Post by hawkeye on May 8, 2023 0:31:37 GMT
With Spring Break down to its final match, a Richter scale rumble traverses the arena’s sound system. The FAWNatics transform to spiteful savages as the thunder from the speakers reverberates, an earthquake-sized round of boos making clear their distaste for the flaxen-haired fireplug about to grace them with her dubious talents.
Still, there is a hint of confusion in the air. Why is the FAWN’s World and Lightweight champion entering the battlefield first?
The hatred rises to a crescendo, suppressing such puzzlement, when the speakers transition to Van Halen's ‘Beautiful Girls’.
Beautiful Girls (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bJ9h2m06sFQ )
A barrage of pyrotechnics explodes from the rafters in time with the chords, the fiery white sparks illuminating the cavernous space in a blinding light.
When the dazzling illumination subsides, the ill-mannered, ass-kicking and dual title-holding blonde is center stage. With the Lightweight belt strapped around her plush, tanned tummy, the Cali Quake lifts the bigger, gaudier World belt off a shoulder.
KAT BRADDOCK:
Her gilded resume made clear, the buxom Brat chuckles at the wall of animosity sent in her direction.
“HERE…TO…STAY!” she mouths to the crowd.
Lowering FAWN’s top prize back across her right shoulder, Kat heads for the squared circle with a Cheshire grin. The once-upon-a-time beach fighter, plucked from obscurity by Chrissy Daniel, strides toward the title combat zone in her booty-blasting blue gear, the two-piece ensemble accentuating her curves both bottom and top, the outfit including knee-high athletic socks and boots traded in for sporty Chuck Taylors.
Kat’s gear (
and ( 
).
Reaching the ring, Kat passes the steps and snatches a microphone off the announcer’s table. Braddock saunters to the steel stairs and climbs, slipping between the cables when she reaches the apron.
Taking center stage as the face of FAWN, Braddock raises the stick to her lips as her music fades. The crowd’s volume rises to try and silence the curvy blonde.
“Shut your damn mouths!”
The throng forces every negative decibel available from their lungs and the champ-champ waits impatiently.
“I’m out here to let you know there won’t be a title match tonight.”
Kat rolls her eyes at another round of jeers.
“Don’t blame me. There isn’t any wrestler back there woman enough to face me. They’ve all been scared off. Hell. They’re making up new titles to stay away from me. Television title? Are you kidding me?”
Braddock chuckles. The fans seem less amused.
“And now we have a “Sherriff”? Listen, Red. You know when they say no one is above the law,” the Cali Quake taps each of her belts, “you’re looking at the badass who is. So keep your tin star away from me, otherwise I might stick it where the sun don’t shine, country girl.”
“As for tonight? I’ll give you the pleasure of hearing me introduced, because that’s all you deserve…Standing before you in all her glory…from Newport Beach, California. Standing five feet two inches tall and weighing in at 123 pounds. Your FAWN World AND Lightweight champion. THE California Quake. The most dominant champion this galaxy has ever seen…KAT BRAD…!”
From nowhere, “Wild Eyed Southern Boys” by .38 Special blasts through the arena's PA.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=PDeDAgud87M
As the crowd explodes in a frantic fervor, the curtains tear open and the most infamous redhead in FAWN history struts down the aisleway, her hips sashaying with silent temptation. With all due regards to the Country Cowgirl, it’s the notorious Southern Charmer who emerges.
IVY ARMSTRONG
Ivy Armstrong wears a red and black satin corset that evokes a sense of Antebellum grandeur, while her trademark denim cut-offs reveal a conspicuous degree of her backside, and instead of the discreet ankle which a saucy Southern belle might have once shown, the redhead has on display her full legs in all of their lithe splendor, perched lethally upon a pair of crimson stiletto heels.
As she confidently swaggers toward the ring, she bounces between each side of the aisle, slapping hands with the delighted FAWNatics. One particularly lucky fan has his face cupped close within her hands. Ivy Belle plants a kiss on his forehead, then whispers something into his ear that causes his knees to buckle and his friends to whoop, holler and high five one another.
Never let it be said Ivy isn’t willing to give her all for the fans.
Her fan outreach complete, Armstrong resumes her march to the ring, a contented smile on her ruby red lips, and her black eye-lined green eyes half-lidded like a jungle cat on the prowl. At ringside, she grabs the ropes and pulls herself up to the apron. Stepping to the center, she turns to face the crowd even as her arms reach up on either side so that her hands can grasp the top cable.
Inside, Kat is in a state of shock, stupefied by what she’s seeing, arms and microphone hanging by her sides.
First, Ivy kicks off one shoe into the scrambling throng, and then the other, leaving her barefoot. Then, with a gracefulness that would put Cirque du Soleil to shame, she flips up and over the strands in a graceful arc, alighting gently inside of the ring. The end result is an eruption of gratitude from the entranced crowd.
Within the squared circle, she saunters over to the dual champion and grabs the stick from the dazed blonde, Braddock’s mouth agape. Armstrong positions hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder next to the astonished Brat, then brings the mic to her lips.
“Let me help you out here, kiddo,” Ivy exclaims then sends Kat lurching with a hip bump that sends Kat stumbling to her left, Kat catching herself in the ropes.
“Introducing her opponent...standing five feet eight inches tall and tipping the scale at one-hundred and twenty pounds...from Uriah, Alabama...she is the 'Bama Slamma, IIIIVVVVVVYYYYYY ARMSTRONG!”
The mob goes berserk, Ivy obviously delighted by the response.
Armstrong casually tosses the stick to the outside and moves to her corner, draping her arms over the top ropes as she eyes her opponent across the expanse of canvas, betraying not a whit of concern.
A now furious Kat moves to the opposite buckles and transfers her two gilded belts to attendants then turns back to Armstrong and mouths “YOU’RE DEAD!”
A smirking Ivy slaps her thighs then advances as the bell rings. Immediately, Kat slips her head and torso between the top and middle strands.
“KEEP THAT BACKWOODS BYTCH BACK! I’M NOT READY!”
“You’re damn sure not, sugah,” comes the sweet as molasses reply, Ivy stopping mid-ring to let Braddock return at her own speed.
Braddock waits for Armstrong to retreat a step or two then reenters.
“Are you the World AND Lightweight champion?! I didn’t think so.”
Ivy looks the vertically-challenged blonde up and down.
“Not yet. But let’s see if we can’t change that.”
A snarling Brat surges forward for a collar-and-elbow with the infamous redhead. Simultaneously, each woman’s right hand reaches for their opponent’s eyes and talons scrape across brown and green peepers respectively.
Kat and Ivy yelp in pain, Braddock turning away from her foe, both women furiously rubbing at their eyes, each blinded by the other. But while Kat curses the Southern Charmer, the veteran second-generation star stretches one arm out, sight unseen, and finds Kat’s flaxen locks.
Convinced the hair is longer than Nick Castle’s, Armstrong yanks toward her, pulling the visually impaired champion in close. Ivy instinctively wraps her arms around the shorter Braddock in a sleeper hold. Ivy’s arms cinch tight around head and neck, pressing taut to temple and carotid artery.
Pulling her hands away from her watering and now bulging brown eyes, an anxious Kat pries at Ivy’s arms fruitlessly. Blinking to retrieve vision beyond blurred light and dark, Braddock frantically tries to find the ropes, as forcing her way out of the predicament is obviously futile. The Bama Slamma leans into her trap, cutting more of the blood flow from Kat’s increasingly addled brain.
Gulping hard as her wits slow, the thought of one of the most embarrassing losses in title fight history seems to provide a burst of energy. It’s enough to draw Braddock forward and wrap an arm greedily around the uppermost cable. Kat burbles a soft demand for release and Castle picks it up with a steadier voice.
“Let her go, Ivy.”
Armstrong obliges, but only after ‘FOUR’.
“Hope you’re ready for a long night, Nick,” Armstrong replies. Rubbing her emerald peepers clear of tears, her own vision slowly returning.
“Because she’s literally a brat and I’m doing anything to get those belts.”
Castle nods. “Kinda figured.”
Armstrong proves it, brushing the official aside and sinking her digits into the napes of Kat’s neck to drag her away from the safety of the strands. But as Ivy pulls, Braddock swings her right leg up behind her like a pendulum, THUMPING her calf into the redhead’s crotch.
Ivy’s jaw drops wide, her hands falling to her wounded center. She waddles a step or two in reverse and is pushed another couple by a turning Katrina Two-Belts.
With apparently enough vision to spot her targets, Kat lands stinging stereo windmill slaps to Ivy’s alabaster rack, the echoing cracks drawing an instinctive ‘WOOO’ from the pro-Armstrong crowd.
“Aw. Mama Ivy,” a blinking Kat purrs at the wincing auburn-haired legend. “You have no idea how low I can go.”
Pulling Ivy’s hands clear of her tending, Braddock lines up a forward punt to the privates and fires, disregarding Castle’s meager threat at potential disqualification.
What isn’t meager is Armstrong’s will, particularly with gold involved. The Bama legend intercepts before Braddock’s stem can strike kitty for a second time. Hands wrapping around the Cali’s quake’s ankle, a knock-kneed Armstrong ignores the anguish from below as best she can, lifting the abbreviated leg high, then heaving it backward.
The limb swings like a pendulum, with enough momentum to rip Kat off her planted boot. But not only does Braddock’s chin plummet toward the canvas at significant speed, its trip is interrupted by a raised knee from Ivy, the Charmer CRACKING the bony cap into the point of Braddock’s jaw, snapping her foe’s head back in the process.
The Quake lands on her back in a stupor, spreadeagled at Ivy’s feet, Armstrong teaching the younger members of the crowd of what she’s capable when given the opportunity.
Worried about the proximity of the ropes, the veteran dips and grabs Kat’s wrists, pulling her adversary out several feet to eliminate that escape. Armstrong grimaces through a trip to her knees, her crotch still humming from Kat’s earlier successful low blow. She drops across the champ-champ in a lateral press for the impressive…
ONE…
TWO…
Kat shoves a shoulder off the canvas, emerging from her trance long enough to save her possession of the multiple belts.
Rubbing her chin like she has an invisible goatee and flexing her jaw, Braddock barrel rolls toward the ropes, hoping for an exit to the outside, but Armstrong has no intention for Kat to delay her enjoyment by even a few seconds.
Grabbing an ankle, Ivy, regaining more of her standard gait as the waves of pain lessen from between her legendary legs, pulls a squirming, cursing Kat toward center stage, The Brat on her abundant chest. Reaching the middle, a churning Kat flips to her back. She may quickly regret it when Armstrong sends a set of three stomps to the considerable cleavage of the curvy blonde.
With Kat properly subdued, Ivy let’s Braddock’s right leg fall away and steps around the left, scissoring it as she spins. Reaching a 360, she collects the wayward right and crosses it beneath the captured left in a familiar figure of four. With the crowd roaring in anticipation, Ivy drops to her back as she uses her legs to lock the submission in.
Kat’s teeth clench as she realizes the pickle she’s been placed in and, when Armstrong yanks violently on the relatively short stems, the champ-champ howls in anguish, pulling at her golden locks to spread the pain.
Castle drops next to the titles holder, asking if Kat wants to surrender her hardware and she blurts out an angry ‘F you’. Nick dutifully waves off the timekeeper and shouts out “NO”.
A flexing Ivy is unperturbed, working her well-worn path to legendary status and another championship run. But as the inevitable seems clearer, a screaming Kat pushes up on her palms and slowly drags her way toward the cables behind her. It’s a long, arduous trek, one Ivy fights the whole way to wring as much out of Braddock as she can. But ultimately, it’s a success show of determination for Katrina Two-Belts, the bratty former beach-fighter showing why she’s made it to the top of the mountain at such a tender age.
Wrapping a hand around the bottom rope, the Cali Quake shouts for Armstrong to let her go and Castle concurs. The oft-proclaimed Dirtiest Player in the Game holds through a four-count before untangling her deadly stems, butt scooting several feet clear and pushing to her feet.
Armstrong motions Kat there and, when Braddock is too slow to rise, Ivy moves to make her. Kat pulls out of the ring, sliding under the bottom rope, landing boots to arena floor, and limping prominently to the steel barricade. She turns to face her foe, pushing palms out in front of her.
“Wait a god damn second,” Braddock bellows. “These people deserve the champ at her best when she beats you.”
“Talking in the third person already,” Ivy retorts, as she moves to the ropes nearest Kat. “Not a good sign.”
Castle informs the Brat she’ll need to return or his count will start presently.
“Don’t bother,” Ivy informs Nick as she slips through. “I’ll get her.”
Armstrong drops to the thinly-padded cement and trails a retreating Braddock, Kat with a considerable hitch in her giddy-up.
It takes only a few steps for the challenger to catch her prey, grabbing Braddock by a shoulder and the rim of her lower togs, the better to bum rush The Brat back in the ring.
But as she grabs the blonde for the literal heave-ho, Kat reaches to the hand on her shoulder, surrounding the wrist with both palms. The champ-champ deftly spins around Ivy, creating a tight hammerlock. She then shoves Armstrong forward, the redhead’s cranium CRASHING into the steel of the ring post.
The crowd groans, instantly deflating from celebrating the Slamma’s success. The strings in Ivy’s legendary legs are cut by the collision as she melts to the floor, ending stacked on her haunches, leaning against the ring steps. A still hobbling but vertical Kat sinks a set of fingers into the auburn mane of her foe, draws Ivy’s noggin back, and SLAMS it into the metal steps, the CLANG visibly disturbing many in the nearby seats.
“How do you like me now, Southern-fried bytch?” Kat shouts, endearing herself no further with the central Florida FAWN fandom.
Ivy’s in no condition to respond, having flopped to her side, barely clinging to consciousness.
Inside, Nick’s count is accruing. Kat uses Ivy’s body as the bottom step to travel up the otherwise steel versions. She enters, swiftly spins, and removes herself from the ring to get a second helping of Southern Charmer.
Braddock peels Ivy off the floor and slides the flaccid redhead into the ring but only far enough the veteran lies next to the ring post. With Ivy’s back pointed toward the steel, Kat grabs an ankle with her right hand, a wrist with the left, moving Armstrong to arch around the post. The blonde takes a seat on the top step and leeeeans back, testing the Slamma’s spinal column against the unforgiving metal.
As the crowd jeers the champ-champ, Ivy howls in anguish, the fortified bow-and-arrow ravaging the redhead’s vertebrae.
“I’m going to snap you, bytch,” a grunting, grimacing Braddock asserts.
Unfortunately for the California Quake, Castle has once again engaged his counting skills and, at ‘FOUR’, the curvy blonde releases and shoves Ivy away with an unfolding lower limb. Kat drops her boots to the floor and slides in under the bottom rope next to her challenger, then pops to her feet.
The Brat grabs Ivy by the wrists and tugs her out from the corner several steps, then lowers a series of three elbows to the cleft of Ivy’s ivory cleavage to subjugate the future Hall of Famer. With Armstrong flat on the canvas, wincing and pressing a palm to her heart, looking like she might be having a coronary, Kat moves to the corner, taking a moment to kick Armstrong’s illustrious legs wide.
The FAWNatics instantly pick up on this little detail and boo their hearts out as Braddock climbs the corner and turns to face her challenger. A grinning Kat raises her arms high and wide to antagonize the throng further, then drops them to her sides for launch. Braddock blasts off with the crown of her skull aimed at Ivy’s spread crotch, ready for a head butt of atomic proportions.
But Ivy gets her legs up and together and Kat’s face meets the soles of the Southern Charmer’s bare feet. Braddock’s head whiplashes away from the disastrous blunder, the blonde pirouetting in a dazed 360, ending wobbling in a stance in front of Armstrong.
Legs lowering and widening slightly, Armstrong kicks her naked tootsies into the lower portion of Kat’s shins, sending the titles-holder falling forward between the ready stems of the redhead. Instantly, the lethal limbs wrap around Kat’s midriff, Ivy first squeezing against the former beachfighter’s sides, just under her ribs. But quickly, the Crimson Tidal Force maneuvers the Brat so she has crushing access to Kat’s abdomen and back, Ivy locking her ankles and applying all the incredible force she can generate with her scissors.
Kat’s brown eyes bulge as it seems she’s become a curvy toothpaste tube, her Achilles’ tummy compressed while Ivy’s body breaker simultaneously works on Braddock’s spine.
Kat fruitlessly pries at Armstrong’s infamous gams and breathlessly relents, realizing she must find another way, fast.
Ivy pours on the pressure, her thighs flexing, the desperation in Kat’s eyes and movements growing. The blonde presses her palms to the canvas and manages to scoot her way toward the nearest set of cables. Finally, after a dozen LONG seconds, she wraps a palm around the bottom cable and pleadingly requests Castle get her free.
Nick starts his count and, unsurprisingly, a growling Slamma doesn’t release her scissors until ‘FOUR’, rolling away from a gasping Kat. The auburn-haired grappler pushes to her feet and heads for the opposite ropes. Rebounding at full speed, she flings her body at Kat, ramming her bare feet into Braddock with a sliding dropkick that pushes the flagging champion out under the lowest strand, Kat plopping to the floor with a meaty THWACK.
Again the title fight is extralegal, the second-gen superstar gliding out after her target.
Ivy immediately takes to her Country Road, sending a flurry of stomps to the champ-champ as Kat collapses into a fetal ball, trying to protect herself from the onslaught of bare feet to most every inch of her frame.
Having walked Braddock a mile down the Road, Armstrong relents, choosing to scoop up what’s left of the bruised blonde. A smiling Armstrong shows off the limp, lethargic Braddock to the great pleasure of the crowd, then spins and sinks a toe kick in deep to the battered abs of the blonde, doubling over Braddock. Seamlessly, Ivy spins away from her opponent, reaching back over her right shoulder to secure a ¾ facelock. She drops to her alabaster backside and STUNS THE HOLY HELL out of Kat with her patented SoCo Stunner.
SoCo Stunner ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=xCDpQcA6iqQ )
The FAWNatics explode on impact, Kat flying into the air from the collision, ending on her back, out cold.
Ivy leaps to her feet and gives The Brat a tongue lashing but she can do little toward claiming the belts at her current location.
Noticing Castle’s graciously slow count has reached ‘EIGHT’, Ivy scours the remains of Braddock off the arena floor and wearily shoves the dead weight under. Turning to the crowd, she gives them a double-arm wave for them to bring the noise and they respond.
Armstrong slips in, following behind Braddock, a stirring Kat having rolled to her chest. The Quake slithers along the canvas, trying to create space, but the Dirtiest Player, having risen, snatches her foe’s ankles and spins Braddock to her back. Ivy spreads the abbreviated legs wide, prompting the champ-champ to push her palms toward the challenger, Kat ‘washing windows’ in pleading fashion, begging Ivy to not return the favor.
“Where would my hospitality be if I didn’t?” Armstrong asks before leaping and sitting out, dropping her calves like a hammer to Kat’s privates.
Braddock flops like a fish out of water from the shockwave to her womanhood, hands pressing tight between her thighs, trying to soften the contemptible blow. It might be added it’s one the crowd is overjoyed to see, reveling in Kat’s kitty being destroyed and the anguish it brings her.
Ivy’s not exactly unhappy either. Joy evident as she rises, Armstrong approaches a face down Kat, the blonde’s hands buried beneath her, ass pushed into the air a bit higher than the rest of her body.
Armstrong steps on the pit of Kat’s left knee and wrenches the limb so it’s locked around her own. Ivy repeats the process with the right, then slaps her foe’s sides to bring Kat’s wrists within her grasp. She plucks them and rocks back. On the third try, she rolls to her back, heaving Kat high above in an agonizing Ceiling Hold, all four of Kat’s limbs tested to their limits.
Ceiling Hold ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=L12IRhmHPYE&list=PL830D6E4E2CF67B63 ) :46
A yelping Kat swishes her head back and forth, offering a negative response to Castle’s offer to hand over her belts.
After more than a dozen pain-racked ticks of the clock, her legendary legs perhaps tiring, Ivy drops Braddock to her knees, releasing some of the pressure on The Brat’s legs but perhaps increasing it in her foe’s shoulder joints as Ivy tries to pull the former beachfighter’s arms out of their sockets.
Deciding the stubborn Braddock won’t end her reign quite yet, Armstrong releases her grips for a pair in the long golden locks of her foe, then throws Kat’s noggin forward, Braddock’s beak and forehead SLAMMING to the canvas with a nasty THUMP the Charmer’s crowd cheers enthusiastically.
Working her way free of the thrashed Cali Quake, Ivy moves to a standing backward-facing straddle of the face-down champion. She motions as if she has a jug of White Lightning and is ready to take a long pull. The sellout throng erupts in anticipation.
The auburn-haired legend dips, collecting Braddock’s right leg around the shin then leans back, drawing the champ-champ into an agonizing arch with a single-leg Crab. Kat grits her perfect pearlies, tugging at her own golden locks to spread the pain. She keeps her suffering silent until the Dirtiest Player halves her grip and sinks a set of talons into the crotch of The Brat, splitting the wickets between Kat’s upturned ass. And sending Braddock into high-pitched squeals.
Her White Lightning applied to perfection, Armstrong sweetly drawls to Castle he might want to ask Kat if she’s willing to surrender, but before Nick can even get the words out, she’s shouting out a pained ‘NO’. Ivy increases the arc and clamps tighter, eliciting many pained faces in the front row but also a booming “TAP…TAP…TAP” chant from those in attendance.
Still, Kat refuses to give the Slamma what she and her supporters desire and the Southern Charmer relents on her debilitating grip then throws Kat’s abbreviated stem to the canvas, Braddock yelping after impact, grasping at her lower spine with one hand, her throbbing privates with the other, her aching lower limb untended.
Slowly, Braddock manages to push to hands and knees, face twisted in pain, and little does the World and Lightweight title holder know, but Ivy’s been waiting for her arrival to that position. Armstrong shoots out of a corner and dives into a knee strike that twists the curvy blonde inside out with the impact.
Diving Knee Strike ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=oyUTnSawPCM ) :00
Kat ends in a wide starfish, out cold, and the redhead dives across her foe in a lateral press, hooking the far leg for good measure to start her reign as Ivy Two-Belts with the…
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOO!
Braddock shakes loose enough to shift a shoulder a few inches off the mat, the FAWNatics groaning en masse at the Quake’s determination to remain the Queen of the organization.
The blonde slithers along the canvas, eyes half-lidded, trying to reach the ropes and perhaps a trip outside to recover sufficient faculties to reenter a competitive phase of the fight. The challenger isn’t interested in allowing Kat the courtesy.
Showing a ruthless side anyone familiar with the Charmer knows lies just below the surface, Armstrong STOMPS on Kat’s left set of fingers. Braddock yelps in pain, her body being turned into a series of firing nerve endings. Ivy lowers and collects The Brat’s noggin with both hands and yanks the vertically-challenged Braddock to stooped feet, Kat remaining knock-kneed from the personal attack of the White Lightning bolt between her thighs.
Pivoting, Ivy backhand CHOPS Kat’s chest with a reverberating smack, drawing the requisite ‘WOOOO’ from the audience. But the second-generation superstar isn’t done, repeating the blistering backhand a second and third time, Kat reeling, her arms pinwheeling to keep her upright.
Her adversary backed into a corner, Ivy grabs the right wrist of the champ-champ and bends it in an overhand hammerlock, clearing a familiar path to Braddock’s blood-pumper. Ivy clenches a right fist and gives it a smooch before raising it high to the cacophonous delight of the fans.
Heart Punch locked and loaded, Ivy sends it PLOWING into the cleft of Kat’s bosom. Braddock’s eyes roll toward the back of her head, lids fluttering as is her heart rhythm. The Cali Quake’s legs shudder and give way, but a grip on the top rope to her left allows Braddock’s fall to send her through the ropes instead of Ivy’s feet. The Brat bounces off the apron’s edge and SPLATS to the floor below, spasming as her body tries to reset from having its proper blood flow interrupted by the Crimson Tidal force.
Obviously frustrated at Kat’s good fortune, a smirking Ivy shakes her head, staring down at the wreckage she’s created.
“Sugah, ain’t nuthin’ saving you from my hospitality. Not when you’ve got what I’ve wanted back fer so long.”
Seeing Kat’s recovery time might push Castle to a countout, Armstrong slips through the ropes and drops to the arena floor to scrape Braddock up and stuff her back in the legal battlefield.
Grabbing a wrist, Ivy tugs Kat toward vertical, but her heartstopper’s been awfully effective and Braddock’s little more than dead weight. Finally, she’s able to lean the beleaguered blonde against the side of the ring and bundle her back in.
The Slamma takes a moment to acknowledge the ‘I-VEE’ chants than hops to the apron as, inside, Kat reaches her haunches, leaning heavily against the ropes, staring blankly into the crowd, a spent vessel seemingly ready for the imminent end, trapped within Ivy’s Southern Charm.
But as the redhead moves between the top and middle ropes, having swung her right leg through and ready to lift the left for the same, Kat snatches the second cable with both hands and RAMS it up into Armstrong’s womanhood.
The crowd groans reflexively and Ivy’s body clenches tight, legendary legs shutting around the invading rubber-coated steel. Grip still firm, Braddock rises, drenched in sweat. She bounces the strand up and down as violently as she can manage and Ivy’s on a humiliating and anguish-inducing ride, springing up and down. Her emerald eyes cross, palms wrapping around the rope, trying to end the journey but unable until finally a tardy four-count causes Kat to concede.
The blonde stumbles a few feet away from the ropes, bending over, hands on knees, enjoying the sight and a respite as the lids on the tear-filled eyes of the Slamma blink a few down her ivory cheeks. Armstrong dismounts the middle cable and waddles into the ring, directly into a tight bearhug from the study, curvy blonde.
A determined Braddock, intent on making the legend pay, lifts the incapacitated Ivy off the canvas and genuflects, destroying Ivy’s kitty all over again with an Inverted Atomic Drop, the plank of Kat’s upper leg POUNDING into Ivy’s crotch.
Armstrong hops off the explosive impact, knees locked, hands buried between her alabaster thighs, green pools again crossed, jaw dropping wide.
Inverted Atomic Drop ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=7edAGvHvXTw )
Frozen in place, Armstrong’s aware of Braddock’s 180 and race to the far ropes, but she can’t manage anything approaching a defense when Kat rebounds and nearly splits her in two with a GUTTING spear. Ivy’s frame folds around Braddock’s right shoulder and The Brat DRIVES her challenger into the canvas, the Slamma left in a twitching spreadeagle, the crowd silenced.
On her haunches next to the auburn-maned grappler, Kat passes on a pin, instead dipping her fingers into the tresses and pulling a flaccid Ivy up with her. Grabbing Armstrong’s shoulders, Kat’s draws her noggin back, then sends it hurtling forward, pounding her forehead into the cleft of Ivy’s more modest rack.
Revenge gained with her Heart Butt, Braddock watches with satisfaction as Ivy’s ticker goes off track, Armstrong appearing ready to faint to Braddock’s feet from the cardiac collision.
Instead, Kat throws a limp arm of the challenger over her shoulders and grabs a handful of Armstrong’s gear at the hip. Braddock ‘hups’ to a cradled collection in her lap, then lays out, SPIKING the crown of Ivy’s cranium into the unforgiving canvas-covered floorboards with her increasingly infamous Kat Nap.
Kat Nap ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=lYABwz8Xi44 )
The unconscious Ivy spills to her back.
Kat grabs a wrist and ankle to pull the lifeless legend away from any saving snatch of the bottom rope. But it’s clear when Kat covers with a back press, Armstrong’s in a coma and the count passes without a twitch from the redhead through the…
ONE…
TWO…
THREEE!
A grumbling crowd watches as an exhausted Braddock reclines against the demolished Ivy and the announcer makes it official, Armstrong’s been Spring Broken to end this Pay-Per-View.
“You winner…by pinfall…and STILL FAWN WORLD AND LIGHTWEIGHT CHAMPION…the California Quake…Kat Braddock!”
Kat wearily raises her arms heavenward and Castle uses the opportunity to ‘help’ The Brat to her feet. Braddock rips her left arm away when vertical and demands her belts be delivered post-haste.
Castle complies and the blonde takes her pose, planting a boot atop Ivy’s bosom, raising the belts high on either side. Kat finds the nearest lens.
“This Bama trash has been heaped on the dump of FAWN’s mediocre past. I’m here to make this place and you can ask Ivy, when she wakes up, if it’s now in my image.”
Kat moves from statement to sneer as the broadcast fades to black.
Still, there is a hint of confusion in the air. Why is the FAWN’s World and Lightweight champion entering the battlefield first?
The hatred rises to a crescendo, suppressing such puzzlement, when the speakers transition to Van Halen's ‘Beautiful Girls’.
Beautiful Girls (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bJ9h2m06sFQ )
A barrage of pyrotechnics explodes from the rafters in time with the chords, the fiery white sparks illuminating the cavernous space in a blinding light.
When the dazzling illumination subsides, the ill-mannered, ass-kicking and dual title-holding blonde is center stage. With the Lightweight belt strapped around her plush, tanned tummy, the Cali Quake lifts the bigger, gaudier World belt off a shoulder.
KAT BRADDOCK:
Her gilded resume made clear, the buxom Brat chuckles at the wall of animosity sent in her direction.
“HERE…TO…STAY!” she mouths to the crowd.
Lowering FAWN’s top prize back across her right shoulder, Kat heads for the squared circle with a Cheshire grin. The once-upon-a-time beach fighter, plucked from obscurity by Chrissy Daniel, strides toward the title combat zone in her booty-blasting blue gear, the two-piece ensemble accentuating her curves both bottom and top, the outfit including knee-high athletic socks and boots traded in for sporty Chuck Taylors.
Kat’s gear (
and ( ).Reaching the ring, Kat passes the steps and snatches a microphone off the announcer’s table. Braddock saunters to the steel stairs and climbs, slipping between the cables when she reaches the apron.
Taking center stage as the face of FAWN, Braddock raises the stick to her lips as her music fades. The crowd’s volume rises to try and silence the curvy blonde.
“Shut your damn mouths!”
The throng forces every negative decibel available from their lungs and the champ-champ waits impatiently.
“I’m out here to let you know there won’t be a title match tonight.”
Kat rolls her eyes at another round of jeers.
“Don’t blame me. There isn’t any wrestler back there woman enough to face me. They’ve all been scared off. Hell. They’re making up new titles to stay away from me. Television title? Are you kidding me?”
Braddock chuckles. The fans seem less amused.
“And now we have a “Sherriff”? Listen, Red. You know when they say no one is above the law,” the Cali Quake taps each of her belts, “you’re looking at the badass who is. So keep your tin star away from me, otherwise I might stick it where the sun don’t shine, country girl.”
“As for tonight? I’ll give you the pleasure of hearing me introduced, because that’s all you deserve…Standing before you in all her glory…from Newport Beach, California. Standing five feet two inches tall and weighing in at 123 pounds. Your FAWN World AND Lightweight champion. THE California Quake. The most dominant champion this galaxy has ever seen…KAT BRAD…!”
From nowhere, “Wild Eyed Southern Boys” by .38 Special blasts through the arena's PA.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=PDeDAgud87M
As the crowd explodes in a frantic fervor, the curtains tear open and the most infamous redhead in FAWN history struts down the aisleway, her hips sashaying with silent temptation. With all due regards to the Country Cowgirl, it’s the notorious Southern Charmer who emerges.
IVY ARMSTRONG
Ivy Armstrong wears a red and black satin corset that evokes a sense of Antebellum grandeur, while her trademark denim cut-offs reveal a conspicuous degree of her backside, and instead of the discreet ankle which a saucy Southern belle might have once shown, the redhead has on display her full legs in all of their lithe splendor, perched lethally upon a pair of crimson stiletto heels.
As she confidently swaggers toward the ring, she bounces between each side of the aisle, slapping hands with the delighted FAWNatics. One particularly lucky fan has his face cupped close within her hands. Ivy Belle plants a kiss on his forehead, then whispers something into his ear that causes his knees to buckle and his friends to whoop, holler and high five one another.
Never let it be said Ivy isn’t willing to give her all for the fans.
Her fan outreach complete, Armstrong resumes her march to the ring, a contented smile on her ruby red lips, and her black eye-lined green eyes half-lidded like a jungle cat on the prowl. At ringside, she grabs the ropes and pulls herself up to the apron. Stepping to the center, she turns to face the crowd even as her arms reach up on either side so that her hands can grasp the top cable.
Inside, Kat is in a state of shock, stupefied by what she’s seeing, arms and microphone hanging by her sides.
First, Ivy kicks off one shoe into the scrambling throng, and then the other, leaving her barefoot. Then, with a gracefulness that would put Cirque du Soleil to shame, she flips up and over the strands in a graceful arc, alighting gently inside of the ring. The end result is an eruption of gratitude from the entranced crowd.
Within the squared circle, she saunters over to the dual champion and grabs the stick from the dazed blonde, Braddock’s mouth agape. Armstrong positions hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder next to the astonished Brat, then brings the mic to her lips.
“Let me help you out here, kiddo,” Ivy exclaims then sends Kat lurching with a hip bump that sends Kat stumbling to her left, Kat catching herself in the ropes.
“Introducing her opponent...standing five feet eight inches tall and tipping the scale at one-hundred and twenty pounds...from Uriah, Alabama...she is the 'Bama Slamma, IIIIVVVVVVYYYYYY ARMSTRONG!”
The mob goes berserk, Ivy obviously delighted by the response.
Armstrong casually tosses the stick to the outside and moves to her corner, draping her arms over the top ropes as she eyes her opponent across the expanse of canvas, betraying not a whit of concern.
A now furious Kat moves to the opposite buckles and transfers her two gilded belts to attendants then turns back to Armstrong and mouths “YOU’RE DEAD!”
A smirking Ivy slaps her thighs then advances as the bell rings. Immediately, Kat slips her head and torso between the top and middle strands.
“KEEP THAT BACKWOODS BYTCH BACK! I’M NOT READY!”
“You’re damn sure not, sugah,” comes the sweet as molasses reply, Ivy stopping mid-ring to let Braddock return at her own speed.
Braddock waits for Armstrong to retreat a step or two then reenters.
“Are you the World AND Lightweight champion?! I didn’t think so.”
Ivy looks the vertically-challenged blonde up and down.
“Not yet. But let’s see if we can’t change that.”
A snarling Brat surges forward for a collar-and-elbow with the infamous redhead. Simultaneously, each woman’s right hand reaches for their opponent’s eyes and talons scrape across brown and green peepers respectively.
Kat and Ivy yelp in pain, Braddock turning away from her foe, both women furiously rubbing at their eyes, each blinded by the other. But while Kat curses the Southern Charmer, the veteran second-generation star stretches one arm out, sight unseen, and finds Kat’s flaxen locks.
Convinced the hair is longer than Nick Castle’s, Armstrong yanks toward her, pulling the visually impaired champion in close. Ivy instinctively wraps her arms around the shorter Braddock in a sleeper hold. Ivy’s arms cinch tight around head and neck, pressing taut to temple and carotid artery.
Pulling her hands away from her watering and now bulging brown eyes, an anxious Kat pries at Ivy’s arms fruitlessly. Blinking to retrieve vision beyond blurred light and dark, Braddock frantically tries to find the ropes, as forcing her way out of the predicament is obviously futile. The Bama Slamma leans into her trap, cutting more of the blood flow from Kat’s increasingly addled brain.
Gulping hard as her wits slow, the thought of one of the most embarrassing losses in title fight history seems to provide a burst of energy. It’s enough to draw Braddock forward and wrap an arm greedily around the uppermost cable. Kat burbles a soft demand for release and Castle picks it up with a steadier voice.
“Let her go, Ivy.”
Armstrong obliges, but only after ‘FOUR’.
“Hope you’re ready for a long night, Nick,” Armstrong replies. Rubbing her emerald peepers clear of tears, her own vision slowly returning.
“Because she’s literally a brat and I’m doing anything to get those belts.”
Castle nods. “Kinda figured.”
Armstrong proves it, brushing the official aside and sinking her digits into the napes of Kat’s neck to drag her away from the safety of the strands. But as Ivy pulls, Braddock swings her right leg up behind her like a pendulum, THUMPING her calf into the redhead’s crotch.
Ivy’s jaw drops wide, her hands falling to her wounded center. She waddles a step or two in reverse and is pushed another couple by a turning Katrina Two-Belts.
With apparently enough vision to spot her targets, Kat lands stinging stereo windmill slaps to Ivy’s alabaster rack, the echoing cracks drawing an instinctive ‘WOOO’ from the pro-Armstrong crowd.
“Aw. Mama Ivy,” a blinking Kat purrs at the wincing auburn-haired legend. “You have no idea how low I can go.”
Pulling Ivy’s hands clear of her tending, Braddock lines up a forward punt to the privates and fires, disregarding Castle’s meager threat at potential disqualification.
What isn’t meager is Armstrong’s will, particularly with gold involved. The Bama legend intercepts before Braddock’s stem can strike kitty for a second time. Hands wrapping around the Cali’s quake’s ankle, a knock-kneed Armstrong ignores the anguish from below as best she can, lifting the abbreviated leg high, then heaving it backward.
The limb swings like a pendulum, with enough momentum to rip Kat off her planted boot. But not only does Braddock’s chin plummet toward the canvas at significant speed, its trip is interrupted by a raised knee from Ivy, the Charmer CRACKING the bony cap into the point of Braddock’s jaw, snapping her foe’s head back in the process.
The Quake lands on her back in a stupor, spreadeagled at Ivy’s feet, Armstrong teaching the younger members of the crowd of what she’s capable when given the opportunity.
Worried about the proximity of the ropes, the veteran dips and grabs Kat’s wrists, pulling her adversary out several feet to eliminate that escape. Armstrong grimaces through a trip to her knees, her crotch still humming from Kat’s earlier successful low blow. She drops across the champ-champ in a lateral press for the impressive…
ONE…
TWO…
Kat shoves a shoulder off the canvas, emerging from her trance long enough to save her possession of the multiple belts.
Rubbing her chin like she has an invisible goatee and flexing her jaw, Braddock barrel rolls toward the ropes, hoping for an exit to the outside, but Armstrong has no intention for Kat to delay her enjoyment by even a few seconds.
Grabbing an ankle, Ivy, regaining more of her standard gait as the waves of pain lessen from between her legendary legs, pulls a squirming, cursing Kat toward center stage, The Brat on her abundant chest. Reaching the middle, a churning Kat flips to her back. She may quickly regret it when Armstrong sends a set of three stomps to the considerable cleavage of the curvy blonde.
With Kat properly subdued, Ivy let’s Braddock’s right leg fall away and steps around the left, scissoring it as she spins. Reaching a 360, she collects the wayward right and crosses it beneath the captured left in a familiar figure of four. With the crowd roaring in anticipation, Ivy drops to her back as she uses her legs to lock the submission in.
Kat’s teeth clench as she realizes the pickle she’s been placed in and, when Armstrong yanks violently on the relatively short stems, the champ-champ howls in anguish, pulling at her golden locks to spread the pain.
Castle drops next to the titles holder, asking if Kat wants to surrender her hardware and she blurts out an angry ‘F you’. Nick dutifully waves off the timekeeper and shouts out “NO”.
A flexing Ivy is unperturbed, working her well-worn path to legendary status and another championship run. But as the inevitable seems clearer, a screaming Kat pushes up on her palms and slowly drags her way toward the cables behind her. It’s a long, arduous trek, one Ivy fights the whole way to wring as much out of Braddock as she can. But ultimately, it’s a success show of determination for Katrina Two-Belts, the bratty former beach-fighter showing why she’s made it to the top of the mountain at such a tender age.
Wrapping a hand around the bottom rope, the Cali Quake shouts for Armstrong to let her go and Castle concurs. The oft-proclaimed Dirtiest Player in the Game holds through a four-count before untangling her deadly stems, butt scooting several feet clear and pushing to her feet.
Armstrong motions Kat there and, when Braddock is too slow to rise, Ivy moves to make her. Kat pulls out of the ring, sliding under the bottom rope, landing boots to arena floor, and limping prominently to the steel barricade. She turns to face her foe, pushing palms out in front of her.
“Wait a god damn second,” Braddock bellows. “These people deserve the champ at her best when she beats you.”
“Talking in the third person already,” Ivy retorts, as she moves to the ropes nearest Kat. “Not a good sign.”
Castle informs the Brat she’ll need to return or his count will start presently.
“Don’t bother,” Ivy informs Nick as she slips through. “I’ll get her.”
Armstrong drops to the thinly-padded cement and trails a retreating Braddock, Kat with a considerable hitch in her giddy-up.
It takes only a few steps for the challenger to catch her prey, grabbing Braddock by a shoulder and the rim of her lower togs, the better to bum rush The Brat back in the ring.
But as she grabs the blonde for the literal heave-ho, Kat reaches to the hand on her shoulder, surrounding the wrist with both palms. The champ-champ deftly spins around Ivy, creating a tight hammerlock. She then shoves Armstrong forward, the redhead’s cranium CRASHING into the steel of the ring post.
The crowd groans, instantly deflating from celebrating the Slamma’s success. The strings in Ivy’s legendary legs are cut by the collision as she melts to the floor, ending stacked on her haunches, leaning against the ring steps. A still hobbling but vertical Kat sinks a set of fingers into the auburn mane of her foe, draws Ivy’s noggin back, and SLAMS it into the metal steps, the CLANG visibly disturbing many in the nearby seats.
“How do you like me now, Southern-fried bytch?” Kat shouts, endearing herself no further with the central Florida FAWN fandom.
Ivy’s in no condition to respond, having flopped to her side, barely clinging to consciousness.
Inside, Nick’s count is accruing. Kat uses Ivy’s body as the bottom step to travel up the otherwise steel versions. She enters, swiftly spins, and removes herself from the ring to get a second helping of Southern Charmer.
Braddock peels Ivy off the floor and slides the flaccid redhead into the ring but only far enough the veteran lies next to the ring post. With Ivy’s back pointed toward the steel, Kat grabs an ankle with her right hand, a wrist with the left, moving Armstrong to arch around the post. The blonde takes a seat on the top step and leeeeans back, testing the Slamma’s spinal column against the unforgiving metal.
As the crowd jeers the champ-champ, Ivy howls in anguish, the fortified bow-and-arrow ravaging the redhead’s vertebrae.
“I’m going to snap you, bytch,” a grunting, grimacing Braddock asserts.
Unfortunately for the California Quake, Castle has once again engaged his counting skills and, at ‘FOUR’, the curvy blonde releases and shoves Ivy away with an unfolding lower limb. Kat drops her boots to the floor and slides in under the bottom rope next to her challenger, then pops to her feet.
The Brat grabs Ivy by the wrists and tugs her out from the corner several steps, then lowers a series of three elbows to the cleft of Ivy’s ivory cleavage to subjugate the future Hall of Famer. With Armstrong flat on the canvas, wincing and pressing a palm to her heart, looking like she might be having a coronary, Kat moves to the corner, taking a moment to kick Armstrong’s illustrious legs wide.
The FAWNatics instantly pick up on this little detail and boo their hearts out as Braddock climbs the corner and turns to face her challenger. A grinning Kat raises her arms high and wide to antagonize the throng further, then drops them to her sides for launch. Braddock blasts off with the crown of her skull aimed at Ivy’s spread crotch, ready for a head butt of atomic proportions.
But Ivy gets her legs up and together and Kat’s face meets the soles of the Southern Charmer’s bare feet. Braddock’s head whiplashes away from the disastrous blunder, the blonde pirouetting in a dazed 360, ending wobbling in a stance in front of Armstrong.
Legs lowering and widening slightly, Armstrong kicks her naked tootsies into the lower portion of Kat’s shins, sending the titles-holder falling forward between the ready stems of the redhead. Instantly, the lethal limbs wrap around Kat’s midriff, Ivy first squeezing against the former beachfighter’s sides, just under her ribs. But quickly, the Crimson Tidal Force maneuvers the Brat so she has crushing access to Kat’s abdomen and back, Ivy locking her ankles and applying all the incredible force she can generate with her scissors.
Kat’s brown eyes bulge as it seems she’s become a curvy toothpaste tube, her Achilles’ tummy compressed while Ivy’s body breaker simultaneously works on Braddock’s spine.
Kat fruitlessly pries at Armstrong’s infamous gams and breathlessly relents, realizing she must find another way, fast.
Ivy pours on the pressure, her thighs flexing, the desperation in Kat’s eyes and movements growing. The blonde presses her palms to the canvas and manages to scoot her way toward the nearest set of cables. Finally, after a dozen LONG seconds, she wraps a palm around the bottom cable and pleadingly requests Castle get her free.
Nick starts his count and, unsurprisingly, a growling Slamma doesn’t release her scissors until ‘FOUR’, rolling away from a gasping Kat. The auburn-haired grappler pushes to her feet and heads for the opposite ropes. Rebounding at full speed, she flings her body at Kat, ramming her bare feet into Braddock with a sliding dropkick that pushes the flagging champion out under the lowest strand, Kat plopping to the floor with a meaty THWACK.
Again the title fight is extralegal, the second-gen superstar gliding out after her target.
Ivy immediately takes to her Country Road, sending a flurry of stomps to the champ-champ as Kat collapses into a fetal ball, trying to protect herself from the onslaught of bare feet to most every inch of her frame.
Having walked Braddock a mile down the Road, Armstrong relents, choosing to scoop up what’s left of the bruised blonde. A smiling Armstrong shows off the limp, lethargic Braddock to the great pleasure of the crowd, then spins and sinks a toe kick in deep to the battered abs of the blonde, doubling over Braddock. Seamlessly, Ivy spins away from her opponent, reaching back over her right shoulder to secure a ¾ facelock. She drops to her alabaster backside and STUNS THE HOLY HELL out of Kat with her patented SoCo Stunner.
SoCo Stunner ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=xCDpQcA6iqQ )
The FAWNatics explode on impact, Kat flying into the air from the collision, ending on her back, out cold.
Ivy leaps to her feet and gives The Brat a tongue lashing but she can do little toward claiming the belts at her current location.
Noticing Castle’s graciously slow count has reached ‘EIGHT’, Ivy scours the remains of Braddock off the arena floor and wearily shoves the dead weight under. Turning to the crowd, she gives them a double-arm wave for them to bring the noise and they respond.
Armstrong slips in, following behind Braddock, a stirring Kat having rolled to her chest. The Quake slithers along the canvas, trying to create space, but the Dirtiest Player, having risen, snatches her foe’s ankles and spins Braddock to her back. Ivy spreads the abbreviated legs wide, prompting the champ-champ to push her palms toward the challenger, Kat ‘washing windows’ in pleading fashion, begging Ivy to not return the favor.
“Where would my hospitality be if I didn’t?” Armstrong asks before leaping and sitting out, dropping her calves like a hammer to Kat’s privates.
Braddock flops like a fish out of water from the shockwave to her womanhood, hands pressing tight between her thighs, trying to soften the contemptible blow. It might be added it’s one the crowd is overjoyed to see, reveling in Kat’s kitty being destroyed and the anguish it brings her.
Ivy’s not exactly unhappy either. Joy evident as she rises, Armstrong approaches a face down Kat, the blonde’s hands buried beneath her, ass pushed into the air a bit higher than the rest of her body.
Armstrong steps on the pit of Kat’s left knee and wrenches the limb so it’s locked around her own. Ivy repeats the process with the right, then slaps her foe’s sides to bring Kat’s wrists within her grasp. She plucks them and rocks back. On the third try, she rolls to her back, heaving Kat high above in an agonizing Ceiling Hold, all four of Kat’s limbs tested to their limits.
Ceiling Hold ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=L12IRhmHPYE&list=PL830D6E4E2CF67B63 ) :46
A yelping Kat swishes her head back and forth, offering a negative response to Castle’s offer to hand over her belts.
After more than a dozen pain-racked ticks of the clock, her legendary legs perhaps tiring, Ivy drops Braddock to her knees, releasing some of the pressure on The Brat’s legs but perhaps increasing it in her foe’s shoulder joints as Ivy tries to pull the former beachfighter’s arms out of their sockets.
Deciding the stubborn Braddock won’t end her reign quite yet, Armstrong releases her grips for a pair in the long golden locks of her foe, then throws Kat’s noggin forward, Braddock’s beak and forehead SLAMMING to the canvas with a nasty THUMP the Charmer’s crowd cheers enthusiastically.
Working her way free of the thrashed Cali Quake, Ivy moves to a standing backward-facing straddle of the face-down champion. She motions as if she has a jug of White Lightning and is ready to take a long pull. The sellout throng erupts in anticipation.
The auburn-haired legend dips, collecting Braddock’s right leg around the shin then leans back, drawing the champ-champ into an agonizing arch with a single-leg Crab. Kat grits her perfect pearlies, tugging at her own golden locks to spread the pain. She keeps her suffering silent until the Dirtiest Player halves her grip and sinks a set of talons into the crotch of The Brat, splitting the wickets between Kat’s upturned ass. And sending Braddock into high-pitched squeals.
Her White Lightning applied to perfection, Armstrong sweetly drawls to Castle he might want to ask Kat if she’s willing to surrender, but before Nick can even get the words out, she’s shouting out a pained ‘NO’. Ivy increases the arc and clamps tighter, eliciting many pained faces in the front row but also a booming “TAP…TAP…TAP” chant from those in attendance.
Still, Kat refuses to give the Slamma what she and her supporters desire and the Southern Charmer relents on her debilitating grip then throws Kat’s abbreviated stem to the canvas, Braddock yelping after impact, grasping at her lower spine with one hand, her throbbing privates with the other, her aching lower limb untended.
Slowly, Braddock manages to push to hands and knees, face twisted in pain, and little does the World and Lightweight title holder know, but Ivy’s been waiting for her arrival to that position. Armstrong shoots out of a corner and dives into a knee strike that twists the curvy blonde inside out with the impact.
Diving Knee Strike ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=oyUTnSawPCM ) :00
Kat ends in a wide starfish, out cold, and the redhead dives across her foe in a lateral press, hooking the far leg for good measure to start her reign as Ivy Two-Belts with the…
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOO!
Braddock shakes loose enough to shift a shoulder a few inches off the mat, the FAWNatics groaning en masse at the Quake’s determination to remain the Queen of the organization.
The blonde slithers along the canvas, eyes half-lidded, trying to reach the ropes and perhaps a trip outside to recover sufficient faculties to reenter a competitive phase of the fight. The challenger isn’t interested in allowing Kat the courtesy.
Showing a ruthless side anyone familiar with the Charmer knows lies just below the surface, Armstrong STOMPS on Kat’s left set of fingers. Braddock yelps in pain, her body being turned into a series of firing nerve endings. Ivy lowers and collects The Brat’s noggin with both hands and yanks the vertically-challenged Braddock to stooped feet, Kat remaining knock-kneed from the personal attack of the White Lightning bolt between her thighs.
Pivoting, Ivy backhand CHOPS Kat’s chest with a reverberating smack, drawing the requisite ‘WOOOO’ from the audience. But the second-generation superstar isn’t done, repeating the blistering backhand a second and third time, Kat reeling, her arms pinwheeling to keep her upright.
Her adversary backed into a corner, Ivy grabs the right wrist of the champ-champ and bends it in an overhand hammerlock, clearing a familiar path to Braddock’s blood-pumper. Ivy clenches a right fist and gives it a smooch before raising it high to the cacophonous delight of the fans.
Heart Punch locked and loaded, Ivy sends it PLOWING into the cleft of Kat’s bosom. Braddock’s eyes roll toward the back of her head, lids fluttering as is her heart rhythm. The Cali Quake’s legs shudder and give way, but a grip on the top rope to her left allows Braddock’s fall to send her through the ropes instead of Ivy’s feet. The Brat bounces off the apron’s edge and SPLATS to the floor below, spasming as her body tries to reset from having its proper blood flow interrupted by the Crimson Tidal force.
Obviously frustrated at Kat’s good fortune, a smirking Ivy shakes her head, staring down at the wreckage she’s created.
“Sugah, ain’t nuthin’ saving you from my hospitality. Not when you’ve got what I’ve wanted back fer so long.”
Seeing Kat’s recovery time might push Castle to a countout, Armstrong slips through the ropes and drops to the arena floor to scrape Braddock up and stuff her back in the legal battlefield.
Grabbing a wrist, Ivy tugs Kat toward vertical, but her heartstopper’s been awfully effective and Braddock’s little more than dead weight. Finally, she’s able to lean the beleaguered blonde against the side of the ring and bundle her back in.
The Slamma takes a moment to acknowledge the ‘I-VEE’ chants than hops to the apron as, inside, Kat reaches her haunches, leaning heavily against the ropes, staring blankly into the crowd, a spent vessel seemingly ready for the imminent end, trapped within Ivy’s Southern Charm.
But as the redhead moves between the top and middle ropes, having swung her right leg through and ready to lift the left for the same, Kat snatches the second cable with both hands and RAMS it up into Armstrong’s womanhood.
The crowd groans reflexively and Ivy’s body clenches tight, legendary legs shutting around the invading rubber-coated steel. Grip still firm, Braddock rises, drenched in sweat. She bounces the strand up and down as violently as she can manage and Ivy’s on a humiliating and anguish-inducing ride, springing up and down. Her emerald eyes cross, palms wrapping around the rope, trying to end the journey but unable until finally a tardy four-count causes Kat to concede.
The blonde stumbles a few feet away from the ropes, bending over, hands on knees, enjoying the sight and a respite as the lids on the tear-filled eyes of the Slamma blink a few down her ivory cheeks. Armstrong dismounts the middle cable and waddles into the ring, directly into a tight bearhug from the study, curvy blonde.
A determined Braddock, intent on making the legend pay, lifts the incapacitated Ivy off the canvas and genuflects, destroying Ivy’s kitty all over again with an Inverted Atomic Drop, the plank of Kat’s upper leg POUNDING into Ivy’s crotch.
Armstrong hops off the explosive impact, knees locked, hands buried between her alabaster thighs, green pools again crossed, jaw dropping wide.
Inverted Atomic Drop ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=7edAGvHvXTw )
Frozen in place, Armstrong’s aware of Braddock’s 180 and race to the far ropes, but she can’t manage anything approaching a defense when Kat rebounds and nearly splits her in two with a GUTTING spear. Ivy’s frame folds around Braddock’s right shoulder and The Brat DRIVES her challenger into the canvas, the Slamma left in a twitching spreadeagle, the crowd silenced.
On her haunches next to the auburn-maned grappler, Kat passes on a pin, instead dipping her fingers into the tresses and pulling a flaccid Ivy up with her. Grabbing Armstrong’s shoulders, Kat’s draws her noggin back, then sends it hurtling forward, pounding her forehead into the cleft of Ivy’s more modest rack.
Revenge gained with her Heart Butt, Braddock watches with satisfaction as Ivy’s ticker goes off track, Armstrong appearing ready to faint to Braddock’s feet from the cardiac collision.
Instead, Kat throws a limp arm of the challenger over her shoulders and grabs a handful of Armstrong’s gear at the hip. Braddock ‘hups’ to a cradled collection in her lap, then lays out, SPIKING the crown of Ivy’s cranium into the unforgiving canvas-covered floorboards with her increasingly infamous Kat Nap.
Kat Nap ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=lYABwz8Xi44 )
The unconscious Ivy spills to her back.
Kat grabs a wrist and ankle to pull the lifeless legend away from any saving snatch of the bottom rope. But it’s clear when Kat covers with a back press, Armstrong’s in a coma and the count passes without a twitch from the redhead through the…
ONE…
TWO…
THREEE!
A grumbling crowd watches as an exhausted Braddock reclines against the demolished Ivy and the announcer makes it official, Armstrong’s been Spring Broken to end this Pay-Per-View.
“You winner…by pinfall…and STILL FAWN WORLD AND LIGHTWEIGHT CHAMPION…the California Quake…Kat Braddock!”
Kat wearily raises her arms heavenward and Castle uses the opportunity to ‘help’ The Brat to her feet. Braddock rips her left arm away when vertical and demands her belts be delivered post-haste.
Castle complies and the blonde takes her pose, planting a boot atop Ivy’s bosom, raising the belts high on either side. Kat finds the nearest lens.
“This Bama trash has been heaped on the dump of FAWN’s mediocre past. I’m here to make this place and you can ask Ivy, when she wakes up, if it’s now in my image.”
Kat moves from statement to sneer as the broadcast fades to black.