Post by SammieSinclair on Dec 20, 2014 18:45:45 GMT
The darkness before the dawn. The calm before the storm.
For some wrestlers, this moment…standing in the darkness, nothing but a curtain separating them from the thousands-strong crowd that anxiously awaits them…is almost holy. Some use the opportunity to fire up their adrenalin, others to silently contemplate the battle to come.
For Belle’s Hellions, it’s an opportunity to discuss fashion.
“So, are you wearin’ 'em?” asks Ivy.
Ivy Armstrong
“Don’t worry,” replies Cyn.
Cynthia Mitchell
“We can’t rassle if you’re not wearin’ it, you know that.”
“You’re just superstitious.”
“Ah have a healthy respect for the uncanny.”
“Yeah, you’re a regular Marie Laveau.”
“She’s from Louisiana, not Alabama.”
“Louisiana, Alabama, Mississippi…what’s the difference, right?”
“Remind me, you’re from Upper Carolina…right?”
“Ha f@cking ha. Shut up.”
“Listen sweetie, there’s one thing you do, and one thing you don’t. What y’all don’t do is insult the sovereign state of Alabama.”
“And what do I do?”
“You know what to do.”
“Sigh. I’m wearing them, okay?”
“Show me.”
And thus, to satisfy her persnickety partner, Mitchell tugs down her panties, revealing a thong. And in the dim light backstage, Armstrong can make out the art design on the triangle of fabric.
“Tinkerbell,” the redhead says with a smile. “Nice.”
“Satisfied?” the brunette asks with mock exasperation. But for all of her presumed vexation, she had come to enjoy this little pre-match ritual they had developed. Once, when they were the most hated of rivals, Ivy had ridiculed Cynthia for having been exposed as wearing Minnie Mouse panties in a match. Now that they were friends and partners, one of the steps which the ‘Bama Slamma had taken to help bridge the gulf between them was to actively encourage Cyn to wear such ‘unmentionables’ for their tag matches, insisting they were good luck charms. Mitchell knew it was silly, but it was a silliness shared just between them, and it was one of the things that had bonded them.
But now, that matter settled, it was time to focus on the main order of tonight’s business.
Save for the lights hung directly over the ring, the FAWN Arena was plunged into darkness. Suddenly, a somber bell tolls.
BONG…
BONG…
BONG…
“HELL’S BELLS”:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=etAIpkdhU9Q
Then a serpentine guitar riff fills the air, as three spotlights suddenly race around the vast arena, dancing upon the faces of the crowd until they suddenly converge at the top of the ramp. As AC/DC’s “Hell’s Bells” battles for aural supremacy against the approving roar of the throng, the curtain tears open, and out step Ivy Armstrong and Cynthia Mitchell.
“INTRODUCING FIRST…FROM URIAH, ALABAMA AND CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA…THEY ARE IVY ARMSTRONG AND CYNTHIA MITCHELL…BELLLLLLLLLE’S HELLLLLLLLLIONS!”
Much to the spectator’s delight, they were garbed in what had become their traditional team wear: Armstrong wears a satin, lycra and lace bustier, red with black trim, along with black lace panties. Her hands wear fingerless black lace gloves, and for the walk down to the ring, she wears black stiletto heels. Her fiery hair, which usually hangs wild and loose, is now teased up in a manner that suggests both sophistication and tempestuousness.
Alongside her, Mitchell is adorned with identical wear, only rather than red and black, Mitchell's replaces the red with her trademarked purple, including purple panties. Also, like Ivy, she wears fingerless black lace gloves. And, also like Ivy, Cynthia has discarded her boots, opting just as her partner always has to wrestle barefoot, and wearing “F@ck Me” heels on the trek down to the squared circle. Apart from the difference in color schemes, Cynthia also wears a black lace garter belt, the clasps left hanging empty down her thighs with no stockings to support.
Always the more gregarious of the two, Armstrong merrily slaps at many of the outstretched hands. Mitchell exhibits more of a seeming aloofness from the crowd…but one look at the swivel of her hips makes it abundantly clear that she’s giving them a show they won’t soon forget.
Both women halt to blow kisses to a fan waving a sign over his head that reads, I’M HAPPILY ON THE HIGHWAY TO HELL!
Reaching the steps, the Hellions scale them up to the ring apron. There, Cynthia bends forward at the waist and sloooooooowly steps between the ropes, giving many of the fans a good, long and much-appreciated gander at what is quite possibly the most celebrated derriere in FAWN. Then Ivy enters the ring in her typically flamboyant way; facing the audience, she grabs the top cable with both hands and flips backward, making a leisurely graceful arc, her magnificent gams on full display.
Now, both wrestlers step out of the heels and hand them to a ringside attendant. Spotting the photographers positioned on one side of the ring, the Hellions strike a pose: Cyn drops to one knee and flexes her arms, while Ivy slinks up behind her and seductively draws her hands across her partner’s shoulders, both giving smoldering ‘come hither’ gazes. The cameras flash for several seconds, and then the Hellions break the pose and Mitchell rises to her feet. Facing one another, they both raise their arms and slap their palms together, sharing cocky grins.
“And now,” the announcer resumes, once he’s managed to pull his enraptured gaze away from the Hellions, “introducing the champions... Weighing in tonight at a total combined weight of two-hundred and sixty-eight pounds… Becky Clayton and Roxie McCrimmon… Ladies and gentlemen, together, they are… THE BIIIGGG GUUUNNNSSS!!!”
For a team with that name, there’s only one song that can mark their arrival. And sure enough, within moments, the FAWN Arena speakers begin to pump out AC/DC for a second time--in this instance, “Big Gun”. Not long after that, two of FAWN’s hardest hardbodies emerge at the top of the ramp, the newly crowned tag team champions of the world receiving a tremendous roar of approval from the sellout crowd.
Becky Clayton
Roxie McCrimmon
The Army of One Hot Chick sports what has now become her trademark ensemble. Having forsaken her standard one-piece after it been all but shredded by a certain Tennessee Terror, she has transitioned to a camouflage two piece with tie-sided bottoms and an eye catching ladder / double helix of lycra that runs from the center of her waistband all the way up to the bottom of her cups. She finishes it off with matching forest green pads and boots, though thanks to the artillery above, they could’ve been pink with yellow floral print and no one would’ve noticed.
The Beantown Bombshell, on the other hand, is clearly adorned in a different set of togs than her customary solo wear, though they are at least partially obscured by her usual Celtics jersey—tonight’s a green eight. What can be seen below the hem of the (Auburn alum--coincidence?) Marquis Daniel uni is an extreme rarity in FAWN: pants. Well, “pants” is probably overstating matters. While it’s true that McCrimmon’s inner thighs are covered by shiny, camouflage patterned fabric, her outer legs are left bare save for a one-inch strap at the knee.
Each woman sports her championship strap slung over a shoulder--Becky’s right and Roxie’s left.
When Clayton has given the fans enough time to voice their appreciation, Becky starts her way down to the ring at a quick pace--but still taking the time to slap as many of the outstretched hands as she could reach. Roxanne follows alongside, doing her best to ensure that none of the front row fans are left out from the hand-slapping festivities. Ascending the steps, the Army of One Hot Chick slips through the ropes and headed straight for a far corner, hopping up onto the middle turnbuckle and snapping off a crisp salute to the roaring masses. McCrimmon races to the opposite corner, springing onto the middle buckle herself and pumping a fist—drawing a rousing cheer of her own.
From her perch, Roxie slips her fingers inside the hem of her jersey and pulls it overhead, revealing two more one-inch straps on the “pants”—one at mid-thigh and the other the waist—and a similarly camouflaged halter that leaves plenty of washboard stomach bared. Backed up by a whole platoon of her very own Howling Commandos, Becky drops down from her perch and turns to watch the enemy corner. Giving her partner a supportive slap on the shoulder, Roxie McCrimmon departs the ring, taking up station in the Big Guns corner.
The Hellions quietly confer with one another, and they agree that Ivy will start things off for her team. Cyn gives her partner a encouraging pat on the butt as she exits the ring.
The bell clangs and the two wrestlers push out of their corners, circling one another. “Ah have to say,” Armstrong says conversationally to Becky as the distance between them slowly closes. “Ah think maybe you’re perpetrating some false advertising.”
With an air of annoyance, Clayton replies, “What are you running your mouth about, Armstrong?”
“Well, your team name,” responds the redhead. “The ‘Big’uns”? Sorry, honey…while y’all look nice and healthy in the bosom region, Ah hate to tell you, Ah wouldn’t claim those were big ones. Now, Roxie over there is what the boys down at the Dew Drop Inn would call racktacular…she’s clearly living up to the hype. But you, sweetie? Sorry, but Ah’m afraid you don’t seem to be holding up your end. As a matter of fact, Ah don’t see that you’ve got much that does need holding up.”
Although she knows better than to allow herself to be baited this way, Becky nonetheless feels her anger rise, as a tinge of red comes to her face. Matter-of-factly she snaps back, “You know good and well we’re the <i>Big Guns</i>…but since you seem to have forgotten, I’ll be happy to show you what these guns can do.” With that, the co-holder of the tag straps lunges at her adversary, her arms reaching for the Hellion. But Ivy deftly ducks under her grasp and backpedals to the ropes. Clayton starts moving toward her, but the redhead calls out to the official, “Whoa, whoa whoa ref…keep her back! I’m in the ropes!”
Duly backing Clayton away, the zebra calls for Ivy to step away from the strands and get the match properly underway. All in her own good time she complies, again cautiously approaching her opponent. This time, she indulges in what appears to be folly…raising her right arm to silently signal a test of strength with the larger, more powerful woman. Clayton can’t suppress a tiny smirk as she raises her own arm to meet the challenge.
Yet, just as their fingers brush together, Armstrong yanks her hand away and again backpedals to safety. “Ah don’t think so, sugah.,” she says with an uninhibited smirk. She then goes back over to the Hellions’ corner, where once more she confers with her partner, making sure to step a leg through the middle and bottom ropes so as to bring a halt to the action.
Thoroughly exasperated now, Becky angrily badgers the referee, joined in her chorus of frustration by Roxie back in her corner. “C’mon ref!” she barks. “Are we going to wrestle, or just watch her dance a hoe down?”
“We’re looking at the only ho’s here,” Cyn says with a snarky smile, fueling Becky’s anger.
The ref has to count to four-and-three-quarters before the redhead extradites herself from the cables and makes what appears to be an attempt to start the actual wrestling portion of this wrestling match. The smirk on her face masks the carefully calculating mind behind the grin. It’s a risky stratagem, attempting to anger Clayton this way. If it fails, all Ivy will have is an infuriated powerhouse of an opponent. Ah, but if it succeeds, the blonde will hopefully be so annoyed as to fall off of her game plan. As to which result is pending, Armstrong knows she’s about to find out.
To her relief, Becky…face still red and eyes blazing,…lunges for her, hands ready to grasp the willowy Southern gal and tear her to pieces. Moving with lightning speed, Ivy executes a Russian leg sweep, sending the startled Clayton crashing face-first to the mat. In a heartbeat, the ‘Bama Slamma has her opponent’s legs bent back at the knees and ankles crossed, which Armstrong holds in place with her right leg, while her hands clasp beneath the blonde’s chin, tugging her head back. “Ah promise you, darlin’” the redhead purrs. “Next Monroe County Fair, Ah’ll call you in for the hay bale haul. But when it comes to wrestling, sweetie, y’all just aren’t all that. But don’t you worry your pretty little head none…Ah’m about to show you how it’s done.”
Initially, Becky’s hands pry at the redhead’s laced fingers--but Armstrong will not be discouraged from her chinlock. So, the Army Brat shifts her strategy. Instead of clawing and pawing at Ivy’s hands, Clayton instead starts straining her right arm toward the rope, fingers flexing... until at last, she gets them coiled around the bottom rope.
“Alright,” the referee orders. “Break it.”
The ‘Bama Slamma furrows her brow. “What?” she asks. “Her neck? Now, that hardly seems sporting, does it, sugah?”
Our illustrious official is anything but amused. “You know damn well what I mean, Armstrong.”
“Sure thing,” Ivy replies with a playful pout, before tacking on, “spoilsport.”
Rising to her feet, the Hellion backs off with her hands raised... and an infuriating smirk on her lips. Clayton picks herself off the deck, eyes narrow. But, in spite of the anger evident in Becky’s eyes, Ivy shows little hesitation in tying up with the Army of One Hot Chick...
... which, perhaps, proves to be a mistake.
Becky is quickly able to shift and secure Ivy in a tight side headlock--which, perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, allows the ‘Bama Slamma to get quite the up close and personal look at the bosom she had dismissed moments ago. “You were saying...?” Clayton asks with a bit of a sneer, the “Guns” of her actual team name rippling as she works the hold.
Armstrong doesn’t waste any energy arguing. Instead, veteran that she is, Ivy backs the powerful GI into the ropes--and then, much to her relief, she manages to push her way out of the hold, sending Becky off into the ropes in the process. Somewhat surprisingly, the ‘Bama Slamma doesn’t follow Clayton out much further than the point from which she launched her toward the ropes...
On the rebound, however, it becomes apparent why.
Ivy steps to the side, dropping and catching Becky at the ankles, taking the Army of One Hot Chick down with a drop toe hold. However, Armstrong’s proximity to the ropes results in Clayton being sent crashing down, throat first, across the middle cable! The referee quickly commands Ivy to disengage, and the redhead does precisely that--though not without a few words to the official.
And as she shoots the breeze with him, Cynthia Mitchell hops off the apron. Grabbing the back of Becky’s head, the Cynful One drops to one knee, choking the tag champ with fervent abandon. Clayton’s arms swipe at her attacker, but the rubber coated steel beneath her armpits makes reaching the kneeling Mitchell a nearly impossible task. Before long, Becky instead starts pushing at the cable, her boots drumming the mat frantically.
Meanwhile, across the ring, Roxie McCrimmon has seen enough. She starts to burst through the ropes--but with the referee facing the champions’ corner, he spots the intrusion immediately, and pulls himself away from Ivy. It takes more than a few harsh words to encourage the Irish-American hardbody to return to her corner--especially not when Armstrong saunters over to Becky and reclines against Clayton’s back, the redhead’s tush giving an assist to Cynthia’s efforts by pressing against Clayton’s noggin.
The ‘Bama Slamma offers Roxie a bright smile and a cheery wave, the gestures MORE than enough to spur the Beantown Bombshell to try to fight her way past the protesting zebra. He holds his own, however--and Cynthia works her hands free from between Becky’s skull and Ivy’s rump. As the Cynful One climbs back onto the apron, Armstrong casually crooks her left elbow, holding her palm turned up toward the lights...
... and Mitchell needs little further invitation to make a tag.
As the redhead slips out between the ropes, her partner eases her way in. For longtime fans, it remains astounding how the eager, anxious, somewhat gawky girl of yore has blossomed into the sultry, sinister siren who now struts in the ring.
With a sneer that bespeaks both contempt for her opponent as well as glee for what she foresees, Mitchell grabs Becky’s ankles and heaves, lifting the tawny trooper’s body up. Clayton instinctively grabs at the middle rope, but she is yanked off of the strand, and she belly flops down to the canvas. Her natural inclination is to roll over onto her back, but the brunette can’t be bothered to wait for that to occur, so she uses her grasp of the tag champ’s ankles to flip her over.
Now, holding up Clayton’s gams and spreading them wide, Cyn gives a menacing chuckle, and then leaps up, letting gravity do its work…bringing her thighs down hard into Becky’s own. The Army of One Hot Chick sits bolt upright, doing her best to stifle a shriek, and then her body flops backward to the mat once again. Her hands rush to massage her inner thighs, which have been stretched very near the snapping point by the impact.
Kipping back up to her feet, Mitchell grabs her adversary’s legs and flips her over. “I’ve always heard an army lives on its stomach. Well, here’s where you die on yours,” she says with malignant glee, and then she locks on a sharpshooter. Clayton gives an agonized roar as her legs and spine are twisted most unnaturally, her fists pounding at the mat to try and relieve the pressure. With the referee focused intently on Becky, asking repeatedly if she wants to submit, Cyn reaches an arm behind herself, and her hand is clasped by that of Ivy on the other side of the ropes, adding to the leverage used to torment the embattled brunette.
From her vantage point across the ring, Roxie bellows in indignation over the blatant duplicity. Astonishingly, the ref heeds her calls and glances back, catching Cyn and Ivy in the act, and ordering the hold broken. It takes a four count, but Mitchell complies…and was even courteous enough to help Becky back up to her feet, brushing the dazed tag belt holder off.
Suddenly Cyn turns on her heel and stalks to center ring, focusing her attention on McCrimmon, calling out, “Hey bimbo, can you give me at least a little bit of a challenge? Your useless partner isn’t even letting me break a sweat.”
With her Southie Boston accent, Roxie snarls back, “You won’t just break a wicked sweat when I get ya, b#tch…I’ll break your damn ass!”
Mitchell’s only reply is to purse her lips and blow a kiss to the blonde, which infuriates McCrimmon enough that she starts to climb through the ropes. The zebra instantly rushes to intercept her…which is precisely what Cyn wanted. For while she was so ably distracting the referee, Ivy had taken the untied lace from the top turnbuckle and wrapped it around Clayton’s throat from behind, choking her. Becky’s face purples as her fingers frantically claw at the makeshift noose as she gasps for breath. Now, the other Hellion turns back toward her opponent, struts up to her, and launches a kick to Clayton’s belly. Armstrong releases her stranglehold and Becky slides down the turnbuckles, landing on her butt as she pants heavily.
Taking a few steps back, Cyn turns around, facing away from her opponent, giving Becky a glance over her shoulder. Mitchell then bends forward a bit, causing her fabled derriere to protrude as she starts to step backward. The crowd gives an appreciative cheer of what promises to be the application of said derriere to Clayton’s slack-jawed visage.
Of course, to apply such a maneuver, Mitchell has to assume a position which, by its nature, disturbs her balance. That is why, when Becky raises her right leg and pushes her boot to Cyn’s rear end, the Hellion goes sailing face-first to the canvas with a startled yelp. Surging with adrenalin, Becky gets to all fours and swiftly scrambles across the canvas to the opposite side of the ring. Witnessing this, Mitchell lunges forward, grabbing the brunette’s ankle to halt her advancement.
Nonetheless, Becky is close enough to stretch her hand out, her fingertips brushing with those of her partner, and suddenly it’s a whole new ball game.
For a woman as powerfully built as she, Roxie McCrimmon EXPLODES through the ropes with surprising speed. Knowing she would need to act quickly, the Cynful One drops Becky’s ankle--but that small hesitation gives the Beantown Bombshell enough time to catch Mitchell across the throat with a MASSIVE running clothesline!
Now it’s Ivy Armstrong’s turn to swiftly slip through the ropes, looking to come to the aid of her sister in every way but blood. But she’s not quick enough. The Irish-American stunner makes use of her long legs to intercept the ‘Bama Slamma with a powerful boot to the midsection, one which folds the redhead in half and lifts her up onto her tiptoes. Roxie moves in quickly, forcing Armstrong back to a semi-upright position as she wraps her arms around the veteran’s waist.
In the next instant, McCrimmon hoists her prey into the air and drops to one knee, depositing Ivy crotch-first across her posted thigh with an inverted atomic drop!
Armstrong shoots off Roxie’s knee as if she were spring-loaded, turning and hobbling away on quaking legs. Rising behind her, the Beantown Bombshell grabs one handful of hair and another of lace panties. With both fingers filled, McCrimmon rushes the redhead to the ropes, tossing her through the cables and down to the floor.
Unfortunately for the champs, however, Roxie’s time spent dealing with Ivy has allowed Cynthia to collect her scattered marbles and to get back to her feet--and from there, the Cynful One charges her foe from behind, slamming a couple of quick forearm shots into Roxie’s back. After the second blow, the blonde robobabe turns her back away from Mitchell and into the cables--which allows Cynthia to lean in and take her wrist. Setting her feet, the former World, Lightweight and Tag champ starts to launch Roxie with an Irish whip...
... but the Beantown Bombshell has other ideas.
McCrimmon reverses the whip, and the rubber coated steel promptly propels the Cynful One back into the clutches of the tag team champion. Dipping as she prepares to accept Cynthia. Roxie uses a gorilla press to toss the Terrible Tar Heel up onto her shoulders and into a fireman’s carry. In the blink of an eye, the Beantown Bombshell lays out, DRIVING Mitchell down on her head and shoulders with her Boston Massacre.
BOSTON MASSACRE:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=jLLWb3YH6Ik
Roxie quickly crawls over to her prey, to apply the lateral press.
ONE...
TWO...
Ivy Armstrong has only just managed to climb back onto the apron--she’s in no state to make the save. Fortunately for her, Cynthia doesn’t need the assist, Mitchell getting a shoulder up just past the second slap. The Cynful One was still alive, even if momentum had now swung firmly toward the Big Guns.
The Bostonian hardly seems disappointed that her adversary has managed to kick out. After all, there would be no joy in Gunsville if a good deal more hurt weren’t heaped on the Hellions. Rising to her feet, Roxie gives Mitchell a not-so-gentle nudge with the toe of her boot, rolling the brunette over onto her belly. Bending down, McCrimmon fills her right hand with chestnut tresses, and with her left she gets a tight handhold of her opponent’s panties. Cyn gives a gurgling yip as she’s then pulled up to her hands and knees. Releasing her grasp on the scanty tog, the blonde yanks the Tawny Tarheel’s hair until she’s upright on her knees, even as the Gunner steps behind her.
Shifting hands so that it’s the left that’s holding Cyn in place by her hair, tugging the mane enough so that her rival is forced to look upward, and the right limb is free, McCrimmon raises her arm…and then begins jackhammering Bionic Elbows into Mitchell’s forehead. Five thunking blows of the bent joint later, and Cyn is glassy-eyed. “I’ll put that up against any Bloodwind’s Tomahawk Chop anyday,” the blonde says with no small trace of merriment in her voice. “But I’ll let you be the judge of that, since you’ve enjoyed both.”
Cyn’s only response, after a few moments, is to pitch forward, landing face-first to the mat, while her right leg kicks involuntarily. Dropping to her knees, Roxie shoves Mitchell over and casually lays across her chest.
ONE…
TWO…
KICKOUT!
“That’s my girl,” the Nor’easter says with a grin. “I knew you’d want some more medicine.”
Climbing to her feet, McCrimmon tugs Mitchell up with a handful of hair--but she promptly releases those locks before the official can even chide her. Instead, the blonde robobabe snatches Cynthia’s wrist, cranking the Cynful One’s arm up behind her back in a hammerlock.
Of course, that’s merely the beginning.
The Beantown Bombshell nudges her head underneath Cynthia’s opposite arm, then grunts as she straightens up, lifting one of the most decorate FAWN stars off her feet. Roxie’s left hand moves to Mitchell’s ankle, to stabilize the Cynful One. McCrimmon then throws her weight to the left, spinning nearly 360 degrees before bridging back, SLAMMING Cynthia down on her head and shoulders with her Boston Pop’skull.
BOSTON POP’SKULL:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=roNXZncq0r4
The Irish-American stunner holds the bridge, Cynthia’s shoulders flat for the...
ONE...
TWO...
THRNOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!
Mitchell kicks loose.
“Alright,” Roxie hisses, rising and yanking the Cynful One up with TWO handfuls of hair. “No more games.”
The Beantown Bombshell practically TOSSES Cynthia into the near corner, the FAWN Original’s arms spilling over the top rope. Marching in, McCrimmon UNLOADS with an alternating trio of open-hand chops to the chest and forearm smashes to the jaw--and every FAWNatic in attendance recognizes the opening salvos of Roxie’s signature Violence Party. The Cynful One starts to slump deeper into the corner...
... but McCrimmon will have none of that.
Snatching another double handful of hair, the powerful blonde pulls Cynthia back up straight, before NAILING Mitchell with three rapidfire headbutts. Taking a small side step, the Beantown Bombshell snapmares her foe out of the corner, Cynthia plopping down in a rather undignified fashion upon her renowned derriere. Keeping one hand atop Mitchell’s skull, keeping her prey seated upright, Roxie slams three short, swift kicks into the Tar Heel’s back, then pivots to smash a pair of kneelifts into her mug.
RIPPING the Cynful One up to her feet by the hair, Roxie holds the former World, Lightweight AND Tag champ doubled over--and she BLASTS Mitchell with a four-spot of kicks to the chest. She then pulls Cynthia up straight one last time... before DAMN NEAR severing Mitchell’s head from her shoulder with a thunderous clothesline!
VIOLENCE PARTY:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=GDuqpbZATV4
Roxie quickly settles atop Cynthia’s chest in a classic schoolgirl pin, her calves pressed against Mitchell’s forearms.
ONE...
TWO...
THRENOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!
The Cynful One might well have been finished, but fortunately for her, Ivy Armstrong has her back--specifically by drilling ROXIE’S back with a diving double axehandle. The Beantown Bombshell is knocked off her foe, her spine arched as she cries out in pain...
But the Big Gun has back-up of her own.
Returning to the fray, Becky Clayton catches the 'Bama Slamma while she’s still on her knees, roughly jerking the redhead up off the mat. As the Army of One Hot Chick backs one FAWN Original into the ropes with forearm smashes to the chest, McCrimmon pulls up another, and sends Mitchell retreating into the opposite ropes with some wicked forearms of her own. Working in near unison, the Big Guns each take a wrist of the respective Hellion, Ivy and Cynthia sent for parallel rides...
... that end in identical fashions: with a Big Gun shoulder PLOWING into yielding midriff, Clayton and McCrimmon SPEARING the holy hell out of BOTH challengers!
Popping back to her feet, Becky scoops Ivy off the deck, rushing her toward the ropes before tossing her out to the floor. Meanwhile, Roxie scrapes the remnants of the Cynful One off the canvas. “Hey,” she says, almost breezily, “remember when your skanky ass cheated me out of the World belt?” McCrimmon reaches her arm across Cynthia’s neck from behind, pulling the Terrible Tar Heel back into a dragon sleeper. “I’m not gonna HAVE to cheat to keep my tag title.”
Without another word, Roxie slides her other arm underneath Cynthia’s back--and with nary a sound of exertion, she powers Mitchell into the air. As soon as Cynthia’s legs swing over McCrimmon’s shoulders, the Irish-American blonde sits out, SPIKING the Cynful One’s head into the mat. The Beantown Bomb detonates with enough force that BECKY is momentarily lifted off her feet, a few feet away. But as Roxie settles from her bounce, she collects Cynthia’s legs, the FAWN Original’s backside pointed to the rafters as the official counts the...
BEANTOWN BOMB:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=iI7JtEXZdx4&feature=related
ONE...
TWO...
THREE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Any thoughts Ivy might have had of coming to her partner’s rescue a second time are headed off by the Army of One Hot Chick, stationed at the ready along the ropes.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer declares, “your winners, and STILL FAWN TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS... THE BIIIGGG GUUUNNNSSS!!!!!”
The Beantown Bombshell scoots away from Cynthia--but Mitchell remains planted in her matchbook, ass over teakettle, her knees resting on either side of her head. Never one to miss an opportunity for a great visual, Roxie plants a conquering boot right between the Cynful One’s cheeks... and then strikes a double bicep pose, the FAWNatics lavishing approval on the display as the Gladiatrix photogs snap shot after shot.
For some wrestlers, this moment…standing in the darkness, nothing but a curtain separating them from the thousands-strong crowd that anxiously awaits them…is almost holy. Some use the opportunity to fire up their adrenalin, others to silently contemplate the battle to come.
For Belle’s Hellions, it’s an opportunity to discuss fashion.
“So, are you wearin’ 'em?” asks Ivy.
Ivy Armstrong
“Don’t worry,” replies Cyn.
Cynthia Mitchell
“We can’t rassle if you’re not wearin’ it, you know that.”
“You’re just superstitious.”
“Ah have a healthy respect for the uncanny.”
“Yeah, you’re a regular Marie Laveau.”
“She’s from Louisiana, not Alabama.”
“Louisiana, Alabama, Mississippi…what’s the difference, right?”
“Remind me, you’re from Upper Carolina…right?”
“Ha f@cking ha. Shut up.”
“Listen sweetie, there’s one thing you do, and one thing you don’t. What y’all don’t do is insult the sovereign state of Alabama.”
“And what do I do?”
“You know what to do.”
“Sigh. I’m wearing them, okay?”
“Show me.”
And thus, to satisfy her persnickety partner, Mitchell tugs down her panties, revealing a thong. And in the dim light backstage, Armstrong can make out the art design on the triangle of fabric.
“Tinkerbell,” the redhead says with a smile. “Nice.”
“Satisfied?” the brunette asks with mock exasperation. But for all of her presumed vexation, she had come to enjoy this little pre-match ritual they had developed. Once, when they were the most hated of rivals, Ivy had ridiculed Cynthia for having been exposed as wearing Minnie Mouse panties in a match. Now that they were friends and partners, one of the steps which the ‘Bama Slamma had taken to help bridge the gulf between them was to actively encourage Cyn to wear such ‘unmentionables’ for their tag matches, insisting they were good luck charms. Mitchell knew it was silly, but it was a silliness shared just between them, and it was one of the things that had bonded them.
But now, that matter settled, it was time to focus on the main order of tonight’s business.
Save for the lights hung directly over the ring, the FAWN Arena was plunged into darkness. Suddenly, a somber bell tolls.
BONG…
BONG…
BONG…
“HELL’S BELLS”:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=etAIpkdhU9Q
Then a serpentine guitar riff fills the air, as three spotlights suddenly race around the vast arena, dancing upon the faces of the crowd until they suddenly converge at the top of the ramp. As AC/DC’s “Hell’s Bells” battles for aural supremacy against the approving roar of the throng, the curtain tears open, and out step Ivy Armstrong and Cynthia Mitchell.
“INTRODUCING FIRST…FROM URIAH, ALABAMA AND CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA…THEY ARE IVY ARMSTRONG AND CYNTHIA MITCHELL…BELLLLLLLLLE’S HELLLLLLLLLIONS!”
Much to the spectator’s delight, they were garbed in what had become their traditional team wear: Armstrong wears a satin, lycra and lace bustier, red with black trim, along with black lace panties. Her hands wear fingerless black lace gloves, and for the walk down to the ring, she wears black stiletto heels. Her fiery hair, which usually hangs wild and loose, is now teased up in a manner that suggests both sophistication and tempestuousness.
Alongside her, Mitchell is adorned with identical wear, only rather than red and black, Mitchell's replaces the red with her trademarked purple, including purple panties. Also, like Ivy, she wears fingerless black lace gloves. And, also like Ivy, Cynthia has discarded her boots, opting just as her partner always has to wrestle barefoot, and wearing “F@ck Me” heels on the trek down to the squared circle. Apart from the difference in color schemes, Cynthia also wears a black lace garter belt, the clasps left hanging empty down her thighs with no stockings to support.
Always the more gregarious of the two, Armstrong merrily slaps at many of the outstretched hands. Mitchell exhibits more of a seeming aloofness from the crowd…but one look at the swivel of her hips makes it abundantly clear that she’s giving them a show they won’t soon forget.
Both women halt to blow kisses to a fan waving a sign over his head that reads, I’M HAPPILY ON THE HIGHWAY TO HELL!
Reaching the steps, the Hellions scale them up to the ring apron. There, Cynthia bends forward at the waist and sloooooooowly steps between the ropes, giving many of the fans a good, long and much-appreciated gander at what is quite possibly the most celebrated derriere in FAWN. Then Ivy enters the ring in her typically flamboyant way; facing the audience, she grabs the top cable with both hands and flips backward, making a leisurely graceful arc, her magnificent gams on full display.
Now, both wrestlers step out of the heels and hand them to a ringside attendant. Spotting the photographers positioned on one side of the ring, the Hellions strike a pose: Cyn drops to one knee and flexes her arms, while Ivy slinks up behind her and seductively draws her hands across her partner’s shoulders, both giving smoldering ‘come hither’ gazes. The cameras flash for several seconds, and then the Hellions break the pose and Mitchell rises to her feet. Facing one another, they both raise their arms and slap their palms together, sharing cocky grins.
“And now,” the announcer resumes, once he’s managed to pull his enraptured gaze away from the Hellions, “introducing the champions... Weighing in tonight at a total combined weight of two-hundred and sixty-eight pounds… Becky Clayton and Roxie McCrimmon… Ladies and gentlemen, together, they are… THE BIIIGGG GUUUNNNSSS!!!”
For a team with that name, there’s only one song that can mark their arrival. And sure enough, within moments, the FAWN Arena speakers begin to pump out AC/DC for a second time--in this instance, “Big Gun”. Not long after that, two of FAWN’s hardest hardbodies emerge at the top of the ramp, the newly crowned tag team champions of the world receiving a tremendous roar of approval from the sellout crowd.
Becky Clayton
Roxie McCrimmon
The Army of One Hot Chick sports what has now become her trademark ensemble. Having forsaken her standard one-piece after it been all but shredded by a certain Tennessee Terror, she has transitioned to a camouflage two piece with tie-sided bottoms and an eye catching ladder / double helix of lycra that runs from the center of her waistband all the way up to the bottom of her cups. She finishes it off with matching forest green pads and boots, though thanks to the artillery above, they could’ve been pink with yellow floral print and no one would’ve noticed.
The Beantown Bombshell, on the other hand, is clearly adorned in a different set of togs than her customary solo wear, though they are at least partially obscured by her usual Celtics jersey—tonight’s a green eight. What can be seen below the hem of the (Auburn alum--coincidence?) Marquis Daniel uni is an extreme rarity in FAWN: pants. Well, “pants” is probably overstating matters. While it’s true that McCrimmon’s inner thighs are covered by shiny, camouflage patterned fabric, her outer legs are left bare save for a one-inch strap at the knee.
Each woman sports her championship strap slung over a shoulder--Becky’s right and Roxie’s left.
When Clayton has given the fans enough time to voice their appreciation, Becky starts her way down to the ring at a quick pace--but still taking the time to slap as many of the outstretched hands as she could reach. Roxanne follows alongside, doing her best to ensure that none of the front row fans are left out from the hand-slapping festivities. Ascending the steps, the Army of One Hot Chick slips through the ropes and headed straight for a far corner, hopping up onto the middle turnbuckle and snapping off a crisp salute to the roaring masses. McCrimmon races to the opposite corner, springing onto the middle buckle herself and pumping a fist—drawing a rousing cheer of her own.
From her perch, Roxie slips her fingers inside the hem of her jersey and pulls it overhead, revealing two more one-inch straps on the “pants”—one at mid-thigh and the other the waist—and a similarly camouflaged halter that leaves plenty of washboard stomach bared. Backed up by a whole platoon of her very own Howling Commandos, Becky drops down from her perch and turns to watch the enemy corner. Giving her partner a supportive slap on the shoulder, Roxie McCrimmon departs the ring, taking up station in the Big Guns corner.
The Hellions quietly confer with one another, and they agree that Ivy will start things off for her team. Cyn gives her partner a encouraging pat on the butt as she exits the ring.
The bell clangs and the two wrestlers push out of their corners, circling one another. “Ah have to say,” Armstrong says conversationally to Becky as the distance between them slowly closes. “Ah think maybe you’re perpetrating some false advertising.”
With an air of annoyance, Clayton replies, “What are you running your mouth about, Armstrong?”
“Well, your team name,” responds the redhead. “The ‘Big’uns”? Sorry, honey…while y’all look nice and healthy in the bosom region, Ah hate to tell you, Ah wouldn’t claim those were big ones. Now, Roxie over there is what the boys down at the Dew Drop Inn would call racktacular…she’s clearly living up to the hype. But you, sweetie? Sorry, but Ah’m afraid you don’t seem to be holding up your end. As a matter of fact, Ah don’t see that you’ve got much that does need holding up.”
Although she knows better than to allow herself to be baited this way, Becky nonetheless feels her anger rise, as a tinge of red comes to her face. Matter-of-factly she snaps back, “You know good and well we’re the <i>Big Guns</i>…but since you seem to have forgotten, I’ll be happy to show you what these guns can do.” With that, the co-holder of the tag straps lunges at her adversary, her arms reaching for the Hellion. But Ivy deftly ducks under her grasp and backpedals to the ropes. Clayton starts moving toward her, but the redhead calls out to the official, “Whoa, whoa whoa ref…keep her back! I’m in the ropes!”
Duly backing Clayton away, the zebra calls for Ivy to step away from the strands and get the match properly underway. All in her own good time she complies, again cautiously approaching her opponent. This time, she indulges in what appears to be folly…raising her right arm to silently signal a test of strength with the larger, more powerful woman. Clayton can’t suppress a tiny smirk as she raises her own arm to meet the challenge.
Yet, just as their fingers brush together, Armstrong yanks her hand away and again backpedals to safety. “Ah don’t think so, sugah.,” she says with an uninhibited smirk. She then goes back over to the Hellions’ corner, where once more she confers with her partner, making sure to step a leg through the middle and bottom ropes so as to bring a halt to the action.
Thoroughly exasperated now, Becky angrily badgers the referee, joined in her chorus of frustration by Roxie back in her corner. “C’mon ref!” she barks. “Are we going to wrestle, or just watch her dance a hoe down?”
“We’re looking at the only ho’s here,” Cyn says with a snarky smile, fueling Becky’s anger.
The ref has to count to four-and-three-quarters before the redhead extradites herself from the cables and makes what appears to be an attempt to start the actual wrestling portion of this wrestling match. The smirk on her face masks the carefully calculating mind behind the grin. It’s a risky stratagem, attempting to anger Clayton this way. If it fails, all Ivy will have is an infuriated powerhouse of an opponent. Ah, but if it succeeds, the blonde will hopefully be so annoyed as to fall off of her game plan. As to which result is pending, Armstrong knows she’s about to find out.
To her relief, Becky…face still red and eyes blazing,…lunges for her, hands ready to grasp the willowy Southern gal and tear her to pieces. Moving with lightning speed, Ivy executes a Russian leg sweep, sending the startled Clayton crashing face-first to the mat. In a heartbeat, the ‘Bama Slamma has her opponent’s legs bent back at the knees and ankles crossed, which Armstrong holds in place with her right leg, while her hands clasp beneath the blonde’s chin, tugging her head back. “Ah promise you, darlin’” the redhead purrs. “Next Monroe County Fair, Ah’ll call you in for the hay bale haul. But when it comes to wrestling, sweetie, y’all just aren’t all that. But don’t you worry your pretty little head none…Ah’m about to show you how it’s done.”
Initially, Becky’s hands pry at the redhead’s laced fingers--but Armstrong will not be discouraged from her chinlock. So, the Army Brat shifts her strategy. Instead of clawing and pawing at Ivy’s hands, Clayton instead starts straining her right arm toward the rope, fingers flexing... until at last, she gets them coiled around the bottom rope.
“Alright,” the referee orders. “Break it.”
The ‘Bama Slamma furrows her brow. “What?” she asks. “Her neck? Now, that hardly seems sporting, does it, sugah?”
Our illustrious official is anything but amused. “You know damn well what I mean, Armstrong.”
“Sure thing,” Ivy replies with a playful pout, before tacking on, “spoilsport.”
Rising to her feet, the Hellion backs off with her hands raised... and an infuriating smirk on her lips. Clayton picks herself off the deck, eyes narrow. But, in spite of the anger evident in Becky’s eyes, Ivy shows little hesitation in tying up with the Army of One Hot Chick...
... which, perhaps, proves to be a mistake.
Becky is quickly able to shift and secure Ivy in a tight side headlock--which, perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, allows the ‘Bama Slamma to get quite the up close and personal look at the bosom she had dismissed moments ago. “You were saying...?” Clayton asks with a bit of a sneer, the “Guns” of her actual team name rippling as she works the hold.
Armstrong doesn’t waste any energy arguing. Instead, veteran that she is, Ivy backs the powerful GI into the ropes--and then, much to her relief, she manages to push her way out of the hold, sending Becky off into the ropes in the process. Somewhat surprisingly, the ‘Bama Slamma doesn’t follow Clayton out much further than the point from which she launched her toward the ropes...
On the rebound, however, it becomes apparent why.
Ivy steps to the side, dropping and catching Becky at the ankles, taking the Army of One Hot Chick down with a drop toe hold. However, Armstrong’s proximity to the ropes results in Clayton being sent crashing down, throat first, across the middle cable! The referee quickly commands Ivy to disengage, and the redhead does precisely that--though not without a few words to the official.
And as she shoots the breeze with him, Cynthia Mitchell hops off the apron. Grabbing the back of Becky’s head, the Cynful One drops to one knee, choking the tag champ with fervent abandon. Clayton’s arms swipe at her attacker, but the rubber coated steel beneath her armpits makes reaching the kneeling Mitchell a nearly impossible task. Before long, Becky instead starts pushing at the cable, her boots drumming the mat frantically.
Meanwhile, across the ring, Roxie McCrimmon has seen enough. She starts to burst through the ropes--but with the referee facing the champions’ corner, he spots the intrusion immediately, and pulls himself away from Ivy. It takes more than a few harsh words to encourage the Irish-American hardbody to return to her corner--especially not when Armstrong saunters over to Becky and reclines against Clayton’s back, the redhead’s tush giving an assist to Cynthia’s efforts by pressing against Clayton’s noggin.
The ‘Bama Slamma offers Roxie a bright smile and a cheery wave, the gestures MORE than enough to spur the Beantown Bombshell to try to fight her way past the protesting zebra. He holds his own, however--and Cynthia works her hands free from between Becky’s skull and Ivy’s rump. As the Cynful One climbs back onto the apron, Armstrong casually crooks her left elbow, holding her palm turned up toward the lights...
... and Mitchell needs little further invitation to make a tag.
As the redhead slips out between the ropes, her partner eases her way in. For longtime fans, it remains astounding how the eager, anxious, somewhat gawky girl of yore has blossomed into the sultry, sinister siren who now struts in the ring.
With a sneer that bespeaks both contempt for her opponent as well as glee for what she foresees, Mitchell grabs Becky’s ankles and heaves, lifting the tawny trooper’s body up. Clayton instinctively grabs at the middle rope, but she is yanked off of the strand, and she belly flops down to the canvas. Her natural inclination is to roll over onto her back, but the brunette can’t be bothered to wait for that to occur, so she uses her grasp of the tag champ’s ankles to flip her over.
Now, holding up Clayton’s gams and spreading them wide, Cyn gives a menacing chuckle, and then leaps up, letting gravity do its work…bringing her thighs down hard into Becky’s own. The Army of One Hot Chick sits bolt upright, doing her best to stifle a shriek, and then her body flops backward to the mat once again. Her hands rush to massage her inner thighs, which have been stretched very near the snapping point by the impact.
Kipping back up to her feet, Mitchell grabs her adversary’s legs and flips her over. “I’ve always heard an army lives on its stomach. Well, here’s where you die on yours,” she says with malignant glee, and then she locks on a sharpshooter. Clayton gives an agonized roar as her legs and spine are twisted most unnaturally, her fists pounding at the mat to try and relieve the pressure. With the referee focused intently on Becky, asking repeatedly if she wants to submit, Cyn reaches an arm behind herself, and her hand is clasped by that of Ivy on the other side of the ropes, adding to the leverage used to torment the embattled brunette.
From her vantage point across the ring, Roxie bellows in indignation over the blatant duplicity. Astonishingly, the ref heeds her calls and glances back, catching Cyn and Ivy in the act, and ordering the hold broken. It takes a four count, but Mitchell complies…and was even courteous enough to help Becky back up to her feet, brushing the dazed tag belt holder off.
Suddenly Cyn turns on her heel and stalks to center ring, focusing her attention on McCrimmon, calling out, “Hey bimbo, can you give me at least a little bit of a challenge? Your useless partner isn’t even letting me break a sweat.”
With her Southie Boston accent, Roxie snarls back, “You won’t just break a wicked sweat when I get ya, b#tch…I’ll break your damn ass!”
Mitchell’s only reply is to purse her lips and blow a kiss to the blonde, which infuriates McCrimmon enough that she starts to climb through the ropes. The zebra instantly rushes to intercept her…which is precisely what Cyn wanted. For while she was so ably distracting the referee, Ivy had taken the untied lace from the top turnbuckle and wrapped it around Clayton’s throat from behind, choking her. Becky’s face purples as her fingers frantically claw at the makeshift noose as she gasps for breath. Now, the other Hellion turns back toward her opponent, struts up to her, and launches a kick to Clayton’s belly. Armstrong releases her stranglehold and Becky slides down the turnbuckles, landing on her butt as she pants heavily.
Taking a few steps back, Cyn turns around, facing away from her opponent, giving Becky a glance over her shoulder. Mitchell then bends forward a bit, causing her fabled derriere to protrude as she starts to step backward. The crowd gives an appreciative cheer of what promises to be the application of said derriere to Clayton’s slack-jawed visage.
Of course, to apply such a maneuver, Mitchell has to assume a position which, by its nature, disturbs her balance. That is why, when Becky raises her right leg and pushes her boot to Cyn’s rear end, the Hellion goes sailing face-first to the canvas with a startled yelp. Surging with adrenalin, Becky gets to all fours and swiftly scrambles across the canvas to the opposite side of the ring. Witnessing this, Mitchell lunges forward, grabbing the brunette’s ankle to halt her advancement.
Nonetheless, Becky is close enough to stretch her hand out, her fingertips brushing with those of her partner, and suddenly it’s a whole new ball game.
For a woman as powerfully built as she, Roxie McCrimmon EXPLODES through the ropes with surprising speed. Knowing she would need to act quickly, the Cynful One drops Becky’s ankle--but that small hesitation gives the Beantown Bombshell enough time to catch Mitchell across the throat with a MASSIVE running clothesline!
Now it’s Ivy Armstrong’s turn to swiftly slip through the ropes, looking to come to the aid of her sister in every way but blood. But she’s not quick enough. The Irish-American stunner makes use of her long legs to intercept the ‘Bama Slamma with a powerful boot to the midsection, one which folds the redhead in half and lifts her up onto her tiptoes. Roxie moves in quickly, forcing Armstrong back to a semi-upright position as she wraps her arms around the veteran’s waist.
In the next instant, McCrimmon hoists her prey into the air and drops to one knee, depositing Ivy crotch-first across her posted thigh with an inverted atomic drop!
Armstrong shoots off Roxie’s knee as if she were spring-loaded, turning and hobbling away on quaking legs. Rising behind her, the Beantown Bombshell grabs one handful of hair and another of lace panties. With both fingers filled, McCrimmon rushes the redhead to the ropes, tossing her through the cables and down to the floor.
Unfortunately for the champs, however, Roxie’s time spent dealing with Ivy has allowed Cynthia to collect her scattered marbles and to get back to her feet--and from there, the Cynful One charges her foe from behind, slamming a couple of quick forearm shots into Roxie’s back. After the second blow, the blonde robobabe turns her back away from Mitchell and into the cables--which allows Cynthia to lean in and take her wrist. Setting her feet, the former World, Lightweight and Tag champ starts to launch Roxie with an Irish whip...
... but the Beantown Bombshell has other ideas.
McCrimmon reverses the whip, and the rubber coated steel promptly propels the Cynful One back into the clutches of the tag team champion. Dipping as she prepares to accept Cynthia. Roxie uses a gorilla press to toss the Terrible Tar Heel up onto her shoulders and into a fireman’s carry. In the blink of an eye, the Beantown Bombshell lays out, DRIVING Mitchell down on her head and shoulders with her Boston Massacre.
BOSTON MASSACRE:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=jLLWb3YH6Ik
Roxie quickly crawls over to her prey, to apply the lateral press.
ONE...
TWO...
Ivy Armstrong has only just managed to climb back onto the apron--she’s in no state to make the save. Fortunately for her, Cynthia doesn’t need the assist, Mitchell getting a shoulder up just past the second slap. The Cynful One was still alive, even if momentum had now swung firmly toward the Big Guns.
The Bostonian hardly seems disappointed that her adversary has managed to kick out. After all, there would be no joy in Gunsville if a good deal more hurt weren’t heaped on the Hellions. Rising to her feet, Roxie gives Mitchell a not-so-gentle nudge with the toe of her boot, rolling the brunette over onto her belly. Bending down, McCrimmon fills her right hand with chestnut tresses, and with her left she gets a tight handhold of her opponent’s panties. Cyn gives a gurgling yip as she’s then pulled up to her hands and knees. Releasing her grasp on the scanty tog, the blonde yanks the Tawny Tarheel’s hair until she’s upright on her knees, even as the Gunner steps behind her.
Shifting hands so that it’s the left that’s holding Cyn in place by her hair, tugging the mane enough so that her rival is forced to look upward, and the right limb is free, McCrimmon raises her arm…and then begins jackhammering Bionic Elbows into Mitchell’s forehead. Five thunking blows of the bent joint later, and Cyn is glassy-eyed. “I’ll put that up against any Bloodwind’s Tomahawk Chop anyday,” the blonde says with no small trace of merriment in her voice. “But I’ll let you be the judge of that, since you’ve enjoyed both.”
Cyn’s only response, after a few moments, is to pitch forward, landing face-first to the mat, while her right leg kicks involuntarily. Dropping to her knees, Roxie shoves Mitchell over and casually lays across her chest.
ONE…
TWO…
KICKOUT!
“That’s my girl,” the Nor’easter says with a grin. “I knew you’d want some more medicine.”
Climbing to her feet, McCrimmon tugs Mitchell up with a handful of hair--but she promptly releases those locks before the official can even chide her. Instead, the blonde robobabe snatches Cynthia’s wrist, cranking the Cynful One’s arm up behind her back in a hammerlock.
Of course, that’s merely the beginning.
The Beantown Bombshell nudges her head underneath Cynthia’s opposite arm, then grunts as she straightens up, lifting one of the most decorate FAWN stars off her feet. Roxie’s left hand moves to Mitchell’s ankle, to stabilize the Cynful One. McCrimmon then throws her weight to the left, spinning nearly 360 degrees before bridging back, SLAMMING Cynthia down on her head and shoulders with her Boston Pop’skull.
BOSTON POP’SKULL:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=roNXZncq0r4
The Irish-American stunner holds the bridge, Cynthia’s shoulders flat for the...
ONE...
TWO...
THRNOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!
Mitchell kicks loose.
“Alright,” Roxie hisses, rising and yanking the Cynful One up with TWO handfuls of hair. “No more games.”
The Beantown Bombshell practically TOSSES Cynthia into the near corner, the FAWN Original’s arms spilling over the top rope. Marching in, McCrimmon UNLOADS with an alternating trio of open-hand chops to the chest and forearm smashes to the jaw--and every FAWNatic in attendance recognizes the opening salvos of Roxie’s signature Violence Party. The Cynful One starts to slump deeper into the corner...
... but McCrimmon will have none of that.
Snatching another double handful of hair, the powerful blonde pulls Cynthia back up straight, before NAILING Mitchell with three rapidfire headbutts. Taking a small side step, the Beantown Bombshell snapmares her foe out of the corner, Cynthia plopping down in a rather undignified fashion upon her renowned derriere. Keeping one hand atop Mitchell’s skull, keeping her prey seated upright, Roxie slams three short, swift kicks into the Tar Heel’s back, then pivots to smash a pair of kneelifts into her mug.
RIPPING the Cynful One up to her feet by the hair, Roxie holds the former World, Lightweight AND Tag champ doubled over--and she BLASTS Mitchell with a four-spot of kicks to the chest. She then pulls Cynthia up straight one last time... before DAMN NEAR severing Mitchell’s head from her shoulder with a thunderous clothesline!
VIOLENCE PARTY:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=GDuqpbZATV4
Roxie quickly settles atop Cynthia’s chest in a classic schoolgirl pin, her calves pressed against Mitchell’s forearms.
ONE...
TWO...
THRENOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!
The Cynful One might well have been finished, but fortunately for her, Ivy Armstrong has her back--specifically by drilling ROXIE’S back with a diving double axehandle. The Beantown Bombshell is knocked off her foe, her spine arched as she cries out in pain...
But the Big Gun has back-up of her own.
Returning to the fray, Becky Clayton catches the 'Bama Slamma while she’s still on her knees, roughly jerking the redhead up off the mat. As the Army of One Hot Chick backs one FAWN Original into the ropes with forearm smashes to the chest, McCrimmon pulls up another, and sends Mitchell retreating into the opposite ropes with some wicked forearms of her own. Working in near unison, the Big Guns each take a wrist of the respective Hellion, Ivy and Cynthia sent for parallel rides...
... that end in identical fashions: with a Big Gun shoulder PLOWING into yielding midriff, Clayton and McCrimmon SPEARING the holy hell out of BOTH challengers!
Popping back to her feet, Becky scoops Ivy off the deck, rushing her toward the ropes before tossing her out to the floor. Meanwhile, Roxie scrapes the remnants of the Cynful One off the canvas. “Hey,” she says, almost breezily, “remember when your skanky ass cheated me out of the World belt?” McCrimmon reaches her arm across Cynthia’s neck from behind, pulling the Terrible Tar Heel back into a dragon sleeper. “I’m not gonna HAVE to cheat to keep my tag title.”
Without another word, Roxie slides her other arm underneath Cynthia’s back--and with nary a sound of exertion, she powers Mitchell into the air. As soon as Cynthia’s legs swing over McCrimmon’s shoulders, the Irish-American blonde sits out, SPIKING the Cynful One’s head into the mat. The Beantown Bomb detonates with enough force that BECKY is momentarily lifted off her feet, a few feet away. But as Roxie settles from her bounce, she collects Cynthia’s legs, the FAWN Original’s backside pointed to the rafters as the official counts the...
BEANTOWN BOMB:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=iI7JtEXZdx4&feature=related
ONE...
TWO...
THREE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Any thoughts Ivy might have had of coming to her partner’s rescue a second time are headed off by the Army of One Hot Chick, stationed at the ready along the ropes.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer declares, “your winners, and STILL FAWN TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS... THE BIIIGGG GUUUNNNSSS!!!!!”
The Beantown Bombshell scoots away from Cynthia--but Mitchell remains planted in her matchbook, ass over teakettle, her knees resting on either side of her head. Never one to miss an opportunity for a great visual, Roxie plants a conquering boot right between the Cynful One’s cheeks... and then strikes a double bicep pose, the FAWNatics lavishing approval on the display as the Gladiatrix photogs snap shot after shot.