drunken stumble back toward the waiting Rooskie who brings a Discus Lariat that nearly decapitates the ivory-skinned Slamma, Ivy turned inside out, Armstrong ending flat on her face and chest after a wicked backflip to the deck. Even Cynthia grimaces at the sight of the demolished Ivy. Polly nods knowingly and stretches out her arm.
“I got this,” Lockwood informs and Koslova beats a path to her good Yankee friend, offering her palm.
President Trump’s 8th District Appellate Court nominee slaps it and bounds through the ropes, hustling toward Armstrong, reaching Ivy when the champ gets to all fours. Polly punts Armstrong in the ribs, sending the redhead barrel rolling to her back, hugging her middle. The Pernicious Patriot moves to a standing straddle of the downed Dirtiest Player and leaps. Gravity does its work and the Bytch from Buffalo mushroom stomps Ivy’s gurls, her left bosom threatening to pop free from its confinement before settling in place behind its covering.
The wincing Armstrong yips in pain when Lockwood grinds her boot soles into the thinly-sheathed, tender tissue, Polly looking down at the veteran grappler with disdain. Lockwood points to Kira.
“That wonderful AND legal immigrant has more love for this country than all the people in Alabama, has-been.”
Polly hops off her bosomy perch, throwing her abbreviated stems out in front of her. Lockwood’s taut, little bubble-butt DRIVES into Ivy’s gut, jackknifing the champion beneath the Fox&Friendly blonde. With a groan, the Slamma recedes to horizontal, Polly draping her lower limbs over Ivy’s shoulders for the…
ONE…
TWO…
The second-generation superstar kicks out with a second to spare, the True American sent tumbling onto her left shoulder. The diminutive hardbody scrambles to her feet and snatches Ivy’s long fiery locks with both hands, ripping Armstrong to her knees, before guiding a nasty kneelift to Ivy’s chin, snapping the champ’s head back violently. Armstrong settles on her haunches with the help of the blonde’s remaining five buried fingers.
Polly turns to Cynthia and offers a set of the patriot’s puckered lips.
“Kiss your gold goodbye, bytch,” Polly assures, then turns to the FAWNatics. “This dinosaur’s going to the tar pits.”
The diminutive hardbody tugs the reeling Ivy to her feet. Showing the power she packs into 61 inches, Lockwood dips and scoops Armstrong onto a shoulder and SLAMS her foe into the canvas. The redhead arches from the force of the impact and settles into a single file of Bama goodness.
Moving to the nearest corner, the True American ascends the buckles and looks out on the traitorous masses.
“MAGA forever, losers,” she shouts, then vaults high into a graceful backflip, soaring then plummeting toward the open target of Ivy’s belly. The FAWN original has other ideas. Armstrong draws her knees up and Polly is gutted by the fateful landing, her abs demolished by the bony joints of the Slamma.
Retching as she hugs her blasted tummy, Polly rolls away from the collision, ending on her back and swaying softly from side to side. Ivy isn’t a lot better, but she’s able to get to hands and knees and crawl toward her rested and ready colleague. Ivy dives and tickles the fingers of Mitchell.
Like she’s shot out of a cannon, Cynthia vaults over the ropes and races toward a rising Lockwood. She grabs the skull of the woozy blonde as she flies by and wastes no time in bringing the Carolina Blues to the Ugly American, Polly’s forehead SPIKED into the deck in brutal fashion.
Carolina Blues (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4tXjmTPxmUo )
Lockwood flops into a wide spreadeagle next to the amped Mitchell and Cynthia reflexively covers with a tight crossbody, going for the pin on her first move and getting…
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOO!
Polly manages to throw a shoulder up, if not terribly convincingly. She limply rolls to her side while Kira makes some demands of her own.
“You come…NOW!” she shouts, but Lockwood isn’t in a condition to comply and Cynthia isn’t about to let her.
Armstrong rolls under the ropes and assumes her position on the apron, leaving it to her partner to sweep up the trash in the ring. Mitchell intends to do just that as she climbs back up to her feet, pulling the mewling All-American up by her golden locks. One Irish whip later, and Polly is propelled across the length of the ring toward the cables on the opposite end, even as Cynthia dashes after her, then leaps up into the air, aiming a dropkick that has enough mule power behind it to send Lockwood sailing over the top rope and to the arena floor below.
Or rather it would have, if the blonde Colluder hadn't managed to rouse enough presence of mind to grasp the top strand with her arms as she flew into it, halting her rebound. That left the airborne Hellion with naught to hit but air, and caused her to land...crash, more specifically...with a painfully awkward thud to the thinly-covered plywood floor of the ring. For a long moment, Polly appears ready to go on the attack, despite her bedraggled condition. But the voice of her partner cuts sharply thought the air..."TAG!"...and the blonde abdicates any plans for revenge. Limping over to her corner, she high fives Koslova, and the Russian exchanges places with her.
With a groan, Cynthia starts to push herself up off of the canvas, and she can almost pick out the sound of her partner's voice calling out amidst the roar of the crowd. What's she saying? 'Cookout'? Why would she be talking about having a BBQ now?
A half-tick later, it occurs to the brunette that what she heard was in fact 'Look out'. She discovers just why a nano-second later, as the knee of her adversary smashes into the side of her skull, sending the American flopping back down to the mat, clutching her cranium to try and contain the big bang eruption of stars currently filling her gray matter. But she's given none of the precious time needed to recoup her senses, as her oligarchic opponent seizes her hair and hauls her up to a seated position. The sultry Soviet savant then drops to one knee behind the American and presses the palms of her hands to both of Cynthia's temples. Kira then begins to press her hands inward, crushing her victim's head with a vise hold, the muscles of the Russian's arms tensing like steel cords. Mitchell yowls as the painful pressure continues to ratchet up, her hands pawing ineffectually at those of her oppressor. Then come the words that more painfully than any hold could.
"Weak. Pathetic. A failure," Koslova sneers, venom dripping from her Leninist lips. "Precisely as your mother said."
"Wh-what...did you...say?" Cyn croaks out.
"You think we did not prepare for this match, physically and psychologically? We sought out your flaws, and your mother was most willing to share her observations. In Russia, we honor our mothers, but you, little devushka, you have betrayed and dismayed yours."
"Th-that's...not...true!" the brunette says with a defiance that can't masquerade the fact that it's spoken in a whimper.
"Ah, but it is," Kira replies, pressing her palms ever-harder. "And your mother asked me to give you a message. She said, 'Cynthia, you are my biggest disappointment.'"
From her corner, Ivy can't hear what her partner and the Russian are saying to one another, but she can most certainly read the look in Cyn's eyes, and she knows that some severe head games are being played on the brunette...and not just the brain case-crushing kind. Slipping between the ropes, Armstrong begins to rush over to make the save, but the referee sees her and jumps in her way, brusquely forcing her back out of the ring. Kira glances over to see the redhead's cavalry charge thwarted, and she gives an icy smirk. She then elects to release her vise hold, raises her right arm up, and drives an elbow smash into Mitchell's forehead, further stunning the Hellion. She then stands up, hair hauling Cyn up on wobbly legs, and says coolly, "And this is my message to you: dosvedanya, suka!"
The chestnut-tressed Hellion suddenly finds herself Irish whipped into the ropes; rebounding off of them, she stumbles haplessly back toward her adversary, only to be snared in the Russians arms for a sleeper hold. Mitchell's arms windmill as the bloodflow to her brain is restricted. From the Collusion corner, Lockwood claps and cheers her partner, then turns to the crowd and commands them to do likewise. "Come on, you bunch of beer belly hicks and welfare queens, give it up for a true champion!" And in the opposite corner, Ivy Armstrong's eyes go wide as saucers, and she starts to scream herself raw, yelling words of encouragement to her fellow title holder.
Cynthia's eyes start to flutter, and her arms grow sluggish, then drop to her sides. The referee takes her right wrist, lifts the limb, and let's it drop. He lifts it again with the same result. The arm is lifted a third time, except now when the official releases it, it drops only a few inches before, trembling, it rises up again, joined by the other arm. Kira is perplexed, not certain how her victim is still able to resist, and her face betrays her bafflement. A moment later, Mitchell reaches back with her hands and roughly grabs her tormentor's mane close to the roots.
A heartbeat later, Cynthia suddenly drops to the mat, landing on her butt as she pulls the startled Russian down with her. Koslova's chin cracks down hard onto the brunette's left shoulder, snapping her head back and sending the Colluder sprawling onto her back, stunned. Cyn flops to her side, unmoving for several long moments, until finally she rolls over onto her stomach and begins to slowly drag herself across the canvas toward her partner. In the other corner, Polly is apoplectic, shrieking for Kira to get up, for the ref to disqualify, Mitchell, and for the fans to shut their damned mouths.
While the second-generation superstar crawls on all fours toward her long-time partner’s extended hand, Koslova’s partially propped herself with one palm and massages her jaw with the other, flexing her mandible simultaenously. Lockwood screams at her fellow colluder to exchange positions. The Russian redhead rattles her braincase to clear her gray matter and spins on a hip to hands and knees, headed in the opposite direction of the brunette.
Polly stands on the bottom rope and stretches her palm toward her comrade. The crowd is going wackadoodle, spurring Cynthia on with their ovation as best they can. Mitchell has the head start but Kira’s closer to her target and the circumstances combine to make the transfer of power to Ivy and Polly nearly simultaneous.
Armstrong has a half-second advantage and is through the ropes while the little blonde hardbody shoots between the cables a moment later. The Star-Spangled Bytch charges at Ivy, but the Bama Slamma is already zeroing in with right arm drawn. The auburn-haired champion knocks Lockwood flat with a clothesline. The True American is quick to scramble to her feet but she’s levelled again by a spinning Armstrong and her second scythe-like swing. The rattled challenger is up, though a little more slowly. She turns to Ivy and is gutted with a toe kick to her tanned tummy.
With Polly wide-eyed and gasping, the doubled ‘patriot’ frozen in place, Armstrong turns, reaching over her right shoulder with both hands. She collects the blonde in a ¾ facelock and sits out, delivering a signature SoCo Stunner to Trump’s Sixth Appellate Court nominee. Ivy’s perfectly executed maneuver sends Polly flying from the impact, the red-white-and-blue-clad brat CRASHING to the canvas, ending splayed and unmoving.
SoCo Stunner (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ysvpoIjCs9I )
Belle’s little girl scrambles to a lateral press across the gobsmacked Trumpeter, hooking a leg and rolling Lockwood into a tight ball, stacked on her shoulders for the…
ONE…
TWO…
The challenger kicks her way out of the predicament, landing on her side, glaze over her eyes. Armstrong’s emerald peepers are far livelier as they seek out the ref then grow steely when she sees only two fingers raised.
The Wild-Eyed Southern Girl doesn’t take long to put it behind her. When Lockwood pushes to a seated position, Ivy strikes. She grabs the blonde’s left arm and mounts it. Armstrong expertly rotates her body to bring the Pernicious Patriot down to her chest with the limb still in her possession. The redhead snatches Polly’s left leg and brings wrist and ankle together in an agonizing angle. Ivy completes her Trellis, wrapping her arms around both joints and stretching limbs and abs in her ingenious submission.
Ivy Trellis (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RTRseK6gQdg ) @00:15
As the FAWNatics chant for Lockwood to ‘TAP…TAP…TAP’ for several long seconds, the captured Fox&Friendly blonde shakes her head violently.
Sensing a certain unwillingness to act reasonably, the champ releases her submission hold, rises and hovers over the mewling Polly, Lockwood calling out for her Russian savior.
Ivy points at the Collusion corner and the official’s eyes are naturally drawn. While a recovered, corner-bound Kira demands the Yankee come to her, Ivy snatches two handfuls of flaxen locks and fiercely RIPS Lockwood’s head from side to side with a sly grin, Armstrong’s reputation as being the Dirtiest Player in the Game solidified, at least the Dirtiest the fans adore.
When the zebra turns his eyes back to the action, the redhead ‘helps’ America’s Worst to her feet with a more legal grasp on the blonde’s left wrist. With Polly vertical, Ivy bends the limb back over her shoulder, clearing an open path to the tawny cleft of Polly’s pert bosom. The crowd roars in anticipation of Lockwood’s bloodpumper being bashed, Ivy loading up the clenched digits to do the job.
WHEN…Koslova sinks her right set of fingers into Ivy’s alabaster shoulder and spins the FAWN original to face her. Weapon already poised, Armstrong fires before the saucy Soviet can react and the Slamma’s Heart Punch THUMPS into Kira’s breastplate just to the left of dead center. The Russian’s eyes roll white, her powerful stems jellying.
Lockwood, her non-invasive heart surgery delayed by her partner, is up and grabs Ivy by a nape, twirling the auburn-haired Alabaman to face her. With Armstrong comes another defibrillator. Ivy PUMPS the encore fist home, balled fingers rock hard into the cleft of the blonde’s breasts. The Heart Punch is perfectly placed and Polly is dead on her feet, the stubborn challenger woozy and wobbling.
Ivy blows a soft breath on the face of the slobberknocked Lockwood and the vertically-challenged blonde timbers to her back, hitting the canvas and spreading into a starfish. Armstrong grabs a bicep on the still teetering form of Putin’s emissary and back elbows Koslova on the chin, making the challenger more semi than conscious.
Unlike her comrade, Koslova stiffens and keels forward instead of back. It’s an unfortunate occurrence for the partners, as it leads to the KGBeauty head butting Polly in her patriotic privates. The shocked Lockwood is resuscitated, shooting to a seated position, Kira’s face buried in her lap. The blonde’s hands dig beneath Koslova’s ill-placed face, Polly trying to massage away the throbbing pulses of pain as the FAWNatics delight in Ivy pulling off a classic calamity.
With a stunned Kira eating American Pie, a smirking Ivy strides to her long-time friend and tags Mitchell into the match. However, it’s instantly clear Armstrong isn’t about to leave. The Hellions return in force and pull Kira to vertical from the forced Muff Dive, Ivy and Cynthia each claiming a wrist. The duo aims the Russian at the far ropes and sends her off with a double Irish Whip.
Kira rebounds at full speed and meets the champs mid-ring. Armstrong and Mitchell dip at the perfect moment, each taking a leg and LAUNCHING Koslova into a skyscraping back body drop. Kira lands with a heavy THUD and the impact seems to waken the commie from her stupor, Koslova arching in pain from the spinal collision.
With one colluder occupied, the Hellions move to Polly, clamping onto Lockwood’s wrists, the Fox&Friendly blonde having remained busy trying to work through her aching undercarriage. They RIP the smaller challenger to her feet with the greatest of ease and double whip the Pernicious Patriot to the distant cables.
The Star-Spangled Bytch zooms back out of the ropes at full speed a double clothesline aimed for her clavicle from Ivy and Cynthia. The True American uses her short stature to her advantage, dipping under the joined hands of the champs, Lockwood racing into the opposite strands and u-turning toward the spinning titleholders.
Polly vaults into the air with a crossbody flight into the startled Hellions, but the size difference between one diminutive hardbody and two FAWN legends cannot be overcome.
Ivy and Cynthia, already having been given wide latitude by the official, who’s still only up to a belated FOUR, catch the maven of MAGA against their chests. With the crowd losing their shyt, together they send Lockwood flying with a double fallaway slam that POUNDS Polly into the deck, though the slippery little devil uses the momentum to barrel roll away from the landing. Lockwood rolls under the ropes and plops to a puddle on the arena floor, out of sight under the apron’s edge.
The Hellions raise both arms and share a double high five, and then Ivy saunters back to their corner and slips between the ropes. Cynthia balls her right fist and prowls up on Koslova with an eager smile on her lips, as the Russian struggles to get back up on her stems. But then the referee steps between the two and says, "Not her, Mitchell. They never made the tag, so the legal member of their team is Lockwood." The brunette scowls, irked that she's being denied this opportunity to give the rash and restless Russian a genuine U.S. of A beatdown, Carolina style. Well, at least she could content herself with administering the same to Kira's traitorous teammate.
Helping herself to the Russian's hair and wrist, the second generation stunner sends her on a trip to...and over...the ropes, and Koslova comes crashing down to the arena floor as swiftly as the Berlin Wall fell. That matter dealt with, the Hellion turns to locate her lawful adversary.
And out on the arena floor, the Kremlin's favorite American Sweetheart is woozily making the effort to get vertical again, grasping the ring apron to help pull herself up. She tilts her head up and through blurry eyes sees the menacing figure of Cynthia Mitchell starting to step between the ropes in order to come down and "help" her. A look of sheer panic clouds the blonde's face for a moment, but that moment passes as the ref grabs the Hellion by the arm and barks, "This match stays in the ring, Mitchell. Give her the chance to get back in." Miffed, Cyn briefly contemplates shrugging him off and going after Lockwood anyway, but weighs the risk of disqualification, and decides against it. She steps back away from the cables to give the Colluder her opportunity to return.
But it's an opportunity that Polly isn't about to rush to accept. Knowing she has a full count of twenty before she has to return to the ring, she paces back and forth on the floor, catching her breath, gathering her wits, and rallying her reserves of power. Frustrated by the delay, Mitchell growls, "Quit stalling and get back in here, or so help me I'll...". But she's cut off by Lockwood who, with a dismissive wave of her hand, snaps back, "The only thing that ever needs rushing is a Supreme Court confirmation. I'll get back in when I'm good and ready to kick your ass, snowflake!" Finally, as the official passes the point of "Nineteen", the harsh hardbody rolls into the ring under the bottom rope...and promptly rolls right back out again, thus triggering a second twenty count, and granting herself additional recovery time.
This is more than the exasperated Cynthia can take, and she jumps to the ropes and growls, "No more tricks, get up here now!" The ref steps up to her to warn her to move back from the ropes, and the brunette's head angrily whips toward him to argue the point. With the hellion's eyes no longer on her, the crafty Colluder makes her move.
Reaching under the strands, Lockwood firmly grasps Mitchell's left ankle and gives it a sharp tug, sending the startled Hellion crashing to her butt with a yelp. Polly then swiftly drags Cynthia by the leg over to the corner, and the blonde then grabs both of her adversary's ankles and yanks. The tag champ is pulled out of the ring...at least until the steel ring post between her thighs puts a sudden halt to her movement. Cyn gives a sharp cry as her Carolina flower is brutally wilted by the crushing pain of the pole. Lockwood tucks both of the brunette's legs under her arms and pulls back, first placing one foot against the side of the ring, and then the other, so that the blonde is virtually horizontal as she leans back, pulling the Hellion's tender groin ever-harder into the unyielding steel. From her own corner, Ivy screeches at the zebra to break the hold, but he is restricted to continuing his twenty count, which for the Hellions seems to drag on for eternity. As Cyn caterwauls in agony, Lockwood taunts her with, "Hey, that's a pretty good rendition of the Russian national anthem!" From the Collusion corner, Kira makes sport of Mitchell's anguish by giving a mock salute to her nation's "anthem".
Finally, as the ref nears the end of his count, Polly releases her hold. Cynthia instantly curls up into a fetal position, hands gingerly cupping her nether region, as the smirking blonde climbs back into the ring. "Now then", she sneers as she rises up over the quivering Mitchell, "I believe I was saying something about kicking your ass.”
Polly peels Mitchell off the canvas then dips and scoops Cynthia onto her right shoulder, the vertically challenged blonde showing off the power she could pack into five feet and one inch. The True American SLAMS Cyn into the deck, Mitchell arching in pain until a soccer kick to the brunette’s chin lays her out in a spreadeagle.
Lockwood moves to a standing forward straddle of the challenger and leaps off the deck. Her boots SQUASH Cynthia’s gurls, Polly mushroom stomping the chest of the second-generation superstar then grinding her shoe leather into the Carolina Cutie’s aching orbs.
Polly steps off the mewling Mitchell. She turns on a dime and sprints the few steps to the Hellion corner, NAILING Armstrong with an echoing SLAP across the cheek, the taste of hush puppies slapped clean out of Ivy’s mouth. Enraged, the furious redhead surges through the ropes and charges the backpedaling blonde, but the ref intercepts before the Slamma can mete out southern justice.
As the zebra drags Ivy back toward her station, a beaming Lockwood waves at Armstrong over the official’s shoulder. She sinks her nails into the reeling Cynthia and drags Mitchell up to her haunches where Cyn drives a fist into the Fox&Friendly blonde’s breadbasket. The Star Spangled Bytch groans as she’s doubled over then straightened when Cynthia pops an uppercut into her lowered chin, Lockwood’s arms pinwheeling to keep her upright.
Cynthia rises off her haunches to one knee, but the momentum is instantly nullified. Polly shoots forward, using Mitchell’s raised joint as a pedestal and CRASHES a Shining Wizard kick into Cyn’s left temple. The brunette timbers to the deck and Polly dives atop her for a cover, getting the…
ONE…
TWO…
THRENOOO!
Ivy, having taken advantage of the official’s turned back, races past and pounds a diving double axhandle between the shoulderblades of the Pernicious Patriot, breaking the count. The antagonized Armstrong RIPS Lockwood to her feet for some payback, but Polly gets her palms up and pushes the redhead off with a shove to her shoulders.
Armstrong staggers back no more than a step or two, but it’s enough for her to find Koslova. The Russian is late to the party but Polly is happy she has the invite. From Ivy’s six, the colluder snakes her arms around Armstrong’s neck, noggin and captured left arm, completing a cobra clutch.
Leaping and flipping with Ivy in her possession, Kira skillfully drags the Slamma to the canvas and secures a tight scissoring triangle choke, her Bear Trap sprung.
Bear Trap (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHPuTcDwZfk )
While Koslova works on a frantic, flailing Ivy, Polly slips outside the ropes, turns and grabs the top cable. She waits impatiently for a dazed Cynthia to rise like a liberal zombie needing to be taken down for the good of the country.
A wobbly Cynthia slowly turns, trying to find her foe. As she does, Lockwood pops to the uppermost strand and springboards off, bounding toward the wide-eyed brunette. Polly locks a front facelock around Mitchell’s braincase as she connects and twists to the left, laying out and SPIKING the crown of Cynthia’s skull into the canvas with her Polly Rocket.
Polly Rocket (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XKWI-rr-T7I )
The FAWNatics groan as one at the sight of the horrific, no doubt concussive collision, Mitchell flopping to her back, unconscious before she slides to a stop. Polly sits atop her chest in a reverse seat, collects both legs of the challenger, and leans back to roll Cyn into a lifeless ball for the…
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
Polly releases Cynthia’s leaden lower limbs and they flop to the deck. She sits atop the defeated Mitchell raising her tanned guns high. Next to her Ivy is tapping softly in Kira’s Bear Trap, the last sign of motion before falling limp in Koslova’s arms. The Russian roughly tosses Armstrong’s depleted body away like it’s the truth.
The Rooskie moves to the ropes and demands her booty, snatching the title belts away from an attendant. A revitalized Lockwood pops to her feet and DRIVES a boot into Cynthia’s crotch to unpleasantly wake Mitchell from her stupor though the brunette only groans halfway back to consciousness.
Lockwood leaves the Hellion to lie pitifully next to her snoozing partner and accepts a tag belt from her good friend from St. Petersburg. Polly envelops her comrade in a tight embrace, Koslova stiffly returning the hug.
They break and pose for the hard cam, each raising the inner arm of the other while their outside arms hold aloft the proof they are FAWN’s best tag team, making their successful case on the biggest night of the organization’s year.
With Kira apparently having given Lockwood a microphone during the handoff of the belt, the Fox&Friendly blonde lifts it to her lips.
“I told you! Never before in the history of this country has wrestling seen a tag team like this. The best without a doubt.”
The jeers from the crowd seem to show some disagreement, though there are a few Polly Patriots in the crowd.
“Believe me,” Lockwood interjects, perhaps hoping to halt the boos, “Kira and I are the most qualified leaders of this division you could ever ask for. I promise you will learn from your mistakes and understand how privileged you are to live in the time of Collusion.”
The invitation was in no small part due to the way they’d blasted past Riul Kanes, but perhaps Bethany might’ve gotten a little nudge from the Cheeto-in chief to place the bosom buddies from Russia and Buffalo in the highest profile tag match of the year.
The crowd waits, ready to let their feelings known regarding the Fox&Friendly blonde and her Putinista. Finally the arena’s speakers spark to life with the pounding of “America, Fuck Yeah” from Team America World Police, the crowd brought to life as with shock therapy.
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7R5A0pg4oN8 )
Blue America’s least favorite, little blonde antagonist strides to center stage. Beside her is the woman she’d introduced to the big time and who now stands poised to become a champion, Kira Koslova. The rooskie rookie is no destroyer-class redhead, though the vertically-challenged Lockwood makes her appear in that general direction.
Polly Lockwood
Kira Koslova
A few scattered ‘Polly Patriots’ shoot to their feet in delight despite her new cozy relationship with the Russian. The few and the proud salute her and her anthem crisply. The majority of the crowd make themselves known in a completely different fashion, raining a cascade of boos toward the obnoxious Trumpeter and her comrade.
The flaxen-haired hardbody brings a salute to her brow to signal her troops then lets the snowflakes know what she thinks of them by fashioning the knife-edge into a salute of the middle finger variety.
The Ugly American is in her battle fatigues, Polly proudly sporting her customary hot pants and bikini top. Lockwood alternates her country’s colors between a shiny, eye catching blue topside, white stars prominently placed in the appropriate spots; and shimmering red and white-striped spandex below, the space age polymer barely covering her biscuit butt. She finishes the ensemble with gleaming white pads and boots.
The ‘True American’ has her customary cape, Old Glory draped over her shoulders as a cloak.
Lockwood turns and accepts her new partner in a literal Russian bear hug. As the crowd’s jeers rise in volume, the duo separate and start down the ramp to their next and biggest challenge.
Kira throws off a full length grey fur coat and white wool hat to reveal a simple red one piece, with one unusual aspect — a cutout pattern displaying a portion of Kira’s tanned, toned abdomen in the form of a hammer and sickle, Koslova ready to embrace her roots even more forcefully than her hero, President Vlad. White pads and boots, the footwear with red hammer-and-sickles, complete the rookie’s attire.
Arm in arm, the international team march confidently to the ring, Polly occasionally jawing with the fans, who obviously have watched too much CNN, while Koslova is a picture of former Soviet stoicism, ignoring the free-flowing hate emanating from the FAWNatics.
Reaching the ring, an excited Lockwood seems particularly energized next to her powerful ally, bouncing with nervous energy, throwing insults at the proletariat.
The rookie leads her veteran teammate up the steps as the announcer makes the introduction official.
“Our next match is scheduled for one fall with a 30-minute time limit and is for the FAWN Tag Team Championships. Hailing from Buffalo, New York and St. Petersburg, Russia, respectively, at a combined weight of two hundred and forty pounds…Polly Lockwood and Kira Koslova, together they are COLLUSION!”
Anyone expecting the blonde to demand her less experienced partner widen the ropes for her entry is caught off guard when Polly is deferential to her comrade. Sitting on the middle cable, she pushes up the top for Koslova, who enters and claims the middle of the ring.
Polly, with microphone in hand, quickly joins her partner.
“Shut your mouths!” she shouts. They don’t.
“I’ve read what you’ve been saying about Kira and I on social media. That somehow our glorious leader maneuvered Bethany Christian into giving us a undeserved shot at the belts? FAKE F’N NEWS!”
The assembled don’t seem to agree, burying the duo in deluge of disparagement.
“You will see a tag title victory the likes of which has never been seen,” Polly continues. “We are your heroes and soon champions and none of you sad sacks and bleeding hearts can do one damn thing to stop it.”
Her monologue delivered, the Star-Spangled Bytch tosses the stick aside with a CLUNK, and moves to her corner, Koslova covering the True American’s bubblicious backside. The unindicted co-conspirators turn their heads to the upper stage in anticipation of the champions’ arrival.
Save for the lights hung directly over the ring, the FAWN Arena is plunged into darkness. Suddenly, a somber bell tolls.
BONG…
BONG…
BONG…
Then a serpentine guitar riff fills the air, as three spotlights suddenly race around the vast arena, dancing upon the faces of the crowd until they suddenly converge at the top of the ramp. As AC/DC’s “Hell’s Bells” battles for aural supremacy against the approving roar of the throng, the curtain tears open, and out step Ivy Armstrong and Cynthia Mitchell.
Ivy Armstrong
Cynthia Mitchell
“AND INTRODUCING NEXT…FROM URIAH, ALABAMA AND CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA, RESPECTIVELY…THEY ARE IVY ARMSTRONG AND CYNTHIA MITCHELL...THE FAWN TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS…BELLLLLLLLLE’S HELLLLLLLLLIONS!”
What had been a buzz amongst the crowd ramps up to the roar of a jet engine in a heartbeat, as the arena explodes. Few wrestlers could claim to be the 'faces of FAWN' more than these second generation superstars, both founding members of the league. Between them they had held more gold than any ten other wrestlers could ever hope to acquire. And tonight, they brandish their current acquisitions, as matching belt of leather and gold adorn their waists. They are garbed in what had become their traditional team wear: Armstrong wears a satin, lycra and lace bustier, red with black trim, along with black lace panties. Her hands wear fingerless black lace gloves, and for the walk down to the ring, she wears black stiletto heels. Her fiery hair, which usually hangs wild and loose, is now teased up in a manner that suggests both sophistication and tempestuousness.
Each also has a hand on a wooden staff held between them, upon which flutters a very large American flag. The message to Polly is made plain: WE are the real patriots, comrade.
Always the more gregarious of the two, Armstrong merrily slaps at many of the outstretched hands with her free hand. Mitchell exhibits more of a seeming aloofness from the crowd…but one look at the swivel of her hips makes it abundantly clear that she’s giving them a show they won’t soon forget.
It is instantly noted that the Hellions are minus their Belle; their manager, Belle Butler, is tied up elsewhere tonight, but her girls (biological with Ivy, spiritual with Cyn) are confident they'll do find without her tonight. As Collusion has no manager of their own, there's no one at ringside whom Belle will need to keep honest during the bout.
Reaching the steps, the Hellions respectfully hand the flag off to an attendant, both giving it a salute, then they scale the stairs up to the ring apron. There, Cynthia bends forward at the waist and sloooooooowly steps between the ropes, giving many of the fans a good, long and much-appreciated gander at what is quite possibly the most celebrated derriere in FAWN. Then Ivy enters the ring in her typically flamboyant way; facing the audience, she grabs the top cable with both hands and flips backward, making a leisurely graceful arc, her magnificent gams on full display.
Now, both wrestlers step out of the heels and an attendant takes them to the timekeeper's table. Reverently, the duo then unhook and remove their belts, holding them high above their heads so that the fans can get a good look at them, and then both turning to face their opponents as she clutch the straps close to their chests, smiling at Collusion in such a way as to say, 'These are ours, and you'll never get them'. The challengers scowl in return. The Champs then hand the belts to the referee.
Spotting the battalion of photographers massed on one side of the ring, the Hellions strike a pose: Cyn drops to one knee and flexes her arms, while Ivy slinks up behind her and seductively draws her hands across her partner’s shoulders, both giving smoldering ‘come hither’ gazes. The cameras flash for several seconds, and then the Hellions break the pose and Mitchell rises to her feet. Facing one another, they both raise their arms and slap their palms together, sharing cocky grins.
And who could blame them for their self-assuredness? Had they not proven themselves, collectively and individually, a thousand nights before this? And their adversaries, for all of their talents, couldn't possibly be as finely tuned a machine as are the Hellions. Both Armstrong and Mitchell know themselves to be at their absolute peaks. They came into this ring as the titleholders, and beyond a shadow of a doubt in their minds, they'll leave exactly the same way.
And now these visions from Dixie settle, like caged lionesses anxious for release, in their corner, awaiting the call for battle to be sounded.
The vertically challenged blonde directs her Russian counterpart to slide through the ropes and Koslova abides, Lockwood ready to bring the hellfire only a True American could. These so-called champions would melt under the heat and all the Hellions could do now is decide which witch would burn.
Polly motions both women forward. The titleholders huddle instead, discussing who would lead off their next successful defense. After a moment, it’s the Bama Slamma who steps toward the center, Cynthia taking her place on the outside, grabbing the tag rope and cheering on her longtime partner.
Ivy reaches the middle of the ring while Polly takes no more than a single step forward before the little hardbody turns on a heel and quickly shuffles to Kira, tagging in the St. Petersburg native.
“Go get her,” the Fox&Friendly blonde commands.
The Russian redhead slips through the ropes stoically as the crowd jeers the cowardly Polly, Lockwood departing and taking her cheerleader position. Koslova circles out of her corner and the auburn-haired beauties come together, slowly but surely, meeting in the middle with a collar-and-elbow tie-up that Ivy quickly transitions to a side headlock, grinding away roughly on the captured noggin of the Russian.
Kira’s hands move to the hips of Southern Justice and she shoves Ivy off with a heave, Armstrong sent racing to the ropes in front of her. Ivy barrels into the cables full speed and returns, roaring into a shoulder block of Polly’s comrade. The force of the redheaded collision is fierce and both women are driven back a couple steps, ultimately keeping their feet and balance.
Armstrong motions for Koslova to give it a try and Kira takes the opportunity, turning and sprinting into the strands. She rebounds at full speed, racing at the Hellion, dipping a shoulder. Just prior to the impact, Ivy flops to the canvas, her legs wrapping around Kira’s ankles. She levels the Russian face first into the deck with a precise drop toe hold.
Kira’s hands fly to her beak, checking if she has a new crease in her proboscis and while she’s busy doing so, Armstrong rises and elevates above her foe, DROPPING a big elbow across the back of the challenger’s cranium, again thrusting Kira’s face into the canvas. A dazed Koslova rolls to her back, but the second-generation superstar concludes it’s too early to go for a pin. Instead, she sinks her ruby-tipped nails into Koslova’s auburn locks and yanks the reeling Russian to her feet.
A frustrated Lockwood shouts at Kira to break free and pound the ginger hick into dirt. A smirking Ivy, amused by Polly’s demands, delivers a stiff European Uppercut under Kira’s chin that straightens the colluder, putting Koslova on her heels, crystal blue eyes glassy. Armstrong turns to the Star-Spangled Bytch.
“You see this?” Ivy asks. “This is what a REAL American does with a Russian. We damn well teach’em who’s boss.”
The Bama Slamma turns back to Kira, but finds Polly’s partner locked and loaded, Koslova delivering a similar Uppercut that seems to have twice the power from Ivy’s reaction. The Southern-fried redhead staggers to the ropes behind her, the cables likely the only thing keeping her vertical. She bounces in a drunken stumble back toward the waiting Rooskie who brings a Discus Lariat that nearly decapitates the ivory-skinned Slamma, Ivy turned inside out, Armstrong ending flat on her face and chest after a wicked backflip to the deck. Even Cynthia grimaces at the sight of the demolished Ivy. Polly nods knowingly and stretches out her arm.
“I got this,” Lockwood informs and Koslova beats a path to her good Yankee friend, offering her palm.
President Trump’s 8th District Appellate Court nominee slaps it and bounds through the ropes, hustling toward Armstrong, reaching Ivy when the champ gets to all fours. Polly punts Armstrong in the ribs, sending the redhead barrel rolling to her back, hugging her middle. The Pernicious Patriot moves to a standing straddle of the downed Dirtiest Player and leaps. Gravity does its work and the Bytch from Buffalo mushroom stomps Ivy’s gurls, her left bosom threatening to pop free from its confinement before settling in place behind its covering.
The wincing Armstrong yips in pain when Lockwood grinds her boot soles into the thinly-sheathed, tender tissue, Polly looking down at the veteran grappler with disdain. Lockwood points to Kira.
“That wonderful AND legal immigrant has more love for this country than all the people in Alabama, has-been.”
Polly hops off her bosomy perch, throwing her abbreviated stems out in front of her. Lockwood’s taut, little bubble-butt DRIVES into Ivy’s gut, jackknifing the champion beneath the Fox&Friendly blonde. With a groan, the Slamma recedes to horizontal, Polly draping her lower limbs over Ivy’s shoulders for the…
ONE…
TWO…
The second-generation superstar kicks out with a second to spare, the True American sent tumbling onto her left shoulder. The diminutive hardbody scrambles to her feet and snatches Ivy’s long fiery locks with both hands, ripping Armstrong to her knees, before guiding a nasty kneelift to Ivy’s chin, snapping the champ’s head back violently. Armstrong settles on her haunches with the help of the blonde’s remaining five buried fingers.
Polly turns to Cynthia and offers a set of the patriot’s puckered lips.
“Kiss your gold goodbye, bytch,” Polly assures, then turns to the FAWNatics. “This dinosaur’s going to the tar pits.”
The diminutive hardbody tugs the reeling Ivy to her feet. Showing the power she packs into 61 inches, Lockwood dips and scoops Armstrong onto a shoulder and SLAMS her foe into the canvas. The redhead arches from the force of the impact and settles into a single file of Bama goodness.
Moving to the nearest corner, the True American ascends the buckles and looks out on the traitorous masses.
“MAGA forever, losers,” she shouts, then vaults high into a graceful backflip, soaring then plummeting toward the open target of Ivy’s belly. The FAWN original has other ideas. Armstrong draws her knees up and Polly is gutted by the fateful landing, her abs demolished by the bony joints of the Slamma.
Retching as she hugs her blasted tummy, Polly rolls away from the collision, ending on her back and swaying softly from side to side. Ivy isn’t a lot better, but she’s able to get to hands and knees and crawl toward her rested and ready colleague. Ivy dives and tickles the fingers of Mitchell.
Like she’s shot out of a cannon, Cynthia vaults over the ropes and races toward a rising Lockwood. She grabs the skull of the woozy blonde as she flies by and wastes no time in bringing the Carolina Blues to the Ugly American, Polly’s forehead SPIKED into the deck in brutal fashion.
Carolina Blues (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4tXjmTPxmUo )
Lockwood flops into a wide spreadeagle next to the amped Mitchell and Cynthia reflexively covers with a tight crossbody, going for the pin on her first move and getting…
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOO!
Polly manages to throw a shoulder up, if not terribly convincingly. She limply rolls to her side while Kira makes some demands of her own.
“You come…NOW!” she shouts, but Lockwood isn’t in a condition to comply and Cynthia isn’t about to let her.
Armstrong rolls under the ropes and assumes her position on the apron, leaving it to her partner to sweep up the trash in the ring. Mitchell intends to do just that as she climbs back up to her feet, pulling the mewling All-American up by her golden locks. One Irish whip later, and Polly is propelled across the length of the ring toward the cables on the opposite end, even as Cynthia dashes after her, then leaps up into the air, aiming a dropkick that has enough mule power behind it to send Lockwood sailing over the top rope and to the arena floor below.
Or rather it would have, if the blonde Colluder hadn't managed to rouse enough presence of mind to grasp the top strand with her arms as she flew into it, halting her rebound. That left the airborne Hellion with naught to hit but air, and caused her to land...crash, more specifically...with a painfully awkward thud to the thinly-covered plywood floor of the ring. For a long moment, Polly appears ready to go on the attack, despite her bedraggled condition. But the voice of her partner cuts sharply thought the air..."TAG!"...and the blonde abdicates any plans for revenge. Limping over to her corner, she high fives Koslova, and the Russian exchanges places with her.
With a groan, Cynthia starts to push herself up off of the canvas, and she can almost pick out the sound of her partner's voice calling out amidst the roar of the crowd. What's she saying? 'Cookout'? Why would she be talking about having a BBQ now?
A half-tick later, it occurs to the brunette that what she heard was in fact 'Look out'. She discovers just why a nano-second later, as the knee of her adversary smashes into the side of her skull, sending the American flopping back down to the mat, clutching her cranium to try and contain the big bang eruption of stars currently filling her gray matter. But she's given none of the precious time needed to recoup her senses, as her oligarchic opponent seizes her hair and hauls her up to a seated position. The sultry Soviet savant then drops to one knee behind the American and presses the palms of her hands to both of Cynthia's temples. Kira then begins to press her hands inward, crushing her victim's head with a vise hold, the muscles of the Russian's arms tensing like steel cords. Mitchell yowls as the painful pressure continues to ratchet up, her hands pawing ineffectually at those of her oppressor. Then come the words that more painfully than any hold could.
"Weak. Pathetic. A failure," Koslova sneers, venom dripping from her Leninist lips. "Precisely as your mother said."
"Wh-what...did you...say?" Cyn croaks out.
"You think we did not prepare for this match, physically and psychologically? We sought out your flaws, and your mother was most willing to share her observations. In Russia, we honor our mothers, but you, little devushka, you have betrayed and dismayed yours."
"Th-that's...not...true!" the brunette says with a defiance that can't masquerade the fact that it's spoken in a whimper.
"Ah, but it is," Kira replies, pressing her palms ever-harder. "And your mother asked me to give you a message. She said, 'Cynthia, you are my biggest disappointment.'"
From her corner, Ivy can't hear what her partner and the Russian are saying to one another, but she can most certainly read the look in Cyn's eyes, and she knows that some severe head games are being played on the brunette...and not just the brain case-crushing kind. Slipping between the ropes, Armstrong begins to rush over to make the save, but the referee sees her and jumps in her way, brusquely forcing her back out of the ring. Kira glances over to see the redhead's cavalry charge thwarted, and she gives an icy smirk. She then elects to release her vise hold, raises her right arm up, and drives an elbow smash into Mitchell's forehead, further stunning the Hellion. She then stands up, hair hauling Cyn up on wobbly legs, and says coolly, "And this is my message to you: dosvedanya, suka!"
The chestnut-tressed Hellion suddenly finds herself Irish whipped into the ropes; rebounding off of them, she stumbles haplessly back toward her adversary, only to be snared in the Russians arms for a sleeper hold. Mitchell's arms windmill as the bloodflow to her brain is restricted. From the Collusion corner, Lockwood claps and cheers her partner, then turns to the crowd and commands them to do likewise. "Come on, you bunch of beer belly hicks and welfare queens, give it up for a true champion!" And in the opposite corner, Ivy Armstrong's eyes go wide as saucers, and she starts to scream herself raw, yelling words of encouragement to her fellow title holder.
Cynthia's eyes start to flutter, and her arms grow sluggish, then drop to her sides. The referee takes her right wrist, lifts the limb, and let's it drop. He lifts it again with the same result. The arm is lifted a third time, except now when the official releases it, it drops only a few inches before, trembling, it rises up again, joined by the other arm. Kira is perplexed, not certain how her victim is still able to resist, and her face betrays her bafflement. A moment later, Mitchell reaches back with her hands and roughly grabs her tormentor's mane close to the roots.
A heartbeat later, Cynthia suddenly drops to the mat, landing on her butt as she pulls the startled Russian down with her. Koslova's chin cracks down hard onto the brunette's left shoulder, snapping her head back and sending the Colluder sprawling onto her back, stunned. Cyn flops to her side, unmoving for several long moments, until finally she rolls over onto her stomach and begins to slowly drag herself across the canvas toward her partner. In the other corner, Polly is apoplectic, shrieking for Kira to get up, for the ref to disqualify, Mitchell, and for the fans to shut their damned mouths.
While the second-generation superstar crawls on all fours toward her long-time partner’s extended hand, Koslova’s partially propped herself with one palm and massages her jaw with the other, flexing her mandible simultaenously. Lockwood screams at her fellow colluder to exchange positions. The Russian redhead rattles her braincase to clear her gray matter and spins on a hip to hands and knees, headed in the opposite direction of the brunette.
Polly stands on the bottom rope and stretches her palm toward her comrade. The crowd is going wackadoodle, spurring Cynthia on with their ovation as best they can. Mitchell has the head start but Kira’s closer to her target and the circumstances combine to make the transfer of power to Ivy and Polly nearly simultaneous.
Armstrong has a half-second advantage and is through the ropes while the little blonde hardbody shoots between the cables a moment later. The Star-Spangled Bytch charges at Ivy, but the Bama Slamma is already zeroing in with right arm drawn. The auburn-haired champion knocks Lockwood flat with a clothesline. The True American is quick to scramble to her feet but she’s levelled again by a spinning Armstrong and her second scythe-like swing. The rattled challenger is up, though a little more slowly. She turns to Ivy and is gutted with a toe kick to her tanned tummy.
With Polly wide-eyed and gasping, the doubled ‘patriot’ frozen in place, Armstrong turns, reaching over her right shoulder with both hands. She collects the blonde in a ¾ facelock and sits out, delivering a signature SoCo Stunner to Trump’s Sixth Appellate Court nominee. Ivy’s perfectly executed maneuver sends Polly flying from the impact, the red-white-and-blue-clad brat CRASHING to the canvas, ending splayed and unmoving.
SoCo Stunner (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ysvpoIjCs9I )
Belle’s little girl scrambles to a lateral press across the gobsmacked Trumpeter, hooking a leg and rolling Lockwood into a tight ball, stacked on her shoulders for the…
ONE…
TWO…
The challenger kicks her way out of the predicament, landing on her side, glaze over her eyes. Armstrong’s emerald peepers are far livelier as they seek out the ref then grow steely when she sees only two fingers raised.
The Wild-Eyed Southern Girl doesn’t take long to put it behind her. When Lockwood pushes to a seated position, Ivy strikes. She grabs the blonde’s left arm and mounts it. Armstrong expertly rotates her body to bring the Pernicious Patriot down to her chest with the limb still in her possession. The redhead snatches Polly’s left leg and brings wrist and ankle together in an agonizing angle. Ivy completes her Trellis, wrapping her arms around both joints and stretching limbs and abs in her ingenious submission.
Ivy Trellis (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RTRseK6gQdg ) @00:15
As the FAWNatics chant for Lockwood to ‘TAP…TAP…TAP’ for several long seconds, the captured Fox&Friendly blonde shakes her head violently.
Sensing a certain unwillingness to act reasonably, the champ releases her submission hold, rises and hovers over the mewling Polly, Lockwood calling out for her Russian savior.
Ivy points at the Collusion corner and the official’s eyes are naturally drawn. While a recovered, corner-bound Kira demands the Yankee come to her, Ivy snatches two handfuls of flaxen locks and fiercely RIPS Lockwood’s head from side to side with a sly grin, Armstrong’s reputation as being the Dirtiest Player in the Game solidified, at least the Dirtiest the fans adore.
When the zebra turns his eyes back to the action, the redhead ‘helps’ America’s Worst to her feet with a more legal grasp on the blonde’s left wrist. With Polly vertical, Ivy bends the limb back over her shoulder, clearing an open path to the tawny cleft of Polly’s pert bosom. The crowd roars in anticipation of Lockwood’s bloodpumper being bashed, Ivy loading up the clenched digits to do the job.
WHEN…Koslova sinks her right set of fingers into Ivy’s alabaster shoulder and spins the FAWN original to face her. Weapon already poised, Armstrong fires before the saucy Soviet can react and the Slamma’s Heart Punch THUMPS into Kira’s breastplate just to the left of dead center. The Russian’s eyes roll white, her powerful stems jellying.
Lockwood, her non-invasive heart surgery delayed by her partner, is up and grabs Ivy by a nape, twirling the auburn-haired Alabaman to face her. With Armstrong comes another defibrillator. Ivy PUMPS the encore fist home, balled fingers rock hard into the cleft of the blonde’s breasts. The Heart Punch is perfectly placed and Polly is dead on her feet, the stubborn challenger woozy and wobbling.
Ivy blows a soft breath on the face of the slobberknocked Lockwood and the vertically-challenged blonde timbers to her back, hitting the canvas and spreading into a starfish. Armstrong grabs a bicep on the still teetering form of Putin’s emissary and back elbows Koslova on the chin, making the challenger more semi than conscious.
Unlike her comrade, Koslova stiffens and keels forward instead of back. It’s an unfortunate occurrence for the partners, as it leads to the KGBeauty head butting Polly in her patriotic privates. The shocked Lockwood is resuscitated, shooting to a seated position, Kira’s face buried in her lap. The blonde’s hands dig beneath Koslova’s ill-placed face, Polly trying to massage away the throbbing pulses of pain as the FAWNatics delight in Ivy pulling off a classic calamity.
With a stunned Kira eating American Pie, a smirking Ivy strides to her long-time friend and tags Mitchell into the match. However, it’s instantly clear Armstrong isn’t about to leave. The Hellions return in force and pull Kira to vertical from the forced Muff Dive, Ivy and Cynthia each claiming a wrist. The duo aims the Russian at the far ropes and sends her off with a double Irish Whip.
Kira rebounds at full speed and meets the champs mid-ring. Armstrong and Mitchell dip at the perfect moment, each taking a leg and LAUNCHING Koslova into a skyscraping back body drop. Kira lands with a heavy THUD and the impact seems to waken the commie from her stupor, Koslova arching in pain from the spinal collision.
With one colluder occupied, the Hellions move to Polly, clamping onto Lockwood’s wrists, the Fox&Friendly blonde having remained busy trying to work through her aching undercarriage. They RIP the smaller challenger to her feet with the greatest of ease and double whip the Pernicious Patriot to the distant cables.
The Star-Spangled Bytch zooms back out of the ropes at full speed a double clothesline aimed for her clavicle from Ivy and Cynthia. The True American uses her short stature to her advantage, dipping under the joined hands of the champs, Lockwood racing into the opposite strands and u-turning toward the spinning titleholders.
Polly vaults into the air with a crossbody flight into the startled Hellions, but the size difference between one diminutive hardbody and two FAWN legends cannot be overcome.
Ivy and Cynthia, already having been given wide latitude by the official, who’s still only up to a belated FOUR, catch the maven of MAGA against their chests. With the crowd losing their shyt, together they send Lockwood flying with a double fallaway slam that POUNDS Polly into the deck, though the slippery little devil uses the momentum to barrel roll away from the landing. Lockwood rolls under the ropes and plops to a puddle on the arena floor, out of sight under the apron’s edge.
The Hellions raise both arms and share a double high five, and then Ivy saunters back to their corner and slips between the ropes. Cynthia balls her right fist and prowls up on Koslova with an eager smile on her lips, as the Russian struggles to get back up on her stems. But then the referee steps between the two and says, "Not her, Mitchell. They never made the tag, so the legal member of their team is Lockwood." The brunette scowls, irked that she's being denied this opportunity to give the rash and restless Russian a genuine U.S. of A beatdown, Carolina style. Well, at least she could content herself with administering the same to Kira's traitorous teammate.
Helping herself to the Russian's hair and wrist, the second generation stunner sends her on a trip to...and over...the ropes, and Koslova comes crashing down to the arena floor as swiftly as the Berlin Wall fell. That matter dealt with, the Hellion turns to locate her lawful adversary.
And out on the arena floor, the Kremlin's favorite American Sweetheart is woozily making the effort to get vertical again, grasping the ring apron to help pull herself up. She tilts her head up and through blurry eyes sees the menacing figure of Cynthia Mitchell starting to step between the ropes in order to come down and "help" her. A look of sheer panic clouds the blonde's face for a moment, but that moment passes as the ref grabs the Hellion by the arm and barks, "This match stays in the ring, Mitchell. Give her the chance to get back in." Miffed, Cyn briefly contemplates shrugging him off and going after Lockwood anyway, but weighs the risk of disqualification, and decides against it. She steps back away from the cables to give the Colluder her opportunity to return.
But it's an opportunity that Polly isn't about to rush to accept. Knowing she has a full count of twenty before she has to return to the ring, she paces back and forth on the floor, catching her breath, gathering her wits, and rallying her reserves of power. Frustrated by the delay, Mitchell growls, "Quit stalling and get back in here, or so help me I'll...". But she's cut off by Lockwood who, with a dismissive wave of her hand, snaps back, "The only thing that ever needs rushing is a Supreme Court confirmation. I'll get back in when I'm good and ready to kick your ass, snowflake!" Finally, as the official passes the point of "Nineteen", the harsh hardbody rolls into the ring under the bottom rope...and promptly rolls right back out again, thus triggering a second twenty count, and granting herself additional recovery time.
This is more than the exasperated Cynthia can take, and she jumps to the ropes and growls, "No more tricks, get up here now!" The ref steps up to her to warn her to move back from the ropes, and the brunette's head angrily whips toward him to argue the point. With the hellion's eyes no longer on her, the crafty Colluder makes her move.
Reaching under the strands, Lockwood firmly grasps Mitchell's left ankle and gives it a sharp tug, sending the startled Hellion crashing to her butt with a yelp. Polly then swiftly drags Cynthia by the leg over to the corner, and the blonde then grabs both of her adversary's ankles and yanks. The tag champ is pulled out of the ring...at least until the steel ring post between her thighs puts a sudden halt to her movement. Cyn gives a sharp cry as her Carolina flower is brutally wilted by the crushing pain of the pole. Lockwood tucks both of the brunette's legs under her arms and pulls back, first placing one foot against the side of the ring, and then the other, so that the blonde is virtually horizontal as she leans back, pulling the Hellion's tender groin ever-harder into the unyielding steel. From her own corner, Ivy screeches at the zebra to break the hold, but he is restricted to continuing his twenty count, which for the Hellions seems to drag on for eternity. As Cyn caterwauls in agony, Lockwood taunts her with, "Hey, that's a pretty good rendition of the Russian national anthem!" From the Collusion corner, Kira makes sport of Mitchell's anguish by giving a mock salute to her nation's "anthem".
Finally, as the ref nears the end of his count, Polly releases her hold. Cynthia instantly curls up into a fetal position, hands gingerly cupping her nether region, as the smirking blonde climbs back into the ring. "Now then", she sneers as she rises up over the quivering Mitchell, "I believe I was saying something about kicking your ass.”
Polly peels Mitchell off the canvas then dips and scoops Cynthia onto her right shoulder, the vertically challenged blonde showing off the power she could pack into five feet and one inch. The True American SLAMS Cyn into the deck, Mitchell arching in pain until a soccer kick to the brunette’s chin lays her out in a spreadeagle.
Lockwood moves to a standing forward straddle of the challenger and leaps off the deck. Her boots SQUASH Cynthia’s gurls, Polly mushroom stomping the chest of the second-generation superstar then grinding her shoe leather into the Carolina Cutie’s aching orbs.
Polly steps off the mewling Mitchell. She turns on a dime and sprints the few steps to the Hellion corner, NAILING Armstrong with an echoing SLAP across the cheek, the taste of hush puppies slapped clean out of Ivy’s mouth. Enraged, the furious redhead surges through the ropes and charges the backpedaling blonde, but the ref intercepts before the Slamma can mete out southern justice.
As the zebra drags Ivy back toward her station, a beaming Lockwood waves at Armstrong over the official’s shoulder. She sinks her nails into the reeling Cynthia and drags Mitchell up to her haunches where Cyn drives a fist into the Fox&Friendly blonde’s breadbasket. The Star Spangled Bytch groans as she’s doubled over then straightened when Cynthia pops an uppercut into her lowered chin, Lockwood’s arms pinwheeling to keep her upright.
Cynthia rises off her haunches to one knee, but the momentum is instantly nullified. Polly shoots forward, using Mitchell’s raised joint as a pedestal and CRASHES a Shining Wizard kick into Cyn’s left temple. The brunette timbers to the deck and Polly dives atop her for a cover, getting the…
ONE…
TWO…
THRENOOO!
Ivy, having taken advantage of the official’s turned back, races past and pounds a diving double axhandle between the shoulderblades of the Pernicious Patriot, breaking the count. The antagonized Armstrong RIPS Lockwood to her feet for some payback, but Polly gets her palms up and pushes the redhead off with a shove to her shoulders.
Armstrong staggers back no more than a step or two, but it’s enough for her to find Koslova. The Russian is late to the party but Polly is happy she has the invite. From Ivy’s six, the colluder snakes her arms around Armstrong’s neck, noggin and captured left arm, completing a cobra clutch.
Leaping and flipping with Ivy in her possession, Kira skillfully drags the Slamma to the canvas and secures a tight scissoring triangle choke, her Bear Trap sprung.
Bear Trap (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHPuTcDwZfk )
While Koslova works on a frantic, flailing Ivy, Polly slips outside the ropes, turns and grabs the top cable. She waits impatiently for a dazed Cynthia to rise like a liberal zombie needing to be taken down for the good of the country.
A wobbly Cynthia slowly turns, trying to find her foe. As she does, Lockwood pops to the uppermost strand and springboards off, bounding toward the wide-eyed brunette. Polly locks a front facelock around Mitchell’s braincase as she connects and twists to the left, laying out and SPIKING the crown of Cynthia’s skull into the canvas with her Polly Rocket.
Polly Rocket (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XKWI-rr-T7I )
The FAWNatics groan as one at the sight of the horrific, no doubt concussive collision, Mitchell flopping to her back, unconscious before she slides to a stop. Polly sits atop her chest in a reverse seat, collects both legs of the challenger, and leans back to roll Cyn into a lifeless ball for the…
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
Polly releases Cynthia’s leaden lower limbs and they flop to the deck. She sits atop the defeated Mitchell raising her tanned guns high. Next to her Ivy is tapping softly in Kira’s Bear Trap, the last sign of motion before falling limp in Koslova’s arms. The Russian roughly tosses Armstrong’s depleted body away like it’s the truth.
The Rooskie moves to the ropes and demands her booty, snatching the title belts away from an attendant. A revitalized Lockwood pops to her feet and DRIVES a boot into Cynthia’s crotch to unpleasantly wake Mitchell from her stupor though the brunette only groans halfway back to consciousness.
Lockwood leaves the Hellion to lie pitifully next to her snoozing partner and accepts a tag belt from her good friend from St. Petersburg. Polly envelops her comrade in a tight embrace, Koslova stiffly returning the hug.
They break and pose for the hard cam, each raising the inner arm of the other while their outside arms hold aloft the proof they are FAWN’s best tag team, making their successful case on the biggest night of the organization’s year.
With Kira apparently having given Lockwood a microphone during the handoff of the belt, the Fox&Friendly blonde lifts it to her lips.
“I told you! Never before in the history of this country has wrestling seen a tag team like this. The best without a doubt.”
The jeers from the crowd seem to show some disagreement, though there are a few Polly Patriots in the crowd.
“Believe me,” Lockwood interjects, perhaps hoping to halt the boos, “Kira and I are the most qualified leaders of this division you could ever ask for. I promise you will learn from your mistakes and understand how privileged you are to live in the time of Collusion.”