Post by hawkeye on May 3, 2021 23:05:50 GMT
Even the biggest fan of the California Angel would have a hard time imagining how far she’s come on the final lap of her wondrous career. To be fair to future FAWN Hall of Famers, most of O’Neal’s wonder took place as the face of Golden State Wrestling, a level most considered beneath her current organization.
But the redhead’s decision to leave as a legend on the Left Coast and attempt to prove herself in the bigs as her wrestling clock ticks down is part of the marvel. And damned if she hasn’t done it, becoming a force within the Greater Good and on her own.
And now, despite protestations from those in the locker room waiting longer, Colleen bounces on the balls of her feet, with the chance to become FAWN’s champion of the world.
Katy Perry’s California Gurls emerges from the tron and the crowd rises as one, cheering enthusiastically, having adopted the enduring GSW icon back into the fold and perhaps at the very top of it. ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=F57P9C4SAW4 )
Adored, the redhead emerges and takes a jaunty stance on the upper stage, hands on hips, deferential to the ovation. The assembled greet the former Artemis, O’Neal not blossoming into a star until she left for the LA-based fed but now a shining light in the fed that originally chewed her up and spat her out.
COLLEEN O’NEAL
The blue-eyed beauty waves to her admiring masses, her recent victories and her story putting her in play as the woman who could make the Empress’ reign end tonight at Spring Break.
The Sunshine State’s version of the Angel’s Choir cheers the Bay Area native to the ring as Colleen enters her classic sprint. The long-time face of the Golden State dashes to the squared circle, sliding in under the bottom rope and popping to her feet, absorbing what a long winding road it’s been to be at the top of the top-flight.
The prodigal daughter takes a lap of the FAWN ring. The auburn-haired veteran beaming from ear to ear, reveling in another magnificent moment she never thought likely to see.
O’Neal makes as though she will be clasping the biggest of FAWN belts around her waist, lifting the decibels further as the Orlando crowd considers what the upset would mean to not only the despised Singh but her detestable manager.
Garbed in her iconic tight spandex one-piece, halved in pink and sky blue with pink boots to mid-thigh and silver fingerless gloves, the Cali native seems ready for her continued triumphant drive to the top of women wrestling’s premiere promotion in what some thought would be the twilight of her profession.
Gear: ( www.dollskill.com/halloween-sexy-wrestling-champ-costume-set-pink-turquoise.html?gclid=Cj0KCQiAt_PuBRDcARIsAMNlBdr_8wE5qC_kyeTo6lFLvIAIVfi-oFHrA_YlWbDRyxEebaPXuRlroFIaAmIzEALw_wcB without the ‘belt’ ) .
The ring announcer waits for the music to fade to break through the ovation.
“Tonight’s next match is scheduled for one fall with a 60-minute time limit and is for the FAWN WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP! Standing 5’ 3” inches tall and weighing in at 114 pounds. From San Francisco, the auburn-haired artist, the California Angel…Colleen O’Neal!”
The beloved Cali native bows to her new and devoted Choir, face flushing with excitement, the GSW icon ready to establish that status in a much bigger pond.
The focus of all eyes, including O’Neal’s, move to the stage.
The crowd can only imagine how arrogant the Bollywood Bombshell and her supercilious leader might be after brutally taking down the Army of One and actually living up to their boasts.
Abutting plucking the Raven with discharging Becky Clayton as queen of the mountain would do what to egos already as big as the arena and growing by the second.
The FAWNatics don’t have to wait long to find out as the captivating groove of Priyanka Chopra and Pitbull’s "Exotic” breaks through the murmur, heralding the imminent arrival of the now gilded Subcontinental Siren.
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sPhhZg9v9NU ).
Materializing is a set of musclebound men clad in gold loin clothes and sandals. They carry their golden-brown royal. Excited yet repulsed by the appearance of the Empress, the despicable Singh draws the enmity of nearly every arena occupant.
AMARA SINGH
The behemoths carry the ornate bed where upon the Bombshell lies. As the ‘exotic’ grappler is carried toward the ring on the curious conveyance, the FAWNatics batter her with boos. The anger only grows when the long-scorned Manhattanite manager appears, VanBuren shouting directions at Singh’s transporters.
PORTIA VANBUREN
Flawless in her immaculate, white tennis togs; a form-fitting, Louis Vuitton tank, short skirt with white socks and thousand-dollar tennies, VanBuren skips past and leads the men and their beloved Empress to the war zone. Gone is Precious, her infamous polo mallet. Instead in the greedy hands of Fortune’s Favorite is the World Title belt. Baby holds the hardware high and points at her charge with the opposite index finger, touting the woman who had made her FAWN’s only manager to ever lead a woman to a Tag and World Title belt.
Behind and above, the copper-skinned beauty writhes seductively on her cushioned platform to the sound of the catchy beat. Below, the men’s gaze never leaves Portia, oblivious to the outstretched hands of the fans and the movements of the bronzed, ebony-haired beauty above.
The announcer greets the spectacular arrival of the Subcontinent’s most acclaimed warrior.
"And her opponent! Standing 5 feet 6 inches tall and weighing in at 133 pounds from Cawnpore, India…the Empress…the Bollywood Bombshell…AND THE FAWN WORLD CHAMPION…AMARA SINGH!"
Having reached their destination, the men lower the palanquin until it’s even with the apron. Singh gracefully slides from bedside to ringside. Portia takes the nearby steps and helps Amara slip from beneath a sparkling golden robe, revealing the curvy form beneath.
The momentary striptease draws a round of rabid applause within the jeers, Singh dropping a pearly sneer upon the peasants. She moves through the ropes, taking center stage.
Amara is clad in her iconic and lavishly designed, gold bra with matching gold and red, lacy harem pants, her feet bare. Singh’s raven tresses fall just past her shoulders in wild waves, dark copper skin glowing under the lights. The Bombshell raises a microphone to her full rosy lips, but VanBuren, having entered behind, requests Amara provide her the amplifier. Portia exchanges it for the title, which she places lovingly in the hands of a beaming Singh.
“Bow down to Your Empress,” Portia demands, the crowd not having it.
“I told you what she would do to the Phenom, to the Raven, to the Army of One who steamrolled over all others. None could deny the majesty that is Amara Singh.
“We have the evidence.” VanBuren motions the Subcontinental Siren to hold the gold high.
“The proof the rest of these women are here to be subjugated, conquered by Your Empress. And who better to start the parade than the so-called Ginger Genius. As if there could be such a thing. A woman you love. A woman who may have momentarily beaten back Father Time but is no match for Your Empress. Enjoy her last moments.”
The FAWNatics don’t seem to appreciate Portia’s prediction and they let her know.
Sneering at their jeers, VanBuren drops the mic and leads Singh to her corner where there’s no bothering with strategy against a lamb to be slaughtered. Instead, Amara hands over the organization’s top prize and watches Baby hop to the floor below, only turning her attention to the veteran when the bell brings the first defense of her title to a start.
Even at Colleen’s advanced wrestling age, the redhead is renowned for a motor that keeps her going for figurative days, even if it might not rev very high on the MPH, and the challenger seems eager to put Singh to an immediate test. She strides confidently and directly toward the Empress, throwing her arms high and forward for a tie-up Singh deftly ducks past, sliding to the side.
Singh sets back up at central, perfect pearlies flashing to a whiffing O’Neal who chuckles as she spins to face the champ.
“Too fast for you?” Amara asks. “We both know I’m too strong. Not sure that leaves much for you.”
The women come together in a collar-and-elbow, but they only remain locked for a few seconds before Amara heaves the California Angel into a backward flight, Colleen landing lightly then backpedaling a couple steps before catching her balance.
“I’d say overconfidence doesn’t look good on you,” O’Neal offers.
“But you know it does?” Singh interrupts. “At least you’re old enough to have some wisdom.”
“So true,” the Ginger Genius offers with a tilted smirk, again taking her fight straight to the woman her larger by nearly twenty pounds.
But this time, just before locking limbs, Colleen slips around the Indian grappler and tightens a waistlock around the golden-brown midriff of her foe from behind. She lifts Amara to tiptoes with a bearhug before Singh’s soles are returned to the canvas.
The Bollywood Bombshell swings a nasty elbow strike behind her the Bay Area native ducks under. With Amara off balance, the lighter challenger easily scoops Singh off the deck and PLANTS the champion to her back with a side suplex. A grimacing Amara reaches for her lower spine, snarling at the redhead as O’Neal skips around her, motioning for Amara to rise.
“Em-press,” Portia contributes from the sidelines, both syllables emphasized to show her displeasure with Singh giving the FAWNatics the impression the vagabond from the Golden State would have any chance when Clayton and Lemarchand and Suguitan fell before Amara, Singh graced with her supreme managerial leadership.
“Don’t let that hippie get any ideas,” VanBuren adds.
Singh nods impatiently. While there could be no argument her career is skyrocketing since Portia brought her back to the organization, it doesn’t mean VanBuren’s shrill complaints couldn’t ruffle her feathers.
The risen, raven-haired beauty again meets her ginger foe mid-ring in another collar-and-elbow. This time Colleen quickly pivots into a ¾ facelock and prepares to snap mare Amara to a seat on the deck, but the Subcontinental Siren shoves her off before O’Neal can manage.
The Angel in pink-n-blue races to the ropes in front of her and rebounds. She buries a shoulder and runs headlong into Singh, but Amara is ready to give as good as she gets and more so. A thrust from the Empress with a dueling shoulder puts a startled Colleen on the deck, looking up from a position on her backside, O’Neal propping on her palms.
“Oh-kay. Maybe not,” O’Neal admits.
“Maybe?” the champ asks incredulously.
The redhead crab walks back several steps before pushing to her feet. She circles the Bollywood Bully, Amara reaching but coming up empty a few times. Growing more frustrated, she corners the cautious Colleen then surges toward her, only to come up empty with a two-handed swipe.
O’Neal scoots past, turns, and lights a spinning Singh up with a backhand blast of a chop, naturally drawing a requisite ‘woooo’ from the assembled. A wincing Singh is rocked to her heels from the stinging abuse. She gets several more helpings as the Angel levels more knife-edges, drawing a pinkish hue to the copper of Amara’s decolletage.
Enraged after the fifth, Amara grabs Colleen by the throat with both hands. She lifts the bug-eyed ginger off the canvas and spins her into the buckles to take her place. And karma is paid as Singh whips a set of backhand chops into the smaller woman’s ivory chest, O’Neal’s chest bright red after the echoing attacks.
With her foe slumped and mewling after a half-dozen, Singh gleefully blows on her palm as if to cool down the weapon. She hooks her right arm with the left of the Cali legend and hiptosses her foe halfway across the ring, Colleen’s spine THUMPING into the thinly-sheathed plywood. O’Neal skids to a stop, a hand reaching for the base of her spine. She pushes to her feet as quickly as she’s able, but it’s only in time to find her place in a neutral corner invaded by the onrushing Amara. Singh launches from several feet out and BURIES the fan favorite in an Indian tidal wave, the Bombshell’s splash blowing up the former Artemis.
As Singh bounces away from the impact, O’Neal staggers past, a victim of the power and size differential. She’s caught from behind by the Empress, who snatches her rival’s noggin, leaps with legs extended and sits out, bulldogging the redhead to the canvas. Colleen’s face THUMPS off the deck, her head snapping back from the impact. Absently, she flops to her back and Singh looks to make a quick night’s work of her first defense, climbing aboard the splayed Angel in a crossbody pin for the win at…
ONE…
TWO…
O’Neal shoves a shoulder off the canvas, slopping to her side and rattling her braincase to settle some senses into place.
Outside, Portia provides a courteous golf clap to her titleholder, motioning the crowd to do the same. Instead, their disappointed mumbles turn to boos. Singh shakes her head disapprovingly, latching onto Colleen’s fiery locks and ripping the veteran to her feet as she rises.
“I know you’re supposed to have a lot of gas in the tank for an old woman,” the Empress coos in Colleen’s ear as she bullies her foe deep into a set of ropes. “But frankly, you’re here on hype. As Jasmine would say, Da Man put you on the gravy train. Well, I’m here to throw you off.”
Her piece stated, Singh sends the redhead hustling across the canvas. The golden-brown grappler stations mid-ring as O’Neal u-turns out of the rubber-coated steel. Amara pivots and dips to accept the leapfrogging Colleen across her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. But before the Bombshell can deliver her ordinance in the shape of a Samoan Drop, the Ginger Genius wriggles down her foe’s back, landing behind the champion.
The slippery redhead pushes Amara forward into the cables then back somersaults along with Singh in tow, the Empress ending in a cradled package with Colleen above. Dropping into a bridge, Colleen keeps Amara squirming in place, shoulders on the canvas for the…
ONE…
TWO…
Singh busts loose with a tick to spare, Portia’s sphincter puckering within her tennis togs with how close the gold was to transferring to the Greater Good’s Golden State import.
Amara scrambles to her feet staring at Castle. She breathes a sigh of relief when she sees two fingers raised. But as she pays attention to the zebra, the California Angel drives a toe kick DEEP into the coppery expanse of the Indian’s midriff. Amara is left doubled and gasping as O’Neal takes off for the ropes at her foe’s side. She rebounds at full speed and dives into a front flip over Singh’s back, catching Amara’s head in her hands on the fly-by and SPINNING Singh to the deck with a nasty neckbreaker.
As a rattled Amara cradles her head in her hands, bare soles pattering against the mat, O’Neal uses her momentum to hop to her feet. Taking a quick glimpse behind her, she leaps to the middle cable while grabbing the top and springboards into a backflip. Her perfectly-placed Cali-sault drives the breath from the splattered Singh, Amara’s exhale bursting from between her full lips as she jackknifes around the impact of the Ginger Genius.
With both legs of her foe raised, Colleen scoops them and rolls to a back press across the chest of the deflated Empress. Portia shouts in alarm as Nick slaps the mat for the…
ONE…
TWO…
The World Champion kicks her way out from under the smaller grappler, landing on her side, gasping for oxygen. Amara remains matbound as the azure-eyed San Franciscan pushes to her feet and measures the location of her foe. Skipping over the horizontal Indian, Colleen leaps into the middle strand again, both boot soles finding purchase. She springboards off the rubber-coated steel in a 180 and lands with legs extended, one alabaster stem crashing across the swelling chest of the Empress, the other across her foe’s throat.
Singh spasms before falling still under the prodigal daughter’s legs, but O’Neal doesn’t remain there. She back somersaults out of the pinning predicament, seemingly realizing she has to hit one more seismic shock to pull off the enormous upset.
Pulling the ragdolled Amara to her feet, the glistening redhead releases, turns and races to the ropes again, leaving a tottering Empress unsure of her surroundings. The redhead returns but is seemingly tardy when Amara dips to collect Colleen around the hips and flip her into a back body drop.
But the Bollywood Bombshell isn’t yet in condition. The veteran, seemingly well aware that would be the case, throws her raised weight in reverse and RIPS Singh off her feet NAILING Amara with a brutal Spike DDT that sends the crown of the champion’s skull into the canvas-covered plywood.
Spike DDT ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=xfiZh0BQv2w )
Amara bonelessly flips the rest of the way to her back, out cold. An animated O’Neal dives across the insensate form of the titleholder. The Ginger Genius, completing a task no one thought possible, lands tight across the splayed Indian beauty, hooking a limp leg for the…
ONE…
TWO…
THRENOOO!
From somewhere a burst of adrenaline shoots through the champion’s body and she pushes a shoulder off the canvas. A distraught VanBuren, having turned away from the terrible defeat, spins back when the crowd groans. The slender socialite pumps the air in relief as much as excitement.
Inside, the California Angel shows a glint of disappointment, but her veteran instincts quickly kick in, the GSW legend knowing well nothing comes easy when in the squared circle with a wrestler the caliber of the Bollywood Bombshell.
The freckled fighter seems tempted to try another pin but fights the likely futile urge, instead pushing to her feet then grabbing a wrist and shoulder of Singh and dragging the malleable Indian to rubbery legs.
Pulling the dipped head of the Bollywood Bully into a front facelock, Colleen grabs a handful of harem pants and flips Amara to the canvas with a wickedly quick snap suplex. The Ginger Genius never releases her grip as she rolls through the ring-rattling impact and draws Singh to her bare soles once more. She repeats the process once then, looking a little drained herself, sends the battered Amara up and over to the deck for a third time with her troika of suplexes.
Maneuvering to one knee, the redhead takes in deep inhales as she gazes upon the splayed Amara and outside, the frantic, screaming Portia. When her contract was terminated by FAWN those many years ago, Baby was among the organization’s most feared competitors. Now, the Manhattanite’s retried from the ring and pleading with the World Champion to somehow survive her. A tired smile emerges.
What a journey.
O’Neal rises slowly and surrounds Singh’s head with both hands, pulling the lethargic Siren to her feet. She spins Amara in place in order to strap on a bearhug from behind, her arms circling and cinching around the golden-brown tummy of her adversary. The dark eyes of the Empress bulge as Colleen compresses her abdomen, forcing air from the faltering champion. It’s hardly a Pandora-sized embrace, but it’s enough to set up Colleen’s Golden Bear, O’Neal planning to fall forward with Singh, splashing her underneath, face and chest hitting the floor and the San Franciscan sandwiching her on top.
But Amara has the senses to grapevine a leg around O’Neal’s before she’s fully lifted off the canvas for the ride and, as the redhead tries to slip her limb loose, Singh swings an elbow back and CRACKS it into the temple of the challenger.
Colleen’s arms slide from around Amara’s waist as she staggers a few steps away, a hand moving to her rattled braincase. Determined to not let the Empress battle her way back into contention, O’Neal charges with a forearm drawn, but Amara surprises with one of her own and THUMPS it into the Angel’s jawline, rocking the prodigal daughter.
With Colleen on her heels, Singh seems instantly reborn, surging at her target and splattering O’Neal to the canvas with a simple but effective clothesline. To her credit, the veteran is up quickly, but is levelled once more by another. Stubborn, the ginger pushes to vertical again, if more slowly. She ducks under a third scythe-like swipe.
Both women rotate to face each other, but it’s Singh who reacts first, driving a bare foot into Colleen’s knee. O’Neal genuflects in pain in front of the Empress. Amara raises a pointed elbow and brings it down on the crowd of Colleen’s skull. The veteran’s baby blues cross from the force of the impact, but she remains on one knee until Singh scoops her arms under those of the redhead, Amara pulling the challenger to wobbly feet.
The Subcontinental Siren lifts a dazed O’Neal off her feet as if to body slam, the freckled fighter lain over her right shoulder. But Singh has a different idea, swinging her off not to the mat but across bended knee, Amara dropping and PLANTING Colleen’s spine across the plank of the Indian’s upper leg in a brutal backbreaking maneuver.
Her confidence returning and Portia’s relief evident, a snarling Amara shoves down on either side of the would-be pendulum of O’Neal’s frame, instead turning the body into a bow. Collen yelps in pain as her vertebrae are lodged out of position by Amara’s efforts.
“Ask her,” the Empress demands, and Castle does as he’s told.
With Singh’s palm on her upturned chin, it’s difficult to shake her head, so the Angel offers a mumbled ‘no’.
Frustrated with the response, Singh pulls both hands away from their placement. She laces her fingers into a double axhandle and PLOWS the joined fists into Colleen’s midriff. O’Neal spasms out of her arch, baby blues bugging as her arms swaddle her roiling gut. The Bombshell shoves Colleen off, letting the contender spill to the canvas, at her feet when Amara takes a domineering stance, hovering over the imploding challenger.
“You took a nice little shot at me, peasant. Better than some. But it all ends the same.”
Amara dips next to her retching foe, surrounding the redhead’s neck with her hands and shooting the challenger to her feet via a windpipe-constricting choke-lift. After a brief touch of her foe’s boots to canvas, Amara tosses the California Angel to the nearest set of buckles, O’Neal’s backbone SLAMMING into the corner.
Colleen slides down the buckles, ending on her pert, little backside, ivory legs extended, chin drooping to her chest, spent.
“And now you get a taste of the big-time before you drift off into retirement,” Singh says, approaching calmly.
The golden-brown grappler spins in a 180 and backs dat ass into the features of the prodigal daughter, swallowing up Colleen’s face in her pear-shaped booty. As she swivels her hips and spreads the wealth of her backside across the encapsulated mug of the redhead, her signature Harem Shake proves more than a tactic of humiliation as the squirming O’Neal fights to find air. She pushes fruitlessly against Amara’s muscular thighs, unable to move the champion, Amara swishing and swooshing her undercarriage across Colleen’s submerged countenance for long, LONG seconds.
Finally, Singh ends her Shake, pulling away from the greasy, freckled face of the huffing challenger, baby blues droopy. O’Neal flops to a hip and shoulder, drained and depleted.
The champion’s leader leans into the domination slow in arriving, shouting at the silenced member of Greater Good.
“Back to where you should be,” Baby shouts. “At our feet like the loser you were always meant to be.”
Amara grabs her challenger by the ankles and drags the Ginger Genius to mid-ring where she lets O’Neal’s leaden legs drop to the canvas. She places a bare sole on O’Neal’s heaving bosom, pressing down and flexing her toes into the flesh.
“You may count,” the Empress announces.
Castle drops to the canvas and slaps it for the embarrassing…
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOO!
A furious Amara stomps her foot into O’Neal’s gut, the redhead imploding around the impact, groaning; the champion punishing Colleen for delaying her successful defense.
“You’re a perfect example of your pathetic group,” Singh shouts, “whimpering at my feet, proving the Empress is above all, including your sad, mistaken decisions of what is good and bad.”
Amara puts foot to beloved underdog in a flurry of trampling.
“For what is better than good but great and having prestige in the proper hands is the greatest of all.”
The Indian grappler reaches down, collecting Colleen around the head with both hands, and pulls the faltering Angel to her feet. Singh ROCKS the redhead with a European Uppercut that puts O’Neal back in the growingly familiar corner. She follows with a blazing chop to the chest that sends Colleen off her feet, upper half leaning atop the uppermost buckle.
The Bollywood Bombshell grabs O’Neal’s raised legs and throws them over the middle rope on one side while quickly moving her foe’s head and shoulders over the same on the opposite side. Grabbing the top cables, Amara vaults into the air, spinning in a 180 as she does, AND RAMS her ample ass into the midriff of the vulnerable Colleen.
The California Angel CRASHES to the canvas from the blow, hugging her tummy as she absently rolls in the wrong direction, toward the middle of the ring rather than exiting.
A beaming champion strides after her, waving in regal fashion to the jeers of the FAWNatics. She chuckles at the audience, perhaps for thinking a miniature ginger could beat her when a physical specimen the likes of Becky Clayton could not hold the line against her magnificence.
Amara again plucks what’s left of O’Neal off the canvas and tugs her foe’s lowered head between her golden-brown thighs, wrapping her arms around the gulping belly of the GSW queen, ready to powerbomb the Angel from heaven to hell with her PowerBollyBomb.
PowerBollyBomb ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=AjSpD_5Lu08 )
But when Colleen is flipped up the frame of the Subcontinental Siren, ending in a seat on Singh’s shoulders, she desperately fires away with a set of right crosses to the temple. The number and ferocity must be surprising to Amara as she loses control of the persistent Golden State icon.
O’Neal drops in front of the World Champion and Singh takes a swing at her challenger. Colleen ducks under and wraps her arms around the abdomen of the Empress, tightening the grip in a waistlock. O’Neal tries to lift Amara up and over for a gutwrench but is unable and get a forearm SMASH to the spine for her trouble, dropping to one knee, back arching in pain.
A simmering Singh pulls the redheaded gnat up and bullies Colleen to a corner, Amara taking the inside position. She climbs to the middle set of ropes in stages, turning O’Neal to face away from her. Whatever vile plans Singh has for the end of the Angel are thwarted when the prodigal daughter swings her head back and ‘accidentally’ thumps it into Amara’s crotch.
Silenced by the fortuitous connection, Singh is frozen in her stance. Moving quickly, the seemingly reenergized veteran wraps her ivory arms around the thighs of the Empress and shifts Singh onto her shoulders. The Ginger Genius carries her slumping cargo away from the corner, moving to center stage before laying out in her Cali Redwood electric chair drop.
Cali Redwood ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=aQUTT3BIks8 ) 00:18
The crowd roars at the fateful turn of events, their treasured Angel rejuvenated, O’Neal kipping to her feet and watching Amara spasm from the nasty landing. The smaller challenger moves next to the splattered Singh and ‘hups’ to a handstand. She turns in a 180 and drops the points of both knees into the bronzed belly of the champion. A bug-eyed Amara jackknifes around the impact before gurgling back to a horizontal single file. Colleen scoops both legs and folds the Empress into a matchbook for a stunning…
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOO!
Amara kicks out of the pinning predicament, flopping to hip and shoulder as Colleen’s baby blues plead for a ‘three’ from Castle. On her haunches next to the blasted Bombshell, the redhead plucks the faltering titleholder off the canvas, lifting Amara in stages until both are standing shoulder-to-shoulder, facing in opposite directions.
Colleen leans Amara back across bended knee and pounds forearms into the champion’s chest then violently swings her foe forward and PLANTS Singh’s face and chest into the deck with a reverse STO called the Ginger Snap.
Ginger Snap ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=xOQ3XIuJsbM )
Instantly, the veteran transfers the concussive blow into her Golden Gate finisher, Colleen snaking her legs around the skull of the champion as she twists Amara to her chest, the redhead pushing up on her palms with the figure-four scissors in place. O’Neal reaches back to grab her boot and secure the terminal submission.
Golden Gate ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=D9nNrBjYpwU )
As she stretches, a frantic Portia hops to the apron, screaming at Castle. Distracted, the zebra pushes away from Singh’s predicament to ‘coax’ VanBuren to return to her proper location. Behind him, the Angel completes her ‘Gate’ and waits for the inevitable, Amara’s palm hovering over the canvas. However, as Baby’s bluster continues, Portia remarking on how “we can’t let a never-was cheat her way to the top”, a surly O’Neal breaks the hold and rushes the arguing pair.
Colleen pushes past Castle and knocks VanBuren into next week with a perfectly-placed dropkick to the chin, Portia sent sprawling to the floor. O’Neal rises and leans over the ropes, letting the Manhattanite know the Greater Good is about to become the Greatest Good.
The FAWNatics are torn between Colleen giving up her submission and watching Baby crashing and burning to a puddled mess. With Nick busy pleading with Colleen to turn her attention back to the champ, a risen Singh delivers a punt to the ginger’s pussy from behind.
O’Neal’s baby blues bulge as she rises to tiptoes, squeaking in anguish as her hands drop between her thighs. Amara grabs a shoulder and spins Colleen’s pain-ravaged face into view. She GUTS the California Angel with a toe kick to the tummy. Again, she ‘juggles’ Colleen’s body up hers, finishing with the redhead seated on her shoulders. There is no reprisal from a limp O’Neal and the ginger’s sent hurtling to the canvas with the PowerBollyBomb.
PowerBollyBomb ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=AjSpD_5Lu08 )
The sound of impact shuts the mouths of the FAWNatics. A folded, unconscious Colleen, arms splayed above her head, legs pointed to the rafters, in possession of the seated Singh, sleeps through the…
ONE…
TWO…
THREEEE!
A disdainful Amara tosses Colleen’s limp alabaster stems aside and pushes to her feet, calling for her gold. A staggered Portia detours to the announcer’s table to pluck the prize as the man makes the emphatic decision an official one.
“Your winner and STILL FAWN WORLD CHAMPION…AMARA SINGH!”
As Baby rubs her jaw with one hand and slides into the ring with World Title wrapped over her opposite shoulder, Amara seemingly realizes her victory is in the books and the demolished woman at her feet has made her work far too hard to earn it.
She shovels the splayed redhead to her chest with a bare foot and mounts her in a forward-facing crouch. The Indian superstar posts one arm then the other over her knees, cups her hands, securing them under Colleen’s chin, and wrenches back in a Camel Clutch, apparently hoping to snap the Angel’s spine.
With Portia cheering her on and the fans shouting at Castle to intercede, the spiteful Singh brings Colleen sputtering back to life, the pain reviving her. She sobs muffled cries for release, energetically tapping the canvas then Amara’s knee, hoping to gain someone’s attention that matters.
Unfortunately, Singh shrugs off the ineffective official and there’s no mercy in the cold heart of the Empress as she attempts to turn Colleen’s C-shape into a O. The Angel waves her wings wildly in a silent plea before she passes back into unconsciousness from the wicked abuse.
With bells tolling, Princess Giselle and Lady Liberty race down the ramp. A flustered Portia alerts her charge and Amara finally releases, the vile champion and her manager evacuating the ring as the cavalry enters.
VanBuren lays the gold over a shoulder of the glistening Empress and the victors leave for a Spring Break party. In the ring, a semi-conscious Colleen mutters to Giselle and the brunette frantically calls for the EMTs.
The crowd hushes as the medics slowly, attentively secure the redhead to a board, fortifying her neck and strapping her to a rolling gurney when she’s moved outside. There’s precious little movement in her extremities as the American Idol and the Disney-adjacent Princess each hold a hand of the Ginger Genius as she’s wheeled away to Orlando General and likely out of FAWN for good.
But the redhead’s decision to leave as a legend on the Left Coast and attempt to prove herself in the bigs as her wrestling clock ticks down is part of the marvel. And damned if she hasn’t done it, becoming a force within the Greater Good and on her own.
And now, despite protestations from those in the locker room waiting longer, Colleen bounces on the balls of her feet, with the chance to become FAWN’s champion of the world.
Katy Perry’s California Gurls emerges from the tron and the crowd rises as one, cheering enthusiastically, having adopted the enduring GSW icon back into the fold and perhaps at the very top of it. ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=F57P9C4SAW4 )
Adored, the redhead emerges and takes a jaunty stance on the upper stage, hands on hips, deferential to the ovation. The assembled greet the former Artemis, O’Neal not blossoming into a star until she left for the LA-based fed but now a shining light in the fed that originally chewed her up and spat her out.
COLLEEN O’NEAL
The blue-eyed beauty waves to her admiring masses, her recent victories and her story putting her in play as the woman who could make the Empress’ reign end tonight at Spring Break.
The Sunshine State’s version of the Angel’s Choir cheers the Bay Area native to the ring as Colleen enters her classic sprint. The long-time face of the Golden State dashes to the squared circle, sliding in under the bottom rope and popping to her feet, absorbing what a long winding road it’s been to be at the top of the top-flight.
The prodigal daughter takes a lap of the FAWN ring. The auburn-haired veteran beaming from ear to ear, reveling in another magnificent moment she never thought likely to see.
O’Neal makes as though she will be clasping the biggest of FAWN belts around her waist, lifting the decibels further as the Orlando crowd considers what the upset would mean to not only the despised Singh but her detestable manager.
Garbed in her iconic tight spandex one-piece, halved in pink and sky blue with pink boots to mid-thigh and silver fingerless gloves, the Cali native seems ready for her continued triumphant drive to the top of women wrestling’s premiere promotion in what some thought would be the twilight of her profession.
Gear: ( www.dollskill.com/halloween-sexy-wrestling-champ-costume-set-pink-turquoise.html?gclid=Cj0KCQiAt_PuBRDcARIsAMNlBdr_8wE5qC_kyeTo6lFLvIAIVfi-oFHrA_YlWbDRyxEebaPXuRlroFIaAmIzEALw_wcB without the ‘belt’ ) .
The ring announcer waits for the music to fade to break through the ovation.
“Tonight’s next match is scheduled for one fall with a 60-minute time limit and is for the FAWN WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP! Standing 5’ 3” inches tall and weighing in at 114 pounds. From San Francisco, the auburn-haired artist, the California Angel…Colleen O’Neal!”
The beloved Cali native bows to her new and devoted Choir, face flushing with excitement, the GSW icon ready to establish that status in a much bigger pond.
The focus of all eyes, including O’Neal’s, move to the stage.
The crowd can only imagine how arrogant the Bollywood Bombshell and her supercilious leader might be after brutally taking down the Army of One and actually living up to their boasts.
Abutting plucking the Raven with discharging Becky Clayton as queen of the mountain would do what to egos already as big as the arena and growing by the second.
The FAWNatics don’t have to wait long to find out as the captivating groove of Priyanka Chopra and Pitbull’s "Exotic” breaks through the murmur, heralding the imminent arrival of the now gilded Subcontinental Siren.
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sPhhZg9v9NU ).
Materializing is a set of musclebound men clad in gold loin clothes and sandals. They carry their golden-brown royal. Excited yet repulsed by the appearance of the Empress, the despicable Singh draws the enmity of nearly every arena occupant.
AMARA SINGH
The behemoths carry the ornate bed where upon the Bombshell lies. As the ‘exotic’ grappler is carried toward the ring on the curious conveyance, the FAWNatics batter her with boos. The anger only grows when the long-scorned Manhattanite manager appears, VanBuren shouting directions at Singh’s transporters.
PORTIA VANBUREN
Flawless in her immaculate, white tennis togs; a form-fitting, Louis Vuitton tank, short skirt with white socks and thousand-dollar tennies, VanBuren skips past and leads the men and their beloved Empress to the war zone. Gone is Precious, her infamous polo mallet. Instead in the greedy hands of Fortune’s Favorite is the World Title belt. Baby holds the hardware high and points at her charge with the opposite index finger, touting the woman who had made her FAWN’s only manager to ever lead a woman to a Tag and World Title belt.
Behind and above, the copper-skinned beauty writhes seductively on her cushioned platform to the sound of the catchy beat. Below, the men’s gaze never leaves Portia, oblivious to the outstretched hands of the fans and the movements of the bronzed, ebony-haired beauty above.
The announcer greets the spectacular arrival of the Subcontinent’s most acclaimed warrior.
"And her opponent! Standing 5 feet 6 inches tall and weighing in at 133 pounds from Cawnpore, India…the Empress…the Bollywood Bombshell…AND THE FAWN WORLD CHAMPION…AMARA SINGH!"
Having reached their destination, the men lower the palanquin until it’s even with the apron. Singh gracefully slides from bedside to ringside. Portia takes the nearby steps and helps Amara slip from beneath a sparkling golden robe, revealing the curvy form beneath.
The momentary striptease draws a round of rabid applause within the jeers, Singh dropping a pearly sneer upon the peasants. She moves through the ropes, taking center stage.
Amara is clad in her iconic and lavishly designed, gold bra with matching gold and red, lacy harem pants, her feet bare. Singh’s raven tresses fall just past her shoulders in wild waves, dark copper skin glowing under the lights. The Bombshell raises a microphone to her full rosy lips, but VanBuren, having entered behind, requests Amara provide her the amplifier. Portia exchanges it for the title, which she places lovingly in the hands of a beaming Singh.
“Bow down to Your Empress,” Portia demands, the crowd not having it.
“I told you what she would do to the Phenom, to the Raven, to the Army of One who steamrolled over all others. None could deny the majesty that is Amara Singh.
“We have the evidence.” VanBuren motions the Subcontinental Siren to hold the gold high.
“The proof the rest of these women are here to be subjugated, conquered by Your Empress. And who better to start the parade than the so-called Ginger Genius. As if there could be such a thing. A woman you love. A woman who may have momentarily beaten back Father Time but is no match for Your Empress. Enjoy her last moments.”
The FAWNatics don’t seem to appreciate Portia’s prediction and they let her know.
Sneering at their jeers, VanBuren drops the mic and leads Singh to her corner where there’s no bothering with strategy against a lamb to be slaughtered. Instead, Amara hands over the organization’s top prize and watches Baby hop to the floor below, only turning her attention to the veteran when the bell brings the first defense of her title to a start.
Even at Colleen’s advanced wrestling age, the redhead is renowned for a motor that keeps her going for figurative days, even if it might not rev very high on the MPH, and the challenger seems eager to put Singh to an immediate test. She strides confidently and directly toward the Empress, throwing her arms high and forward for a tie-up Singh deftly ducks past, sliding to the side.
Singh sets back up at central, perfect pearlies flashing to a whiffing O’Neal who chuckles as she spins to face the champ.
“Too fast for you?” Amara asks. “We both know I’m too strong. Not sure that leaves much for you.”
The women come together in a collar-and-elbow, but they only remain locked for a few seconds before Amara heaves the California Angel into a backward flight, Colleen landing lightly then backpedaling a couple steps before catching her balance.
“I’d say overconfidence doesn’t look good on you,” O’Neal offers.
“But you know it does?” Singh interrupts. “At least you’re old enough to have some wisdom.”
“So true,” the Ginger Genius offers with a tilted smirk, again taking her fight straight to the woman her larger by nearly twenty pounds.
But this time, just before locking limbs, Colleen slips around the Indian grappler and tightens a waistlock around the golden-brown midriff of her foe from behind. She lifts Amara to tiptoes with a bearhug before Singh’s soles are returned to the canvas.
The Bollywood Bombshell swings a nasty elbow strike behind her the Bay Area native ducks under. With Amara off balance, the lighter challenger easily scoops Singh off the deck and PLANTS the champion to her back with a side suplex. A grimacing Amara reaches for her lower spine, snarling at the redhead as O’Neal skips around her, motioning for Amara to rise.
“Em-press,” Portia contributes from the sidelines, both syllables emphasized to show her displeasure with Singh giving the FAWNatics the impression the vagabond from the Golden State would have any chance when Clayton and Lemarchand and Suguitan fell before Amara, Singh graced with her supreme managerial leadership.
“Don’t let that hippie get any ideas,” VanBuren adds.
Singh nods impatiently. While there could be no argument her career is skyrocketing since Portia brought her back to the organization, it doesn’t mean VanBuren’s shrill complaints couldn’t ruffle her feathers.
The risen, raven-haired beauty again meets her ginger foe mid-ring in another collar-and-elbow. This time Colleen quickly pivots into a ¾ facelock and prepares to snap mare Amara to a seat on the deck, but the Subcontinental Siren shoves her off before O’Neal can manage.
The Angel in pink-n-blue races to the ropes in front of her and rebounds. She buries a shoulder and runs headlong into Singh, but Amara is ready to give as good as she gets and more so. A thrust from the Empress with a dueling shoulder puts a startled Colleen on the deck, looking up from a position on her backside, O’Neal propping on her palms.
“Oh-kay. Maybe not,” O’Neal admits.
“Maybe?” the champ asks incredulously.
The redhead crab walks back several steps before pushing to her feet. She circles the Bollywood Bully, Amara reaching but coming up empty a few times. Growing more frustrated, she corners the cautious Colleen then surges toward her, only to come up empty with a two-handed swipe.
O’Neal scoots past, turns, and lights a spinning Singh up with a backhand blast of a chop, naturally drawing a requisite ‘woooo’ from the assembled. A wincing Singh is rocked to her heels from the stinging abuse. She gets several more helpings as the Angel levels more knife-edges, drawing a pinkish hue to the copper of Amara’s decolletage.
Enraged after the fifth, Amara grabs Colleen by the throat with both hands. She lifts the bug-eyed ginger off the canvas and spins her into the buckles to take her place. And karma is paid as Singh whips a set of backhand chops into the smaller woman’s ivory chest, O’Neal’s chest bright red after the echoing attacks.
With her foe slumped and mewling after a half-dozen, Singh gleefully blows on her palm as if to cool down the weapon. She hooks her right arm with the left of the Cali legend and hiptosses her foe halfway across the ring, Colleen’s spine THUMPING into the thinly-sheathed plywood. O’Neal skids to a stop, a hand reaching for the base of her spine. She pushes to her feet as quickly as she’s able, but it’s only in time to find her place in a neutral corner invaded by the onrushing Amara. Singh launches from several feet out and BURIES the fan favorite in an Indian tidal wave, the Bombshell’s splash blowing up the former Artemis.
As Singh bounces away from the impact, O’Neal staggers past, a victim of the power and size differential. She’s caught from behind by the Empress, who snatches her rival’s noggin, leaps with legs extended and sits out, bulldogging the redhead to the canvas. Colleen’s face THUMPS off the deck, her head snapping back from the impact. Absently, she flops to her back and Singh looks to make a quick night’s work of her first defense, climbing aboard the splayed Angel in a crossbody pin for the win at…
ONE…
TWO…
O’Neal shoves a shoulder off the canvas, slopping to her side and rattling her braincase to settle some senses into place.
Outside, Portia provides a courteous golf clap to her titleholder, motioning the crowd to do the same. Instead, their disappointed mumbles turn to boos. Singh shakes her head disapprovingly, latching onto Colleen’s fiery locks and ripping the veteran to her feet as she rises.
“I know you’re supposed to have a lot of gas in the tank for an old woman,” the Empress coos in Colleen’s ear as she bullies her foe deep into a set of ropes. “But frankly, you’re here on hype. As Jasmine would say, Da Man put you on the gravy train. Well, I’m here to throw you off.”
Her piece stated, Singh sends the redhead hustling across the canvas. The golden-brown grappler stations mid-ring as O’Neal u-turns out of the rubber-coated steel. Amara pivots and dips to accept the leapfrogging Colleen across her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. But before the Bombshell can deliver her ordinance in the shape of a Samoan Drop, the Ginger Genius wriggles down her foe’s back, landing behind the champion.
The slippery redhead pushes Amara forward into the cables then back somersaults along with Singh in tow, the Empress ending in a cradled package with Colleen above. Dropping into a bridge, Colleen keeps Amara squirming in place, shoulders on the canvas for the…
ONE…
TWO…
Singh busts loose with a tick to spare, Portia’s sphincter puckering within her tennis togs with how close the gold was to transferring to the Greater Good’s Golden State import.
Amara scrambles to her feet staring at Castle. She breathes a sigh of relief when she sees two fingers raised. But as she pays attention to the zebra, the California Angel drives a toe kick DEEP into the coppery expanse of the Indian’s midriff. Amara is left doubled and gasping as O’Neal takes off for the ropes at her foe’s side. She rebounds at full speed and dives into a front flip over Singh’s back, catching Amara’s head in her hands on the fly-by and SPINNING Singh to the deck with a nasty neckbreaker.
As a rattled Amara cradles her head in her hands, bare soles pattering against the mat, O’Neal uses her momentum to hop to her feet. Taking a quick glimpse behind her, she leaps to the middle cable while grabbing the top and springboards into a backflip. Her perfectly-placed Cali-sault drives the breath from the splattered Singh, Amara’s exhale bursting from between her full lips as she jackknifes around the impact of the Ginger Genius.
With both legs of her foe raised, Colleen scoops them and rolls to a back press across the chest of the deflated Empress. Portia shouts in alarm as Nick slaps the mat for the…
ONE…
TWO…
The World Champion kicks her way out from under the smaller grappler, landing on her side, gasping for oxygen. Amara remains matbound as the azure-eyed San Franciscan pushes to her feet and measures the location of her foe. Skipping over the horizontal Indian, Colleen leaps into the middle strand again, both boot soles finding purchase. She springboards off the rubber-coated steel in a 180 and lands with legs extended, one alabaster stem crashing across the swelling chest of the Empress, the other across her foe’s throat.
Singh spasms before falling still under the prodigal daughter’s legs, but O’Neal doesn’t remain there. She back somersaults out of the pinning predicament, seemingly realizing she has to hit one more seismic shock to pull off the enormous upset.
Pulling the ragdolled Amara to her feet, the glistening redhead releases, turns and races to the ropes again, leaving a tottering Empress unsure of her surroundings. The redhead returns but is seemingly tardy when Amara dips to collect Colleen around the hips and flip her into a back body drop.
But the Bollywood Bombshell isn’t yet in condition. The veteran, seemingly well aware that would be the case, throws her raised weight in reverse and RIPS Singh off her feet NAILING Amara with a brutal Spike DDT that sends the crown of the champion’s skull into the canvas-covered plywood.
Spike DDT ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=xfiZh0BQv2w )
Amara bonelessly flips the rest of the way to her back, out cold. An animated O’Neal dives across the insensate form of the titleholder. The Ginger Genius, completing a task no one thought possible, lands tight across the splayed Indian beauty, hooking a limp leg for the…
ONE…
TWO…
THRENOOO!
From somewhere a burst of adrenaline shoots through the champion’s body and she pushes a shoulder off the canvas. A distraught VanBuren, having turned away from the terrible defeat, spins back when the crowd groans. The slender socialite pumps the air in relief as much as excitement.
Inside, the California Angel shows a glint of disappointment, but her veteran instincts quickly kick in, the GSW legend knowing well nothing comes easy when in the squared circle with a wrestler the caliber of the Bollywood Bombshell.
The freckled fighter seems tempted to try another pin but fights the likely futile urge, instead pushing to her feet then grabbing a wrist and shoulder of Singh and dragging the malleable Indian to rubbery legs.
Pulling the dipped head of the Bollywood Bully into a front facelock, Colleen grabs a handful of harem pants and flips Amara to the canvas with a wickedly quick snap suplex. The Ginger Genius never releases her grip as she rolls through the ring-rattling impact and draws Singh to her bare soles once more. She repeats the process once then, looking a little drained herself, sends the battered Amara up and over to the deck for a third time with her troika of suplexes.
Maneuvering to one knee, the redhead takes in deep inhales as she gazes upon the splayed Amara and outside, the frantic, screaming Portia. When her contract was terminated by FAWN those many years ago, Baby was among the organization’s most feared competitors. Now, the Manhattanite’s retried from the ring and pleading with the World Champion to somehow survive her. A tired smile emerges.
What a journey.
O’Neal rises slowly and surrounds Singh’s head with both hands, pulling the lethargic Siren to her feet. She spins Amara in place in order to strap on a bearhug from behind, her arms circling and cinching around the golden-brown tummy of her adversary. The dark eyes of the Empress bulge as Colleen compresses her abdomen, forcing air from the faltering champion. It’s hardly a Pandora-sized embrace, but it’s enough to set up Colleen’s Golden Bear, O’Neal planning to fall forward with Singh, splashing her underneath, face and chest hitting the floor and the San Franciscan sandwiching her on top.
But Amara has the senses to grapevine a leg around O’Neal’s before she’s fully lifted off the canvas for the ride and, as the redhead tries to slip her limb loose, Singh swings an elbow back and CRACKS it into the temple of the challenger.
Colleen’s arms slide from around Amara’s waist as she staggers a few steps away, a hand moving to her rattled braincase. Determined to not let the Empress battle her way back into contention, O’Neal charges with a forearm drawn, but Amara surprises with one of her own and THUMPS it into the Angel’s jawline, rocking the prodigal daughter.
With Colleen on her heels, Singh seems instantly reborn, surging at her target and splattering O’Neal to the canvas with a simple but effective clothesline. To her credit, the veteran is up quickly, but is levelled once more by another. Stubborn, the ginger pushes to vertical again, if more slowly. She ducks under a third scythe-like swipe.
Both women rotate to face each other, but it’s Singh who reacts first, driving a bare foot into Colleen’s knee. O’Neal genuflects in pain in front of the Empress. Amara raises a pointed elbow and brings it down on the crowd of Colleen’s skull. The veteran’s baby blues cross from the force of the impact, but she remains on one knee until Singh scoops her arms under those of the redhead, Amara pulling the challenger to wobbly feet.
The Subcontinental Siren lifts a dazed O’Neal off her feet as if to body slam, the freckled fighter lain over her right shoulder. But Singh has a different idea, swinging her off not to the mat but across bended knee, Amara dropping and PLANTING Colleen’s spine across the plank of the Indian’s upper leg in a brutal backbreaking maneuver.
Her confidence returning and Portia’s relief evident, a snarling Amara shoves down on either side of the would-be pendulum of O’Neal’s frame, instead turning the body into a bow. Collen yelps in pain as her vertebrae are lodged out of position by Amara’s efforts.
“Ask her,” the Empress demands, and Castle does as he’s told.
With Singh’s palm on her upturned chin, it’s difficult to shake her head, so the Angel offers a mumbled ‘no’.
Frustrated with the response, Singh pulls both hands away from their placement. She laces her fingers into a double axhandle and PLOWS the joined fists into Colleen’s midriff. O’Neal spasms out of her arch, baby blues bugging as her arms swaddle her roiling gut. The Bombshell shoves Colleen off, letting the contender spill to the canvas, at her feet when Amara takes a domineering stance, hovering over the imploding challenger.
“You took a nice little shot at me, peasant. Better than some. But it all ends the same.”
Amara dips next to her retching foe, surrounding the redhead’s neck with her hands and shooting the challenger to her feet via a windpipe-constricting choke-lift. After a brief touch of her foe’s boots to canvas, Amara tosses the California Angel to the nearest set of buckles, O’Neal’s backbone SLAMMING into the corner.
Colleen slides down the buckles, ending on her pert, little backside, ivory legs extended, chin drooping to her chest, spent.
“And now you get a taste of the big-time before you drift off into retirement,” Singh says, approaching calmly.
The golden-brown grappler spins in a 180 and backs dat ass into the features of the prodigal daughter, swallowing up Colleen’s face in her pear-shaped booty. As she swivels her hips and spreads the wealth of her backside across the encapsulated mug of the redhead, her signature Harem Shake proves more than a tactic of humiliation as the squirming O’Neal fights to find air. She pushes fruitlessly against Amara’s muscular thighs, unable to move the champion, Amara swishing and swooshing her undercarriage across Colleen’s submerged countenance for long, LONG seconds.
Finally, Singh ends her Shake, pulling away from the greasy, freckled face of the huffing challenger, baby blues droopy. O’Neal flops to a hip and shoulder, drained and depleted.
The champion’s leader leans into the domination slow in arriving, shouting at the silenced member of Greater Good.
“Back to where you should be,” Baby shouts. “At our feet like the loser you were always meant to be.”
Amara grabs her challenger by the ankles and drags the Ginger Genius to mid-ring where she lets O’Neal’s leaden legs drop to the canvas. She places a bare sole on O’Neal’s heaving bosom, pressing down and flexing her toes into the flesh.
“You may count,” the Empress announces.
Castle drops to the canvas and slaps it for the embarrassing…
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOO!
A furious Amara stomps her foot into O’Neal’s gut, the redhead imploding around the impact, groaning; the champion punishing Colleen for delaying her successful defense.
“You’re a perfect example of your pathetic group,” Singh shouts, “whimpering at my feet, proving the Empress is above all, including your sad, mistaken decisions of what is good and bad.”
Amara puts foot to beloved underdog in a flurry of trampling.
“For what is better than good but great and having prestige in the proper hands is the greatest of all.”
The Indian grappler reaches down, collecting Colleen around the head with both hands, and pulls the faltering Angel to her feet. Singh ROCKS the redhead with a European Uppercut that puts O’Neal back in the growingly familiar corner. She follows with a blazing chop to the chest that sends Colleen off her feet, upper half leaning atop the uppermost buckle.
The Bollywood Bombshell grabs O’Neal’s raised legs and throws them over the middle rope on one side while quickly moving her foe’s head and shoulders over the same on the opposite side. Grabbing the top cables, Amara vaults into the air, spinning in a 180 as she does, AND RAMS her ample ass into the midriff of the vulnerable Colleen.
The California Angel CRASHES to the canvas from the blow, hugging her tummy as she absently rolls in the wrong direction, toward the middle of the ring rather than exiting.
A beaming champion strides after her, waving in regal fashion to the jeers of the FAWNatics. She chuckles at the audience, perhaps for thinking a miniature ginger could beat her when a physical specimen the likes of Becky Clayton could not hold the line against her magnificence.
Amara again plucks what’s left of O’Neal off the canvas and tugs her foe’s lowered head between her golden-brown thighs, wrapping her arms around the gulping belly of the GSW queen, ready to powerbomb the Angel from heaven to hell with her PowerBollyBomb.
PowerBollyBomb ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=AjSpD_5Lu08 )
But when Colleen is flipped up the frame of the Subcontinental Siren, ending in a seat on Singh’s shoulders, she desperately fires away with a set of right crosses to the temple. The number and ferocity must be surprising to Amara as she loses control of the persistent Golden State icon.
O’Neal drops in front of the World Champion and Singh takes a swing at her challenger. Colleen ducks under and wraps her arms around the abdomen of the Empress, tightening the grip in a waistlock. O’Neal tries to lift Amara up and over for a gutwrench but is unable and get a forearm SMASH to the spine for her trouble, dropping to one knee, back arching in pain.
A simmering Singh pulls the redheaded gnat up and bullies Colleen to a corner, Amara taking the inside position. She climbs to the middle set of ropes in stages, turning O’Neal to face away from her. Whatever vile plans Singh has for the end of the Angel are thwarted when the prodigal daughter swings her head back and ‘accidentally’ thumps it into Amara’s crotch.
Silenced by the fortuitous connection, Singh is frozen in her stance. Moving quickly, the seemingly reenergized veteran wraps her ivory arms around the thighs of the Empress and shifts Singh onto her shoulders. The Ginger Genius carries her slumping cargo away from the corner, moving to center stage before laying out in her Cali Redwood electric chair drop.
Cali Redwood ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=aQUTT3BIks8 ) 00:18
The crowd roars at the fateful turn of events, their treasured Angel rejuvenated, O’Neal kipping to her feet and watching Amara spasm from the nasty landing. The smaller challenger moves next to the splattered Singh and ‘hups’ to a handstand. She turns in a 180 and drops the points of both knees into the bronzed belly of the champion. A bug-eyed Amara jackknifes around the impact before gurgling back to a horizontal single file. Colleen scoops both legs and folds the Empress into a matchbook for a stunning…
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOO!
Amara kicks out of the pinning predicament, flopping to hip and shoulder as Colleen’s baby blues plead for a ‘three’ from Castle. On her haunches next to the blasted Bombshell, the redhead plucks the faltering titleholder off the canvas, lifting Amara in stages until both are standing shoulder-to-shoulder, facing in opposite directions.
Colleen leans Amara back across bended knee and pounds forearms into the champion’s chest then violently swings her foe forward and PLANTS Singh’s face and chest into the deck with a reverse STO called the Ginger Snap.
Ginger Snap ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=xOQ3XIuJsbM )
Instantly, the veteran transfers the concussive blow into her Golden Gate finisher, Colleen snaking her legs around the skull of the champion as she twists Amara to her chest, the redhead pushing up on her palms with the figure-four scissors in place. O’Neal reaches back to grab her boot and secure the terminal submission.
Golden Gate ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=D9nNrBjYpwU )
As she stretches, a frantic Portia hops to the apron, screaming at Castle. Distracted, the zebra pushes away from Singh’s predicament to ‘coax’ VanBuren to return to her proper location. Behind him, the Angel completes her ‘Gate’ and waits for the inevitable, Amara’s palm hovering over the canvas. However, as Baby’s bluster continues, Portia remarking on how “we can’t let a never-was cheat her way to the top”, a surly O’Neal breaks the hold and rushes the arguing pair.
Colleen pushes past Castle and knocks VanBuren into next week with a perfectly-placed dropkick to the chin, Portia sent sprawling to the floor. O’Neal rises and leans over the ropes, letting the Manhattanite know the Greater Good is about to become the Greatest Good.
The FAWNatics are torn between Colleen giving up her submission and watching Baby crashing and burning to a puddled mess. With Nick busy pleading with Colleen to turn her attention back to the champ, a risen Singh delivers a punt to the ginger’s pussy from behind.
O’Neal’s baby blues bulge as she rises to tiptoes, squeaking in anguish as her hands drop between her thighs. Amara grabs a shoulder and spins Colleen’s pain-ravaged face into view. She GUTS the California Angel with a toe kick to the tummy. Again, she ‘juggles’ Colleen’s body up hers, finishing with the redhead seated on her shoulders. There is no reprisal from a limp O’Neal and the ginger’s sent hurtling to the canvas with the PowerBollyBomb.
PowerBollyBomb ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=AjSpD_5Lu08 )
The sound of impact shuts the mouths of the FAWNatics. A folded, unconscious Colleen, arms splayed above her head, legs pointed to the rafters, in possession of the seated Singh, sleeps through the…
ONE…
TWO…
THREEEE!
A disdainful Amara tosses Colleen’s limp alabaster stems aside and pushes to her feet, calling for her gold. A staggered Portia detours to the announcer’s table to pluck the prize as the man makes the emphatic decision an official one.
“Your winner and STILL FAWN WORLD CHAMPION…AMARA SINGH!”
As Baby rubs her jaw with one hand and slides into the ring with World Title wrapped over her opposite shoulder, Amara seemingly realizes her victory is in the books and the demolished woman at her feet has made her work far too hard to earn it.
She shovels the splayed redhead to her chest with a bare foot and mounts her in a forward-facing crouch. The Indian superstar posts one arm then the other over her knees, cups her hands, securing them under Colleen’s chin, and wrenches back in a Camel Clutch, apparently hoping to snap the Angel’s spine.
With Portia cheering her on and the fans shouting at Castle to intercede, the spiteful Singh brings Colleen sputtering back to life, the pain reviving her. She sobs muffled cries for release, energetically tapping the canvas then Amara’s knee, hoping to gain someone’s attention that matters.
Unfortunately, Singh shrugs off the ineffective official and there’s no mercy in the cold heart of the Empress as she attempts to turn Colleen’s C-shape into a O. The Angel waves her wings wildly in a silent plea before she passes back into unconsciousness from the wicked abuse.
With bells tolling, Princess Giselle and Lady Liberty race down the ramp. A flustered Portia alerts her charge and Amara finally releases, the vile champion and her manager evacuating the ring as the cavalry enters.
VanBuren lays the gold over a shoulder of the glistening Empress and the victors leave for a Spring Break party. In the ring, a semi-conscious Colleen mutters to Giselle and the brunette frantically calls for the EMTs.
The crowd hushes as the medics slowly, attentively secure the redhead to a board, fortifying her neck and strapping her to a rolling gurney when she’s moved outside. There’s precious little movement in her extremities as the American Idol and the Disney-adjacent Princess each hold a hand of the Ginger Genius as she’s wheeled away to Orlando General and likely out of FAWN for good.