Post by SammieSinclair on Jan 10, 2015 9:16:01 GMT
In the cool darkness backstage, the roar of the thousands-strong crowd just outside is muffled ever so slightly by the heavy curtain. The willowy woman in the shadows bows her head, eyes closed, letting her ears take in the sounds. The bustle, the roar...it is all as familiar to her as the sound of her own voice. This is the world she grew up in, and where she has chosen to make her life in. Other woman are wrestlers...she IS wrestling. It's in her DNA, in her blood.
She has spilled that blood more than once in the pursuit of her destiny. Tonight, with precious gold on the line, she will risk it all, if need be.
Then, she hears the amplified voice of the announcer proclaiming, “And now, introducing first, the challenger in this title match...from Uriah, Alabama...IIIIVVVVVVYYYYYY AARRRRRRMSTRONNNNNNG!”
Ivy Armstrong...
“WILD EYED SOUTHERN BOYS":
www.youtube.com/watch?v=HmsxULFf5oc
“Wild Eyed Southern Boys” by .38 Special comes crashing through the PA. Stepping through the curtain, the redhead struts down the aisleway, her hips sashaying with silent temptation. To the surprise of all, she isn’t wearing her usual togs (bustier and panties), nor even her previous signature ensemble of denim shorts and cropped top (much to the regret of virtually all). Rather, she is instead garbed in a rather conventional white one-piece, with a crimson-colored ‘X’ emblazoned across the front and intersecting over her midriff. Her arms outstretched up and to her sides, each hand grips the corner of an American flag, proudly holding it aloft as it flutters behind her. Most in attendance are confused by both the significance of the suit, but word quickly ripples through the crowd that the Yellowhammer State’s favorite daughter is proudly wearing the colors of the Alabama state flag. As the the stars ‘n stripes in her hands, something about it seems a bit…off. It takes a while for onlookers to realize it seems to have a lot fewer than the fifty stars it usually has.
upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/5/5c/Flag_of_Alabama.svg/2000px-Flag_of_Alabama.svg.png
As for the flag, as unusual as the design may be, it’s clear to one and all what the significance of it is: Ivy isn’t just squaring off against her opponent for her belt…she’s also challenging Lockwood’s assertion to being FAWN’s one and only “True American”.
img4.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20110802100100/althistory/images/f/f1/US_flag_with_22_stars_by_Hellerick.svg
Climbing up the ringsteps, the redhead pauses on the apron, giving the referee a little nod of her head and an arch of her eyebrow. Silent command understood, the zebra sits on the middle rope and lifts the top cable enough for the ‘Bama Slamma to easily step into the ring, taking care to make certain the flag doesn’t brush the canvas below. Draping the flag across her shoulders, she holds out an open palm for the announcers microphone, and he complies without hesitation.
Bringing the mic to her lips, Ivy’s honeyed drawl fills the arena. “Ah’m facin’ Miss Polly Lockwood tonight for the Lightweight strap. But there’s something else jes as important on the line as well. Y’see, little Pollywog used to stand for somethin’…somethin’ noble, somethin’ we could all take pride in…even if she was an irritatin’ little priss about it.” Laughter bubbles up from the crowd, as the redhead continues: “But then she went and decided to have an attitude adjustment. Now, Ah don’t begrudge her that one little bit. If anything, she’s finally interestin’.” More laughter, and Armstrong gives a half-grin.
Then her visage turns serious as she says, “Now, you can be a vicious, no-good, back-stabbin’ heel, or you can represent the American flag…but y’all can’t do both in FAWN!” With this, a louder cheer erupts from the spectators. “Lockwood doesn’t make me proud about America. So tonight, in addition to alleviatin’ her of ten pounds of leather and gold, Ah’m gonna teach her to respect the stars ‘n stripes!”
Tugging the flag from her shoulders, she hands it to the ref and indicates he should hold it up for all to see. “Now, because Ah’m a good ol’ Alabama girl, Ah’m wearin’ my state’s colors tonight. And as y’all may have noticed, this flag is a mite different. Fact is, it only has 22 stars, to signify Alabama’s entry as the twenty-second state, way back in 1819.” A pause, and a return of the grin. “Who says watchin’ rasslin’ isn’t educational?”
And now the grin turns into a sinister smirk. “And when Ah’m done beatin’ the Yankee Doodle out of that tramp, they’ll be carryin’ her out of the ring on a stretcher, and this flag’ll be draped over her. Y’all can hum taps as they cart her off, while meantime that belt is going to be wrapped around my li’l ol’ waist.” Having concluded her opening remarks, Armstrong tosses the mic back to the announcer and saunters over to her corner to await her opponent, while the referee carefully folds the flag and has it placed on the announcers’ table.
As if on cue, the arena’s speakers spark to life with the pounding of Metallica’s “Don’t Tread on Me”.
“DON’T TREAD ON ME”:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=FPl2sTo_8-o
A few scattered ‘Polly Patriots’ shoot to their feet, saluting crisply. The other 98 percent of the FAWNatics make themselves known in quite a different way.
Polly Lockwood...
The haters only get louder when a familiar little blonde hardbody strides confidently to center stage, bringing a salute to her brow. When the hand, fashioned into a knife-edge, moves away from her forehead, Lockwood adds her own little twist, a middle finger remaining straight and lifted while the others recede.
Her lightweight title belt back in place after taking it from the most fake American on the continent, Nyssa Bloodwind, Lockwood rubs the gold then unstraps the belt, holding the gilded accessory high.
Polly’s sports her customary hot pants and bikini top. Polly alternates her country’s colors between a shiny, eye catching blue topside, white stars prominently placed in just the right spots, and shimmering red and white stripes below; with white pads and boots capping off the ensemble.
Like her opponent, the ‘True American’ brings her banner to battle Old Glory draped over her shoulders as a cloak. She shakes the Star-n-Stripes to her right while her belt goes over the left.
Lockwood crow hops into a jog to the ring, snarling at the moronic hordes who infested this great land, most notably Orlando tonight. Polly ignores their insults and jeers.
Reaching the ring, the patriot ascends the steel steps. Sliding through the ropes, Lockwood holds both banner and belt high before moving to the cables and exchanging her title for a microphone. She walks to the center of the ring, pulling it to her lips.
“It’s good that you explain what the hell that flag is, hick. But a better trick is explain why you’re receiving a shot at my title. Isn’t it about time you started working the night shift at Waffle House? Put your hairnet on and your checkered shirt with the Ivy tag?”
Lockwood seems delighted with her repartee though the crowd and Armstrong seem less amused.
“There’s only one flag that matters. And that’s the Star Spangled Banner, Reb. As far as I’m concerned, you and your ilk, including these Confederate toads in the stands ought to be allowed to secede. You’re not worthy of being citizens of my great country. But while you are, you’re going to be taught to shut your mouth and learn your place. And Red, your place is under my boot. Polly out!”
Lockwood tosses the stick to the canvas with a ‘CLUNK’, The ref snatches it off the canvas and hands it to a FAWN flunky on the sidelines. The blonde moves to place Old Glory in her corner and while she does the PA blares to life.
“Tonight’s next match is for FAWN’s Lightweight championship. Scheduled for one fall with a time limit of 30 minutes. Tonight’s challenger…hailing from Ukiah, Alabama; standing 5 feet 8 inches tall and weighing in at 121 pounds; she is the Bama Slamma…Ivy Armstrong!”
The crowd erupts, quickly transitioning to a loud ‘I-VEE’ chant.
“And her opponent.” The crowd doesn’t wait to unleash a torrent of boos. “From Buffalo, New York; standing 5 foot 1 inch tall and weighing in tonight at 118 scintillating pounds of All-American Awesome; ladies and gentlemen, she is the one and only TRUE American...the Lightweight Champion… POLLY LOCKWOOD!”
The titleholder bounces in place throwing her arms high and wide.
“Come on, Red,” she shouts at Ivy. “We don’t need a bell. I’m ready to stuff some grits down your throat right now…y’all.”
Not needing any further invitation, Armstrong charges at Lockwood and the two lock up in center ring, straining mightily against one another. Ivy’s height advantage lets her drive the blonde back a few steps, but Polly’s lower center of gravity, coupled with really digging her boots into the canvas, halts the retreat.
With a sudden blur of motion and a smile, Polly grasps her opponent’s right wrist and twists her arm up behind her. The redhead scowls and slaps her shoulder a few times, and before Lockwood can really secure it, Ivy manages to pirouette and reverse it. After grimacing in obvious discomfort for a few moments, Polly tales solace in the fact that her opponent had backed her up from center ring, because now the titleholder is close enough to the ropes to grasp the top strand with her free mitt.
Making a clean break, the ‘Bama Slamma steps back to encourage Lockwood to vacate the safety of the ropes. Polly, of course, takes a few long moments to enjoy the break in the action so as to plot her next move. When she finally does move away from the cables, she cautiously circles with her adversary, as both women probe for an opening to strike.
It’s the New Yorker who moves first, lunging for another lockup. The redhead moves appropriately, only to discover too late that this is a feint. An instant later, Ivy gaps heavily as Lockwood drives her knee up into her challenger’s belly. Cheeks puffing as she huffs in air, Armstrong stumbles back a few steps, her hands grasping her quivering tummy.
Uncorking the top shelf stuff early in the bout, Lockwood unloads a hurricanrana on the redhead, leaving Ivy splayed across the canvas, green eyes lacquered with gloss as she blinks up at the ceiling. But she doesn’t get to recline for long, as the blonde rips her up off of the deck, hauls her to unsteady stems, and clamps on an abdominal stretch.
Some might say Miss Armstrong makes the downright cutest mewls of distress, conveyed as they are with the honeyed Southern drawl of hers; at this particular moment, Polly most definitely considers them music to her ears, as she torques up the pressure, and adds to her opponent’s discomfort by kneading her abs with a clawhold. Ivy desperately reaches for the ropes with her free hand, but they’re much too far out of reach.
“Just like always,” Lockwood tauntingly says to her suffering foe. “The South gets uppity, and the North has to come in and put you in your place. The only problem this time is, after I’ve broken you, they’ll never reconstruct the pieces, sweet cheeks.”
However, before she can truly savor her little pun, Polly suddenly gives a yelp of surprise as she finds herself flipped ass over teakettle, courtesy of the growling Armstrong’s abrupt hiptoss. The Champ finds herself landing with a heavy thud on her ass, but the redhead cannot take immediate advantage of this turn of events; such an escape method is costly, and she stumbles back, overcomes by sudden exhaustion atop her pain, and lands on her own posterior. The two battlers sit there on the mat for long moments, each composing herself as swiftly as she can, and hoping the other isn’t quite so quick on the draw.
The women battle to their feet, turn and surge toward each other. But while Polly’s arms reach forward, Ivy uses her most lethal weapons and swings a roundhouse kick that clips Polly in the temple. Lockwood staggers in the opposite direction of the impact. Off balance, she flops into the ropes and rebounds toward the waiting Armstrong.
The Bama Slamma accepts the lightweight champion like the perfect Xmas gift. Stopping Lockwood with a digging knee to the gut, Ivy then grabs Polly’s right wrist and bends her arm back over and behind her head. Lifting her right fist to her lips, Ivy gives her fist a smooch, pulls it back, and delivers a defibrillating heart punch to the little blonde hardbody.
Polly’s green eyes cross, her taut frame going rigid when Ivy’s balled digits THUMP into the cleft of her bosom. A little shove from the second generation superstar is all it takes to send Lockwood timbering over, landing flat on her back. Immediately, the crowd senses an Ivy title reign in the air and Armstrong dives on top of the splayed blonde. She ends in a full body pin of the True American, Polly’s smaller stature quite noticeable when Armstrong presses her body to the champ’s, Ivy with several inches of leg left over when chest is settled on chest.
The official drops next to the Southern Charmer’s pin and raps the canvas for the...
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOO!
Lockwood spasms back to life, saving herself by shoving a shoulder off the mat.
As Lockwood pushes her way toward verticality, Armstrong makes sure she beats the blonde there and wraps her up in a side headlock. The redhead grinds Polly’s noggin against her hip adjusting to the size of the vertically-challenged champion. Armstrong sends Polly over with a hiptoss, the pernicious patriot landing hard on her backside. While the wincing Lockwood moves her hands to her derriere, quickly kneading at her aching glutes, Ivy is on the move. She barrels away from a rebound off the ropes in front of Polly and NAILS the Star Spangled Bytch with a kneestrike between the eyes completing her Mush Mouth.
Polly’s head whips away from the impact and her body follows, leaving her in a starfish at Ivy’s feet. This time, however, Armstrong chooses to pass on going for the three. Instead, she heads for the ropes behind her. Letting the cables provide the impetus, Ivy leaps into the air above the embattled blonde, legs extended across and above the chest and throat of Lockwood.
Unfortunately for the wild-eyed Southern boys in the crowd, Ivy gets to learn what Polly had minutes before. Landing on one’s sweet cheeks without reward makes your tailbone hurt a lot more and she finds this when Polly rolls out from under Armstrong’s legs. Her big leg drop coming up empty, the raging redhead is slowed as she tends to her bruised bumper.
Meanwhile, Polly clambers to her feet like a reenergized red-white-and-blue bunny. With Ivy seated in front of her, Polly makes short work of that situation by racing to her foe and driving a soccer kick into the chest of the Charmer. With Ivy flattened to the canvas, Lockwood moves to a standing forward straddle of her challenger’s waist. She leaps above Ivy and mushroom STOMPS a ripe pair of Southern jublees flat to Ivy’s breastbone, Armstrong groaning from the Punch payback. Polly grinds the soles of her shoes into the tender tissue before stepping off her ‘welcome to victory’ mat.
With order restored, and the South repulsed, Polly fires up the crowd with a crisp salute that, as usual, morphs into Lockwood’s right bicep meeting her left palm. As Ivy stirs behind her, rolling to her chest, Polly heads to the rafters to mete out an aerial assault on the ground-bound Confederate. Reaching the top buckle, Lockwood turns to see she’s too late to deliver the Lockwood Leap, but as a wobbling, vertical Ivy spins in her direction, there’s other fireworks for the patriot to launch.
Vaulting from her perch, Polly snatches Ivy’s noggin as she flies over the redhead’s shoulder in a flip. The little blonde hardbody RIPS Armstrong off her feet and sends the Slamma’s head and shoulders THUMPING into the canvas in brutal fashion. Polly quickly scramblers for the cover and gets...
ONE...
and TWO...
... but there’s no further count coming as Ivy kicks her way out of the predicament.
A frustrated Polly turns to the official and posits the man had been born in Ethiopia, thus explaining his chances for being the next President AND his penchant for being anti-American. The man insists the pin was held for only two seconds and Lockwood rises, still stewing.
The flustered blonde nevertheless does not miss an opportunity when Ivy starts to rise. As the redhead reaches one knee, the Star Spangled Bytch surges toward her foe and NAILS a knee into Ivy’s braincase with ruthless efficiency, unleashing her signature Lights Out on the Bama Slamma.
LIGHTS OUT:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=6lUAc1KVAQc
As Ivy sprawls to the canvas, face and chest down, Polly eschews another attempt at the win in order to treat the few loyal Polly Patriots in the crowd. She heads to the opposite corner from where she’d recently launched and heads to the top once more. As she turns to face the squirming redhead, there’s little doubt what’s coming next when she raises both arms to the sky then follows in a launch high into the Orlando night.
Polly’s taut and tawny body tucks into a cannonball at its zenith, then spreads out froggie-style on its descent and the lightweight champion finds her mark SLAMMING down across Ivy’s vertebrae in a Lockwood Leap.
While the True American rolls away from the impact hugging her tummy; Ivy yelps in pain, writhing as she reaches for lower spine. After Lockwood gathers an extra breath or two, she moves to Ivy and shovels the redhead to her back, sprawling across it in a crossbody press. She hooks the near leg for added insurance and the...
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOO!.
Again, Ivy denies the champion an extension of her reign and Polly is not amused. She grabs Ivy’s fire engine locks and tears Armstrong to her feet, Ivy’s infamous gams looking rubbery to say the least. Still, they have the wherewithal to provide propulsion when Polly grabs a wrist and shoots her foe to the far corner with an Irish Whip.
When Armstrong turns into the impact, her backbone again bruised, Armstrong’s ivory lower limbs seem to shut off and she plops to her backside, legs extended, eyes shut in a grimace. Polly takes the opportunity to rush the fallen Confederate, like Sherman, ready to leave the South demolished. The tawny, tempestuous blonde sprints to her target and leaps, abbreviated legs extended, to bust her cherry-maned bronco. Alas, Ivy has other ideas, pulling her body out of the line of fire. With no crashpad, Polly’s stems slips between the ropes and her kitty CRUNCHES into the post behind.
Lockwood’s jaw drops wide but no sound emerges. Instead, her hands fly to her aching crotch. With no grip on the ropes, Polly’s back and shoulders drop to the canvas. As Ivy sucks in oxygen, she pushes to her feet at the champ’s side, the veteran well aware she can’t just drop across the debilitated patriot.
Instead, one of the dirtiest players in the game slides to the outside, dropping to the floor and moving to the opposite side of the post. Grabbing Polly’s ankles, she gives the blonde a shake just to make sure the Star Spangled Bytch knows what she has coming.
The look on Polly’s face is precious for any FAWNatic who gets the pleasure of seeing panicky dread fill the once-upon Young American. Polly extends an overhand, open palm, ‘washing windows’. She pleads with Ivy, extolling the virtues of the Crimson Tide, but to a grinning Ivy, it’s no matter. She tugs both lower limbs toward her and SMASHES Polly’s hotbox into the cold steel, Lockwood erupting in an eardrum-shattering howl as her center SLAMS into the metal.
With Ivy noticing the dumbfounded zebra is slow to count, Ivy starts to maneuver Lockwood’s legs with her own, planning on adding a figure-four around the post to the True American’s mounting troubles.
At last the ref starts his count, but for Lockwood, the two seconds or so between each called-out number feels like minutes, thanks to the limb-rending agony. And Armstrong makes the most of every last instant, not deigning to release her crippling hold until the zebra purses his lips to say “Five”. Freed, Polly pulls her savaged stem up, clutching it with her hands as she rocks back and forth, while her redheaded rival rolls back into the ring.
Back to her feet, Ivy grasps the ankle of her mewling adversary and drags her to center ring, then brings forth another pained howl from the blonde with a kneedrop to the inside of the Champ’s already aching knee. Seated on the mat, a smiling Ivy grabs the blonde’s battered gam and begins to twist it, intent on inflicting more pain.
And while pain has indeed been visited upon the shapely gam, the haughty hardbody doesn’t have a reputation for tremendous stamina for nothing. Blocking out the agony as best she can, Polly suddenly sits up, reaches out, and fishhooks her fingers into the sides of the startled ‘Bama Slamma’s mouth. Now suddenly subjected to a Reverse Double Mandible Claw, Armstrong forgets about her opponent’s limb and begins to thrash wildly, frantic to pull free and escape the pain which now radiates from her jaw.
Had Lockwood been able to snake her legs around her adversary’s waist and cross her ankles, she would have had the challenger securely trapped. Unfortunately for the Real American, her leg wasn’t quite ready to respond to such instructions just yet, and that allowed Armstrong to twist herself enough to break free. Swiftly getting to all fours, she scampers to safety across the ring, leaving Polly with the view of the Southern gal’s rapidly receding hind quarters. Rolling herself over to the ropes, Lockwood uses the strands to help pull herself upright. She gingerly tests her leg’s ability to function, and is satisfied that it’s recovering steadily…limp notwithstanding. Looking to walk off the pain, Polly leaves the safety of the cables and starts to circle with the also-upright Ivy.
Already fuming mad with herself for having let the advantage be taken from her, the redhead’s thermometer is driven up to August in Alabama levels by Lockwood’s taunts. “You know,” she says, scarcely concealing the smug smirk on her face. “It’s important as a champion to set goals. One of mine is to put you Hellion trailer trash in your proper place. I wasn’t sure whether to start with you or that truck stop whore, Cyn…since I wanted to start with the most useless partner, and then work my way up. But then I remembered that you had your scrawny ass handed to you by…wait for it…MEGGERZ F*CKIN’ FLETCHER! So you win the prize as the most pathetic bltch in FAWN. Too bad that’s the only thing you’re gonna win!”
Infuriated, Ivy lunges at her rival, telegraphing her attack on the blonde’s still-tender stem. Lockwood’s smirk grows a bit wider as she realizes she’s successfully driven her opponent off of her gameplan. Fully prepared for Armstrong’s clumsy assault, Polly deftly catches the redhead, and in the blink of an eye, brings her down painfully to the canvas with a Bull Run Neckbreaker.
(BULL RUN NECKBREAKER @0:47:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=UesufvLjUpE
Dazed, the softly mewling Ivy offers only token resistance as her adversary hauls her up by the hair, leaving the redhead swaying a big unsteadily on her bare feet. “I guess they don’t have a fashion consultant down at WalMart, do they?” the blonde asks with the kind of deceptive innocence that could convince anyone she was still the stalwart good girl of yore. “If they did, they’d tell you…don’t wear a bull’s eye to a fight!” With that, the Champ drives a Finger Knife Thrust straight into where the red stripes intersect across Armstrong’s abdomen, causing the Southern to give an anguished yelp and stumble backward, until her back presses against the ropes. Throwing the stunned girl’s arms over the top strand, Polly is unhindered in pressing her attack. First she delivers another thrust, this one slicing deeper into her victim’s roiling tummy. Then a few judo chops to the chest turn Ivy’s fair skin red. Then, with a wicked glint in her eye, the Champ hisses, “I owe you this”…and she delivers a THUMPING heart punch.
With a loud, long moan, Ivy staggers forward a few uncertain steps, then drops heavily to her knees. She remains frozen in that position for several long moments, and then with a heavy sob, she flops face-first to the mat.
Moving with all of the speed she can muster, Polly hurls herself down to the canvas, rolls her opponent over, hooks a leg, and waits for the inevitable triumph in…
ONE…
TWO…
THENOOOOOOO!
Shoulder up!
“That’s the South,” the blonde mutters. “Always too stupid to know when it’s beat.”
“Am I right, people?” Lockwood shouts, “Isn’t the South a joke?” The people of Orlando seem to think not by their voice and volume. “You could secede tomorrow and True Americans would say good riddance.” The FAWNatics remain unamused.
Polly pushes to her feet and walks toward Ivy’s corner. She snatches the Alabama flag off the ringpost and walks back toward Armstrong dabbing her forehead, the cleft of her bosom, and then long swipes of her underarms.
As the champ approaches Ivy from behind, Armstrong kneeling on her haunches, the referee holds up both hands. “Don’t even think about it,”
“Is this not a flag match?” Polly retorts, twisting the cloth into a tighter and tighter garrote.
“That doesn’t mean…” The official can’t finish the sentence before Polly slips her newly formed weapon over Ivy’s head and, with a knee pressed tight between the redhead’s shoulderblades, begins strangling the Bama Slamma.
Ivy’s eyes bug wide, her face turning rosy, unable to draw a lung-filling breath. Immediately the man in stripes starts his count. The Star Spangled Bytch continues to cut off Armstrong’s air supply for four long seconds before letting loose of the state banner, letting it flop to the canvas in front of Ivy.
Polly backs away, hands held high. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood the rules. Even patriots can make mistakes.”
The man shakes his head, but leaves the title match active, refusing to end Armstrong’s chances at claiming the lightweight gold.
The flaxen-haired, little hardbody turns away from the match arbiter and races at a kneeling, gasping Armstrong from behind. Collecting Ivy’s head as she races by to the left, Polly sits out and DRIVES the Southern Charmer’s skull into the canvas with a modified bulldog that still has plenty of impetus behind it.
Ivy’s noggin snaps back after the collision and she bonelessly flops to her back next to the seated Polly. The blonde scoots on her behind over to her fallen foe and drapes a leg across Ivy’s chest. With the Alabama flag within her reach, she grasps it and raises it in a bundle high overhead, pumping it into the air for the...
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOO!
Though the loose cover may help in the escape, Armstrong shows the fortitude that keeps her a permanent fixture at the top end of the roster. For Polly, Armstrong’s effort is an insult toward her and the U.S.A. She rolls to her knees and tries to stuff the entire flag of Alabama down the redhead’s throat with much fervor but less success.
Apparently realizing it will not fit, Polly leaves the gagged Ivy on the deck, rising to her feet next to the writhing redhead who pulls the banner free and tosses it to her side.
“Y’all are stubborn as a mule,” Polly drawls sarcastically.
The champ grabs a wrist and tugs a wobbly Ivy to her feet then leads her to the nearest corner where she climbs to the top with the ivory-skinned Ivy still in place below. Turning, Polly leaps with legs extended, landing on Ivy’s shoulders for the quick transition to a hurricarana.
Unfortunately for the few Polly Patriots in the crowd, that transition never fully materializes. For when Lockwood swings back to send Ivy flipping to the canvas, the diminutive blonde is unable to rip the tenacious second-generation star off her feet. Instead, Polly drapes down the front of Armstrong’s frame despite her best effort.
With a rebel yell, Ivy tugs a frantic Polly back up to a ball atop her shoulders. She surges forward a few steps for some added momentum and POWERBOMBS Polly nearly through the canvas, sitting out and driving Lockwood into the mat with a thunderous collision.
The champ’s tanned arms spread out in a wide and less-than-victorious ‘V’ above her head, her taut, abbreviated legs still in Ivy’s possession, boot soles pointed to the rafters. Armstrong presses the back of Polly’s knees forward, folding the jingoistic brat in a matchbook for...
ONE…
TWO…
THRENOO!
Polly twists and flops to her side, showing ‘True Americans’ can be just as stubborn as Southern Girls.
With the pin attempt unsuccessful, Ivy reflexively flops to her back, for long seconds remaining spreadeagled and staring into the lights above while a stunned Lockwood mewls next to her. With chants of ‘IV-EEE’ growing louder and more steady, Armstrong pushes her way up to her feet. She bends over, hands on knees, to gather more precious oxygen for a few seconds while Polly’s senses shake back into place.
Straightening as Lockwood slowly rises, the veteran waits patiently until the Star Spangled Bytch turns in her direction. The Hellion shows what a riled Bamma girl can do when she punts Polly between her thighs. Lockwood is doubled with a mousy squeak, eyes bulging, lips in a pink ‘O’. The still rattled Armstrong takes a few seconds to angle up beside the champ, moving her right knee to the left temple of the blonde. Grabbing Polly’s opposite arm, Ivy sits out and barrel rolls Lockwood to a wicked collision with her knee with courtesy her ‘Mama Knows Best’ Golden Rule.
GOLDEN RULE:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=pJmrOSHMhwI
The rocked Polly ends seated, momentarily, a blank look on her face before gravity sends her slopping to a shoulder, semi-conscious. A few feet away, Ivy remains on her back for an extra tick or two then struggles to the demolished blonde, spreading the champ out flat on the mat and settling into a crossbody pin, hooking the far leg for...
ONE…
TWO…
The battered blonde manages to throw her left arm straight up, lifting her shoulder from the mat just as the referee’s hand is coming down for three. With a heavy sigh of frustration, Armstrong pushes herself up off of her opponent and then rolls Polly over onto her belly. Pulling Lockwood’s left arm between her thighs, the redhead’s arms wrap around her head, applying a Crossface Crippler. The Champ’s body instantly spasms in agony, and the audience collectively holds its breath, wondering if a submission is mere moments away.
However, right arm flailing, Polly’s fingers manage to hook the nearby bottom rope, and Ivy’s effort is stymied. Climbing to her feet with effort, the nearly exhausted ‘Bama Slamma watches, bent over and hands on her knees as she pants for breath, as her opponent begins to force herself up to her hands and knees. Armstrong then dashes across the ring, bounds off of the cables, and comes rushing back toward the blonde, where her inner thigh smashes into her victim’s face with a Shining Wizard, sending Lockwood sprawling onto her back.
Throwing herself again across the prone figure of her opponent, Armstrong hooks a leg as the referee counts…
ONE…
TWO…
KICKOUT!
Crawling off of Lockwood, Ivy places herself in a seated position and pulls the blonde’s head up between her thighs. A roar goes up from the crowd as the ‘Bama Slamma’s celebrated finisher, the Southern Charm, is applied. However, Polly begins thrashing the instant the redhead’s thighs tighten, and manages to pull her wrists free of Ivy’s grasp. With her hands available for use, the Champ blindly reaches for her tormentor’s belly, sinking her talon-like fingers in for an abdominal claw. Armstrong grunts, moans and mewls as Polly desperately kneads her tummy, ultimately forcing the Southern gal’s legs to snap open, releasing the Charm.
Sucking in huge gulps of air, Lockwood rolls over onto her back, her chest heaving. Groaning, Armstrong gets to all fours and crawls over to the blonde, kneeling just above her head so that she can press her palms down on her adversary’s shoulders for the pin.
ONE…
TWO…
But Polly snaps her right leg up, her knee slamming into Ivy’s forehead, sending her tumbling backward to the mat. Both beauties now lay on the mat, their bodies trembling from exhaustion as each struggles to make herself rise up once again. The zebra begins his languid count toward twenty, as fans wonder which wrestler can recover first.
Like clockwork, redhead and blonde move simultaneously, one desperate to keep her gold, the other desperate to take it. The diminutive tanned hardbody reaches her feet just as the ivory-skinned Southern Charmer does likewise. They turn to each other and Ivy’s right leg shoots to Polly’s midriff, gutting the blonde, doubling Lockwood.
Ivy spins away from the stooped champion, reaching over her shoulder for a ¾ facelock. Grasping the champ, she sits out and NAILS Polly with the SoCo Stunner, Lockwood sent flying into the air from the impact of chin to shoulder. The FAWNatics explode in anticipation for their new lightweight title holder.
SoCo STUNNER:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ysvpoIjCs9I
Ivy crawls to the splayed Polly, throwing her body on Lockwood’s in a lateral press for the...
ONE…
TWO…
...and…
...and…
Ivy waits for the final slap as Lockwood fails to remove a shoulder from the mat. She turns toward the official, confused and pissed, but the auburn-haired grappler quickly sees the resourceful Polly was able to drape a limp leg over the nearby bottom rope.
“Well done, sugah,” Armstrong assures. “But ah do believe you are gonna wish you hadn’t done that when you’re Prayin’ for Mercy.”
Ivy rises and waits a few seconds for Polly to do the same, but when the blonde remains flat on her back, save for the leg on the cable, she takes matters into her own hands, reaching down to scrape the Star Spangled Bytch off the mat.
But when she does, Polly likewise reaches for Ivy, wrapping an arm around the back of the Bama Slamma’s head. Lockwood pulls Ivy off her feet, rolling the redhead into a tight ball, clutching a white-knuckled handful of the second generation superstar’s panties.
Ivy wriggles in the cradle, her flawless legs shaking, ivory body quaking for...
ONE…
TWO…
... and yes…
THREE!!!
Armstrong breaks free of the wedgie-assisted pinfall a half-second late, scrambling to her feet and looking at the ref in disbelief.
“Sh…sh…she didn’t just…” Ivy stammers, but the man nods and the PA quickly confirms with a gutwrenching “YOUR WINNER…BY PINFALL…AND STILL LIGHTWEIGHT CHAMPION…POLLY LOCKWOOD.”
A reclining, breathless Polly wipes her brow and looks up at Armstrong, smirking.
“Ah sure did, dumplin’.”
Incensed, the redhead gets up in the referee’s face and growls, “She didn’t pin me…she pulled my tights!” To demonstrate, Armstrong turns 180 degrees and grabs a handful of her own panties, pulling them up to demonstrate Lockwood’s nefarious maneuver. Eyes riveted down upon the lithe beauty’s gluteus maximus, and the relatively scant amount of fabric covering it, the zebra sheepishly mumbles, “Tights? Not a whole lot there for her to grab.” Furious, the ‘Bama Slamma whirls back around and, on tippy-toes, is now nose-to-nose with the official. “SHE DIDN’T BEAT ME! AH WANT THE MATCH STARTED AGAIN!” she roars.
Meanwhile, Polly struggles back up to her feet and, not waiting for the ref to do his duty, limps over to the ropes and demands that the announcer hand here her belt. Holding the ten pounds of leather and gold tight in her grasp, she struts over toward Armstrong. “Take a good look, hillbilly…this is what a champion looks like! And you can forget about ever getting a rematch…I won’t insult this belt by putting it up against a loser who lets herself get pinned by a roll-up!” the blonde adds with a mischievous smirk.
Ivy takes a step toward Lockwood, but the referee instantly gets between them and halts the redhead’s advancement. “This match is over, Armstrong…now go back to the locker room, or I’ll have you suspended,” he warns. The Southern gal can only stand there, fuming with rage, as the zebra then takes Polly’s right wrist and raises her arm, which triggers a cascade of jeers from the crowd. Against her own fighting instincts, Ivy then turns and moves toward the ropes in order to exit the ring.
But a sudden rise in the decibels from the crowd warns the redhead, and she ducks…just as the FAWN Lightweight Championship Belt is swung bare inches above her head. Having missed her target, Polly is thrown off-balance by her own momentum, and that gives Armstrong, who has spun around, all the opening she needs to grab the blonde’s left wrist and punt a kick up into her tummy, doubling her over. Lifting her leg and hooking it over Lockwood’s left shoulder while still holding tight to her wrist, the redhead executes a Desecrator DDT. The crown of the Champ’s skull spikes into the mat, and her limp body somersaults over to a seated position. Pie-faced and glassy-eyed, the Real American sits stock still for several heartbeats…and then she flops backward to the mat.
Throwing herself across her fallen foe’s chest, Ivy slaps the mat...
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
It’s strictly a symbolic victory, but the audience erupts as if they indeed have witnessed a title change. Climbing to her feet, Armstrong picks up the belt from the canvas, but the referee instantly grabs it, and there ensues a brief tug of war, until the zebra is able to pull it from her grasp. Pointing to the slumbering blonde, the ref intones, “This is still hers, Ivy!”
Hands on her hips, the ‘Bama Slamma pouts for dramatic effect…but then a wicked twinkle comes to her eyes. Sauntering over to the ropes, she sweetly asks the announcer to hand her the Alabama state flag. In possession of it, the redhead returns to her prone adversary and, almost tenderly drapes the flag over her body, including her head. She then gives a mock salute to Lockwood and steps out of the ring.
Grabbing Polly’s own American flag from the table, Ivy holds it proudly aloft as she strides back up the aisle, leaving Lockwood to her dubious victory.
She has spilled that blood more than once in the pursuit of her destiny. Tonight, with precious gold on the line, she will risk it all, if need be.
Then, she hears the amplified voice of the announcer proclaiming, “And now, introducing first, the challenger in this title match...from Uriah, Alabama...IIIIVVVVVVYYYYYY AARRRRRRMSTRONNNNNNG!”
Ivy Armstrong...
“WILD EYED SOUTHERN BOYS":
www.youtube.com/watch?v=HmsxULFf5oc
“Wild Eyed Southern Boys” by .38 Special comes crashing through the PA. Stepping through the curtain, the redhead struts down the aisleway, her hips sashaying with silent temptation. To the surprise of all, she isn’t wearing her usual togs (bustier and panties), nor even her previous signature ensemble of denim shorts and cropped top (much to the regret of virtually all). Rather, she is instead garbed in a rather conventional white one-piece, with a crimson-colored ‘X’ emblazoned across the front and intersecting over her midriff. Her arms outstretched up and to her sides, each hand grips the corner of an American flag, proudly holding it aloft as it flutters behind her. Most in attendance are confused by both the significance of the suit, but word quickly ripples through the crowd that the Yellowhammer State’s favorite daughter is proudly wearing the colors of the Alabama state flag. As the the stars ‘n stripes in her hands, something about it seems a bit…off. It takes a while for onlookers to realize it seems to have a lot fewer than the fifty stars it usually has.
upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/5/5c/Flag_of_Alabama.svg/2000px-Flag_of_Alabama.svg.png
As for the flag, as unusual as the design may be, it’s clear to one and all what the significance of it is: Ivy isn’t just squaring off against her opponent for her belt…she’s also challenging Lockwood’s assertion to being FAWN’s one and only “True American”.
img4.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20110802100100/althistory/images/f/f1/US_flag_with_22_stars_by_Hellerick.svg
Climbing up the ringsteps, the redhead pauses on the apron, giving the referee a little nod of her head and an arch of her eyebrow. Silent command understood, the zebra sits on the middle rope and lifts the top cable enough for the ‘Bama Slamma to easily step into the ring, taking care to make certain the flag doesn’t brush the canvas below. Draping the flag across her shoulders, she holds out an open palm for the announcers microphone, and he complies without hesitation.
Bringing the mic to her lips, Ivy’s honeyed drawl fills the arena. “Ah’m facin’ Miss Polly Lockwood tonight for the Lightweight strap. But there’s something else jes as important on the line as well. Y’see, little Pollywog used to stand for somethin’…somethin’ noble, somethin’ we could all take pride in…even if she was an irritatin’ little priss about it.” Laughter bubbles up from the crowd, as the redhead continues: “But then she went and decided to have an attitude adjustment. Now, Ah don’t begrudge her that one little bit. If anything, she’s finally interestin’.” More laughter, and Armstrong gives a half-grin.
Then her visage turns serious as she says, “Now, you can be a vicious, no-good, back-stabbin’ heel, or you can represent the American flag…but y’all can’t do both in FAWN!” With this, a louder cheer erupts from the spectators. “Lockwood doesn’t make me proud about America. So tonight, in addition to alleviatin’ her of ten pounds of leather and gold, Ah’m gonna teach her to respect the stars ‘n stripes!”
Tugging the flag from her shoulders, she hands it to the ref and indicates he should hold it up for all to see. “Now, because Ah’m a good ol’ Alabama girl, Ah’m wearin’ my state’s colors tonight. And as y’all may have noticed, this flag is a mite different. Fact is, it only has 22 stars, to signify Alabama’s entry as the twenty-second state, way back in 1819.” A pause, and a return of the grin. “Who says watchin’ rasslin’ isn’t educational?”
And now the grin turns into a sinister smirk. “And when Ah’m done beatin’ the Yankee Doodle out of that tramp, they’ll be carryin’ her out of the ring on a stretcher, and this flag’ll be draped over her. Y’all can hum taps as they cart her off, while meantime that belt is going to be wrapped around my li’l ol’ waist.” Having concluded her opening remarks, Armstrong tosses the mic back to the announcer and saunters over to her corner to await her opponent, while the referee carefully folds the flag and has it placed on the announcers’ table.
As if on cue, the arena’s speakers spark to life with the pounding of Metallica’s “Don’t Tread on Me”.
“DON’T TREAD ON ME”:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=FPl2sTo_8-o
A few scattered ‘Polly Patriots’ shoot to their feet, saluting crisply. The other 98 percent of the FAWNatics make themselves known in quite a different way.
Polly Lockwood...
The haters only get louder when a familiar little blonde hardbody strides confidently to center stage, bringing a salute to her brow. When the hand, fashioned into a knife-edge, moves away from her forehead, Lockwood adds her own little twist, a middle finger remaining straight and lifted while the others recede.
Her lightweight title belt back in place after taking it from the most fake American on the continent, Nyssa Bloodwind, Lockwood rubs the gold then unstraps the belt, holding the gilded accessory high.
Polly’s sports her customary hot pants and bikini top. Polly alternates her country’s colors between a shiny, eye catching blue topside, white stars prominently placed in just the right spots, and shimmering red and white stripes below; with white pads and boots capping off the ensemble.
Like her opponent, the ‘True American’ brings her banner to battle Old Glory draped over her shoulders as a cloak. She shakes the Star-n-Stripes to her right while her belt goes over the left.
Lockwood crow hops into a jog to the ring, snarling at the moronic hordes who infested this great land, most notably Orlando tonight. Polly ignores their insults and jeers.
Reaching the ring, the patriot ascends the steel steps. Sliding through the ropes, Lockwood holds both banner and belt high before moving to the cables and exchanging her title for a microphone. She walks to the center of the ring, pulling it to her lips.
“It’s good that you explain what the hell that flag is, hick. But a better trick is explain why you’re receiving a shot at my title. Isn’t it about time you started working the night shift at Waffle House? Put your hairnet on and your checkered shirt with the Ivy tag?”
Lockwood seems delighted with her repartee though the crowd and Armstrong seem less amused.
“There’s only one flag that matters. And that’s the Star Spangled Banner, Reb. As far as I’m concerned, you and your ilk, including these Confederate toads in the stands ought to be allowed to secede. You’re not worthy of being citizens of my great country. But while you are, you’re going to be taught to shut your mouth and learn your place. And Red, your place is under my boot. Polly out!”
Lockwood tosses the stick to the canvas with a ‘CLUNK’, The ref snatches it off the canvas and hands it to a FAWN flunky on the sidelines. The blonde moves to place Old Glory in her corner and while she does the PA blares to life.
“Tonight’s next match is for FAWN’s Lightweight championship. Scheduled for one fall with a time limit of 30 minutes. Tonight’s challenger…hailing from Ukiah, Alabama; standing 5 feet 8 inches tall and weighing in at 121 pounds; she is the Bama Slamma…Ivy Armstrong!”
The crowd erupts, quickly transitioning to a loud ‘I-VEE’ chant.
“And her opponent.” The crowd doesn’t wait to unleash a torrent of boos. “From Buffalo, New York; standing 5 foot 1 inch tall and weighing in tonight at 118 scintillating pounds of All-American Awesome; ladies and gentlemen, she is the one and only TRUE American...the Lightweight Champion… POLLY LOCKWOOD!”
The titleholder bounces in place throwing her arms high and wide.
“Come on, Red,” she shouts at Ivy. “We don’t need a bell. I’m ready to stuff some grits down your throat right now…y’all.”
Not needing any further invitation, Armstrong charges at Lockwood and the two lock up in center ring, straining mightily against one another. Ivy’s height advantage lets her drive the blonde back a few steps, but Polly’s lower center of gravity, coupled with really digging her boots into the canvas, halts the retreat.
With a sudden blur of motion and a smile, Polly grasps her opponent’s right wrist and twists her arm up behind her. The redhead scowls and slaps her shoulder a few times, and before Lockwood can really secure it, Ivy manages to pirouette and reverse it. After grimacing in obvious discomfort for a few moments, Polly tales solace in the fact that her opponent had backed her up from center ring, because now the titleholder is close enough to the ropes to grasp the top strand with her free mitt.
Making a clean break, the ‘Bama Slamma steps back to encourage Lockwood to vacate the safety of the ropes. Polly, of course, takes a few long moments to enjoy the break in the action so as to plot her next move. When she finally does move away from the cables, she cautiously circles with her adversary, as both women probe for an opening to strike.
It’s the New Yorker who moves first, lunging for another lockup. The redhead moves appropriately, only to discover too late that this is a feint. An instant later, Ivy gaps heavily as Lockwood drives her knee up into her challenger’s belly. Cheeks puffing as she huffs in air, Armstrong stumbles back a few steps, her hands grasping her quivering tummy.
Uncorking the top shelf stuff early in the bout, Lockwood unloads a hurricanrana on the redhead, leaving Ivy splayed across the canvas, green eyes lacquered with gloss as she blinks up at the ceiling. But she doesn’t get to recline for long, as the blonde rips her up off of the deck, hauls her to unsteady stems, and clamps on an abdominal stretch.
Some might say Miss Armstrong makes the downright cutest mewls of distress, conveyed as they are with the honeyed Southern drawl of hers; at this particular moment, Polly most definitely considers them music to her ears, as she torques up the pressure, and adds to her opponent’s discomfort by kneading her abs with a clawhold. Ivy desperately reaches for the ropes with her free hand, but they’re much too far out of reach.
“Just like always,” Lockwood tauntingly says to her suffering foe. “The South gets uppity, and the North has to come in and put you in your place. The only problem this time is, after I’ve broken you, they’ll never reconstruct the pieces, sweet cheeks.”
However, before she can truly savor her little pun, Polly suddenly gives a yelp of surprise as she finds herself flipped ass over teakettle, courtesy of the growling Armstrong’s abrupt hiptoss. The Champ finds herself landing with a heavy thud on her ass, but the redhead cannot take immediate advantage of this turn of events; such an escape method is costly, and she stumbles back, overcomes by sudden exhaustion atop her pain, and lands on her own posterior. The two battlers sit there on the mat for long moments, each composing herself as swiftly as she can, and hoping the other isn’t quite so quick on the draw.
The women battle to their feet, turn and surge toward each other. But while Polly’s arms reach forward, Ivy uses her most lethal weapons and swings a roundhouse kick that clips Polly in the temple. Lockwood staggers in the opposite direction of the impact. Off balance, she flops into the ropes and rebounds toward the waiting Armstrong.
The Bama Slamma accepts the lightweight champion like the perfect Xmas gift. Stopping Lockwood with a digging knee to the gut, Ivy then grabs Polly’s right wrist and bends her arm back over and behind her head. Lifting her right fist to her lips, Ivy gives her fist a smooch, pulls it back, and delivers a defibrillating heart punch to the little blonde hardbody.
Polly’s green eyes cross, her taut frame going rigid when Ivy’s balled digits THUMP into the cleft of her bosom. A little shove from the second generation superstar is all it takes to send Lockwood timbering over, landing flat on her back. Immediately, the crowd senses an Ivy title reign in the air and Armstrong dives on top of the splayed blonde. She ends in a full body pin of the True American, Polly’s smaller stature quite noticeable when Armstrong presses her body to the champ’s, Ivy with several inches of leg left over when chest is settled on chest.
The official drops next to the Southern Charmer’s pin and raps the canvas for the...
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOO!
Lockwood spasms back to life, saving herself by shoving a shoulder off the mat.
As Lockwood pushes her way toward verticality, Armstrong makes sure she beats the blonde there and wraps her up in a side headlock. The redhead grinds Polly’s noggin against her hip adjusting to the size of the vertically-challenged champion. Armstrong sends Polly over with a hiptoss, the pernicious patriot landing hard on her backside. While the wincing Lockwood moves her hands to her derriere, quickly kneading at her aching glutes, Ivy is on the move. She barrels away from a rebound off the ropes in front of Polly and NAILS the Star Spangled Bytch with a kneestrike between the eyes completing her Mush Mouth.
Polly’s head whips away from the impact and her body follows, leaving her in a starfish at Ivy’s feet. This time, however, Armstrong chooses to pass on going for the three. Instead, she heads for the ropes behind her. Letting the cables provide the impetus, Ivy leaps into the air above the embattled blonde, legs extended across and above the chest and throat of Lockwood.
Unfortunately for the wild-eyed Southern boys in the crowd, Ivy gets to learn what Polly had minutes before. Landing on one’s sweet cheeks without reward makes your tailbone hurt a lot more and she finds this when Polly rolls out from under Armstrong’s legs. Her big leg drop coming up empty, the raging redhead is slowed as she tends to her bruised bumper.
Meanwhile, Polly clambers to her feet like a reenergized red-white-and-blue bunny. With Ivy seated in front of her, Polly makes short work of that situation by racing to her foe and driving a soccer kick into the chest of the Charmer. With Ivy flattened to the canvas, Lockwood moves to a standing forward straddle of her challenger’s waist. She leaps above Ivy and mushroom STOMPS a ripe pair of Southern jublees flat to Ivy’s breastbone, Armstrong groaning from the Punch payback. Polly grinds the soles of her shoes into the tender tissue before stepping off her ‘welcome to victory’ mat.
With order restored, and the South repulsed, Polly fires up the crowd with a crisp salute that, as usual, morphs into Lockwood’s right bicep meeting her left palm. As Ivy stirs behind her, rolling to her chest, Polly heads to the rafters to mete out an aerial assault on the ground-bound Confederate. Reaching the top buckle, Lockwood turns to see she’s too late to deliver the Lockwood Leap, but as a wobbling, vertical Ivy spins in her direction, there’s other fireworks for the patriot to launch.
Vaulting from her perch, Polly snatches Ivy’s noggin as she flies over the redhead’s shoulder in a flip. The little blonde hardbody RIPS Armstrong off her feet and sends the Slamma’s head and shoulders THUMPING into the canvas in brutal fashion. Polly quickly scramblers for the cover and gets...
ONE...
and TWO...
... but there’s no further count coming as Ivy kicks her way out of the predicament.
A frustrated Polly turns to the official and posits the man had been born in Ethiopia, thus explaining his chances for being the next President AND his penchant for being anti-American. The man insists the pin was held for only two seconds and Lockwood rises, still stewing.
The flustered blonde nevertheless does not miss an opportunity when Ivy starts to rise. As the redhead reaches one knee, the Star Spangled Bytch surges toward her foe and NAILS a knee into Ivy’s braincase with ruthless efficiency, unleashing her signature Lights Out on the Bama Slamma.
LIGHTS OUT:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=6lUAc1KVAQc
As Ivy sprawls to the canvas, face and chest down, Polly eschews another attempt at the win in order to treat the few loyal Polly Patriots in the crowd. She heads to the opposite corner from where she’d recently launched and heads to the top once more. As she turns to face the squirming redhead, there’s little doubt what’s coming next when she raises both arms to the sky then follows in a launch high into the Orlando night.
Polly’s taut and tawny body tucks into a cannonball at its zenith, then spreads out froggie-style on its descent and the lightweight champion finds her mark SLAMMING down across Ivy’s vertebrae in a Lockwood Leap.
While the True American rolls away from the impact hugging her tummy; Ivy yelps in pain, writhing as she reaches for lower spine. After Lockwood gathers an extra breath or two, she moves to Ivy and shovels the redhead to her back, sprawling across it in a crossbody press. She hooks the near leg for added insurance and the...
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOO!.
Again, Ivy denies the champion an extension of her reign and Polly is not amused. She grabs Ivy’s fire engine locks and tears Armstrong to her feet, Ivy’s infamous gams looking rubbery to say the least. Still, they have the wherewithal to provide propulsion when Polly grabs a wrist and shoots her foe to the far corner with an Irish Whip.
When Armstrong turns into the impact, her backbone again bruised, Armstrong’s ivory lower limbs seem to shut off and she plops to her backside, legs extended, eyes shut in a grimace. Polly takes the opportunity to rush the fallen Confederate, like Sherman, ready to leave the South demolished. The tawny, tempestuous blonde sprints to her target and leaps, abbreviated legs extended, to bust her cherry-maned bronco. Alas, Ivy has other ideas, pulling her body out of the line of fire. With no crashpad, Polly’s stems slips between the ropes and her kitty CRUNCHES into the post behind.
Lockwood’s jaw drops wide but no sound emerges. Instead, her hands fly to her aching crotch. With no grip on the ropes, Polly’s back and shoulders drop to the canvas. As Ivy sucks in oxygen, she pushes to her feet at the champ’s side, the veteran well aware she can’t just drop across the debilitated patriot.
Instead, one of the dirtiest players in the game slides to the outside, dropping to the floor and moving to the opposite side of the post. Grabbing Polly’s ankles, she gives the blonde a shake just to make sure the Star Spangled Bytch knows what she has coming.
The look on Polly’s face is precious for any FAWNatic who gets the pleasure of seeing panicky dread fill the once-upon Young American. Polly extends an overhand, open palm, ‘washing windows’. She pleads with Ivy, extolling the virtues of the Crimson Tide, but to a grinning Ivy, it’s no matter. She tugs both lower limbs toward her and SMASHES Polly’s hotbox into the cold steel, Lockwood erupting in an eardrum-shattering howl as her center SLAMS into the metal.
With Ivy noticing the dumbfounded zebra is slow to count, Ivy starts to maneuver Lockwood’s legs with her own, planning on adding a figure-four around the post to the True American’s mounting troubles.
At last the ref starts his count, but for Lockwood, the two seconds or so between each called-out number feels like minutes, thanks to the limb-rending agony. And Armstrong makes the most of every last instant, not deigning to release her crippling hold until the zebra purses his lips to say “Five”. Freed, Polly pulls her savaged stem up, clutching it with her hands as she rocks back and forth, while her redheaded rival rolls back into the ring.
Back to her feet, Ivy grasps the ankle of her mewling adversary and drags her to center ring, then brings forth another pained howl from the blonde with a kneedrop to the inside of the Champ’s already aching knee. Seated on the mat, a smiling Ivy grabs the blonde’s battered gam and begins to twist it, intent on inflicting more pain.
And while pain has indeed been visited upon the shapely gam, the haughty hardbody doesn’t have a reputation for tremendous stamina for nothing. Blocking out the agony as best she can, Polly suddenly sits up, reaches out, and fishhooks her fingers into the sides of the startled ‘Bama Slamma’s mouth. Now suddenly subjected to a Reverse Double Mandible Claw, Armstrong forgets about her opponent’s limb and begins to thrash wildly, frantic to pull free and escape the pain which now radiates from her jaw.
Had Lockwood been able to snake her legs around her adversary’s waist and cross her ankles, she would have had the challenger securely trapped. Unfortunately for the Real American, her leg wasn’t quite ready to respond to such instructions just yet, and that allowed Armstrong to twist herself enough to break free. Swiftly getting to all fours, she scampers to safety across the ring, leaving Polly with the view of the Southern gal’s rapidly receding hind quarters. Rolling herself over to the ropes, Lockwood uses the strands to help pull herself upright. She gingerly tests her leg’s ability to function, and is satisfied that it’s recovering steadily…limp notwithstanding. Looking to walk off the pain, Polly leaves the safety of the cables and starts to circle with the also-upright Ivy.
Already fuming mad with herself for having let the advantage be taken from her, the redhead’s thermometer is driven up to August in Alabama levels by Lockwood’s taunts. “You know,” she says, scarcely concealing the smug smirk on her face. “It’s important as a champion to set goals. One of mine is to put you Hellion trailer trash in your proper place. I wasn’t sure whether to start with you or that truck stop whore, Cyn…since I wanted to start with the most useless partner, and then work my way up. But then I remembered that you had your scrawny ass handed to you by…wait for it…MEGGERZ F*CKIN’ FLETCHER! So you win the prize as the most pathetic bltch in FAWN. Too bad that’s the only thing you’re gonna win!”
Infuriated, Ivy lunges at her rival, telegraphing her attack on the blonde’s still-tender stem. Lockwood’s smirk grows a bit wider as she realizes she’s successfully driven her opponent off of her gameplan. Fully prepared for Armstrong’s clumsy assault, Polly deftly catches the redhead, and in the blink of an eye, brings her down painfully to the canvas with a Bull Run Neckbreaker.
(BULL RUN NECKBREAKER @0:47:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=UesufvLjUpE
Dazed, the softly mewling Ivy offers only token resistance as her adversary hauls her up by the hair, leaving the redhead swaying a big unsteadily on her bare feet. “I guess they don’t have a fashion consultant down at WalMart, do they?” the blonde asks with the kind of deceptive innocence that could convince anyone she was still the stalwart good girl of yore. “If they did, they’d tell you…don’t wear a bull’s eye to a fight!” With that, the Champ drives a Finger Knife Thrust straight into where the red stripes intersect across Armstrong’s abdomen, causing the Southern to give an anguished yelp and stumble backward, until her back presses against the ropes. Throwing the stunned girl’s arms over the top strand, Polly is unhindered in pressing her attack. First she delivers another thrust, this one slicing deeper into her victim’s roiling tummy. Then a few judo chops to the chest turn Ivy’s fair skin red. Then, with a wicked glint in her eye, the Champ hisses, “I owe you this”…and she delivers a THUMPING heart punch.
With a loud, long moan, Ivy staggers forward a few uncertain steps, then drops heavily to her knees. She remains frozen in that position for several long moments, and then with a heavy sob, she flops face-first to the mat.
Moving with all of the speed she can muster, Polly hurls herself down to the canvas, rolls her opponent over, hooks a leg, and waits for the inevitable triumph in…
ONE…
TWO…
THENOOOOOOO!
Shoulder up!
“That’s the South,” the blonde mutters. “Always too stupid to know when it’s beat.”
“Am I right, people?” Lockwood shouts, “Isn’t the South a joke?” The people of Orlando seem to think not by their voice and volume. “You could secede tomorrow and True Americans would say good riddance.” The FAWNatics remain unamused.
Polly pushes to her feet and walks toward Ivy’s corner. She snatches the Alabama flag off the ringpost and walks back toward Armstrong dabbing her forehead, the cleft of her bosom, and then long swipes of her underarms.
As the champ approaches Ivy from behind, Armstrong kneeling on her haunches, the referee holds up both hands. “Don’t even think about it,”
“Is this not a flag match?” Polly retorts, twisting the cloth into a tighter and tighter garrote.
“That doesn’t mean…” The official can’t finish the sentence before Polly slips her newly formed weapon over Ivy’s head and, with a knee pressed tight between the redhead’s shoulderblades, begins strangling the Bama Slamma.
Ivy’s eyes bug wide, her face turning rosy, unable to draw a lung-filling breath. Immediately the man in stripes starts his count. The Star Spangled Bytch continues to cut off Armstrong’s air supply for four long seconds before letting loose of the state banner, letting it flop to the canvas in front of Ivy.
Polly backs away, hands held high. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood the rules. Even patriots can make mistakes.”
The man shakes his head, but leaves the title match active, refusing to end Armstrong’s chances at claiming the lightweight gold.
The flaxen-haired, little hardbody turns away from the match arbiter and races at a kneeling, gasping Armstrong from behind. Collecting Ivy’s head as she races by to the left, Polly sits out and DRIVES the Southern Charmer’s skull into the canvas with a modified bulldog that still has plenty of impetus behind it.
Ivy’s noggin snaps back after the collision and she bonelessly flops to her back next to the seated Polly. The blonde scoots on her behind over to her fallen foe and drapes a leg across Ivy’s chest. With the Alabama flag within her reach, she grasps it and raises it in a bundle high overhead, pumping it into the air for the...
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOO!
Though the loose cover may help in the escape, Armstrong shows the fortitude that keeps her a permanent fixture at the top end of the roster. For Polly, Armstrong’s effort is an insult toward her and the U.S.A. She rolls to her knees and tries to stuff the entire flag of Alabama down the redhead’s throat with much fervor but less success.
Apparently realizing it will not fit, Polly leaves the gagged Ivy on the deck, rising to her feet next to the writhing redhead who pulls the banner free and tosses it to her side.
“Y’all are stubborn as a mule,” Polly drawls sarcastically.
The champ grabs a wrist and tugs a wobbly Ivy to her feet then leads her to the nearest corner where she climbs to the top with the ivory-skinned Ivy still in place below. Turning, Polly leaps with legs extended, landing on Ivy’s shoulders for the quick transition to a hurricarana.
Unfortunately for the few Polly Patriots in the crowd, that transition never fully materializes. For when Lockwood swings back to send Ivy flipping to the canvas, the diminutive blonde is unable to rip the tenacious second-generation star off her feet. Instead, Polly drapes down the front of Armstrong’s frame despite her best effort.
With a rebel yell, Ivy tugs a frantic Polly back up to a ball atop her shoulders. She surges forward a few steps for some added momentum and POWERBOMBS Polly nearly through the canvas, sitting out and driving Lockwood into the mat with a thunderous collision.
The champ’s tanned arms spread out in a wide and less-than-victorious ‘V’ above her head, her taut, abbreviated legs still in Ivy’s possession, boot soles pointed to the rafters. Armstrong presses the back of Polly’s knees forward, folding the jingoistic brat in a matchbook for...
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TWO…
THRENOO!
Polly twists and flops to her side, showing ‘True Americans’ can be just as stubborn as Southern Girls.
With the pin attempt unsuccessful, Ivy reflexively flops to her back, for long seconds remaining spreadeagled and staring into the lights above while a stunned Lockwood mewls next to her. With chants of ‘IV-EEE’ growing louder and more steady, Armstrong pushes her way up to her feet. She bends over, hands on knees, to gather more precious oxygen for a few seconds while Polly’s senses shake back into place.
Straightening as Lockwood slowly rises, the veteran waits patiently until the Star Spangled Bytch turns in her direction. The Hellion shows what a riled Bamma girl can do when she punts Polly between her thighs. Lockwood is doubled with a mousy squeak, eyes bulging, lips in a pink ‘O’. The still rattled Armstrong takes a few seconds to angle up beside the champ, moving her right knee to the left temple of the blonde. Grabbing Polly’s opposite arm, Ivy sits out and barrel rolls Lockwood to a wicked collision with her knee with courtesy her ‘Mama Knows Best’ Golden Rule.
GOLDEN RULE:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=pJmrOSHMhwI
The rocked Polly ends seated, momentarily, a blank look on her face before gravity sends her slopping to a shoulder, semi-conscious. A few feet away, Ivy remains on her back for an extra tick or two then struggles to the demolished blonde, spreading the champ out flat on the mat and settling into a crossbody pin, hooking the far leg for...
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TWO…
The battered blonde manages to throw her left arm straight up, lifting her shoulder from the mat just as the referee’s hand is coming down for three. With a heavy sigh of frustration, Armstrong pushes herself up off of her opponent and then rolls Polly over onto her belly. Pulling Lockwood’s left arm between her thighs, the redhead’s arms wrap around her head, applying a Crossface Crippler. The Champ’s body instantly spasms in agony, and the audience collectively holds its breath, wondering if a submission is mere moments away.
However, right arm flailing, Polly’s fingers manage to hook the nearby bottom rope, and Ivy’s effort is stymied. Climbing to her feet with effort, the nearly exhausted ‘Bama Slamma watches, bent over and hands on her knees as she pants for breath, as her opponent begins to force herself up to her hands and knees. Armstrong then dashes across the ring, bounds off of the cables, and comes rushing back toward the blonde, where her inner thigh smashes into her victim’s face with a Shining Wizard, sending Lockwood sprawling onto her back.
Throwing herself again across the prone figure of her opponent, Armstrong hooks a leg as the referee counts…
ONE…
TWO…
KICKOUT!
Crawling off of Lockwood, Ivy places herself in a seated position and pulls the blonde’s head up between her thighs. A roar goes up from the crowd as the ‘Bama Slamma’s celebrated finisher, the Southern Charm, is applied. However, Polly begins thrashing the instant the redhead’s thighs tighten, and manages to pull her wrists free of Ivy’s grasp. With her hands available for use, the Champ blindly reaches for her tormentor’s belly, sinking her talon-like fingers in for an abdominal claw. Armstrong grunts, moans and mewls as Polly desperately kneads her tummy, ultimately forcing the Southern gal’s legs to snap open, releasing the Charm.
Sucking in huge gulps of air, Lockwood rolls over onto her back, her chest heaving. Groaning, Armstrong gets to all fours and crawls over to the blonde, kneeling just above her head so that she can press her palms down on her adversary’s shoulders for the pin.
ONE…
TWO…
But Polly snaps her right leg up, her knee slamming into Ivy’s forehead, sending her tumbling backward to the mat. Both beauties now lay on the mat, their bodies trembling from exhaustion as each struggles to make herself rise up once again. The zebra begins his languid count toward twenty, as fans wonder which wrestler can recover first.
Like clockwork, redhead and blonde move simultaneously, one desperate to keep her gold, the other desperate to take it. The diminutive tanned hardbody reaches her feet just as the ivory-skinned Southern Charmer does likewise. They turn to each other and Ivy’s right leg shoots to Polly’s midriff, gutting the blonde, doubling Lockwood.
Ivy spins away from the stooped champion, reaching over her shoulder for a ¾ facelock. Grasping the champ, she sits out and NAILS Polly with the SoCo Stunner, Lockwood sent flying into the air from the impact of chin to shoulder. The FAWNatics explode in anticipation for their new lightweight title holder.
SoCo STUNNER:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ysvpoIjCs9I
Ivy crawls to the splayed Polly, throwing her body on Lockwood’s in a lateral press for the...
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TWO…
...and…
...and…
Ivy waits for the final slap as Lockwood fails to remove a shoulder from the mat. She turns toward the official, confused and pissed, but the auburn-haired grappler quickly sees the resourceful Polly was able to drape a limp leg over the nearby bottom rope.
“Well done, sugah,” Armstrong assures. “But ah do believe you are gonna wish you hadn’t done that when you’re Prayin’ for Mercy.”
Ivy rises and waits a few seconds for Polly to do the same, but when the blonde remains flat on her back, save for the leg on the cable, she takes matters into her own hands, reaching down to scrape the Star Spangled Bytch off the mat.
But when she does, Polly likewise reaches for Ivy, wrapping an arm around the back of the Bama Slamma’s head. Lockwood pulls Ivy off her feet, rolling the redhead into a tight ball, clutching a white-knuckled handful of the second generation superstar’s panties.
Ivy wriggles in the cradle, her flawless legs shaking, ivory body quaking for...
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TWO…
... and yes…
THREE!!!
Armstrong breaks free of the wedgie-assisted pinfall a half-second late, scrambling to her feet and looking at the ref in disbelief.
“Sh…sh…she didn’t just…” Ivy stammers, but the man nods and the PA quickly confirms with a gutwrenching “YOUR WINNER…BY PINFALL…AND STILL LIGHTWEIGHT CHAMPION…POLLY LOCKWOOD.”
A reclining, breathless Polly wipes her brow and looks up at Armstrong, smirking.
“Ah sure did, dumplin’.”
Incensed, the redhead gets up in the referee’s face and growls, “She didn’t pin me…she pulled my tights!” To demonstrate, Armstrong turns 180 degrees and grabs a handful of her own panties, pulling them up to demonstrate Lockwood’s nefarious maneuver. Eyes riveted down upon the lithe beauty’s gluteus maximus, and the relatively scant amount of fabric covering it, the zebra sheepishly mumbles, “Tights? Not a whole lot there for her to grab.” Furious, the ‘Bama Slamma whirls back around and, on tippy-toes, is now nose-to-nose with the official. “SHE DIDN’T BEAT ME! AH WANT THE MATCH STARTED AGAIN!” she roars.
Meanwhile, Polly struggles back up to her feet and, not waiting for the ref to do his duty, limps over to the ropes and demands that the announcer hand here her belt. Holding the ten pounds of leather and gold tight in her grasp, she struts over toward Armstrong. “Take a good look, hillbilly…this is what a champion looks like! And you can forget about ever getting a rematch…I won’t insult this belt by putting it up against a loser who lets herself get pinned by a roll-up!” the blonde adds with a mischievous smirk.
Ivy takes a step toward Lockwood, but the referee instantly gets between them and halts the redhead’s advancement. “This match is over, Armstrong…now go back to the locker room, or I’ll have you suspended,” he warns. The Southern gal can only stand there, fuming with rage, as the zebra then takes Polly’s right wrist and raises her arm, which triggers a cascade of jeers from the crowd. Against her own fighting instincts, Ivy then turns and moves toward the ropes in order to exit the ring.
But a sudden rise in the decibels from the crowd warns the redhead, and she ducks…just as the FAWN Lightweight Championship Belt is swung bare inches above her head. Having missed her target, Polly is thrown off-balance by her own momentum, and that gives Armstrong, who has spun around, all the opening she needs to grab the blonde’s left wrist and punt a kick up into her tummy, doubling her over. Lifting her leg and hooking it over Lockwood’s left shoulder while still holding tight to her wrist, the redhead executes a Desecrator DDT. The crown of the Champ’s skull spikes into the mat, and her limp body somersaults over to a seated position. Pie-faced and glassy-eyed, the Real American sits stock still for several heartbeats…and then she flops backward to the mat.
Throwing herself across her fallen foe’s chest, Ivy slaps the mat...
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THREE!
It’s strictly a symbolic victory, but the audience erupts as if they indeed have witnessed a title change. Climbing to her feet, Armstrong picks up the belt from the canvas, but the referee instantly grabs it, and there ensues a brief tug of war, until the zebra is able to pull it from her grasp. Pointing to the slumbering blonde, the ref intones, “This is still hers, Ivy!”
Hands on her hips, the ‘Bama Slamma pouts for dramatic effect…but then a wicked twinkle comes to her eyes. Sauntering over to the ropes, she sweetly asks the announcer to hand her the Alabama state flag. In possession of it, the redhead returns to her prone adversary and, almost tenderly drapes the flag over her body, including her head. She then gives a mock salute to Lockwood and steps out of the ring.
Grabbing Polly’s own American flag from the table, Ivy holds it proudly aloft as she strides back up the aisle, leaving Lockwood to her dubious victory.