Post by alyadmirer on Jul 15, 2015 22:33:53 GMT
“Introducing first…hailing from Uriah, Alabama…she stands five feet eight tall and weighs one-hundred and twenty pounds...she is a former FAWN World Champion, and the very first Television Champ... she is...IVY ARMSTRONG!!!”
Ivy Armstrong...
Well-trained through long-standing emotional commitments to Ivy...loved or hated, but never neutral, and always respected...the FAWN throng erupts with a cacophony of cheers and jeers. Long, lithe legs...some might say the most revered in the sport...carry her with a certain saucy nobility down the long aisle way.
Stunning in a red and black satin corset and matching black panties, Ivy reaches out to slap palms and brush fingertips with many of the outstretched hands, while her green eyes scan the crowd for supportive signs. One neatly lettered posterboard read:
“CHARMED, SHE’S SURE.”
Armstrong grins and nods at the author, giving the fan a high-five before making her way to the ring. She climbs the steps and walks along the apron edge to the center of the ropes. There, facing the crowd, she grabs the top rope with both hands extended for leverage, and flips backward, arcing as slowly as possible so that the fans could get a good long look at her gams.
Alighting to the mat, she kicks out of her ring slippers and handed them to a ringside attendant. Armstrong takes a few ginger steps to fully get the feel of the canvas under her now bare feet. Confident the mat would suit her purposes, she dashes to a far corner, leaps up to the middle rope, and holds her arms outstretched, basking in the spotlight.
As pleased as ever that she could still play the crowd so deftly, the redhead jumps lightly to the mat and struts to her corner, doing some last-minute stretches as she awaits her opponent. Yet for all of her seeming nonchalance, those who know how to read the signs can detect traces of tension in the Southern girl’s every motion. Given the history between her and Lockwood, this can hardly come as a surprise. The only question is, can Armstrong use that uneasiness to her advantage, or will it prove to be a chink in her armor?
With the FAWN comfortably situated, appearing as if she owned the ring, the arena’s speakers spark to life with the pounding of Metallica’s “Don’t Tread on Me”. A few scattered ‘Polly Patriots’ shoot to their feet, saluting crisply. The other 98 percent of the FAWNatics make themselves known as Confederates for a night, jeering the xensational xenophobe from Buffalo.
(“DON’T TREAD ON ME":
www.youtube.com/watch?v=FPl2sTo_8-o )
The haters only get louder when the 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.
Polly Lockwood...
Still looking uncomfortable that her lightweight title belt is around the waist of some flying silver-spooned freak of nature and otherwise, Lockwood scowls at the tired, poor unruly masses that deserve to get expelled from our shores.
Polly sports her customary hot pants and bikini top. Lockwood 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.
The ‘True American’ has a new version of Old Glory draped over her shoulders as a cloak, her previous flag pilfered in the post-match assault and battery for which Ivy had never been appropriately prosecuted.
Lockwood crow hops into a jog to the ring, snarling at the moronic hordes who infest this great land, most notably Orlando tonight. She ignores their insults and jeers, taking a swipe at one sign proclaiming ’The South and Ivy are rising again!’ as the ring announcer proclaims her arrival.
“And her opponent…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 AMEREICAN…Polly Lockwood.”
Reaching the ring, the patriot ascends the steel steps. Sliding through the ropes, Lockwood holds the star-spangled banner high. She sneers at Ivy when Armstrong tells her the original is in her den.
Moving to the corner she exchanging her flag for a microphone and walks to the center of the ring, pulling it to her lips.
“Back for more, are we? Your usual confederate cowards know to stop at one loss so I can see you’re your special.”
Lockwood seems delighted at the nearly visible steam rising from Armstrong’s ears.
“You took the symbol of my great land last time we met. This time, I’m going to take a big pound of ivory-skinned flesh out of you. 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 her corner, stretching her arms with tugs of the top rope.
On "The Best of Ivy Armstrong, Vol III" (available on DVD and Blu Ray), the redhead gives an exclusive interview, discussing all of the wisdom her mother (ring legend Belle Butler) has imparted upon her. "And the most important," says she, "is this: Don't get riled."
Sound advice from a veteran who earned her knowledge the hard way, night after night in match after match over the course of a good many years. And while Belle has done a magnificent job training her daughter in the arcane art of wrestling, and while Ivy is certainly clever enough to heed her Mama's advice often enough, the fact of the matter is, for all of her success in FAWN, Ivy is still a young woman, and one prone to impulsiveness.
Particularly when emotions come into play. Now ordinarily, no matter how intense the action in the ring can be, the 'Bama Slamma doesn't generally carry those feelings with her after the final bell has rung. Oh, to be sure, there are a few exceptions to that rule. And prominently featured on that short list is Polly Lockwood. Something about the blonde just causes almost a chemical reaction within Armstrong's mind, bringing her temper to a boil.
In short, Polly riles her up.
And now that girl is opposite Ivy...with her back to the redhead, no less. Before she even realizes she's doing it, Armstrong is dashing across the ring, her bare feet padding silently upon the canvas as she rushes up to her opponent, arms lifted and clasped hands held high, preparing to come crashing down between the unsuspecting Lockwood's shoulder blades.
Perhaps this was precisely what Polly wanted. Perhaps she just got lucky. Or perhaps she's just that damned good. Whatever the case, at the last possible instant, she drops to the mat and lashes out with her boot, knocking her attacker's stems out from under her. The startled redhead's momentum sends her crashing into the corner, her face impacting with the top turnbuckle, and with enough force to turn her lithe body rubbery and leave her glassy-eyed. At the ref's command, the opening bell only now sounds, and already the Southern gal is in a world of hurt...and a world of trouble, too.
Kipping back up to her feet, and unable...not to mention unwilling...to restrain her cobra's smile, Lockwood fills a fist with flowing red hair, and uses it as a handhold to smash Ivy's face repeatedly into the buckle, further stunning her. Armstrong is then roughly shoved around until her back is pressed into the corner, and she gives a discomforted grunt as a judo chop smacks across her chest. Scant second later, she tumbles head over heal through the air, courtesy of a monkey flip, and lands with a thud on her back. Ivy forces herself to sit up, to try and get back into the game as swiftly as possible, but that only affords the blonde the opportunity to sweep a kick to the back of her adversary's skull.
"Too easy," Lockwood purrs as she grabs Armstrong by the hair. "Then again, there's no way in hell you were going to beat me, so why not just take your lumps and let the people enjoy the destruction of the myth of Ivy Armstrong?"
The True American sinks her claws into the redhead’s scalp and draws the Southern Charmer to her feet, Ivy bleating out “HAIR” loudly and clearly. The ref takes a moment to register the complaint before starting his count and Polly releases. She leaps into a star-spangled dropkick that catches Armstrong roughly in the jaw. The auburn-haired Alabaman backpedals into the corner behind her, thumping into the buckles to keep her feet.
Ivy’s chin drops to her chest. Instantly, a risen Lockwood races toward her foe for a patriotic splash. But there’s a little confederate subterfuge involved, as Ivy surges out of the corner toward a head-on collision. But just as they go chest to chest, Lockwood wraps her arms around Ivy’s ivory body and pops her hips, sending Armstrong flying with a belly-to-belly suplex that has Armstrong flipping over the blonde’s shoulder, HIGH into the air, CRASHING to the canvas.
Ivy’s back arches in pain from the impact, a hand reaching for the base of her spine. A smirking Polly points at her right temple.
“There’s a reason the South lost, people. YOU AND HER…PERFECT EXAMPLES!”
Polly offers the crowd a salute that again turns into the vile, one-fingered variety. She strolls to Armstrong, driving a troika of stomps into the lower vertebrae of the FAWN original. Having softened the legend, Polly tugs Ivy to her feet and aims her at the opposite corner. She sets for the Irish Whip but the Bama Slamma counters, only for Polly to counter the counter and send Armstrong racing the short distance to the buckles.
Ivy SLAMS into the corner, her infamous stems giving out as she drops to her alabaster backside, legs extended in front of her. As her head wobbles, Polly gleefully raises her right arm high then sends it down like a starter at a track meet. She takes off on the short sprint to Ivy and leaps with her short, tanned gams in front of her.
THWUMP.
Polly’s ass connects with the confederate’s clavicle, her junk jostling Ivy’s chin as she bounces up and down, using Armstrong like her personal pogo, the bronco buster reaching the full ten-spot before the True American hops away from the glassy baby blues of the dazed Slamma.
“This is what happens when you disrespect me,” Polly shouts, as much at the crowd as the bewildered redhead. “You disrespect America! And I won’t stand for it.”
Lockwood spins to face away from Ivy and backs her red-n-white-striped bum into Ivy’s mug, giving Armstrong a star-spangled swaddle of booty to face. Ivy’s legs flail as she pushes at Polly’s thighs, trying to shove Polly’ cheeks off her nose and lips. But the True American gets plenty of backside to the Slamma’s face before bouncing away when she’s good and ready, leaving a sputtering greasy-faced Ivy in her considerable wake.
The bite-sized hardbody circles the ring, the former two-time lightweight champion in ultra-confident form as she pounds the stars on her chest, ready to take on all comers as she makes her way back to Armstrong. Ending in front of the reclining redhead, Lockwood reaches down to collect Ivy. But when she does, Polly gets a reminder Ivy was once considered one of the dirtiest players in the game, and apparently still could be, the auburn-haired grappler sending a boot rocketing into Polly’s crotch, stopping the True American in her tracks.
Lockwood’s hands fly to the juncture of her thighs, jaw dropping. Silent and frozen, she watches as a glistening Armstrong makes it to vertical. Polly chirps out a plaintive ‘no’, shaking her head as much as she can manage. The ivory-skinned Alabaman straightens the vertically-challenged Lockwood with a European Uppercut and, with Polly on her heels, she grabs a wrist of the “patriot”.
Ivy wraps the right arm of the blonde around the back of her head, clearing a path for a balled right first from the Slamma, Armstrong DRIVING a defibrillating heart punch into the left side of the cleft of Polly’s bosom.
Lockwood’s baby blues cross as the precise wallop to her blood pumper forces her heart to skip at least one beat. Polly spins away from the debilitating blow and gets three steps completed before she faceplants in spectacular fashion, the FAWNatics roaring with approval at a face down and twitching Polly.
Wearily, but with a hint of a Cheshire grin, Armstrong blows some of the “steam” off her fist, flexing her fingers as she stares down at the flattened spasming Lockwood.
“The South will always rise again, sugah,” Ivy informs. “But you, you I’m pretty sure need some help.”
Armstrong grabs Polly’s ankles, folding her lower legs up while stepping on the back of the tanned thighs of the True American. Ivy snakes the blonde’s gams around her own then leans forward, up the back of the slowly stirring Lockwood. She slowly gathers up Polly’s arms at the wrists. Only when both are in her control does Polly realize her dire straits and she begs with Ivy not to…not to…
Ivy rocks then falls backward, rolling to her back and HOISTING Polly HIGH into the air like her own personal curvy little version of Old Glory with a ceiling hold.
(CEILING HOLD:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=f-ZASKnr5jU )
Armstrong’s steel-like stems force Lockwood higher still, Polly suspended, all four limbs and her back tortured in unison by the Slamma.
“Whaddya say Yankee?” Ivy asks sweetly between huffs. “If ya don’t say somethin’ sugah, I might just show ya off all night.”
The blonde could be forgiven for believing her opponent was making good on the "all night" threat. Being made to endure such pain, the victim loses all sense of the passage of time. And make no mistake about it, Polly is in some serious pain, as all of her own weight is being borne upon her shoulders and knees, but those selfsame joints are now being held in a highly unnatural position. The end result is the sort of agony that drives lesser women to screaming submissions within moments.
But Polly Lockwood is no lesser woman. Despite the blinding pain, the tears welling in her eyes, she endures. And every moment that she silences the awful urge to surrender, that is another tick on the clock that Ivy has to bear her aloft. And despite the 'Bama Slamma's bravado, holding the squirming Lockwood up ("Hundred and eighteen pounds my ass...she's one-and-a-quarter easy," the redhead silently observes) is no easy task. Her own limbs begin to go numb from the exertion as fresh beads of sweat break out across her skin. Without her even realizing it, Armstrong's arms dip a bit, pressing her shoulders down to the mat...but the ref catches it, and he drops to his knees to start a three count.
ONE...
TWO...
With a gasp of exasperation, Ivy rolls to her side, throwing Polly off of her and breaking the inadvertent pin. The Southern gal gets up to one knee, right hand massaging her tingling left shoulder as she glares at the blonde, who despite her still-lingering pain, is forcing herself up to all fours, flaxen hair curtaining over her face as her forehead hovers near the canvas. Rising up, the redhead heads not toward her opponent, but instead to the nearest corner, where she deftly scales the ropes and carefully balances herself upon the top strands. Crouched, she awaits her adversary to struggle back up to her feet, back turned to the redhead. As Lockwood almost drunkenly turns around. searching for her foe, she is met by the sight of Armstrong propelling herself from the ropes through the air, extending her fabled stems, and slamming a pair of bare soles into the blonde's chest. As if she's just been struck my a sledgehammer, Polly sails backward, landing on the mat with a pained grunt and skidded to a halt.
The crowd bays with approval as Ivy struts around the ring, arms raised to encourage ever-louder cheers. "Who y'all love most?" she cries out, and she's met with a chorus of I-VEEEEE! I-VEEEEE! I-VEEEE! Polly simply lays on her back, glazed eyes staring up at the arena lights. Armstrong, not one to pass up a chance for an even more spectacular move, again climbs the corner, this time intent on delivering an aerial splash that will wipe out the blonde once and for all. However, over-enthusiasm and exhaustion come into play as the redhead tries to scale the ropes a bit too quickly, and she loses her footing. She regains herself within moments and begins her ascension again, but that brief delay has gifted Lockwood with a precious few seconds, and she aims to make the most of them.
Sitting up, the blonde shakes her head, then forces herself up to her feet. As Ivy cautiously turns herself around on the top ropes in order to face the ring, she is startled to suddenly find her adversary there. A fist to the breadbasket winds the Southerner, allowing the Real American to climb up to the middle ropes. Pulling Armstrong's head under her left arm, Polly fills her right hand with her opponent's panties, and with a grunt she hoists Ivy up off of the ropes, depositing her back to the canvas with a DDT!
The impact has taken the starch out of both beauties, and they each lay there, moaning in pain, as the referee begins his desultory count to twenty.
But acting on behalf of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln and all other great Americans, Polly Patriot slowly rolls to her chest and pushes to all fours. She crawls to the splayed Armstrong and throws her body atop, chest across chest in perpendicular fashion. The ref is instantly at the ready and slaps the canvas for...
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOOO!
The Bama Slamma shifts a shoulder off the canvas, weakly to be sure, but that hardly matters when it stops the official’s hand a few inches off the deck. If Lockwood had been in shape to keep the hammer down, she might have been a winner, but instead Ivy flops to her side, halfway out from under the bite-sized blonde hardbody.
Still moving in slow motion, Polly pushes up and, with a handful of auburn mop, tugs Armstrong up with her, bullying the ivory-skinned ragdolly into a corner where she inserts a couple right-left combos deep into Armstrong’s navel. With the Southern Charmer bowed and breathless, Lockwood cups her foe’s chin to raise her target slightly and LIGHTS UP Ivy’s chest with a wicked backhand chop that reverberates through the Orlando night.
“Is it too spot on to make you red, white and blue?” Polly asks intently before taking a big lolly lick of her open palm and connecting with Armstrong’s chest again AND AGAIN. Ivy’s lids clench in pain a soft mewl escaping her pursed lips as she’s rocked back on her heels after each.
Taking Armstrong by the scruff of the neck, she leads the pain-racked confederate halfway down the ropes where Polly exchanges her grip for a wrist. Lockwood points her increasingly bitter foe toward the opposite strands and crow hops toward the middle, flinging the Bama Slamma on her way.
Or that was the plan. The redhead hangs on and, clamping to the True American’s wrist, makes a violent u-turn into a more violent clothesline across Polly’s tanned chest, sending Lockwood cartwheeling over the cables.
Before the diminutive flaxen-haired hardbody tumbles to the cement below, she snatches the top rope, precariously keeping herself on the apron, though doubled over. Seeing and almost not believing, Ivy sprints in the opposite direction to add extra momentum to her attack. She sprints at the former lightweight champ after the rebound, only to be DESTROYED by a perfectly timed Lockwood Lunge.
(LOCKWOOD LUNGE:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=bX4B0_6k_rM )
Polly uses the ropes as a slingshot and renters like a patriot missile from the outside, slipping between the top and middle cables and spearing the Winn-Dixie right out of the gutted Armstrong. The crowd groans in sympathy pain as their beloved Charmer is laid out in a spreadeagle.
But Polly doesn’t pin. She rolls her right shoulder and rises instead, a malicious grin firmly plastered, perfect pearlies emerging as she kicks/encourages the matbound second generation superstar to her chest. After accomplishing said task, she backs to the nearest corner, enjoying the sight of her foe’s condition.
“O say can you see,” Lockwood shouts above the din, climbing to a perch on the top buckle and measuring the splayed Armstrong. “Me kick this hick’s ass?”
Polly Patriot skies from the heights, reaching up where the red rockets might glare. Her flawless, sinewy, tanned frame tucks in tight at its zenith and spreads wide on the way down until she CRASHES across Ivy’s exposed back, the Lockwood Leap sending an ‘OHHH’ through the crowd and a heavy spasm through what’s left of Ivy.
Like she’s shoveling over a shapely bag of wet cement, the True American pushes the blasted redhead to her back and cradles her up for the pin and the win…
ONE…
TWO…
THRENOOO!
Somehow, Ivy gathers up another spasm, this one voluntary, and escapes to the crowd’s delight and Polly’s incredulity. Lockwood stares first at Ivy, who continues to amaze by trying to push to all fours and crawl away, but also the defensive referee, who holds up two fingers even before Polly protests.
“I swear…” Lockwood swallows the rest, pushing to her feet while leaving Armstrong on hands and knees.
Polly takes a detour to the outside, by the corner closest to the Southern fried redhead. Ivy is up to one knee when the blonde turns and grabs hold of the top cable, waiting as the dazed Armstrong wobbles to vertical and turns toward Lockwood’s station.
Instantly, Polly leaps to a froggy stance on the uppermost strand and springboards toward her target to finish off Alabama’s finest with the Polly Rocket.
(POLLY ROCKET:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=XKWI-rr-T7I )
But as she soars toward Ivy, Armstrong reacts, rotating away from Lockwood’s grasp for a front facelock. Instead it’s Poly’s noggin ending tight in a ¾ version of Armstrong’s. With perfect timing, Ivy lays out and delivers what may be the most devastating stunner ever seen in a FAWN ring.
Polly’s jaw THUMPs off the canvas with enough force she bounces up to standing, but no lights are on in Lockwood’s Old North Church. She takes a faltering step before faceplanting into the canvas and shuddering to lifelessness.
Ivy pushes herself up to a standing position, but instantly her balance goes and she side-pedals, managing to catch herself on the ropes to prevent a complete spill back to the canvas. She hangs on the strands, panting heavily for breath, her scarlet mane a tangled mop upon her head, her apple blossom white skin glistening with perspiration under the harsh arena lights. But as bedraggled as she may appear physically, in spirit she is a veritable Venus Rising. Not daring to afford any more precious seconds for her own recover, less the particularly resilient blonde also manage to gather her wits, Armstrong pushes off of the ropes and limps over to Lockwood, still face-down on the mat with limbs splayed. At any earlier part of this battle, the 'Bama Slamma would have moved to execute a complex submission hold. Now however, as spent as she is and running on the dregs of power, she resorts to a good old-fashioned tactic known as 'Stompin' a Mud Hole'.
Raising her right foot, the Southerner drives a heel stomp to the back of Polly's skull. The Yank gives a pained grunt and with a groan she rolls over onto her back, hands clutching the base of her braincase. However, making the 180 degree spin takes America's Avenging Angel from bad to worse, as the sneering Ivy drops a hail storm of foot stomps to Lockwood's belly and the two pert globes that are her breasts. The referee finally deems enough is enough, and he orders Armstrong to cease and desist. She steps over the quivering body of her adversary to argue the point...with her left foot coyly stepping behind and pressing down across the throat of the blonde, who now thrashes haplessly, her hands clutching her tormentor's ankle. The zebra finally spots what's happening and he makes the redhead halt, letting the now-purple faced Polly gasps for breath.
Strutting around and truly feeling her oats now, Armstrong grasps her rival's legs and throws herself backward, subjecting Lockwood to a slingshot that sends her sailing halfway across the ring, only to unceremoniously skid face-first to a halt on the mat. In that position, she's in the perfect spot for what the fans hope and pray comes next. From the sway in Ivy's hips as she saunters over to the embattled blonde, and then when the Southern gal drops to a seat above Polly's head, prayers are answered and hope gives way to a roar of joyous pandemonium as Armstrong's long, lithe legs clamp tight around Lockwood's skull, her steely thighs already tightening even before the ankles are locked. Ordinarily with the Southern Charm, the redhead grabs her victim's wrists to immobilize her arms, but some spark of survival deep within Polly's fog-shrouded brain commanded her arms to move out of Armstrong's grip. But whether having use of her hands can be of any salvation to Lockwood seems doubtful, as her mug is pressed into the warmth of Ivy's cotton-covered groin, smothering away almost any breath which Polly can draw. Clearly, time can be measured in seconds now, not minutes.
And no one knows that better than the plagued patriot herself. Working solely on instinct, she presses her palms to the mat and, with a muffled grunt, pushes herself up enough to lift Armstrong's hips several inches up...just enough for Lockwood to swiftly slip her hands under her tormentor's thighs, fingers upturned. The blonde's raptor-like talons then dig into the soft, pale crescent of flesh beneath Ivy's buttocks in an impromptu sort of hammy clamp.
The Southern Miss lets loose with an anguished howl and...completely against their mistress's command...her legs snap open. Thus freed, Polly takes a deep gulp of air as she gets to her knees, and then she slams a double axe-handle blow to Armstrong's tummy, sending her abs a-quivering as she rolls over to her side.
Lockwood attempts to climb to her feet, but she loses her balance and sends her down on her butt. This seems to only enrage her further, and with an animalistic roar she forces herself up. Simultaneous with this, Armstrong likewise rises up to her feet, but while the Buffalo Battler seems driven with a primeval fury, her redheaded rival remains focused and calm, despite her aches and exhaustion. Polly lunges for Ivy, but rather than side-stepping the clumsy charge, Armstrong deftly grabs Lockwood by her flaxen tresses, forces her head down, and with a blur of motion drives three kneelifts up into Polly's forehead. Parallel with the third blow, the 'Bama Slamma releases her hold on her foe's mane, and Lockwood sails backward to the canvas, flopping down upon it like a salmon tossed to the deck of a fisherman's boat.
Defying expectations, Ivy neither goes for a pin, nor does she attempt to re-institute the Southern Charm. Instead, she gives her fans a thrill...and Polly's fans a chill...by unleashing a secondary finisher she has not had opportunity to employ for ages: the Pray for Mercy.
Forced onto her knees, the badly stunned blonde offers only feeble resistance as her head is lifted up and backward. Armstrong then steps across her victim's shoulders, straddling Lockwood's head as she applies a reverse scissorhold to her skull, Polly's mouth and nose once more snuggled firmly against her adversary's crotch. From her position however, Lockwood is forced to look up into the eyes of her tormentor. And this time, Armstrong is sure to hold tight to the Yankee Clipper's wrists, immobilizing her arms. Polly's visible face turns a deep shade of crimson, the coloration being equal parts rage and lack of oxygen.
Finally, her eyelids flutter shut and her body goes limp, although she is still held firm between Ivy's milky thighs. Armstrong releases one wrist, allowing the referee to raise the limb, only to watch it limply fall...
ONCE...
TWICE...
THRICE.
The bell tolls, and an ecstatic Ivy releases her hold, allowing Polly to collapse as if she were a marionette whose strings had been cut, while the beaming redhead raises both arms in a show of hard-won triumph.
As the battered beaten ‘patriot’ pools at Armstrong’s feet in a mottled bronzed mess, the bite-sized hardbody broken, Ivy places a boot atop the flat tummy of Polly and raises a fist high, pumping it toward the rafters. She turns to the nearest lens.
“Mark it down ladies. Like Lockwood will when she wakes up. The South not only will rise again…starting now…it has.”
Ivy Armstrong...
Well-trained through long-standing emotional commitments to Ivy...loved or hated, but never neutral, and always respected...the FAWN throng erupts with a cacophony of cheers and jeers. Long, lithe legs...some might say the most revered in the sport...carry her with a certain saucy nobility down the long aisle way.
Stunning in a red and black satin corset and matching black panties, Ivy reaches out to slap palms and brush fingertips with many of the outstretched hands, while her green eyes scan the crowd for supportive signs. One neatly lettered posterboard read:
“CHARMED, SHE’S SURE.”
Armstrong grins and nods at the author, giving the fan a high-five before making her way to the ring. She climbs the steps and walks along the apron edge to the center of the ropes. There, facing the crowd, she grabs the top rope with both hands extended for leverage, and flips backward, arcing as slowly as possible so that the fans could get a good long look at her gams.
Alighting to the mat, she kicks out of her ring slippers and handed them to a ringside attendant. Armstrong takes a few ginger steps to fully get the feel of the canvas under her now bare feet. Confident the mat would suit her purposes, she dashes to a far corner, leaps up to the middle rope, and holds her arms outstretched, basking in the spotlight.
As pleased as ever that she could still play the crowd so deftly, the redhead jumps lightly to the mat and struts to her corner, doing some last-minute stretches as she awaits her opponent. Yet for all of her seeming nonchalance, those who know how to read the signs can detect traces of tension in the Southern girl’s every motion. Given the history between her and Lockwood, this can hardly come as a surprise. The only question is, can Armstrong use that uneasiness to her advantage, or will it prove to be a chink in her armor?
With the FAWN comfortably situated, appearing as if she owned the ring, the arena’s speakers spark to life with the pounding of Metallica’s “Don’t Tread on Me”. A few scattered ‘Polly Patriots’ shoot to their feet, saluting crisply. The other 98 percent of the FAWNatics make themselves known as Confederates for a night, jeering the xensational xenophobe from Buffalo.
(“DON’T TREAD ON ME":
www.youtube.com/watch?v=FPl2sTo_8-o )
The haters only get louder when the 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.
Polly Lockwood...
Still looking uncomfortable that her lightweight title belt is around the waist of some flying silver-spooned freak of nature and otherwise, Lockwood scowls at the tired, poor unruly masses that deserve to get expelled from our shores.
Polly sports her customary hot pants and bikini top. Lockwood 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.
The ‘True American’ has a new version of Old Glory draped over her shoulders as a cloak, her previous flag pilfered in the post-match assault and battery for which Ivy had never been appropriately prosecuted.
Lockwood crow hops into a jog to the ring, snarling at the moronic hordes who infest this great land, most notably Orlando tonight. She ignores their insults and jeers, taking a swipe at one sign proclaiming ’The South and Ivy are rising again!’ as the ring announcer proclaims her arrival.
“And her opponent…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 AMEREICAN…Polly Lockwood.”
Reaching the ring, the patriot ascends the steel steps. Sliding through the ropes, Lockwood holds the star-spangled banner high. She sneers at Ivy when Armstrong tells her the original is in her den.
Moving to the corner she exchanging her flag for a microphone and walks to the center of the ring, pulling it to her lips.
“Back for more, are we? Your usual confederate cowards know to stop at one loss so I can see you’re your special.”
Lockwood seems delighted at the nearly visible steam rising from Armstrong’s ears.
“You took the symbol of my great land last time we met. This time, I’m going to take a big pound of ivory-skinned flesh out of you. 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 her corner, stretching her arms with tugs of the top rope.
On "The Best of Ivy Armstrong, Vol III" (available on DVD and Blu Ray), the redhead gives an exclusive interview, discussing all of the wisdom her mother (ring legend Belle Butler) has imparted upon her. "And the most important," says she, "is this: Don't get riled."
Sound advice from a veteran who earned her knowledge the hard way, night after night in match after match over the course of a good many years. And while Belle has done a magnificent job training her daughter in the arcane art of wrestling, and while Ivy is certainly clever enough to heed her Mama's advice often enough, the fact of the matter is, for all of her success in FAWN, Ivy is still a young woman, and one prone to impulsiveness.
Particularly when emotions come into play. Now ordinarily, no matter how intense the action in the ring can be, the 'Bama Slamma doesn't generally carry those feelings with her after the final bell has rung. Oh, to be sure, there are a few exceptions to that rule. And prominently featured on that short list is Polly Lockwood. Something about the blonde just causes almost a chemical reaction within Armstrong's mind, bringing her temper to a boil.
In short, Polly riles her up.
And now that girl is opposite Ivy...with her back to the redhead, no less. Before she even realizes she's doing it, Armstrong is dashing across the ring, her bare feet padding silently upon the canvas as she rushes up to her opponent, arms lifted and clasped hands held high, preparing to come crashing down between the unsuspecting Lockwood's shoulder blades.
Perhaps this was precisely what Polly wanted. Perhaps she just got lucky. Or perhaps she's just that damned good. Whatever the case, at the last possible instant, she drops to the mat and lashes out with her boot, knocking her attacker's stems out from under her. The startled redhead's momentum sends her crashing into the corner, her face impacting with the top turnbuckle, and with enough force to turn her lithe body rubbery and leave her glassy-eyed. At the ref's command, the opening bell only now sounds, and already the Southern gal is in a world of hurt...and a world of trouble, too.
Kipping back up to her feet, and unable...not to mention unwilling...to restrain her cobra's smile, Lockwood fills a fist with flowing red hair, and uses it as a handhold to smash Ivy's face repeatedly into the buckle, further stunning her. Armstrong is then roughly shoved around until her back is pressed into the corner, and she gives a discomforted grunt as a judo chop smacks across her chest. Scant second later, she tumbles head over heal through the air, courtesy of a monkey flip, and lands with a thud on her back. Ivy forces herself to sit up, to try and get back into the game as swiftly as possible, but that only affords the blonde the opportunity to sweep a kick to the back of her adversary's skull.
"Too easy," Lockwood purrs as she grabs Armstrong by the hair. "Then again, there's no way in hell you were going to beat me, so why not just take your lumps and let the people enjoy the destruction of the myth of Ivy Armstrong?"
The True American sinks her claws into the redhead’s scalp and draws the Southern Charmer to her feet, Ivy bleating out “HAIR” loudly and clearly. The ref takes a moment to register the complaint before starting his count and Polly releases. She leaps into a star-spangled dropkick that catches Armstrong roughly in the jaw. The auburn-haired Alabaman backpedals into the corner behind her, thumping into the buckles to keep her feet.
Ivy’s chin drops to her chest. Instantly, a risen Lockwood races toward her foe for a patriotic splash. But there’s a little confederate subterfuge involved, as Ivy surges out of the corner toward a head-on collision. But just as they go chest to chest, Lockwood wraps her arms around Ivy’s ivory body and pops her hips, sending Armstrong flying with a belly-to-belly suplex that has Armstrong flipping over the blonde’s shoulder, HIGH into the air, CRASHING to the canvas.
Ivy’s back arches in pain from the impact, a hand reaching for the base of her spine. A smirking Polly points at her right temple.
“There’s a reason the South lost, people. YOU AND HER…PERFECT EXAMPLES!”
Polly offers the crowd a salute that again turns into the vile, one-fingered variety. She strolls to Armstrong, driving a troika of stomps into the lower vertebrae of the FAWN original. Having softened the legend, Polly tugs Ivy to her feet and aims her at the opposite corner. She sets for the Irish Whip but the Bama Slamma counters, only for Polly to counter the counter and send Armstrong racing the short distance to the buckles.
Ivy SLAMS into the corner, her infamous stems giving out as she drops to her alabaster backside, legs extended in front of her. As her head wobbles, Polly gleefully raises her right arm high then sends it down like a starter at a track meet. She takes off on the short sprint to Ivy and leaps with her short, tanned gams in front of her.
THWUMP.
Polly’s ass connects with the confederate’s clavicle, her junk jostling Ivy’s chin as she bounces up and down, using Armstrong like her personal pogo, the bronco buster reaching the full ten-spot before the True American hops away from the glassy baby blues of the dazed Slamma.
“This is what happens when you disrespect me,” Polly shouts, as much at the crowd as the bewildered redhead. “You disrespect America! And I won’t stand for it.”
Lockwood spins to face away from Ivy and backs her red-n-white-striped bum into Ivy’s mug, giving Armstrong a star-spangled swaddle of booty to face. Ivy’s legs flail as she pushes at Polly’s thighs, trying to shove Polly’ cheeks off her nose and lips. But the True American gets plenty of backside to the Slamma’s face before bouncing away when she’s good and ready, leaving a sputtering greasy-faced Ivy in her considerable wake.
The bite-sized hardbody circles the ring, the former two-time lightweight champion in ultra-confident form as she pounds the stars on her chest, ready to take on all comers as she makes her way back to Armstrong. Ending in front of the reclining redhead, Lockwood reaches down to collect Ivy. But when she does, Polly gets a reminder Ivy was once considered one of the dirtiest players in the game, and apparently still could be, the auburn-haired grappler sending a boot rocketing into Polly’s crotch, stopping the True American in her tracks.
Lockwood’s hands fly to the juncture of her thighs, jaw dropping. Silent and frozen, she watches as a glistening Armstrong makes it to vertical. Polly chirps out a plaintive ‘no’, shaking her head as much as she can manage. The ivory-skinned Alabaman straightens the vertically-challenged Lockwood with a European Uppercut and, with Polly on her heels, she grabs a wrist of the “patriot”.
Ivy wraps the right arm of the blonde around the back of her head, clearing a path for a balled right first from the Slamma, Armstrong DRIVING a defibrillating heart punch into the left side of the cleft of Polly’s bosom.
Lockwood’s baby blues cross as the precise wallop to her blood pumper forces her heart to skip at least one beat. Polly spins away from the debilitating blow and gets three steps completed before she faceplants in spectacular fashion, the FAWNatics roaring with approval at a face down and twitching Polly.
Wearily, but with a hint of a Cheshire grin, Armstrong blows some of the “steam” off her fist, flexing her fingers as she stares down at the flattened spasming Lockwood.
“The South will always rise again, sugah,” Ivy informs. “But you, you I’m pretty sure need some help.”
Armstrong grabs Polly’s ankles, folding her lower legs up while stepping on the back of the tanned thighs of the True American. Ivy snakes the blonde’s gams around her own then leans forward, up the back of the slowly stirring Lockwood. She slowly gathers up Polly’s arms at the wrists. Only when both are in her control does Polly realize her dire straits and she begs with Ivy not to…not to…
Ivy rocks then falls backward, rolling to her back and HOISTING Polly HIGH into the air like her own personal curvy little version of Old Glory with a ceiling hold.
(CEILING HOLD:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=f-ZASKnr5jU )
Armstrong’s steel-like stems force Lockwood higher still, Polly suspended, all four limbs and her back tortured in unison by the Slamma.
“Whaddya say Yankee?” Ivy asks sweetly between huffs. “If ya don’t say somethin’ sugah, I might just show ya off all night.”
The blonde could be forgiven for believing her opponent was making good on the "all night" threat. Being made to endure such pain, the victim loses all sense of the passage of time. And make no mistake about it, Polly is in some serious pain, as all of her own weight is being borne upon her shoulders and knees, but those selfsame joints are now being held in a highly unnatural position. The end result is the sort of agony that drives lesser women to screaming submissions within moments.
But Polly Lockwood is no lesser woman. Despite the blinding pain, the tears welling in her eyes, she endures. And every moment that she silences the awful urge to surrender, that is another tick on the clock that Ivy has to bear her aloft. And despite the 'Bama Slamma's bravado, holding the squirming Lockwood up ("Hundred and eighteen pounds my ass...she's one-and-a-quarter easy," the redhead silently observes) is no easy task. Her own limbs begin to go numb from the exertion as fresh beads of sweat break out across her skin. Without her even realizing it, Armstrong's arms dip a bit, pressing her shoulders down to the mat...but the ref catches it, and he drops to his knees to start a three count.
ONE...
TWO...
With a gasp of exasperation, Ivy rolls to her side, throwing Polly off of her and breaking the inadvertent pin. The Southern gal gets up to one knee, right hand massaging her tingling left shoulder as she glares at the blonde, who despite her still-lingering pain, is forcing herself up to all fours, flaxen hair curtaining over her face as her forehead hovers near the canvas. Rising up, the redhead heads not toward her opponent, but instead to the nearest corner, where she deftly scales the ropes and carefully balances herself upon the top strands. Crouched, she awaits her adversary to struggle back up to her feet, back turned to the redhead. As Lockwood almost drunkenly turns around. searching for her foe, she is met by the sight of Armstrong propelling herself from the ropes through the air, extending her fabled stems, and slamming a pair of bare soles into the blonde's chest. As if she's just been struck my a sledgehammer, Polly sails backward, landing on the mat with a pained grunt and skidded to a halt.
The crowd bays with approval as Ivy struts around the ring, arms raised to encourage ever-louder cheers. "Who y'all love most?" she cries out, and she's met with a chorus of I-VEEEEE! I-VEEEEE! I-VEEEE! Polly simply lays on her back, glazed eyes staring up at the arena lights. Armstrong, not one to pass up a chance for an even more spectacular move, again climbs the corner, this time intent on delivering an aerial splash that will wipe out the blonde once and for all. However, over-enthusiasm and exhaustion come into play as the redhead tries to scale the ropes a bit too quickly, and she loses her footing. She regains herself within moments and begins her ascension again, but that brief delay has gifted Lockwood with a precious few seconds, and she aims to make the most of them.
Sitting up, the blonde shakes her head, then forces herself up to her feet. As Ivy cautiously turns herself around on the top ropes in order to face the ring, she is startled to suddenly find her adversary there. A fist to the breadbasket winds the Southerner, allowing the Real American to climb up to the middle ropes. Pulling Armstrong's head under her left arm, Polly fills her right hand with her opponent's panties, and with a grunt she hoists Ivy up off of the ropes, depositing her back to the canvas with a DDT!
The impact has taken the starch out of both beauties, and they each lay there, moaning in pain, as the referee begins his desultory count to twenty.
But acting on behalf of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln and all other great Americans, Polly Patriot slowly rolls to her chest and pushes to all fours. She crawls to the splayed Armstrong and throws her body atop, chest across chest in perpendicular fashion. The ref is instantly at the ready and slaps the canvas for...
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOOO!
The Bama Slamma shifts a shoulder off the canvas, weakly to be sure, but that hardly matters when it stops the official’s hand a few inches off the deck. If Lockwood had been in shape to keep the hammer down, she might have been a winner, but instead Ivy flops to her side, halfway out from under the bite-sized blonde hardbody.
Still moving in slow motion, Polly pushes up and, with a handful of auburn mop, tugs Armstrong up with her, bullying the ivory-skinned ragdolly into a corner where she inserts a couple right-left combos deep into Armstrong’s navel. With the Southern Charmer bowed and breathless, Lockwood cups her foe’s chin to raise her target slightly and LIGHTS UP Ivy’s chest with a wicked backhand chop that reverberates through the Orlando night.
“Is it too spot on to make you red, white and blue?” Polly asks intently before taking a big lolly lick of her open palm and connecting with Armstrong’s chest again AND AGAIN. Ivy’s lids clench in pain a soft mewl escaping her pursed lips as she’s rocked back on her heels after each.
Taking Armstrong by the scruff of the neck, she leads the pain-racked confederate halfway down the ropes where Polly exchanges her grip for a wrist. Lockwood points her increasingly bitter foe toward the opposite strands and crow hops toward the middle, flinging the Bama Slamma on her way.
Or that was the plan. The redhead hangs on and, clamping to the True American’s wrist, makes a violent u-turn into a more violent clothesline across Polly’s tanned chest, sending Lockwood cartwheeling over the cables.
Before the diminutive flaxen-haired hardbody tumbles to the cement below, she snatches the top rope, precariously keeping herself on the apron, though doubled over. Seeing and almost not believing, Ivy sprints in the opposite direction to add extra momentum to her attack. She sprints at the former lightweight champ after the rebound, only to be DESTROYED by a perfectly timed Lockwood Lunge.
(LOCKWOOD LUNGE:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=bX4B0_6k_rM )
Polly uses the ropes as a slingshot and renters like a patriot missile from the outside, slipping between the top and middle cables and spearing the Winn-Dixie right out of the gutted Armstrong. The crowd groans in sympathy pain as their beloved Charmer is laid out in a spreadeagle.
But Polly doesn’t pin. She rolls her right shoulder and rises instead, a malicious grin firmly plastered, perfect pearlies emerging as she kicks/encourages the matbound second generation superstar to her chest. After accomplishing said task, she backs to the nearest corner, enjoying the sight of her foe’s condition.
“O say can you see,” Lockwood shouts above the din, climbing to a perch on the top buckle and measuring the splayed Armstrong. “Me kick this hick’s ass?”
Polly Patriot skies from the heights, reaching up where the red rockets might glare. Her flawless, sinewy, tanned frame tucks in tight at its zenith and spreads wide on the way down until she CRASHES across Ivy’s exposed back, the Lockwood Leap sending an ‘OHHH’ through the crowd and a heavy spasm through what’s left of Ivy.
Like she’s shoveling over a shapely bag of wet cement, the True American pushes the blasted redhead to her back and cradles her up for the pin and the win…
ONE…
TWO…
THRENOOO!
Somehow, Ivy gathers up another spasm, this one voluntary, and escapes to the crowd’s delight and Polly’s incredulity. Lockwood stares first at Ivy, who continues to amaze by trying to push to all fours and crawl away, but also the defensive referee, who holds up two fingers even before Polly protests.
“I swear…” Lockwood swallows the rest, pushing to her feet while leaving Armstrong on hands and knees.
Polly takes a detour to the outside, by the corner closest to the Southern fried redhead. Ivy is up to one knee when the blonde turns and grabs hold of the top cable, waiting as the dazed Armstrong wobbles to vertical and turns toward Lockwood’s station.
Instantly, Polly leaps to a froggy stance on the uppermost strand and springboards toward her target to finish off Alabama’s finest with the Polly Rocket.
(POLLY ROCKET:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=XKWI-rr-T7I )
But as she soars toward Ivy, Armstrong reacts, rotating away from Lockwood’s grasp for a front facelock. Instead it’s Poly’s noggin ending tight in a ¾ version of Armstrong’s. With perfect timing, Ivy lays out and delivers what may be the most devastating stunner ever seen in a FAWN ring.
Polly’s jaw THUMPs off the canvas with enough force she bounces up to standing, but no lights are on in Lockwood’s Old North Church. She takes a faltering step before faceplanting into the canvas and shuddering to lifelessness.
Ivy pushes herself up to a standing position, but instantly her balance goes and she side-pedals, managing to catch herself on the ropes to prevent a complete spill back to the canvas. She hangs on the strands, panting heavily for breath, her scarlet mane a tangled mop upon her head, her apple blossom white skin glistening with perspiration under the harsh arena lights. But as bedraggled as she may appear physically, in spirit she is a veritable Venus Rising. Not daring to afford any more precious seconds for her own recover, less the particularly resilient blonde also manage to gather her wits, Armstrong pushes off of the ropes and limps over to Lockwood, still face-down on the mat with limbs splayed. At any earlier part of this battle, the 'Bama Slamma would have moved to execute a complex submission hold. Now however, as spent as she is and running on the dregs of power, she resorts to a good old-fashioned tactic known as 'Stompin' a Mud Hole'.
Raising her right foot, the Southerner drives a heel stomp to the back of Polly's skull. The Yank gives a pained grunt and with a groan she rolls over onto her back, hands clutching the base of her braincase. However, making the 180 degree spin takes America's Avenging Angel from bad to worse, as the sneering Ivy drops a hail storm of foot stomps to Lockwood's belly and the two pert globes that are her breasts. The referee finally deems enough is enough, and he orders Armstrong to cease and desist. She steps over the quivering body of her adversary to argue the point...with her left foot coyly stepping behind and pressing down across the throat of the blonde, who now thrashes haplessly, her hands clutching her tormentor's ankle. The zebra finally spots what's happening and he makes the redhead halt, letting the now-purple faced Polly gasps for breath.
Strutting around and truly feeling her oats now, Armstrong grasps her rival's legs and throws herself backward, subjecting Lockwood to a slingshot that sends her sailing halfway across the ring, only to unceremoniously skid face-first to a halt on the mat. In that position, she's in the perfect spot for what the fans hope and pray comes next. From the sway in Ivy's hips as she saunters over to the embattled blonde, and then when the Southern gal drops to a seat above Polly's head, prayers are answered and hope gives way to a roar of joyous pandemonium as Armstrong's long, lithe legs clamp tight around Lockwood's skull, her steely thighs already tightening even before the ankles are locked. Ordinarily with the Southern Charm, the redhead grabs her victim's wrists to immobilize her arms, but some spark of survival deep within Polly's fog-shrouded brain commanded her arms to move out of Armstrong's grip. But whether having use of her hands can be of any salvation to Lockwood seems doubtful, as her mug is pressed into the warmth of Ivy's cotton-covered groin, smothering away almost any breath which Polly can draw. Clearly, time can be measured in seconds now, not minutes.
And no one knows that better than the plagued patriot herself. Working solely on instinct, she presses her palms to the mat and, with a muffled grunt, pushes herself up enough to lift Armstrong's hips several inches up...just enough for Lockwood to swiftly slip her hands under her tormentor's thighs, fingers upturned. The blonde's raptor-like talons then dig into the soft, pale crescent of flesh beneath Ivy's buttocks in an impromptu sort of hammy clamp.
The Southern Miss lets loose with an anguished howl and...completely against their mistress's command...her legs snap open. Thus freed, Polly takes a deep gulp of air as she gets to her knees, and then she slams a double axe-handle blow to Armstrong's tummy, sending her abs a-quivering as she rolls over to her side.
Lockwood attempts to climb to her feet, but she loses her balance and sends her down on her butt. This seems to only enrage her further, and with an animalistic roar she forces herself up. Simultaneous with this, Armstrong likewise rises up to her feet, but while the Buffalo Battler seems driven with a primeval fury, her redheaded rival remains focused and calm, despite her aches and exhaustion. Polly lunges for Ivy, but rather than side-stepping the clumsy charge, Armstrong deftly grabs Lockwood by her flaxen tresses, forces her head down, and with a blur of motion drives three kneelifts up into Polly's forehead. Parallel with the third blow, the 'Bama Slamma releases her hold on her foe's mane, and Lockwood sails backward to the canvas, flopping down upon it like a salmon tossed to the deck of a fisherman's boat.
Defying expectations, Ivy neither goes for a pin, nor does she attempt to re-institute the Southern Charm. Instead, she gives her fans a thrill...and Polly's fans a chill...by unleashing a secondary finisher she has not had opportunity to employ for ages: the Pray for Mercy.
Forced onto her knees, the badly stunned blonde offers only feeble resistance as her head is lifted up and backward. Armstrong then steps across her victim's shoulders, straddling Lockwood's head as she applies a reverse scissorhold to her skull, Polly's mouth and nose once more snuggled firmly against her adversary's crotch. From her position however, Lockwood is forced to look up into the eyes of her tormentor. And this time, Armstrong is sure to hold tight to the Yankee Clipper's wrists, immobilizing her arms. Polly's visible face turns a deep shade of crimson, the coloration being equal parts rage and lack of oxygen.
Finally, her eyelids flutter shut and her body goes limp, although she is still held firm between Ivy's milky thighs. Armstrong releases one wrist, allowing the referee to raise the limb, only to watch it limply fall...
ONCE...
TWICE...
THRICE.
The bell tolls, and an ecstatic Ivy releases her hold, allowing Polly to collapse as if she were a marionette whose strings had been cut, while the beaming redhead raises both arms in a show of hard-won triumph.
As the battered beaten ‘patriot’ pools at Armstrong’s feet in a mottled bronzed mess, the bite-sized hardbody broken, Ivy places a boot atop the flat tummy of Polly and raises a fist high, pumping it toward the rafters. She turns to the nearest lens.
“Mark it down ladies. Like Lockwood will when she wakes up. The South not only will rise again…starting now…it has.”