Post by SammieSinclair on Feb 7, 2015 17:12:14 GMT
With Roxie McCrimmon challenging Emily West for the World championship in the main event of Thrills, Chills and Spills 2015, it was clear that the tag team titles would not be defended on this month’s Pay Per View--which meant that the Beantown Bombshell’s partner, Becky Clayton, would be free to engage in one on one combat. For this return foray to singles competition, her preference for an opponent didn’t take long to become apparent. And while the Insidious Intellectual had done a decent job of humbling her upcoming foe, there was clearly still more work to be done.
And who better for that job than a former stablemate?
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Ring Announcer began, “the following contest is scheduled for one fall, with a twenty minute time limit. Introducing first, hailing from Denver, CO… She stands five feet eight inches tall weighs in tonight at 135lbs. She is a former WOLF World champion, FAWN World champion and the REIGNING FAWN Tag Team champion. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Camouflage Crusher… the BFG… BEEECCCKKKYYY CLLLAAAYYYTTTOOONNN!!!!!"
Becky Clayton
The speakers rip into Shinedown's ‘Heroes’, sending the Howling Commandos to their feet in the blink of an eye. Almost as quickly, Becky Clayton strides into view, the imposing robobabe blasting through the curtains to greet her fans with a jaunty two-fisted pose. This results in a cacophonous cheer, not just for the woman in question, but for her togs, which were among the best on the roster. For those of you who’ve been living under a rock for the last year or so, prepare yourself. Becky is decked out in a camouflage two-piece with tie-sided bottoms and an impossible to ignore ladder / double helix of lycra that ran from the top of her waistband all the way up to the southern border of her cups. She finishes it off with matching forest green pads and boots and a few wraps of camouflage wrist tape.
“HEROES”:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qi8q_t3le60
Having rallied proper support from her troops, Clayton starts down to the squared circle. Though she is extremely eager to get tonight’s battle started, the Army of One Hot Chick still takes the time to slap hands on both sides of the aisle, as something told her she is going to need all the strength they could offer. Breaking into a jog once she has traversed the aisle, Clayton bounds up the steel steps and leaps over the top rope in one effortless burst of kinetic energy. Coming to a stop in the center of the ring, Becky wheels to the hard camera and snaps off a crisp salute before backing into one of the far corners.
With the cheers for the Army brat still resounding, the sound of The Clash starts to fill the arena and with it an absolute torrent of jeers that now rivals Lisa Dream or even Portia VanBuren.
The failed challenger to Emily West’s title pushes through and takes a spot center stage. She hops in place, ruby lips frowning. She gazes sternly at the multitudes who throw their disdain at her and their less than complimentary remarks at her failure against Emily, yet another in claiming FAWN’s top prize.
Though she had been unsuccessful in her new gear, it remains. Gone are the black lycra sports bra and boy-cut trunks, the Tigerhawk of her alma mater as well. Instead, she wears the garb from her recent Gladiatrix cover shoot, white lace bra top and similarly fashioned brief lower togs with white boots and pads. Apparently bad girls could wear white.
Kylie starts her trip down the ramp as The Clash continues…
“So alone I keep the wolves at bay…
And there’s only one thing I can say..ayy…ayy…
You didn’t stand by me…
No not at all…
You didn’t stand by me…
No way”
“TRAIN IN VEIN”:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=NYkQK8QsQ2w&index=3&list=LLU6MWpP-rt2kWv-tOm824HA
Energized by the hate, Ky hops down the aisle, ignoring the reaching hands and oft-thrown jeers and insults, the pathetic pleas for her to come back to her senses finally and thankfully gone. Reaching the ring and rising up the steps, Kylie turns and takes a view of the packed bowl, seemingly every seat occupied by the vapid fans that had jumped off the bandwagon. Kylie gives Becky the once over and walks down the length of the apron, accepting a microphone from a flunky. While she does, the PA officially announces her arrival as The Clash fades.
“And her opponent. Standing five feet four inches tall and weighing in at 115 pounds, from Pleasant Valley, Iowa…KYLIE SANDERS!”
Kylie Sanders
The crowd only doubles its enmity and volume. Sanders slips through the ropes and claims the center of the ring. She lifts the microphone to pink, pastel lips.
“I bet you all thought I would shrivel up and die after getting beat by the current champ.”
The crowd unloads with a series of ‘YES’ chants that ring for nearly half a minute.
“Well, you’re wrong again. I’m going to get back and claim that title. Believe it. It’s my destiny. It’s what I was born to do. And what better way than to destroy the biggest meathead…I mean most imposing physical specimen in the organization. And so that is what you will see tonight.”
A chant erupts from the crowd that turns Kylie’s face sour. “TROLL…TROLL…TROLL!”
“Shut the hell up before I go out there and slap each and every last one of you.”
The blonde covers her ears as the chants continue. Finally, she tosses the stick away and proceeds to her corner, the FAWNatics cheering themselves for forcing Kylie to shut up.
Across the ring, Becky raises her arms for the ref's inspection, then rolls her shoulders as his hands travel south. "I don't doubt you will, Ky," the army brat says. "Better to try your luck against the fans you stabbed in the back than stay in here and take your lumps, I'm sure."
Satisfied that Clayton had no contriband on her, the referee turns and moves across the ring to the opposite corner. Once upon a time, suspecting the Pleasant Valley Princess of having an illegal object secreted upon her person would have been equally ludicrous. But these days, it was never a bad idea to check.
Sanders motions the hesitant man over and extends her hands. Receiving a passing grade, she lifts one leg and the ref moves to trace over Kylie's boot, but she places it down and raises the other when he tries, then does likewise in the other direction. "Satisfied?" Kylie hisses.
His face exudes 'not really' but he lets it pass, rises and calls for the bell.
The newly Gladiatrix-christened Queen of Mean circles out of the corner, Becky joining her. "You don't even know what you've gotten yourself in for, Becks. I'm going to squash you like a cockroach in one of those latrines you dug."
But when Clayton reaches for the elfin blonde, Kylie sticks her head and shoulders between the top and middle ropes, screaming at the ref to keep Becky back.
Most FAWNatics boo--some notably cluck--as the official guides the Army of One Hot Chick back to center ring. Clayton raises her hands, her lips curling into a satisfied smile. "It's okay, Ky. I'll wait. When you've got the guts to come and get your ass-kicking, I'll be right here."
But while Becky might be patient, the referee isn't. When Kylie remains threaded through the ropes, he begins a count.
"THE MATCH HASN'T EVEN STARTED!!!" the elfin blonde snaps.
"And I don't think it's going to," he counters. "Unless I force your hand."
At "FOUR!" Sanders pulls her body back into the ring, and when she steps out of the corner, the ref calls for the bell. Kylie makes a circuitous path toward the GI, Becky moving likewise to keep her in place in front of the smaller blonde. Round and round the duo go, until Becky starts to lunge into a collar and elbow tie-up. Kylie's eyes widen, but she acts quickly, ducking behind the zebra and sending him staggering toward Clayton with a two-handed shove to his back.
Acting on near pure instinct, the referee does the only thing possible: he accepts Clayton's lock-up, official and combatant actually started to jostle for a half-second... until both pull away. "HEY!!!!!!!!!!" he bellows, redfaced.
Kylie demands the ref get out of her way and when he does remove himself from the path between Kylie and Becky, Sanders continues to verbally assault the referee. But it's only subterfuge, as after a moment of cursing the zebra, Kylie spins quickly and launches a punt toward the juncture of the brunette's thighs. Unfortunately for Sanders, the tag champ catches her boot and lifts it higher, leaving Kylie bouncing on one grounded stem. Palms outstretched, Ky pleads for Clayton to release her, claiming there's been a mistake and that she was only stretching her leg because it was cramping.
"Oh really?" Clayton asks, sounding genuinely concerned. "Let's see if I can't help you work that out..."
The army brat sends a short, swift kick that 'SWAAACK's off the back of Kylie's suspended thigh, causing the Hawkeye to yelp as she struggles to keep her balance. That task doesn't become any easier when Becky tosses away her stem, sending her former SuperFriend spinning. As Kylie completes her 720 degree turn, the Army of One Hot Chick steps in, her arms engulfing Kylie around the waist, Clayton preparing to LAUNCH Sanders with an overhead belly to belly.
OVERHEAD BELLY TO BELLY SUPLEX:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=aIBTXRCBGtc
Kylie's hazel eyes go wide as Clayton's arms surround her and with good reason. The power-packed GI sends Sanders FLYING when she lays out, Kylie vaulted HIGH into the air travelling nearly across the entirety of the ring. The blonde SLAMS into the canvas and slides to the ropes where she ends in a tangle. Kylie reaches for her lower back with one hand and waves for a time out with the other. The ref responds by telling her to get out of the cables, which Kylie seems uninterested in doing. Instead, she moves to all fours and starts to head for the outside, already in need of recalibrating her gameplan.
The FAWNatics again begins to boo Kylie's cowardice... until two pair of hands snatch her ankles. "Can't really crush me like a bug out on the floor, can you?" Becky asks with a smirk, and begins to reel the retreating blonde back into the ring. Kylie's fingers clutch at the edge of the ring for dear life, but Sanders is little match for Clayton's power. Her grips slips... but she quickly finds another handhold, this one around the bottom rope.
"Just making it worse for yourself, Ky," Becky tells her, but the Hawkeye appears unconvinced. As Clayton continues to pull her in, Kylie's hands climb from the bottom to the middle rope, and then finally to the top, Sanders left staring down at the canvas as she strains to keep her grip against Clayton’s mightiest tug yet.
But it's no use for the former Superfriend. Kylie is yanked away from the cable and EATS a faceful of canvas, her mug and chest BANGING off the thinly-sheathed plywood. Sanders rolls to her back, her hands checking her nose alignment. "You stupid bytch," Kylie growls in a nasal tone. "You're just making it worse." Sanders struggles to her feet and stares down the brunette. She balls her right hand into a fist and throws a haymaker up at the chin of the tag champ, ready to make a significant impression that Clayton was in her for the fight of her life.
And it might have, had the blow actually connected. Instead, Becky ducks, and the diminutive blonde is sent in another spin--this one entirely of her own making and momentum. But on this occasion, the Army of One Hot Chick only allows Kylie to turn 360 degrees before she nuzzles in, her arms once more snaking around Sanders' midsection. Again, Clayton starts to lift the struggling brat off her feet--but there would be no toss this time. No, now would just be your everyday, run of the mill, spirit-sapping bearhug.
Becky's guns wrap around the ivory midriff of Sanders, cinching tight in an instant and drawing a breathy grunt from Ky. The blonde's face is anxiety-ridden as she's lifted, her boots losing contact with the canvas. Kylie responds by wrapping them around Becky to relieve the pressure but it's a miniscule effect at best. The GI bares down, her biceps flexing. As they do, Kylie's face grows rosy and lids clench in pain. The constriction brings both tummyache and difficulty getting oxygen. Sanders groans and mewls, unscussessfully trying first to pry her way free and then finding pounding on Becky's back useless. Another constriction draws a saggy Kylie's chin to Becky's shoulder and another forces a gurgle of spit bubbles out of Kylie's pursed lips that dribbles over her lower lip and onto the shoulder.
Just as the referee starts to give thought to checking Kylie's arm, the Army of One Hot Chick breaks her embrace. Allowing the slackened Hawkeye to lean against her, Becky stuffs her right hand between Kylie's thighs, while her left moves to Sanders bosom. The, with a grunt, the army vet sends Sanders into the air with a military press, Kylie raising higher and higher as Becky's arms meet full extension. The crowd gives Clayton's show of strength a resounding round of applause, but Becky doesn't quite seem done. "Whattaya say, folks?" she asks the former Kylie Corps. "I know it's not the biggest dumbbell, all evidence aside, but wanna see how many reps I can get in?"
The crowd brings the 'YES' chant back to full-throated glory. And Becky gets to work, lowering the squirming breathless Sanders, ONE, TWO, THREE TIMES. The adrenaline flowing, Clayton forces her way through FOUR and FIVE before sending a head-shaking Kylie on her way. Again the flaxen-haired lightweight gets distance and SLAMS into the deck. Body seemingly electrified, she spasms into an arch, Kylie howling in pain. The force of the impact nearly sends Ky's chest escaping from its top and she quickly moves to rectify, but otherwise finds herself unable to even get to all fours and retreat from the Army.
Stooping down, Clayton gives the new Queen of Mean a helping hand, assisting Kylie in making her way up to a seated position. Becky then straightens up, and settles into a stance behind the elfin blonde with her legs slightly parted. As she curls both sets of fingers into wicked looking claws, the FAWNatics begin to cheer. But their volume only grows louder as both claws plunge toward Kylie's shoulders, the Army of One Hot Chick planning to latch on her E-Tool.
And if Kylie appears to have 100 volts coursing through her after the Gorilla Slam, it's 10,000 from the E-tool. Becky's digits sink into the either nape and the veteran goes rigid, her spine straightening, her shoulders clenching in agony. The nerve bundles pinched, Kylie seems frozen in place, though she hyperventilates. Finally, she's able to shift her legs and she tries to stretch them out to the ropes in front of her, desperate to escape before the waves of pain take over her voicebox and send out a surrender.
"Hey... hey!" Becky taunts. Normally, she just wanted to go out, put on a good show for the fans, and collect a 'W'. But she couldn't deny, there was something PARTICULARLY satisfying about teaching her former stablemate a much needed lesson. "Where you goin'? Don't think you're gonna be slapping too many fans after I've rendered your arms limp spaghetti noodles..."
But it's not her arms that Kylie makes use of, but her feet, which latch around the bottom rope. Sanders can't even find a way to force her vocal cords to demand a release, but Becky still complies pretty quickly. Grabbing a handful of hair, Clayton brings the elfin blonde to her feet with a tug, before shoving her back into the cables. Taking a wrist, the Army of One Hot Chick launches Kylie on a ride via an Irish whip, planning to meet her on the rebound with a massive big boot.
Sanders hits the ropes and rebounds toward the charging Clayton whose right leg starts to rise inexorably toward the blonde's chin. But Kylie manages to duck under and keep racing to the opposite strands. Again, Kylie hits the cables and bounces back. She leaps at a spinning Becky who turns and launches the boot high once more, catching an airborne Kylie flush in the jaw. Sanders' legs fly out in front of her head and torso. The Queen of Mean's head and shoulders THUMPING to the deck a split-second ahead of the rest of her flaccid frame.
And a second later, the Army of One Hot Chick drops to her knees alongside the splattered Sanders, draping herself across the elfin blonde's chest and hooking a leg.
ONE!
TWO!!
THRNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Kylie kicks loose, by a whisker. Becky immediately pushes back to her feet, gathering up a handful of damp blocke locks and tugging the Pleasant Valley Princess up along with. Clayton ducks underneath Kylie's nearly limp right arm, reaching her own right across Sanders' chest. Reaching around her former friend's back with her left hand, Becky gets ready to deposit Sanders right on her head with a vicious uranage.
URANAGE:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=5sUQgAISWOA
With Sanders wobbling in front of her, Clayton draws the increasingly limp and unaware Kylie to her feet. Getting hit by a London Run was one thing, but if you allowed Becky Clayton to hit move after move, it was akin to getting nailed by a semi. And after Kylie is sent flying up and over, landing with a ring-rattling impact and sliding to a motionless stop, the former Pleasant Valley Princess is starting to look like she was on the wrong end of an 18-wheeler. Starfished, a limp arm of Ky rises then falls flat, Kylie staring blankly into the rafters and babbling incoherently.
The FAWNatics start a chant as Becky rolls up to one knee... but when the Army of One Hot Chick registers exactly what they're saying, she can't help but stop and smile. "BEC-KY'S GONE AND KIL-LED HER!"
A bemused Clayton shakes her head. "No, no..." she challenges them. "I think she's still breathing."
Climbing to her feet, the reigning FAWN Tag Team champion marches over to her demolished adversary, and gives Kylie's side a nudge with her boot. When Sanders responds with a drunken murmur and a twitch of her arm, Becky looks to the crowd. "See?"
Bending down, the army brat again helps Kylie up to a seat on the mat... then pauses long enough to grab two clumps of hair. Lifting them away from Kylie's noggin, Becky asks the spurned members of the Kylie Corps, "Looks like she should be sitting on the end of a pencil, doesn't she?" With the house enjoying a Kylie match more than they have in a LOOONG time, Clayton brings the shellshocked blonde back to verticality. she then dips, just enough to thread an arm through Kylie's glistening thighs, intending to muscle Sanders' nearly dead weight up onto her shoulders and into a fireman's carry.
ARMY OF ONE:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nz9GPZjiL3A
And up the blonde deadweight goes once more, strapped across Becky's shoulders as if she might deliver the coupe de grace with a Pleasant Valley Driver and send Sanders tumbling not only to a loss but down toward middle-card status. But as Clayton is tying up the blonde's legs on one end, on the other, a hand flashes toward the GI's face, Kylie hoping to scrape her nails across the eyes of the Army of One Hot Chick and escape her continued destruction.
As big and as powerful, as technically skilled and as dominating as Becky Clayton could be, the eyerake has long been one of the great equalizers in professional wrestling history--and the Army of One Hot Chick is, unfortunately, hardly immune to its effects.
"gggyyyyyaaaaAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!" the GI howls, her arm momentarily losing enough strength and direction to allow Kylie to slip off of Becky's sculpted shoulders. The Pleasant Valley Princess lands on her feet, but she doesn't stay there, Kylie dropping to one knee as her opponent staggers away, her left hand moving to rub her eyes. The official takes a step toward the kneeling Hawkeye, admonishing her for the shortcut, Clayton blindly turns back toward Kylie's last known coordinates, swinging her right fist in a haymaker.
And she connects soundly if not with all her power behind it. Unfortunately, it's with the back of the official's head. The man is dropped like a bad habit next to the penitent blonde, Sanders as surpised as anyone and, with Becky still blinded, a coarse smile creases her cupid's arrow lips. Remaining on one knee and drawing in deep breaths, Kylie waits until the muscular legs of the GI are properly situated. The supposed troll then swings a pendulum-like right uppercut, hoping to slam her forearm between them and into the crotch of Clayton, really cutting the musclebound dolt down to size.
The eyerake might be one of the oldest equalizers in professional wrestling, but THIS? This is about as ancient, as basic... and, much to the consternation of the gathered FAWNatics, about as effective as it gets. Kylie's uppercut SMASHES into the crotch of a still-blinded, unsuspected and utterly defenceless army brat--and Sanders is only just able to pull her arm back before Becky's thighs CLAMP shut, the current Tag champ crumpling to her knees with an uncharacteristically high pitched whimper. While the crowd voices its displeasure, Clayton tumbles over onto her right hip, curling into a tight ball.
Kylie uses the dropped Army brat to push to her feet. The blonde staggers to the ropes, holding on so she doesn't tumble back down. She turns to the former Corps, jeering beyond their hearts content and points at Becky. "Time to get to mass destructing." Kylie tumbles through the ropes behind her in controlled fashion and ends with boot soles on the floor. Sanders plucks the apron up and swings out one, two, then three familiar steel folding chairs. She tosses the first couple in and slides in with the third. Using the folding furniture to assist, Kylie reaches her feet, walks to Becky, taking a quick glimpse at the softly stirring zebra, and brandishes the curved end of the steel toward the ribs of the Army of One Hot Chick. "Bytch, you still don't get it. With all your muscle," she add breathlessly, still blinking some senses back into place, "I'm STILL more dangerous than you.”
Statement made, Kylie brings the chair crashing down, the rim driving into Clayton's side. The Army of One Hot Chick responds to the impact with a moan that leaves a couple of FAWNatics fearful that Becky might have a cracked rib or two. She rolls over to her knees and her chest, both arms moving underneath her body to hug at her gasping belly, her feet kicking at the mat. A few feet away, the referee has also rolled over to his stomach, and soon starts pushing his way up to all fours... before collapsing again, still clearly feeling some aftereffects from Becky's wayward punch.
But the man's effort spurs Kylie to end her lollygagging trek around the ring. Instead, she lays two chairs side by side on the canvas next to the mewling Clayton. Sanders grabs Becky by the head and tugs the GI to her feet. It's not an easy task for the lightweight, but determination has never been one of Kylie's faults and she gets Becky there. The next effort will require even more as Ky dips and sends an arm between the quaking legs of Clayton. The FAWNatics are sure what Kylie wants to do but seem unsure whether she can physically manage. Despite the beating she's taken and her lack of size, the heartless wonder damn well tries to 'hup' Clayton across her shoulders and into a fireman's carry with plans to deliver her, courtesy a PVD, to the scattered steel below.
As a great muppet once said, do or do not--there is no try. And, perhaps through some satanic pact signed before the contest had begun, damn if the Pleasant Valley Princess doesn't manage to get Becky Clayton strapped into a fireman's carry. Of course, KEEPING the army brat there would not be easy. Luckily for her, Kylie doesn't HAVE to keep her there long. Almost as soon as Clayton had settled across her shoulders, Sanders lays out.
'CLAAAANNNNNNNGGGGGG!!!!!!'
Becky lands head first, not against harsh canvas, but against even more destructive folded steel--and her back SLAMS down across the second chair an instant later. The Army of One Hot Chick's pacified masterpiece of a body obstructs the evidence of Kylie's wrongdoing, only the legs of the chair poking out from underneath her--and on the opposite side of both the elfin blonde, draping near lifelessly across Clayton's chest, and the official who laboriously starts to drag himself over to the duo. Checking Becky's shoulder, he begins to slap off the count, the FAWNatics aghast that this match could end in such fashion.
ONE!
TWO!!
THREENOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
At the very last possible moment, Clayton slings her right arm across her chest, lifting her shoulder enough to break the count.
Noticing the hardware beneath Becky, the official casts a suspicious eye at the elfin blonde. "What? She's the one that hit you."
The man considers Sanders' point, though he didn't know for sure who had sucker punched him. It wasn't Kylie. Without the evidence, he gets to work clearing the two chairs from beneath the splayed Becky and moving them to the outside.
Which of course left one in the possession of Kylie Sanders. Ky straps the steel to her chest with both arms and leaps toward the decked Becky, planning to splash what's left of the GI, hopefully rearranging some of her internal organs in the process.
The Army of One Hot Chick might have possessed enough awareness to kick out on an instinctual level, but without the stimulus of the official's slaps, Clayton remains oblivious to the danger she's in as Kylie leaves her feet.
'CLOOOOOOOONK!!!!!!'
The Pleasant Valley Princess' steel re-enforced splash sends Becky's shapely legs swinging into the air and pops her eyes WIDE open... and, as Sanders rolls away from the impact, it has clearly done some popping of a different sort, as Clayton's right breast has sprung free of the confines of her top. The army brat rolls over to her side, wretching as she tries to draw in breath, each inhale proving a torturous act.
Quickly casting the steel aside, Kylie grabs the splattered Becky and spreads her out like butter on toast beneath her in a lateral press.
"A-HEM." Kylie clears her throat loudly and the ref turns to see a battered beaten Army brat under Sanders. He slides into place and slaps the mat for...
ONE!
TWO!!
THRNOOO!
His hand stops an inch from ending the match, but it's not because Becky has saved herself. No. Kylie plucks Clayton to safety, wide grin emerging. "C'mon Sanders," the man says. "This bytch tried to make me the fool. Make me look like a tr..."
Sanders refuses to spit out the T-word.
"Now she's going to find out just how big a SNAFU like that can be." Kylie scrapes the half-exposed Clayton to her feet and can't help but make it a full set flopping in the breeze. Sanders slips an arm through the legs of Clayton and gets the big brunette off her feet, horizontal across her chest. With a huge grunt of effort, she slides Becky to one shoulder, draping her down either side. Almost instantly shifting her grip to Becky's head, she starts to sit out. If she could hold on, it would be an ungainly SNAFU that wouldn't win any awards, but if she could keep Clayton in place on the way down, it would be one helluva statement, ugly or not.
SNAFU:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=fVO2lW92ozk
As much as Kylie's toying with Becky and pulling her up from the pin had spurred the FAWNatics to jeer, the house is sent into stunned silence as she muscles Clayton into position to be on the receiving end of one of her own finishers. This couldn't be happening. It was beyond a nightmare for the audience, and though the blonde doesn't have it in her to reach for the army brat's arms, her intent is very clear. Sanders kicks her legs out from underneath her, laying out and YANKING the Army of One Hot Chick down to the mat, Becky's jaw SLAMMING down across Kylie's shoulders. While it might not be the SNAFU in its truest form, in all honesty, the steel chairs had already done most of the work. Kylie's rendition sends the bare chested army brat flopping over to her back, collecting into a shuddering, senseless heap.
The official, as dumbfounded as the fans, watches as Kylie pushes up from her seat and stands in a domineering straddle of one of the icons of power in the organization. Kylie picks up a boot and firmly places it on the cleft of Becky's bare bosom, lifting her hands high overhead.
"Count!" Sanders demands and so the referee does for...
ONE!
TWO!!
It absolutely could NOT end this way... Could it?
THREE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Even though they had just seen it, the FAWNatics refuse to believe it--not as the referee signals to the timekeeper's table, not when the bell sounds, and not even when the ring announcer's voice begins to waft over the sound system. But in spite of their incredulousness, the fact remains. "Ladies and gentlemen," he says, "your winner, via pinfall... KYYYLLLIIIEEE SAAANNNDDDEEERRRSSS!!!!!"
Sanders grinds her boot into Becky's bounty then steps off what's left of the GI. She moves to the ropes, calling for a microphone. Receiving it in short order, she moves it to her lips. "You thought I was going to fade away? It's not happening. Without having to carry your sad little hopes and dreams I can now defeat what you all thought was the greatest Superfriend of all. Hell. I'd beat all those stiffs. Give me Roxie. I'll kick Shea's ass again. Any of them. You all don't want to see what I can do." Kylie drops the mic with a clunk, walks toward a stirring Becky and delivers a hardhearted mushroom stomp for the road before leaving the MPs to clean up the mess.
And who better for that job than a former stablemate?
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Ring Announcer began, “the following contest is scheduled for one fall, with a twenty minute time limit. Introducing first, hailing from Denver, CO… She stands five feet eight inches tall weighs in tonight at 135lbs. She is a former WOLF World champion, FAWN World champion and the REIGNING FAWN Tag Team champion. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Camouflage Crusher… the BFG… BEEECCCKKKYYY CLLLAAAYYYTTTOOONNN!!!!!"
Becky Clayton
The speakers rip into Shinedown's ‘Heroes’, sending the Howling Commandos to their feet in the blink of an eye. Almost as quickly, Becky Clayton strides into view, the imposing robobabe blasting through the curtains to greet her fans with a jaunty two-fisted pose. This results in a cacophonous cheer, not just for the woman in question, but for her togs, which were among the best on the roster. For those of you who’ve been living under a rock for the last year or so, prepare yourself. Becky is decked out in a camouflage two-piece with tie-sided bottoms and an impossible to ignore ladder / double helix of lycra that ran from the top of her waistband all the way up to the southern border of her cups. She finishes it off with matching forest green pads and boots and a few wraps of camouflage wrist tape.
“HEROES”:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qi8q_t3le60
Having rallied proper support from her troops, Clayton starts down to the squared circle. Though she is extremely eager to get tonight’s battle started, the Army of One Hot Chick still takes the time to slap hands on both sides of the aisle, as something told her she is going to need all the strength they could offer. Breaking into a jog once she has traversed the aisle, Clayton bounds up the steel steps and leaps over the top rope in one effortless burst of kinetic energy. Coming to a stop in the center of the ring, Becky wheels to the hard camera and snaps off a crisp salute before backing into one of the far corners.
With the cheers for the Army brat still resounding, the sound of The Clash starts to fill the arena and with it an absolute torrent of jeers that now rivals Lisa Dream or even Portia VanBuren.
The failed challenger to Emily West’s title pushes through and takes a spot center stage. She hops in place, ruby lips frowning. She gazes sternly at the multitudes who throw their disdain at her and their less than complimentary remarks at her failure against Emily, yet another in claiming FAWN’s top prize.
Though she had been unsuccessful in her new gear, it remains. Gone are the black lycra sports bra and boy-cut trunks, the Tigerhawk of her alma mater as well. Instead, she wears the garb from her recent Gladiatrix cover shoot, white lace bra top and similarly fashioned brief lower togs with white boots and pads. Apparently bad girls could wear white.
Kylie starts her trip down the ramp as The Clash continues…
“So alone I keep the wolves at bay…
And there’s only one thing I can say..ayy…ayy…
You didn’t stand by me…
No not at all…
You didn’t stand by me…
No way”
“TRAIN IN VEIN”:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=NYkQK8QsQ2w&index=3&list=LLU6MWpP-rt2kWv-tOm824HA
Energized by the hate, Ky hops down the aisle, ignoring the reaching hands and oft-thrown jeers and insults, the pathetic pleas for her to come back to her senses finally and thankfully gone. Reaching the ring and rising up the steps, Kylie turns and takes a view of the packed bowl, seemingly every seat occupied by the vapid fans that had jumped off the bandwagon. Kylie gives Becky the once over and walks down the length of the apron, accepting a microphone from a flunky. While she does, the PA officially announces her arrival as The Clash fades.
“And her opponent. Standing five feet four inches tall and weighing in at 115 pounds, from Pleasant Valley, Iowa…KYLIE SANDERS!”
Kylie Sanders
The crowd only doubles its enmity and volume. Sanders slips through the ropes and claims the center of the ring. She lifts the microphone to pink, pastel lips.
“I bet you all thought I would shrivel up and die after getting beat by the current champ.”
The crowd unloads with a series of ‘YES’ chants that ring for nearly half a minute.
“Well, you’re wrong again. I’m going to get back and claim that title. Believe it. It’s my destiny. It’s what I was born to do. And what better way than to destroy the biggest meathead…I mean most imposing physical specimen in the organization. And so that is what you will see tonight.”
A chant erupts from the crowd that turns Kylie’s face sour. “TROLL…TROLL…TROLL!”
“Shut the hell up before I go out there and slap each and every last one of you.”
The blonde covers her ears as the chants continue. Finally, she tosses the stick away and proceeds to her corner, the FAWNatics cheering themselves for forcing Kylie to shut up.
Across the ring, Becky raises her arms for the ref's inspection, then rolls her shoulders as his hands travel south. "I don't doubt you will, Ky," the army brat says. "Better to try your luck against the fans you stabbed in the back than stay in here and take your lumps, I'm sure."
Satisfied that Clayton had no contriband on her, the referee turns and moves across the ring to the opposite corner. Once upon a time, suspecting the Pleasant Valley Princess of having an illegal object secreted upon her person would have been equally ludicrous. But these days, it was never a bad idea to check.
Sanders motions the hesitant man over and extends her hands. Receiving a passing grade, she lifts one leg and the ref moves to trace over Kylie's boot, but she places it down and raises the other when he tries, then does likewise in the other direction. "Satisfied?" Kylie hisses.
His face exudes 'not really' but he lets it pass, rises and calls for the bell.
The newly Gladiatrix-christened Queen of Mean circles out of the corner, Becky joining her. "You don't even know what you've gotten yourself in for, Becks. I'm going to squash you like a cockroach in one of those latrines you dug."
But when Clayton reaches for the elfin blonde, Kylie sticks her head and shoulders between the top and middle ropes, screaming at the ref to keep Becky back.
Most FAWNatics boo--some notably cluck--as the official guides the Army of One Hot Chick back to center ring. Clayton raises her hands, her lips curling into a satisfied smile. "It's okay, Ky. I'll wait. When you've got the guts to come and get your ass-kicking, I'll be right here."
But while Becky might be patient, the referee isn't. When Kylie remains threaded through the ropes, he begins a count.
"THE MATCH HASN'T EVEN STARTED!!!" the elfin blonde snaps.
"And I don't think it's going to," he counters. "Unless I force your hand."
At "FOUR!" Sanders pulls her body back into the ring, and when she steps out of the corner, the ref calls for the bell. Kylie makes a circuitous path toward the GI, Becky moving likewise to keep her in place in front of the smaller blonde. Round and round the duo go, until Becky starts to lunge into a collar and elbow tie-up. Kylie's eyes widen, but she acts quickly, ducking behind the zebra and sending him staggering toward Clayton with a two-handed shove to his back.
Acting on near pure instinct, the referee does the only thing possible: he accepts Clayton's lock-up, official and combatant actually started to jostle for a half-second... until both pull away. "HEY!!!!!!!!!!" he bellows, redfaced.
Kylie demands the ref get out of her way and when he does remove himself from the path between Kylie and Becky, Sanders continues to verbally assault the referee. But it's only subterfuge, as after a moment of cursing the zebra, Kylie spins quickly and launches a punt toward the juncture of the brunette's thighs. Unfortunately for Sanders, the tag champ catches her boot and lifts it higher, leaving Kylie bouncing on one grounded stem. Palms outstretched, Ky pleads for Clayton to release her, claiming there's been a mistake and that she was only stretching her leg because it was cramping.
"Oh really?" Clayton asks, sounding genuinely concerned. "Let's see if I can't help you work that out..."
The army brat sends a short, swift kick that 'SWAAACK's off the back of Kylie's suspended thigh, causing the Hawkeye to yelp as she struggles to keep her balance. That task doesn't become any easier when Becky tosses away her stem, sending her former SuperFriend spinning. As Kylie completes her 720 degree turn, the Army of One Hot Chick steps in, her arms engulfing Kylie around the waist, Clayton preparing to LAUNCH Sanders with an overhead belly to belly.
OVERHEAD BELLY TO BELLY SUPLEX:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=aIBTXRCBGtc
Kylie's hazel eyes go wide as Clayton's arms surround her and with good reason. The power-packed GI sends Sanders FLYING when she lays out, Kylie vaulted HIGH into the air travelling nearly across the entirety of the ring. The blonde SLAMS into the canvas and slides to the ropes where she ends in a tangle. Kylie reaches for her lower back with one hand and waves for a time out with the other. The ref responds by telling her to get out of the cables, which Kylie seems uninterested in doing. Instead, she moves to all fours and starts to head for the outside, already in need of recalibrating her gameplan.
The FAWNatics again begins to boo Kylie's cowardice... until two pair of hands snatch her ankles. "Can't really crush me like a bug out on the floor, can you?" Becky asks with a smirk, and begins to reel the retreating blonde back into the ring. Kylie's fingers clutch at the edge of the ring for dear life, but Sanders is little match for Clayton's power. Her grips slips... but she quickly finds another handhold, this one around the bottom rope.
"Just making it worse for yourself, Ky," Becky tells her, but the Hawkeye appears unconvinced. As Clayton continues to pull her in, Kylie's hands climb from the bottom to the middle rope, and then finally to the top, Sanders left staring down at the canvas as she strains to keep her grip against Clayton’s mightiest tug yet.
But it's no use for the former Superfriend. Kylie is yanked away from the cable and EATS a faceful of canvas, her mug and chest BANGING off the thinly-sheathed plywood. Sanders rolls to her back, her hands checking her nose alignment. "You stupid bytch," Kylie growls in a nasal tone. "You're just making it worse." Sanders struggles to her feet and stares down the brunette. She balls her right hand into a fist and throws a haymaker up at the chin of the tag champ, ready to make a significant impression that Clayton was in her for the fight of her life.
And it might have, had the blow actually connected. Instead, Becky ducks, and the diminutive blonde is sent in another spin--this one entirely of her own making and momentum. But on this occasion, the Army of One Hot Chick only allows Kylie to turn 360 degrees before she nuzzles in, her arms once more snaking around Sanders' midsection. Again, Clayton starts to lift the struggling brat off her feet--but there would be no toss this time. No, now would just be your everyday, run of the mill, spirit-sapping bearhug.
Becky's guns wrap around the ivory midriff of Sanders, cinching tight in an instant and drawing a breathy grunt from Ky. The blonde's face is anxiety-ridden as she's lifted, her boots losing contact with the canvas. Kylie responds by wrapping them around Becky to relieve the pressure but it's a miniscule effect at best. The GI bares down, her biceps flexing. As they do, Kylie's face grows rosy and lids clench in pain. The constriction brings both tummyache and difficulty getting oxygen. Sanders groans and mewls, unscussessfully trying first to pry her way free and then finding pounding on Becky's back useless. Another constriction draws a saggy Kylie's chin to Becky's shoulder and another forces a gurgle of spit bubbles out of Kylie's pursed lips that dribbles over her lower lip and onto the shoulder.
Just as the referee starts to give thought to checking Kylie's arm, the Army of One Hot Chick breaks her embrace. Allowing the slackened Hawkeye to lean against her, Becky stuffs her right hand between Kylie's thighs, while her left moves to Sanders bosom. The, with a grunt, the army vet sends Sanders into the air with a military press, Kylie raising higher and higher as Becky's arms meet full extension. The crowd gives Clayton's show of strength a resounding round of applause, but Becky doesn't quite seem done. "Whattaya say, folks?" she asks the former Kylie Corps. "I know it's not the biggest dumbbell, all evidence aside, but wanna see how many reps I can get in?"
The crowd brings the 'YES' chant back to full-throated glory. And Becky gets to work, lowering the squirming breathless Sanders, ONE, TWO, THREE TIMES. The adrenaline flowing, Clayton forces her way through FOUR and FIVE before sending a head-shaking Kylie on her way. Again the flaxen-haired lightweight gets distance and SLAMS into the deck. Body seemingly electrified, she spasms into an arch, Kylie howling in pain. The force of the impact nearly sends Ky's chest escaping from its top and she quickly moves to rectify, but otherwise finds herself unable to even get to all fours and retreat from the Army.
Stooping down, Clayton gives the new Queen of Mean a helping hand, assisting Kylie in making her way up to a seated position. Becky then straightens up, and settles into a stance behind the elfin blonde with her legs slightly parted. As she curls both sets of fingers into wicked looking claws, the FAWNatics begin to cheer. But their volume only grows louder as both claws plunge toward Kylie's shoulders, the Army of One Hot Chick planning to latch on her E-Tool.
And if Kylie appears to have 100 volts coursing through her after the Gorilla Slam, it's 10,000 from the E-tool. Becky's digits sink into the either nape and the veteran goes rigid, her spine straightening, her shoulders clenching in agony. The nerve bundles pinched, Kylie seems frozen in place, though she hyperventilates. Finally, she's able to shift her legs and she tries to stretch them out to the ropes in front of her, desperate to escape before the waves of pain take over her voicebox and send out a surrender.
"Hey... hey!" Becky taunts. Normally, she just wanted to go out, put on a good show for the fans, and collect a 'W'. But she couldn't deny, there was something PARTICULARLY satisfying about teaching her former stablemate a much needed lesson. "Where you goin'? Don't think you're gonna be slapping too many fans after I've rendered your arms limp spaghetti noodles..."
But it's not her arms that Kylie makes use of, but her feet, which latch around the bottom rope. Sanders can't even find a way to force her vocal cords to demand a release, but Becky still complies pretty quickly. Grabbing a handful of hair, Clayton brings the elfin blonde to her feet with a tug, before shoving her back into the cables. Taking a wrist, the Army of One Hot Chick launches Kylie on a ride via an Irish whip, planning to meet her on the rebound with a massive big boot.
Sanders hits the ropes and rebounds toward the charging Clayton whose right leg starts to rise inexorably toward the blonde's chin. But Kylie manages to duck under and keep racing to the opposite strands. Again, Kylie hits the cables and bounces back. She leaps at a spinning Becky who turns and launches the boot high once more, catching an airborne Kylie flush in the jaw. Sanders' legs fly out in front of her head and torso. The Queen of Mean's head and shoulders THUMPING to the deck a split-second ahead of the rest of her flaccid frame.
And a second later, the Army of One Hot Chick drops to her knees alongside the splattered Sanders, draping herself across the elfin blonde's chest and hooking a leg.
ONE!
TWO!!
THRNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Kylie kicks loose, by a whisker. Becky immediately pushes back to her feet, gathering up a handful of damp blocke locks and tugging the Pleasant Valley Princess up along with. Clayton ducks underneath Kylie's nearly limp right arm, reaching her own right across Sanders' chest. Reaching around her former friend's back with her left hand, Becky gets ready to deposit Sanders right on her head with a vicious uranage.
URANAGE:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=5sUQgAISWOA
With Sanders wobbling in front of her, Clayton draws the increasingly limp and unaware Kylie to her feet. Getting hit by a London Run was one thing, but if you allowed Becky Clayton to hit move after move, it was akin to getting nailed by a semi. And after Kylie is sent flying up and over, landing with a ring-rattling impact and sliding to a motionless stop, the former Pleasant Valley Princess is starting to look like she was on the wrong end of an 18-wheeler. Starfished, a limp arm of Ky rises then falls flat, Kylie staring blankly into the rafters and babbling incoherently.
The FAWNatics start a chant as Becky rolls up to one knee... but when the Army of One Hot Chick registers exactly what they're saying, she can't help but stop and smile. "BEC-KY'S GONE AND KIL-LED HER!"
A bemused Clayton shakes her head. "No, no..." she challenges them. "I think she's still breathing."
Climbing to her feet, the reigning FAWN Tag Team champion marches over to her demolished adversary, and gives Kylie's side a nudge with her boot. When Sanders responds with a drunken murmur and a twitch of her arm, Becky looks to the crowd. "See?"
Bending down, the army brat again helps Kylie up to a seat on the mat... then pauses long enough to grab two clumps of hair. Lifting them away from Kylie's noggin, Becky asks the spurned members of the Kylie Corps, "Looks like she should be sitting on the end of a pencil, doesn't she?" With the house enjoying a Kylie match more than they have in a LOOONG time, Clayton brings the shellshocked blonde back to verticality. she then dips, just enough to thread an arm through Kylie's glistening thighs, intending to muscle Sanders' nearly dead weight up onto her shoulders and into a fireman's carry.
ARMY OF ONE:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nz9GPZjiL3A
And up the blonde deadweight goes once more, strapped across Becky's shoulders as if she might deliver the coupe de grace with a Pleasant Valley Driver and send Sanders tumbling not only to a loss but down toward middle-card status. But as Clayton is tying up the blonde's legs on one end, on the other, a hand flashes toward the GI's face, Kylie hoping to scrape her nails across the eyes of the Army of One Hot Chick and escape her continued destruction.
As big and as powerful, as technically skilled and as dominating as Becky Clayton could be, the eyerake has long been one of the great equalizers in professional wrestling history--and the Army of One Hot Chick is, unfortunately, hardly immune to its effects.
"gggyyyyyaaaaAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!" the GI howls, her arm momentarily losing enough strength and direction to allow Kylie to slip off of Becky's sculpted shoulders. The Pleasant Valley Princess lands on her feet, but she doesn't stay there, Kylie dropping to one knee as her opponent staggers away, her left hand moving to rub her eyes. The official takes a step toward the kneeling Hawkeye, admonishing her for the shortcut, Clayton blindly turns back toward Kylie's last known coordinates, swinging her right fist in a haymaker.
And she connects soundly if not with all her power behind it. Unfortunately, it's with the back of the official's head. The man is dropped like a bad habit next to the penitent blonde, Sanders as surpised as anyone and, with Becky still blinded, a coarse smile creases her cupid's arrow lips. Remaining on one knee and drawing in deep breaths, Kylie waits until the muscular legs of the GI are properly situated. The supposed troll then swings a pendulum-like right uppercut, hoping to slam her forearm between them and into the crotch of Clayton, really cutting the musclebound dolt down to size.
The eyerake might be one of the oldest equalizers in professional wrestling, but THIS? This is about as ancient, as basic... and, much to the consternation of the gathered FAWNatics, about as effective as it gets. Kylie's uppercut SMASHES into the crotch of a still-blinded, unsuspected and utterly defenceless army brat--and Sanders is only just able to pull her arm back before Becky's thighs CLAMP shut, the current Tag champ crumpling to her knees with an uncharacteristically high pitched whimper. While the crowd voices its displeasure, Clayton tumbles over onto her right hip, curling into a tight ball.
Kylie uses the dropped Army brat to push to her feet. The blonde staggers to the ropes, holding on so she doesn't tumble back down. She turns to the former Corps, jeering beyond their hearts content and points at Becky. "Time to get to mass destructing." Kylie tumbles through the ropes behind her in controlled fashion and ends with boot soles on the floor. Sanders plucks the apron up and swings out one, two, then three familiar steel folding chairs. She tosses the first couple in and slides in with the third. Using the folding furniture to assist, Kylie reaches her feet, walks to Becky, taking a quick glimpse at the softly stirring zebra, and brandishes the curved end of the steel toward the ribs of the Army of One Hot Chick. "Bytch, you still don't get it. With all your muscle," she add breathlessly, still blinking some senses back into place, "I'm STILL more dangerous than you.”
Statement made, Kylie brings the chair crashing down, the rim driving into Clayton's side. The Army of One Hot Chick responds to the impact with a moan that leaves a couple of FAWNatics fearful that Becky might have a cracked rib or two. She rolls over to her knees and her chest, both arms moving underneath her body to hug at her gasping belly, her feet kicking at the mat. A few feet away, the referee has also rolled over to his stomach, and soon starts pushing his way up to all fours... before collapsing again, still clearly feeling some aftereffects from Becky's wayward punch.
But the man's effort spurs Kylie to end her lollygagging trek around the ring. Instead, she lays two chairs side by side on the canvas next to the mewling Clayton. Sanders grabs Becky by the head and tugs the GI to her feet. It's not an easy task for the lightweight, but determination has never been one of Kylie's faults and she gets Becky there. The next effort will require even more as Ky dips and sends an arm between the quaking legs of Clayton. The FAWNatics are sure what Kylie wants to do but seem unsure whether she can physically manage. Despite the beating she's taken and her lack of size, the heartless wonder damn well tries to 'hup' Clayton across her shoulders and into a fireman's carry with plans to deliver her, courtesy a PVD, to the scattered steel below.
As a great muppet once said, do or do not--there is no try. And, perhaps through some satanic pact signed before the contest had begun, damn if the Pleasant Valley Princess doesn't manage to get Becky Clayton strapped into a fireman's carry. Of course, KEEPING the army brat there would not be easy. Luckily for her, Kylie doesn't HAVE to keep her there long. Almost as soon as Clayton had settled across her shoulders, Sanders lays out.
'CLAAAANNNNNNNGGGGGG!!!!!!'
Becky lands head first, not against harsh canvas, but against even more destructive folded steel--and her back SLAMS down across the second chair an instant later. The Army of One Hot Chick's pacified masterpiece of a body obstructs the evidence of Kylie's wrongdoing, only the legs of the chair poking out from underneath her--and on the opposite side of both the elfin blonde, draping near lifelessly across Clayton's chest, and the official who laboriously starts to drag himself over to the duo. Checking Becky's shoulder, he begins to slap off the count, the FAWNatics aghast that this match could end in such fashion.
ONE!
TWO!!
THREENOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
At the very last possible moment, Clayton slings her right arm across her chest, lifting her shoulder enough to break the count.
Noticing the hardware beneath Becky, the official casts a suspicious eye at the elfin blonde. "What? She's the one that hit you."
The man considers Sanders' point, though he didn't know for sure who had sucker punched him. It wasn't Kylie. Without the evidence, he gets to work clearing the two chairs from beneath the splayed Becky and moving them to the outside.
Which of course left one in the possession of Kylie Sanders. Ky straps the steel to her chest with both arms and leaps toward the decked Becky, planning to splash what's left of the GI, hopefully rearranging some of her internal organs in the process.
The Army of One Hot Chick might have possessed enough awareness to kick out on an instinctual level, but without the stimulus of the official's slaps, Clayton remains oblivious to the danger she's in as Kylie leaves her feet.
'CLOOOOOOOONK!!!!!!'
The Pleasant Valley Princess' steel re-enforced splash sends Becky's shapely legs swinging into the air and pops her eyes WIDE open... and, as Sanders rolls away from the impact, it has clearly done some popping of a different sort, as Clayton's right breast has sprung free of the confines of her top. The army brat rolls over to her side, wretching as she tries to draw in breath, each inhale proving a torturous act.
Quickly casting the steel aside, Kylie grabs the splattered Becky and spreads her out like butter on toast beneath her in a lateral press.
"A-HEM." Kylie clears her throat loudly and the ref turns to see a battered beaten Army brat under Sanders. He slides into place and slaps the mat for...
ONE!
TWO!!
THRNOOO!
His hand stops an inch from ending the match, but it's not because Becky has saved herself. No. Kylie plucks Clayton to safety, wide grin emerging. "C'mon Sanders," the man says. "This bytch tried to make me the fool. Make me look like a tr..."
Sanders refuses to spit out the T-word.
"Now she's going to find out just how big a SNAFU like that can be." Kylie scrapes the half-exposed Clayton to her feet and can't help but make it a full set flopping in the breeze. Sanders slips an arm through the legs of Clayton and gets the big brunette off her feet, horizontal across her chest. With a huge grunt of effort, she slides Becky to one shoulder, draping her down either side. Almost instantly shifting her grip to Becky's head, she starts to sit out. If she could hold on, it would be an ungainly SNAFU that wouldn't win any awards, but if she could keep Clayton in place on the way down, it would be one helluva statement, ugly or not.
SNAFU:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=fVO2lW92ozk
As much as Kylie's toying with Becky and pulling her up from the pin had spurred the FAWNatics to jeer, the house is sent into stunned silence as she muscles Clayton into position to be on the receiving end of one of her own finishers. This couldn't be happening. It was beyond a nightmare for the audience, and though the blonde doesn't have it in her to reach for the army brat's arms, her intent is very clear. Sanders kicks her legs out from underneath her, laying out and YANKING the Army of One Hot Chick down to the mat, Becky's jaw SLAMMING down across Kylie's shoulders. While it might not be the SNAFU in its truest form, in all honesty, the steel chairs had already done most of the work. Kylie's rendition sends the bare chested army brat flopping over to her back, collecting into a shuddering, senseless heap.
The official, as dumbfounded as the fans, watches as Kylie pushes up from her seat and stands in a domineering straddle of one of the icons of power in the organization. Kylie picks up a boot and firmly places it on the cleft of Becky's bare bosom, lifting her hands high overhead.
"Count!" Sanders demands and so the referee does for...
ONE!
TWO!!
It absolutely could NOT end this way... Could it?
THREE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Even though they had just seen it, the FAWNatics refuse to believe it--not as the referee signals to the timekeeper's table, not when the bell sounds, and not even when the ring announcer's voice begins to waft over the sound system. But in spite of their incredulousness, the fact remains. "Ladies and gentlemen," he says, "your winner, via pinfall... KYYYLLLIIIEEE SAAANNNDDDEEERRRSSS!!!!!"
Sanders grinds her boot into Becky's bounty then steps off what's left of the GI. She moves to the ropes, calling for a microphone. Receiving it in short order, she moves it to her lips. "You thought I was going to fade away? It's not happening. Without having to carry your sad little hopes and dreams I can now defeat what you all thought was the greatest Superfriend of all. Hell. I'd beat all those stiffs. Give me Roxie. I'll kick Shea's ass again. Any of them. You all don't want to see what I can do." Kylie drops the mic with a clunk, walks toward a stirring Becky and delivers a hardhearted mushroom stomp for the road before leaving the MPs to clean up the mess.