Post by alyadmirer on Aug 21, 2015 0:58:35 GMT
With Summertime Bruise down to its final set of contusions, the sound of The Clash fills the arena. The crowd displays its disapproval in thunderous fashion, not waiting for the former beloved Pleasant Valley Princess to emerge, apparently to hand pick her next World Title challenger.
But before the newest and gilded member of the Associates appears, part of her entourage beats the titleholder to the punch. Emerging first is the power of VanBuren & Associates, the junior partner and Portia’s protégé, Alexis Suguitan.
ALEXIS SUGUITAN:
The Filipino catfighter looks to die in her battle fatigues, a set of red velvet bra and panties with sheer red stockings on long copper-skinned stems.
At her side is the organization’s lead counsel and ring technician. Rachel Raker is also ready for war, if a stylish one. The Fixer’s in her familiar sleeveless crimson one piece featuring a plunging ‘V’ neckline, wide lapels, an exceptionally high military style collar and three shiny black buttons descending in a straight line from the tip of the ‘V’ to just below her navel. The look was completed with glossy black pads and boots.
RACHEL RAKER:
Present in her hands is Raker’s ubiquitous clipboard and on it the familiar legal pad. Many in the stands look for a sign of tension between the two, Suguitan having treated Rachel’s sister rather harshly earlier in the night, but all seems well as the duo moves to center stage. They each look in the direction from whence they came and the elfin blonde icon appears.
The roar of jet engines could hardly be louder as the former Kylie Corps and every other manner of FAWNatic level their hatred at the woman on the top of the mountain at ear-splitting levels.
As Kylie tosses her platinum, shoulder-length locks, she carries a sporty, beige Louis Vuitton handbag over her shoulder, on the other is FAWN’s biggest prize, the reward for over a dozen years of hard work and a dozen months of being a backstabbing bytch.
PORTIA VANBUREN:
If the echoing jeers are loud, and they are, they only double when a few steps behind, Fortune’s Favorite follows. Together the two blondes gaze over the crowd with sly grins, shoulder to shoulder. What would have been a bad dream in the past now a sickeningly frequent sight over the past months.
VanBuren and Sanders join Raker and Suguitan, the Associates in full force tonight, which, at least in the heads of the crowd, perhaps means a top-of-the-line challenger would be tackled. Dare it even possibly be Wendy Smith, whom Kylie has gone out of her way to avoid without fail.
The phalanx heads down the ramp and aisle. The Hawkeye wears a black one-piece, black leather belt around her midriff, black lace covering her shoulders and upper arms, the Iowan going all in with the Vuitton togs as well. She finishes things off with black boots and pads.
KYLIE SANDERS:
For her part, Portia is in her scant ring gear, taking more than a few eyes from the champion with the green string bikini, sparkling black ‘$’ placed neatly on her pert behind, the swatches of currency-colored cloth covering very little of Baby’s ivory-skinned frame. VanBuren finishes her attire with black boots and pads.
The teammates pass the outstretched hands 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 VAIN”:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=NYkQK8QsQ2w&index=3&list=LLU6MWpP-rt2kWv-tOm824HA
Reaching the ring, the music fades and in its place a chant begins, slowly and as if in the distance at first, but loud and strong it becomes.
“TROLL…TROLL…TROLL…TROLL.”
Sanders hands her thousand-dollar bag to Alexis and her championship belt to VanBuren. She motions her fellow Associates up the steps so she can be the caboose of this dangerous train.
Alexis sits atop the middle rope and pushes up the top for Raker, VanBuren and finally a flustered redfaced Kylie to slip through. Sugutian swings her flawless legs through behind, placing the Hawkeye’s bag carefully in what would be the Associates’ corner for the night.
“TROLL…TROLL…TROLL…”
Kylie shrieks at the crowd to shut their mouths, covering her ears with cupped palms.
The antics only bring more animosity from those assembled as does the appearance that whoever would face Sanders tonight would be in for the handicap of handicaps.
Sanders moves to the ropes nearest the ring announcer and calls for a microphone while Alexis berates the unwashed of Orlando.
“I SAID…” Kylie screeches. She waits for long seconds, moving to the center, flanked on either side by her Associates. Finally satisfied she’s outlasted the last few stragglers, she brings the stick back to her lips.
“As seems the rage, your World Champion will also be laying out an open challenge to those who falsely believe they can provide a test to the hottest, baddest bytch ever to wear that hardware.”
The platinum blonde motions to her belt, held high by the lead Associate, Portia motioning for an ovation for her stablemate but receiving none.
“For all those in the back ready, willing, and UNable, step right up to get your ass thoroughly kicked. ANYONE. ANYONE at alllluuh…except well…Emily West and Lenore Lemarchand. You two believe you can con your way into running this organization. Here’s a word someone should have told you both when you were little junior high school brats…NO!”
Portia draws her lips close to Sanders’ left ear and the elfin Iowan smiles. She nods and hands the microphone to VanBuren.
“And while we’re at it, any of you three from The Three. We don’t want two of you to get upset at the other one getting a shot, so you’re out. Thank us later. And Bates? Kylie kept your career afloat long enough already.”
Sanders’ face turns sour, Baby apparently not aware how that might be taken the wrong way.
“So no rumpshaking tonight. Oh…and Burlingame. Uh…no. Kylie would wear you out. Ky demands at least a modicum of athleticism in her challengers.”
Baby spins and hands the stick over to VB&A’s litigator.
“And don’t bother heading out Shea,” Rachel says, apparently marking London off the list. “There is an age limit. Of course Lockwood, you’re out. We don’t want to make America look any worse than it does. By the way, Eliza and Olivia, we refuse to give women who are a disgrace to their country such an opportunity. England can do so much better.”
Alexis jumps next to Raker’s shoulder and leans in.
“No Roxie. I don’t like the bytch.”
Kylie howls with laughter, nodding her head as the grumbling FAWNatics erupt in anger.
Portia takes back the amplifier from her attorney.
“And did I forget to mention no Kanes and any Mitchell that might be back there, this beautiful blonde has shown she’s too tough for you. We don’t want to bore these people.”
VanBuren gives Kylie a loving squeeze around the shoulders and hands the stick back to the World Champion.
“And last and very least…no Wendy Smith,” Sanders informs…loudly.
Kylie runs her hands down her slender, delectable frame.
“Perhaps at Mania. Perhaps then I will provide the beating of a lifetime to that Pennsylvania Pussy. But for now ANYONE ELSE who wants to come down and face me. Me AND a few of my friends.”
Sanders chuckles as she motions to Suguitan on her right, Raker on her left and Portia behind, Baby again holding up the gold then dropping it over the Hawkeye’s head so it lands in the champ’s curled arms
“Feel free to bring your sorry asses down here.”
Long seconds tick by as the crowd looks to the upper stage, the masses rumbling with anticipation, but nothing.
Sanders, cockier by the second, hops excitedly in place, returns the belt to Baby, and shows off some blistering shadow punches before pulling the mic back to her lips.
“I don’t blame you,” she shouts. “There isn’t a woman in this whole organization who can touch me. Not fucking one. Last chance, sluts.”
“GAHHHHH” Kylie howls, dropping to genuflect in agony as a shoulderblock is sent into the pit of her right knee.
The bewildered blonde grasps at throbbing joint while looking over her right shoulder and seeing VanBuren rising to her feet. Traipsing around the slackjawed Sanders, Baby grasps the microphone from the champion.
“I ACCEPT,” Portia roars, and NAILS Kylie with the stick where scalp meets forehead, dropping the blasted blonde to the deck where each Associate tears into the champion with a barrage of boots that quickly turn Kylie into a platinum-coiffed mudhole.
The crowd sits in stunned silence unsure if the continued beatdown is real, but as Kylie turtles into a sobbing shell and Raker and Suguitan relent, it becomes very painfully obvious.
With World Championship gold in one hand and the amplifier in the other, Fortune’s Favorite demands a referee. Kylie struggles to her haunches, forlorn and pleading with the Associates for this not to be true. VanBuren hands the stick to her consigliere. She raises the gold high, now grasping it with both hands, and sends the faceplate THWAMMMING into Sanders’ forehead, knocking her flat and into semi-consciousness.
Meanwhile, Rachel continues the call for an official with the help of the microphone, quoting precedent on verbal contacts, while a smirking Portia stands in a straddle over Kylie. Below, the trail of a single drop of crimson proceeds slowly from scalp toward the bridge of the blasted Hawkeye’s adorable nose when she lifts her head.
As a man in stripes appears from behind the curtain and races down the ramp, the woman assigned as Sanders’ back-up muscle since she’d won the gold, instead muscles up on Kylie. Dragging the mewling, ragged blonde to her feet, the Filipino beauty tugs Kylie’s lowered head between her thighs. Capturing the Hawkeye’s arms in underhooks, Alexis gives her grip a second thought and exchanges it for a grasp of Sanders’ trunks, slipping her fingers beneath the leg holes of Kylie’s garment and savagely ripping up, forcing the wedged material up Ky’s crack with enough force to send her up and overturned.
Suguitan sits out and delivers Kylie to the canvas with her signature Panty Peeler driver, shellshocking the elfin blonde, Sanders landing hard and heavy between the outstretched legs of VB&A’s junior partner.
PANTY PEELER
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ACOAc7g8tlE
A disdainful Alexis tosses Kylie’s slender ivory stems aside just as the referee slides in. He rises and looks to the timekeeper’s table, confused at what to do, looking for guidance from someone.
And as The Fixer scrapes what’s left of Kylie off the canvas, Portia is more than willing to give it to him.
“You heard Sanders. She agreed to the open challenge to anyone.”
“Other than those caveats,” Rachel adds as she tugs the former Associate and current ragdoll into a side headlock. “And Portia was clearly not one.”
Before the official can respond, Rachel turns and pops Sanders into a fireman’s carry across her shoulders. There’s a little squirm left in the stubborn Hawkeye, but not nearly enough to free herself from Raker.
Rachel shifts Kylie into position, letting her head drape toward the canvas on the right side before dropping to her backside and DRIVING Kylie’s skull into the thinly-covered plywood with her Air Raid Crash.
AIR RAID CRASH
www.youtube.com/watch?v=V2v6OdV4rFw
Sanders’ body seems to explode out of the impact, limbs flying in four different directions as she spreads out into a wide starfish, knocked into next week by the lead counsel.
Rachel dusts off her hands and collects her discarded clipboard. She approaches the still hesitant zebra and again demands Kylie’s verbal contract be upheld. The man turns to the timekeeper once more who’s apparently gotten the word from upstairs. He signals the ref, who in turn does some signaling of his own, the tolling of the bell following quickly behind.
The disturbed murmur from the crowd grows louder as Rachel and Alexis exit with contented grins and the official takes the World Title belt from VanBuren and holds it aloft, signifying the title match before quickly scurrying to the ropes and handing it off to a FAWN flunky.
Languidly, Baby moves to the splayed Sanders, looking very much like the cat that swallowed the canary. She sinks a set of ruby-tipped nails into Kylie’s scalp and forces Ky up, if she wants to keep her hair. Apparently, there’s enough follicle self-preservation for Sanders to rise and meet her one-time recruiter.
The Manhattanite leads a drunken Iowan to the nearest corner and, with hands on either set of Kylie’s ribs, forces her up to a seat on the top buckle.
“Don’t say you didn’t get something out of this,” Portia says to the mostly blank, droopy-chinned gaze of Sanders. “You should thank me for your reign, little pawn.”
Portia climbs to a seat on the top rope next to the Hawkeye and tugs Ky toward her with a front facelock. VanBuren leaps off her perch, dragging Kylie along for the short, violent ride as Portia twists her former Associate off the buckles with a ring-rattling, signature Soho Uh-oh.
SOHO UH-OH
www.youtube.com/watch?v=2NrZ0nfiK-I&feature=channel_page
The back of Kylie’s head and neck THUMP sickeningly into the deck and she ends boneless on her side, a few quick spasms running through her frame. Next to her, Portia sits. Delighted at a plan coming together flawlessly, she welcomes a few scattered boos, most fans still trying to take in what they’re seeing in silent fashion.
Baby rolls off her alabaster derriere and crawls to the demolished Kylie. But instead of pinning her and claiming the FAWN World Championship, Portia again grasps Kylie’s platinum locks and tugs her to a seated position. Snuggling up behind her, the Trust Fund Terror slides to a horizontal plane behind her foe, strapping across the slumped Kylie’s back.
Scissoring Ky’s right gam while collecting the left in her in her hands, Portia spreads Kylie’s slender stems WIDE…WIDER…WIDEST. The pain from Kylie’s groin seems to sober the champ from her punchdrunk state, Sanders yelping to life as she’s forced into an agonizing set of splits. No Domi Daly she, Sanders howls as Baby keeps unfurling her lower limbs, seemingly as wide as they’ll go, that is until Portia forces a few further degrees from her Stretching a Buck finisher.
STRETCHING A BUCK
www.youtube.com/watch?v=BcgDGJvz9GM&list=PL6D543E88E233B021&index=8
The near legendary perseverance of the champion seems near its end as she rips at her own platinum locks. The crowd roars as Kylie nods and her left hand reaches toward Portia’s arm, presumably to tap. But before she can, Portia releases, giving up her scissors and exchanging her grip on Sanders’ opposite leg for one in the Hawkeye’s shoulder-length mane. Baby cruelly SLAMS the back of Kylie’s braincase into the canvas and mounts her in a reverse straddle of the champion’s chest.
The pitch in the FAWNatics changes as they watch Fortune’s Favorite move toward her vaunted end game, Baby taking very little time to capture Kylie’s lifeless legs and fold them jackknife-style as Baby scoots her ass from atop Ky’s bosom to her foe’s chin.
Beneath, the played and splayed champion wriggles the little she can manage but it’s a fait d’accompli as VanBuren swoops one arm behind both knees of her foe, allowing her to sink the nails of her right hand into Kylie’s crotch. The yelp from the Hawkeye is quickly squelched when Portia slides her cheeks over the betrayed blonde’s lips and nose, cutting off her complaint and air supply.
With her 911 secure, Baby digs into Kylie’s sweetmeat with ferocity, swabbing Sanders’ face with her undercarriage before taking a chance to bounce atop Kylie’s face a couple times for good measure, Ky paying for a gulp of air with a pounding. But Baby quickly settles again while tearing up the Vuitton material between Ky’s thighs to shreds.
Her indomitable spirit broken and trying to save face, literally, Kylie’s hands rise from VanBuren’s thighs, Sanders having vainly tried to shove Portia off, Kylie surrenders what she’s worked more than a dozen years to achieve, capitulating to Portia with a series of less than energetic brushes of hand to leg the referee rightly interprets as surrender.
The man leaps to his feet and calls for the bell, the timekeeper quickly tolling the transfer of title.
The official slaps Portia on the right shoulder as the remaining Associates, those not unconscious under Baby, step to the apron and slide through to join their triumphant leader.
Portia is slow, very slow to give up her punishing grip and seat on Kylie’s mug, but when Sanders’ weak plaintive slaps turn to arms swaying like reeds in the wind with the limbs falling limp to her sides, VanBuren’s pleasure is reduced considerably.
The slender socialite rises to her knees, peeling her behind off Kylie’s smudged, greasy features, the demolished FORMER champion out cold, mouth agape, lids shuttered, blissfully unaware her would-be legendary run ended short of a FAWNamania defense through a legendary backstab and a record-equaling THIRD World Title run for Portia Ophelia VanBuren IV.
Baby and crew join in a collective hug as the attentive ref hands the gold to VanBuren, Portia accepting in an official capacity this time. She raises the gilded belt high and Alexis and Rachel lift the champion onto their shoulders, the FAWNatics mustering themselves for a strong if not resounding set of jeers. For while the new queen deserves every bit of their enmity, the deposed, belittled bytch is a wonderful sight to see.
Portia is lowered and claims her Gladiatrix money shot, stomping a boot atop Kylie’s crotch that is a wakey-wakey call for the defeated, who ‘crunches’ up to a seat. Looking up, Kylie’s hazel eyes go from glassy to teary as she wraps her palms around Portia’s ankle, but is unable to budge her.
“Why?” Sanders absently squeaks.
Portia looks down, incredulous. She calls for a microphone and receives one from Raker.
“WHY?! That’s obvious to anyone with half a brain.”
Portia hands the gold to Alexis who does the honor of strapping it around the new champ’s waist.
“But the how is much more interesting. I used you Kylie. From the get go. Though your ability is limited, to say the least, you can be difficult when properly directed. I knew West would never give me a chance without her Court around to save her. I knew her obsession with you could open a door, with you as the key. And by God if you didn’t take her. Good on you, bytch. From there you were a cat following a laser pointer. A place holder. Until this very day.”
Kylie starts to speak, but Portia lifts an index finger to pursed lips and Ky decides to shut her trap.
“You were room service. I fed you beatable foes. Made sure you kept away from Wendy. She’d kick your ass by the way. And of course, had you mimic Erika with this challenge. Of course I had to add my little twist. Not bad for someone without a degree from Miskatonic U.”
Portia lifts her boot only to SLAM it down into Kylie’s burning kitty. Ky’s eyes bug as she falls into hyperventilations. Baby steps away, turning her attention to the rapt audience.
“I have become a THREE time World champion and, considering the state of Daniel and London’s careers, certainly FAWN’s best ever. The record books now confirm what everyone already knows. From the very beginning of this organization to the present day, I am the best ev…”
“Wild Eyed Southern Boys” by .38 Special crashes through the arena sound system, turning the head of every fan and vertical Associate alike. Strutting down the aisle, her hips sashaying with silent temptation, is one of those grapplers around from the very start. Ivy Armstrong, still in her battle gear from the successful disposal of Harley Jo Collins, wears her red and black satin corset and matching black panties. Of course, no shoes, still plenty of service. Ivy wisely settles on the floor below the squared circle and next to the timekeeper’s table, stick already in hand. She waits for what has recently been a rare sound, cheers, to die.
IVY ARMSTRONG:
“Don’t ya dare speak of being the best, Yankee,” Ivy purrs. “There are too many women who made this organization that just became nauseous at the thought, particularly a good ole Southern Charmer that ended your last your reign such a long time ago. You remembah, sugah?”
The look on Portia’s patrician features answer for her. The unmitigated gall of this redheaded stepchild trying to steal her thunder also turns Baby’s face crimson.
“I…”
VanBuren is cut off by an amplified ‘SHHHHH’ from Armstrong.
“Don’t bother, sweetheart. I know you don’t have the eggs to put up that belt and lose to me again, so don’t bother wasting these people’s time with excuses.”
Rachel and Alexis head to the ropes nearest Ivy and start to slide through when Armstrong pushes a flunky off a folding chair and collects it, brandishing the steel sufficiently for both women to reenter the ring.
“Uh huh,” Ivy says with a smirk. “Even your toadies know better. You and Kylie will make the younger fans think old-time FAWN was a joke. I’m here to let them know, it had this too.”
Armstrong makes a flattering spin and traipses back toward the aisle, her statement made. But with the Bama Slamma at the base of the ramp, Portia clears her throat.
“You don’t get the last word here, hick. I’m Portia VanBuren. THEE champ. I agree you stealing the title from me back in the day is a sore spot. It’s a black mark to lose to someone of your caliber. I’ll face you, BUT ONLY if you agree Alexis can accompany me to ringside to make sure a Mania World Title match doesn’t become a farce with your cheating ways.”
Ivy snickers and shakes her head softly in incredulity. She lifts the mic to her lips.
“Done, sugah. Get ready to have the shortest title reign in history.”
Before Lisa Dream could come out to dispute that claim, the Ultimate Image having ended a reign of Becky Clayton in a matter of minutes, Ivy drops the mic. She keeps her chair, for safekeeping, and backtracks up the ramp to an ovation from the crowd. Even if they wouldn’t see it live tonight, Portia-Ivy for the World Title at Mania was a dream match they couldn’t help but applaud.
The Associates gather around a partially recovered and cowering Kylie, her hazel eyes darting between the three women she had thought were her friends and colleagues.
“Please,” Sanders begs, palms extended.
Rachel scribbles into her pad while Portia scoffs at the raggedy former champion’s sniveling.
“If you want,” Baby says.
Raker and VanBuren turn in front of a confused Sanders and head for the ropes. The words are apparently not meant for Kylie however, because Alexis approaches from behind the propped Kylie and grabs the blonde by the throat with both hands. The Associates’ powerhouse lifts the bug-eyed Hawkeye high and SLAMS her to the deck with an exclamation point that reduces Kylie to mush.
Sugutian trails behind the attorney and senior partner as they exit to the jeers of the Summertime Bruise attendees, the end to a momentous night arriving. Or so the fans thought for a moment. For as Portia, Rachel and Alexis proceed up the ramp, Wendy Smith in one of her hammer-insignia gray cotton Ts (only 19.99 at FAWN.com) and blue jeans strides in the other direction. The PA Powerhouse apparently borrowed Ivy’s folding furniture and she keeps it handy as the women pass in opposite directions.
WENDY SMITH:
Safely past the Associates, the three women disappearing behind the curtain, Smith drops the hardware and rushes to the canvas, clearly concerned for her former friendly rival. Wendy slides in under the bottom ropes and knee-walks to the splayed, burbling Sanders.
The tawny brunette lifts Kylie’s head and taps her cheek lightly, slowly bringing the splattered Sanders to something approaching her senses. The further Kylie returns the wider her peepers become, the platinum blonde begging off from the woman she’d denied a return match.
But after reassuring and a hand up, Kylie takes the brunette’s offered palm and together the women rise. Some polite clapping emerges as Smith wraps an arm around Kylie’s shoulders and guides the staggering Hawkeye to the corner nearest the ramp.
Kylie slides through the ropes, or starts to, when a tug from Wendy on her wrist spins her back into the squared circle and a raised knee to the tummy. Gutted and already exhausted, Kylie falls into Wendy’s arms, the crowd going nuts.
With ease, Smith launches Ky to a seat on the top buckle. She yanks Kylie’s noggin down and presses tight into the sobbing Sanders. With the former champion folded, Wendy swings her arms around the pit of Kylie’s knees and lifts the cradled bytch onto her right shoulder, carrying her like a feather to the middle of the ring.
Dead center, Wendy lays out and absolutely wrecks Kylie with her NGN muscle buster to eardrum-shattering approval from the FAWNatics. Kylie’s body bounces feet into the air, Sanders already unconscious by the time she settles in a destroyed spreadeagle.
NGN
www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZXUNZjWTc8
Wendy kips to her feet and hovers over what’s left of the platinum blonde. She catches a tossed mic and stares down at Kylie.
“Don’t think this gets you out of facing me at Mania. Title or no title. You may have learned a severe lesson tonight, but it’s nothing compared to what I’ll do to you. And bytch, these people are going to love every second of you being massacred at Mania. Almost as much as I’m going to enjoy doing it.”
Wendy drops the stick on the chest of the KOd Kylie and exits to raucous cheers, the FAWN cleaning crew left to deal with the blonde mess in the ring as Summertime Bruise fades to black.
But before the newest and gilded member of the Associates appears, part of her entourage beats the titleholder to the punch. Emerging first is the power of VanBuren & Associates, the junior partner and Portia’s protégé, Alexis Suguitan.
ALEXIS SUGUITAN:
The Filipino catfighter looks to die in her battle fatigues, a set of red velvet bra and panties with sheer red stockings on long copper-skinned stems.
At her side is the organization’s lead counsel and ring technician. Rachel Raker is also ready for war, if a stylish one. The Fixer’s in her familiar sleeveless crimson one piece featuring a plunging ‘V’ neckline, wide lapels, an exceptionally high military style collar and three shiny black buttons descending in a straight line from the tip of the ‘V’ to just below her navel. The look was completed with glossy black pads and boots.
RACHEL RAKER:
Present in her hands is Raker’s ubiquitous clipboard and on it the familiar legal pad. Many in the stands look for a sign of tension between the two, Suguitan having treated Rachel’s sister rather harshly earlier in the night, but all seems well as the duo moves to center stage. They each look in the direction from whence they came and the elfin blonde icon appears.
The roar of jet engines could hardly be louder as the former Kylie Corps and every other manner of FAWNatic level their hatred at the woman on the top of the mountain at ear-splitting levels.
As Kylie tosses her platinum, shoulder-length locks, she carries a sporty, beige Louis Vuitton handbag over her shoulder, on the other is FAWN’s biggest prize, the reward for over a dozen years of hard work and a dozen months of being a backstabbing bytch.
PORTIA VANBUREN:
If the echoing jeers are loud, and they are, they only double when a few steps behind, Fortune’s Favorite follows. Together the two blondes gaze over the crowd with sly grins, shoulder to shoulder. What would have been a bad dream in the past now a sickeningly frequent sight over the past months.
VanBuren and Sanders join Raker and Suguitan, the Associates in full force tonight, which, at least in the heads of the crowd, perhaps means a top-of-the-line challenger would be tackled. Dare it even possibly be Wendy Smith, whom Kylie has gone out of her way to avoid without fail.
The phalanx heads down the ramp and aisle. The Hawkeye wears a black one-piece, black leather belt around her midriff, black lace covering her shoulders and upper arms, the Iowan going all in with the Vuitton togs as well. She finishes things off with black boots and pads.
KYLIE SANDERS:
For her part, Portia is in her scant ring gear, taking more than a few eyes from the champion with the green string bikini, sparkling black ‘$’ placed neatly on her pert behind, the swatches of currency-colored cloth covering very little of Baby’s ivory-skinned frame. VanBuren finishes her attire with black boots and pads.
The teammates pass the outstretched hands 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 VAIN”:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=NYkQK8QsQ2w&index=3&list=LLU6MWpP-rt2kWv-tOm824HA
Reaching the ring, the music fades and in its place a chant begins, slowly and as if in the distance at first, but loud and strong it becomes.
“TROLL…TROLL…TROLL…TROLL.”
Sanders hands her thousand-dollar bag to Alexis and her championship belt to VanBuren. She motions her fellow Associates up the steps so she can be the caboose of this dangerous train.
Alexis sits atop the middle rope and pushes up the top for Raker, VanBuren and finally a flustered redfaced Kylie to slip through. Sugutian swings her flawless legs through behind, placing the Hawkeye’s bag carefully in what would be the Associates’ corner for the night.
“TROLL…TROLL…TROLL…”
Kylie shrieks at the crowd to shut their mouths, covering her ears with cupped palms.
The antics only bring more animosity from those assembled as does the appearance that whoever would face Sanders tonight would be in for the handicap of handicaps.
Sanders moves to the ropes nearest the ring announcer and calls for a microphone while Alexis berates the unwashed of Orlando.
“I SAID…” Kylie screeches. She waits for long seconds, moving to the center, flanked on either side by her Associates. Finally satisfied she’s outlasted the last few stragglers, she brings the stick back to her lips.
“As seems the rage, your World Champion will also be laying out an open challenge to those who falsely believe they can provide a test to the hottest, baddest bytch ever to wear that hardware.”
The platinum blonde motions to her belt, held high by the lead Associate, Portia motioning for an ovation for her stablemate but receiving none.
“For all those in the back ready, willing, and UNable, step right up to get your ass thoroughly kicked. ANYONE. ANYONE at alllluuh…except well…Emily West and Lenore Lemarchand. You two believe you can con your way into running this organization. Here’s a word someone should have told you both when you were little junior high school brats…NO!”
Portia draws her lips close to Sanders’ left ear and the elfin Iowan smiles. She nods and hands the microphone to VanBuren.
“And while we’re at it, any of you three from The Three. We don’t want two of you to get upset at the other one getting a shot, so you’re out. Thank us later. And Bates? Kylie kept your career afloat long enough already.”
Sanders’ face turns sour, Baby apparently not aware how that might be taken the wrong way.
“So no rumpshaking tonight. Oh…and Burlingame. Uh…no. Kylie would wear you out. Ky demands at least a modicum of athleticism in her challengers.”
Baby spins and hands the stick over to VB&A’s litigator.
“And don’t bother heading out Shea,” Rachel says, apparently marking London off the list. “There is an age limit. Of course Lockwood, you’re out. We don’t want to make America look any worse than it does. By the way, Eliza and Olivia, we refuse to give women who are a disgrace to their country such an opportunity. England can do so much better.”
Alexis jumps next to Raker’s shoulder and leans in.
“No Roxie. I don’t like the bytch.”
Kylie howls with laughter, nodding her head as the grumbling FAWNatics erupt in anger.
Portia takes back the amplifier from her attorney.
“And did I forget to mention no Kanes and any Mitchell that might be back there, this beautiful blonde has shown she’s too tough for you. We don’t want to bore these people.”
VanBuren gives Kylie a loving squeeze around the shoulders and hands the stick back to the World Champion.
“And last and very least…no Wendy Smith,” Sanders informs…loudly.
Kylie runs her hands down her slender, delectable frame.
“Perhaps at Mania. Perhaps then I will provide the beating of a lifetime to that Pennsylvania Pussy. But for now ANYONE ELSE who wants to come down and face me. Me AND a few of my friends.”
Sanders chuckles as she motions to Suguitan on her right, Raker on her left and Portia behind, Baby again holding up the gold then dropping it over the Hawkeye’s head so it lands in the champ’s curled arms
“Feel free to bring your sorry asses down here.”
Long seconds tick by as the crowd looks to the upper stage, the masses rumbling with anticipation, but nothing.
Sanders, cockier by the second, hops excitedly in place, returns the belt to Baby, and shows off some blistering shadow punches before pulling the mic back to her lips.
“I don’t blame you,” she shouts. “There isn’t a woman in this whole organization who can touch me. Not fucking one. Last chance, sluts.”
“GAHHHHH” Kylie howls, dropping to genuflect in agony as a shoulderblock is sent into the pit of her right knee.
The bewildered blonde grasps at throbbing joint while looking over her right shoulder and seeing VanBuren rising to her feet. Traipsing around the slackjawed Sanders, Baby grasps the microphone from the champion.
“I ACCEPT,” Portia roars, and NAILS Kylie with the stick where scalp meets forehead, dropping the blasted blonde to the deck where each Associate tears into the champion with a barrage of boots that quickly turn Kylie into a platinum-coiffed mudhole.
The crowd sits in stunned silence unsure if the continued beatdown is real, but as Kylie turtles into a sobbing shell and Raker and Suguitan relent, it becomes very painfully obvious.
With World Championship gold in one hand and the amplifier in the other, Fortune’s Favorite demands a referee. Kylie struggles to her haunches, forlorn and pleading with the Associates for this not to be true. VanBuren hands the stick to her consigliere. She raises the gold high, now grasping it with both hands, and sends the faceplate THWAMMMING into Sanders’ forehead, knocking her flat and into semi-consciousness.
Meanwhile, Rachel continues the call for an official with the help of the microphone, quoting precedent on verbal contacts, while a smirking Portia stands in a straddle over Kylie. Below, the trail of a single drop of crimson proceeds slowly from scalp toward the bridge of the blasted Hawkeye’s adorable nose when she lifts her head.
As a man in stripes appears from behind the curtain and races down the ramp, the woman assigned as Sanders’ back-up muscle since she’d won the gold, instead muscles up on Kylie. Dragging the mewling, ragged blonde to her feet, the Filipino beauty tugs Kylie’s lowered head between her thighs. Capturing the Hawkeye’s arms in underhooks, Alexis gives her grip a second thought and exchanges it for a grasp of Sanders’ trunks, slipping her fingers beneath the leg holes of Kylie’s garment and savagely ripping up, forcing the wedged material up Ky’s crack with enough force to send her up and overturned.
Suguitan sits out and delivers Kylie to the canvas with her signature Panty Peeler driver, shellshocking the elfin blonde, Sanders landing hard and heavy between the outstretched legs of VB&A’s junior partner.
PANTY PEELER
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ACOAc7g8tlE
A disdainful Alexis tosses Kylie’s slender ivory stems aside just as the referee slides in. He rises and looks to the timekeeper’s table, confused at what to do, looking for guidance from someone.
And as The Fixer scrapes what’s left of Kylie off the canvas, Portia is more than willing to give it to him.
“You heard Sanders. She agreed to the open challenge to anyone.”
“Other than those caveats,” Rachel adds as she tugs the former Associate and current ragdoll into a side headlock. “And Portia was clearly not one.”
Before the official can respond, Rachel turns and pops Sanders into a fireman’s carry across her shoulders. There’s a little squirm left in the stubborn Hawkeye, but not nearly enough to free herself from Raker.
Rachel shifts Kylie into position, letting her head drape toward the canvas on the right side before dropping to her backside and DRIVING Kylie’s skull into the thinly-covered plywood with her Air Raid Crash.
AIR RAID CRASH
www.youtube.com/watch?v=V2v6OdV4rFw
Sanders’ body seems to explode out of the impact, limbs flying in four different directions as she spreads out into a wide starfish, knocked into next week by the lead counsel.
Rachel dusts off her hands and collects her discarded clipboard. She approaches the still hesitant zebra and again demands Kylie’s verbal contract be upheld. The man turns to the timekeeper once more who’s apparently gotten the word from upstairs. He signals the ref, who in turn does some signaling of his own, the tolling of the bell following quickly behind.
The disturbed murmur from the crowd grows louder as Rachel and Alexis exit with contented grins and the official takes the World Title belt from VanBuren and holds it aloft, signifying the title match before quickly scurrying to the ropes and handing it off to a FAWN flunky.
Languidly, Baby moves to the splayed Sanders, looking very much like the cat that swallowed the canary. She sinks a set of ruby-tipped nails into Kylie’s scalp and forces Ky up, if she wants to keep her hair. Apparently, there’s enough follicle self-preservation for Sanders to rise and meet her one-time recruiter.
The Manhattanite leads a drunken Iowan to the nearest corner and, with hands on either set of Kylie’s ribs, forces her up to a seat on the top buckle.
“Don’t say you didn’t get something out of this,” Portia says to the mostly blank, droopy-chinned gaze of Sanders. “You should thank me for your reign, little pawn.”
Portia climbs to a seat on the top rope next to the Hawkeye and tugs Ky toward her with a front facelock. VanBuren leaps off her perch, dragging Kylie along for the short, violent ride as Portia twists her former Associate off the buckles with a ring-rattling, signature Soho Uh-oh.
SOHO UH-OH
www.youtube.com/watch?v=2NrZ0nfiK-I&feature=channel_page
The back of Kylie’s head and neck THUMP sickeningly into the deck and she ends boneless on her side, a few quick spasms running through her frame. Next to her, Portia sits. Delighted at a plan coming together flawlessly, she welcomes a few scattered boos, most fans still trying to take in what they’re seeing in silent fashion.
Baby rolls off her alabaster derriere and crawls to the demolished Kylie. But instead of pinning her and claiming the FAWN World Championship, Portia again grasps Kylie’s platinum locks and tugs her to a seated position. Snuggling up behind her, the Trust Fund Terror slides to a horizontal plane behind her foe, strapping across the slumped Kylie’s back.
Scissoring Ky’s right gam while collecting the left in her in her hands, Portia spreads Kylie’s slender stems WIDE…WIDER…WIDEST. The pain from Kylie’s groin seems to sober the champ from her punchdrunk state, Sanders yelping to life as she’s forced into an agonizing set of splits. No Domi Daly she, Sanders howls as Baby keeps unfurling her lower limbs, seemingly as wide as they’ll go, that is until Portia forces a few further degrees from her Stretching a Buck finisher.
STRETCHING A BUCK
www.youtube.com/watch?v=BcgDGJvz9GM&list=PL6D543E88E233B021&index=8
The near legendary perseverance of the champion seems near its end as she rips at her own platinum locks. The crowd roars as Kylie nods and her left hand reaches toward Portia’s arm, presumably to tap. But before she can, Portia releases, giving up her scissors and exchanging her grip on Sanders’ opposite leg for one in the Hawkeye’s shoulder-length mane. Baby cruelly SLAMS the back of Kylie’s braincase into the canvas and mounts her in a reverse straddle of the champion’s chest.
The pitch in the FAWNatics changes as they watch Fortune’s Favorite move toward her vaunted end game, Baby taking very little time to capture Kylie’s lifeless legs and fold them jackknife-style as Baby scoots her ass from atop Ky’s bosom to her foe’s chin.
Beneath, the played and splayed champion wriggles the little she can manage but it’s a fait d’accompli as VanBuren swoops one arm behind both knees of her foe, allowing her to sink the nails of her right hand into Kylie’s crotch. The yelp from the Hawkeye is quickly squelched when Portia slides her cheeks over the betrayed blonde’s lips and nose, cutting off her complaint and air supply.
With her 911 secure, Baby digs into Kylie’s sweetmeat with ferocity, swabbing Sanders’ face with her undercarriage before taking a chance to bounce atop Kylie’s face a couple times for good measure, Ky paying for a gulp of air with a pounding. But Baby quickly settles again while tearing up the Vuitton material between Ky’s thighs to shreds.
Her indomitable spirit broken and trying to save face, literally, Kylie’s hands rise from VanBuren’s thighs, Sanders having vainly tried to shove Portia off, Kylie surrenders what she’s worked more than a dozen years to achieve, capitulating to Portia with a series of less than energetic brushes of hand to leg the referee rightly interprets as surrender.
The man leaps to his feet and calls for the bell, the timekeeper quickly tolling the transfer of title.
The official slaps Portia on the right shoulder as the remaining Associates, those not unconscious under Baby, step to the apron and slide through to join their triumphant leader.
Portia is slow, very slow to give up her punishing grip and seat on Kylie’s mug, but when Sanders’ weak plaintive slaps turn to arms swaying like reeds in the wind with the limbs falling limp to her sides, VanBuren’s pleasure is reduced considerably.
The slender socialite rises to her knees, peeling her behind off Kylie’s smudged, greasy features, the demolished FORMER champion out cold, mouth agape, lids shuttered, blissfully unaware her would-be legendary run ended short of a FAWNamania defense through a legendary backstab and a record-equaling THIRD World Title run for Portia Ophelia VanBuren IV.
Baby and crew join in a collective hug as the attentive ref hands the gold to VanBuren, Portia accepting in an official capacity this time. She raises the gilded belt high and Alexis and Rachel lift the champion onto their shoulders, the FAWNatics mustering themselves for a strong if not resounding set of jeers. For while the new queen deserves every bit of their enmity, the deposed, belittled bytch is a wonderful sight to see.
Portia is lowered and claims her Gladiatrix money shot, stomping a boot atop Kylie’s crotch that is a wakey-wakey call for the defeated, who ‘crunches’ up to a seat. Looking up, Kylie’s hazel eyes go from glassy to teary as she wraps her palms around Portia’s ankle, but is unable to budge her.
“Why?” Sanders absently squeaks.
Portia looks down, incredulous. She calls for a microphone and receives one from Raker.
“WHY?! That’s obvious to anyone with half a brain.”
Portia hands the gold to Alexis who does the honor of strapping it around the new champ’s waist.
“But the how is much more interesting. I used you Kylie. From the get go. Though your ability is limited, to say the least, you can be difficult when properly directed. I knew West would never give me a chance without her Court around to save her. I knew her obsession with you could open a door, with you as the key. And by God if you didn’t take her. Good on you, bytch. From there you were a cat following a laser pointer. A place holder. Until this very day.”
Kylie starts to speak, but Portia lifts an index finger to pursed lips and Ky decides to shut her trap.
“You were room service. I fed you beatable foes. Made sure you kept away from Wendy. She’d kick your ass by the way. And of course, had you mimic Erika with this challenge. Of course I had to add my little twist. Not bad for someone without a degree from Miskatonic U.”
Portia lifts her boot only to SLAM it down into Kylie’s burning kitty. Ky’s eyes bug as she falls into hyperventilations. Baby steps away, turning her attention to the rapt audience.
“I have become a THREE time World champion and, considering the state of Daniel and London’s careers, certainly FAWN’s best ever. The record books now confirm what everyone already knows. From the very beginning of this organization to the present day, I am the best ev…”
“Wild Eyed Southern Boys” by .38 Special crashes through the arena sound system, turning the head of every fan and vertical Associate alike. Strutting down the aisle, her hips sashaying with silent temptation, is one of those grapplers around from the very start. Ivy Armstrong, still in her battle gear from the successful disposal of Harley Jo Collins, wears her red and black satin corset and matching black panties. Of course, no shoes, still plenty of service. Ivy wisely settles on the floor below the squared circle and next to the timekeeper’s table, stick already in hand. She waits for what has recently been a rare sound, cheers, to die.
IVY ARMSTRONG:
“Don’t ya dare speak of being the best, Yankee,” Ivy purrs. “There are too many women who made this organization that just became nauseous at the thought, particularly a good ole Southern Charmer that ended your last your reign such a long time ago. You remembah, sugah?”
The look on Portia’s patrician features answer for her. The unmitigated gall of this redheaded stepchild trying to steal her thunder also turns Baby’s face crimson.
“I…”
VanBuren is cut off by an amplified ‘SHHHHH’ from Armstrong.
“Don’t bother, sweetheart. I know you don’t have the eggs to put up that belt and lose to me again, so don’t bother wasting these people’s time with excuses.”
Rachel and Alexis head to the ropes nearest Ivy and start to slide through when Armstrong pushes a flunky off a folding chair and collects it, brandishing the steel sufficiently for both women to reenter the ring.
“Uh huh,” Ivy says with a smirk. “Even your toadies know better. You and Kylie will make the younger fans think old-time FAWN was a joke. I’m here to let them know, it had this too.”
Armstrong makes a flattering spin and traipses back toward the aisle, her statement made. But with the Bama Slamma at the base of the ramp, Portia clears her throat.
“You don’t get the last word here, hick. I’m Portia VanBuren. THEE champ. I agree you stealing the title from me back in the day is a sore spot. It’s a black mark to lose to someone of your caliber. I’ll face you, BUT ONLY if you agree Alexis can accompany me to ringside to make sure a Mania World Title match doesn’t become a farce with your cheating ways.”
Ivy snickers and shakes her head softly in incredulity. She lifts the mic to her lips.
“Done, sugah. Get ready to have the shortest title reign in history.”
Before Lisa Dream could come out to dispute that claim, the Ultimate Image having ended a reign of Becky Clayton in a matter of minutes, Ivy drops the mic. She keeps her chair, for safekeeping, and backtracks up the ramp to an ovation from the crowd. Even if they wouldn’t see it live tonight, Portia-Ivy for the World Title at Mania was a dream match they couldn’t help but applaud.
The Associates gather around a partially recovered and cowering Kylie, her hazel eyes darting between the three women she had thought were her friends and colleagues.
“Please,” Sanders begs, palms extended.
Rachel scribbles into her pad while Portia scoffs at the raggedy former champion’s sniveling.
“If you want,” Baby says.
Raker and VanBuren turn in front of a confused Sanders and head for the ropes. The words are apparently not meant for Kylie however, because Alexis approaches from behind the propped Kylie and grabs the blonde by the throat with both hands. The Associates’ powerhouse lifts the bug-eyed Hawkeye high and SLAMS her to the deck with an exclamation point that reduces Kylie to mush.
Sugutian trails behind the attorney and senior partner as they exit to the jeers of the Summertime Bruise attendees, the end to a momentous night arriving. Or so the fans thought for a moment. For as Portia, Rachel and Alexis proceed up the ramp, Wendy Smith in one of her hammer-insignia gray cotton Ts (only 19.99 at FAWN.com) and blue jeans strides in the other direction. The PA Powerhouse apparently borrowed Ivy’s folding furniture and she keeps it handy as the women pass in opposite directions.
WENDY SMITH:
Safely past the Associates, the three women disappearing behind the curtain, Smith drops the hardware and rushes to the canvas, clearly concerned for her former friendly rival. Wendy slides in under the bottom ropes and knee-walks to the splayed, burbling Sanders.
The tawny brunette lifts Kylie’s head and taps her cheek lightly, slowly bringing the splattered Sanders to something approaching her senses. The further Kylie returns the wider her peepers become, the platinum blonde begging off from the woman she’d denied a return match.
But after reassuring and a hand up, Kylie takes the brunette’s offered palm and together the women rise. Some polite clapping emerges as Smith wraps an arm around Kylie’s shoulders and guides the staggering Hawkeye to the corner nearest the ramp.
Kylie slides through the ropes, or starts to, when a tug from Wendy on her wrist spins her back into the squared circle and a raised knee to the tummy. Gutted and already exhausted, Kylie falls into Wendy’s arms, the crowd going nuts.
With ease, Smith launches Ky to a seat on the top buckle. She yanks Kylie’s noggin down and presses tight into the sobbing Sanders. With the former champion folded, Wendy swings her arms around the pit of Kylie’s knees and lifts the cradled bytch onto her right shoulder, carrying her like a feather to the middle of the ring.
Dead center, Wendy lays out and absolutely wrecks Kylie with her NGN muscle buster to eardrum-shattering approval from the FAWNatics. Kylie’s body bounces feet into the air, Sanders already unconscious by the time she settles in a destroyed spreadeagle.
NGN
www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZXUNZjWTc8
Wendy kips to her feet and hovers over what’s left of the platinum blonde. She catches a tossed mic and stares down at Kylie.
“Don’t think this gets you out of facing me at Mania. Title or no title. You may have learned a severe lesson tonight, but it’s nothing compared to what I’ll do to you. And bytch, these people are going to love every second of you being massacred at Mania. Almost as much as I’m going to enjoy doing it.”
Wendy drops the stick on the chest of the KOd Kylie and exits to raucous cheers, the FAWN cleaning crew left to deal with the blonde mess in the ring as Summertime Bruise fades to black.