Post by bigfan on Oct 1, 2016 4:10:38 GMT
The FAWNatics murmur restlessly, waiting impatiently for the next battle to commence when “Wildflower” by JaneDear Girls announces the next woman to place herself in harm’s way.
( www.youtube.com/watch?v=NC0IhlquYlI )
Quickly behind, FAWN’s infamous cowgirl appears and the welcome is far from welcoming. The freckled redhead is clad in her trademark attire, Arizona state flag patterned vest—small enough to leave a sliver of midsection bare—blue thong bottoms and tan leather chaps. Her feet are adorned in a pair of battered old cowboy boots, spurs clicking against the floor as she saunters down the aisle. A coiled lasso is attached to her hip, and sitting atop her head is a black cowboy hat with a curved brim. Most noticeable of all is a mock ‘branding iron’ long since banned from ringside after Beth had used the ‘Wild West’-like ink gun to ‘assign’ several wrestlers to her ‘BJ’ ranch.
Ignoring the jeers and catcalls from the crowd, the Pale Rider strides directly and determinedly toward the squared circle. The redhead looks as though she’s headed down Main Street of old Tombstone at high noon, keeping out of the reach of those extending for a handshake or high-five as if the rabble is contaminated.
As she reaches the ring, the PA makes her arrival back to Pay-Per-View action a long-awaited official one.
“Tonight’s next contest is one fall with a 20-minute time limit. First...hailing from Tombstone, Arizona, standing 5 feet 6 inches tall and weighing in at 124lbs…BAREBACK BETH JENKINS!”
BETH JENKINS:
The redhead continues past the steps and to the announcer’s table. Beth turns in her spurs, lasso and ten-gallon for a microphone. Jenkins raises the stick to her rosy lips as she walks back to the steps and strides up, halting just after she slips through the ropes.
“Did y’all get the news?” Jenkins asks, walking up and down the length of the ring, twirling the ‘iron’ in her opposite fingers. “Miss Christian believes some of these lightweights have been runnin’ a little rampant. I assured her I could settle these little lassies down, but only if I could bring back the family brand. Well, guess what?”
The crowd boos lustily as Bareback raises the ‘branding iron’ high.
“Time to recreate my herd, girls. Y’all have had free rein and that, ladies, is coming to an end.”
Beth plants the ‘iron’ into the canvas to leave her mark there, black ink injected into the mat before the freckled cowgirl pulls the ‘iron’ off and places it carefully in her corner.
She hands over the stick to a FAWN flunky and takes a shortened lap, again ending in her corner, ready to reassert her position in the division she once, if fleetingly, had control over. The ginger cowgirl drops into an expectant crouch, waiting for her foe to make her way down for a beating.
The sound of ‘God Save The Queen’ erupts from the sound system, turning jeers to cheers.
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tN9EC3Gy6Nk )
Knowing the Boarding School Princess is on the way, the crowd, having grown accustomed to supporting the redhead after her reclamation by Sammie Sinclair, shows its support for another former lightweight champion. The Brit’s backers grow louder still when Space’s ‘The Female of the Species’ rolls over the top of England’s anthem.
( www.youtube.com/watch?v=F1NBpVKWh_c&ob=av2e )
Almost simultaneously, another grappler with another freckled face, this one from slightly east of the Pecos, namely Liverpool, strides confidently to center stage. Her blossoming tag career with Upstarty friend Sammie put on hold while Sinclair worked the home front for the better part of the past six months, Cromwell had been drawn back to singles with middling success on the house show circuit. A chance for the ‘Best Brit ever’ to get back on a big show is a chance not to be wasted.
Lizzie waves enthusiastically at her fans before heading down the ramp and aisle, ready to make some noise and reignite her stalled singles career.
LIZZIE CROMWELL:
Elizabeth’s blue bikini bottoms are tied at each hip, ‘BSP’ emblazoned in bold white strokes across her backside. Above remains the familiar sports bra, containing a twisting blend of the colors of her UK with a black outline of the British flag on her right breast. White boots and pads finish the attire.
Beaming, Cromwell slaps hands with the FAWNatics, crisscrossing to each side, ready to reclaim the white-hot start of her career. The ring announcer makes the proper introduction.
“And her opponent…from Liverpool, England, standing five feet five inches tall and weighing in at 54 and half kilos, the Boarding School Princess, Elizabeth Cromwell.”
The Englishwoman skips up the ring steps, sliding through the ropes and moving to the center of the squared circle. Cromwell calls for a microphone and snatches one out of the air, raising it to her parted lips.
“It’s a great honor to be back in front of the best fans ever. While it’s sad Sammie is still away cleaning up her and my home turf, I really need to get in the business of making the ring in Orlando safe for all the honorable competitors. And the best way I can think of doing that tonight is to run this rabble-rouser and her ‘branding iron’ all the way back to her dude ranch in the dust.”
The assembled roars its approval.
“So cowgirl come on out here and let me show you how a British Bulldog can part those chaps with a good swift kick.”
The crowd ignites as Elizabeth tosses the microphone back to the FAWN flunky who’d provided it. She shadowboxes and stretches her way to the corner opposite a snarling Beth where Lizzie waits to renew her climb back up the lightweight ladder.
The referee proves to be one of those optimistic souls who insists on calling the wrestlers to the center of the ring, where he will go over rules that they will ignore, and which he has little power to enforce. Neither Beth nor Elizabeth pay him much heed as he drones on; instead their eyes lock, as each tries to discern some tiny chink in the armor of the other.
Jenkins breaks the silence between them, a smug half-smile coming to her mouth as she says, "I know that over in merry old England, you're all about dressage. Well darlin', back in Tombstone, we don't go much for fancy horse dancing. We like our broncos feisty." Leaning in a bit closer and narrowing her eyes ever so slightly, the desert demolisher continues, "I think I see a bit of feistiness in you...I'm going to enjoy breaking you, little filly."
Tilting her head back a tiny bit, so she almost seemed to be looking down her nose at her opposite number, Cromwell sniffs, "Better women than you have tried." Having laid down her haughty retort in the best English tradition, the Brit turns to walk back to her corner and await the opening bell. And in a spectacular case of epic fail of battle instincts, Lizzie does not heed the sudden swell of alarm from the crowd.
An instant later, a wrecking ball slams between her shoulder blades, sending Cromwell stumbling forward until she collides chest-first with the turnbuckle. She then feels fingers grabbing tight to her hair, and hears the leering Southwestern drawl of her opponent. "Damn, I guess you forgot everything when you went soft, didn't you girl? Rule Number One: Don't talk bull to a cowgirl and then turn your back on her!' Pulling Elizabeth's head backward by her hair, Beth then smashes her face into the padded buckle, drawing a grunt from the English lass.
Having suitably stunned her opponent, Jenkins now fills both fists with the Brit's chestnut mane and pulls her out of the corner. Then with a roar, the Arizonian whips the now squealing Cromwell around, pulling her off of her feet and throwing her to the mat with a hair mare that leaves Elizabeth's scalp burning in pain. Moaning, Cromwell rolls onto her back...and is met with a boot stomp to the belly that pounds a burst of air from Lizzie's lungs with a loud whoosh.
Not giving her adversary time to recoup, Beth peels her up off of the canvas with a double hairpull again, stands her upright on unsteady pegs, then turns her around 180 degrees, so that the American can wrap her arms around the Brit's waist, pulling their bodies together tightly. Chin resting on Cromwell's right shoulder, Jenkins purrs into her ear, "Get ready to be ridden hard and put away wet, sugar!" And with that, she executes a belly to back suplex, the back of Lizzie's skull taking the full brunt of the impact when she is spiked with a thud back into the thin canvas that covers the plywood beneath.
Cromwell remains folded atop herself, boot tips beside her ears, derriere pointed to the rafters. Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, Bareback Beth scrambles to the upturned tush of the once upon a time ‘Best Brit Ever’ and plants her ass on Lizzie’s. The cowgirl reaches her palms to the back of Cromwell’s knees for good measure, keeping the Upstart-in-law matchbooked for ONE…TWO…and Elizabeth spasms her way to the side, getting one shoulder off the mat before the final count.
The spilled Jenkins glances up at the official who holds two fingers high.
“Don’t screw it up when I do get the three,” Jenkins threatens. “That iron of mine has more than one brand a night loaded.”
The man gulps noticeably before backing away and motioning the redheads to continue the fight, though only the Arizonan seems prepared, stomping every piece of Cromwell real estate she can find uncovered. After a half-dozen two-steps, Jenkins yanks a battered Lizzie to her feet with a wrist and a shoulder. She uses the grips to line up the reformed Boarding School Princess and send Lizzie on her way with a flinging Irish Whip.
Elizabeth zooms across the canvas to the opposite corner, turning into a heavy collision that rocks the frame of the Englishwoman, enough so her legs give out and she plops to her bum. There Cromwell sits, legs extended in front of her, leaning into the buckles behind, seemingly in a daze, the rodeo wrangler running rings around her.
And soon enough Beth’s running directly at her as well, Jenkins sprinting at her foe and leaping, her lower limbs leading the way as she RAMS her undercarriage into Lizzie’s chest and chin. The initial impact buffets the BSP as do the rapid fire succession of NINE more, each booty thrust leaving Elizabeth in a deeper daze. Jenkins finally dismounts at the considerable encouragement of the referee and steps back to get a better look at her handiwork.
“You’re a disgrace to our name,” Beth tells Lizzie, “and a disgrace to our profession. Sammie made you soft. Correction. Softer.”
The words prompt Cromwell to bite her lower lip and use handholds on the middle ropes on either side of the corner to rise. Jenkins steps forward and lifts her foe’s chin a lot faster with a European Uppercut that rattles the Brit’s braincase. After the head snap from impact, Lizzie bounces drunkenly out of the buckles and staggers down the length of the ropes, trying to find some room to maneuver and rethink her strategy against the redheaded, runaway bronco.
Bareback corrals her foe from behind, using Lizzie’s locks like reigns, Cromwell yelping as she gets spun and dragged back into a shortarm clothesline that violently decks her, the back of the Brit’s head bouncing off the thinly-sheathed plywood. Elizabeth cradles her noggin with both hands as her boot soles patter against the mat.
Feeling her oats, Jenkins plants a boot on Lizzie’s chest, raising her hands high and counting along with the official for ONE…TWO…and the one-time phenom turned ham-and-egger kicks free of the arrogant pin, keeping herself alive. To what end seems the immediate question, as Sammie’s tag partner can’t seem to get to square one, let alone off it.
On hands and knees, Lizzie heads for the ropes, hoping to sneak out for a breather. Bareback easily tracks her foe down before Cromwell can make it outside, snatching an ankle. But the Brit shakes free and rolls out under the bottom cable, landing on her feet and sweeping her matted auburn locks over a shoulder.
“C’mon Cromwell,” a front-row FAWNatic shouts. “Take her to Boarding School.”
Elizabeth nods wearily in appreciation. Up in the ring, the cowgirl is less impressed.
“Yeah, Lizzie,” Jenkins snaps, hovering above, watching her foe over the ropes. “Show me how it’s done. Y’know that ass is going to look awfully nice with the ‘BJ’ brand tattooed on it.”
Cromwell inches forward to enter but barely avoids a stomp from the Tombstone native.
“Get her back,” Cromwell demands of the official. “At least try to do your job.”
The ref intercedes, backing Beth several steps and Lizzie slides in. But as she does, Jenkins pushes the striped-shirt aside and launches into an elbow drop toward the back of the Brit’s head. At the last second, Elizabeth rolls clear and Bareback plants her joint into the unyielding deck. She yips in pain, grasping at her arm and cursing Cromwell while Lizzie pushes to her feet.
The cowgirl scrambles toward hers, but as she rises, Cromwell twists into a spin kick that claps across the left temple of Jenkins. Knocked to all fours, Beth blinks her baby blues wide, trying to shake off the well-placed boot. But as she does, Lizzie jumps aboard her freckled mount, the BSP straddling and scissoring Bareback Beth.
Jenkins immediately jerks and rears and jostles, like any good bronc, but with a couple handfuls of auburn locks in her possession, Cromwell’s catty days of yore come back in a flash, her pulling of Beth’s mane keeping Jenkins under control until the Brit rolls to her side and takes Beth off her ‘hooves’. Squeezing her thighs for all she’s worth, Lizzie pinks up the alabaster skin covering Bareback’s ribs, not to mention cinching the muscles and bones beneath. And, despite the official’s warnings, Elizabeth whips the cowgirl’s head from side to side, her fingers yanking the fiery follicles of the rodeo queen every which way, scrambling Beth’s brain cells.
At the count of a belated ‘FOUR’, Cromwell releases her grips and the head of the dizzied Beth is on a bobble, Jenkins appearing slightly nauseous.
“I know I rode you hard, cowslut,” Cromwell growls cheekily, “so I suppose it’s time to put YOU away wet.”
With two good handfuls of hair, the Brit hauls her embattled opponent up to unsteady stems, as Beth stands there a-swaying, glazed eyes heavily-lidded, and her mouth hung slackly open. "Here now," Cromwell says in her best Headmistress voice. "It simply won't do for you to have your mouth agape that way...it denotes a lack of intelligence. Here, let me help you with that." She places the palm of her left hand down upon the top her adversary's head, then swings her right fist up, slamming it into Jenkins's chin, violently shutting her mouth...and also causing the cowgirl to bite the top of her own tongue, bringing forth a sharp yelp. The sudden pain helps bring her out of her stupor, but not enough to prevent the English lass from sudden Irish whipping the Southwesterner across the ring to the corner.
Lizzie has deftly thrown her rival in such a way that her momentum causes her to flip forward as she nears the corner, resulting in Beth hitting the turnbuckles upside down. Her knees bent, Bareback finds herself hung up in a Tree of Woe. With a malicious smirk on her face, Elizabeth pads the canvas with her right boot as a bull might before the charge. And then it comes...the Brit dashing the length of the ring, throwing herself feet-first as she nears her target, aiming a Bronco Buster...equal parts damaging to both the flesh and the pride...at her adversary's freckled face.
Alas, plans go awry for the agile Anglo; no longer quite as dazed as Cromwell had believed, Beth is able to pull her legs free of the ropes and drop down to the mat bare instants before her attacker lands. As a result, Lizzie's undercarriage collides not with her foe's lovely features, but rather agonizingly with the unyielding steel ring post. Cromwell lets out a bellow of anguish, her body suddenly limp as a ragdoll.
With a groan, the American grabs at the ropes and, much like a newborn colt rising for the first time, rather clumsily pulls herself back up to her feet. Still reeling and nowhere near as ready to resume the fight as she would prefer to be, she is still able to put a boot to good use, landing a rough stomp to the belly of the Brit, pounding air from her lungs and extending Cromwell's period of incapacitation. Still holding fast to the ropes to keep from keening over, Jenkins staggers down the line to the next corner, pressing her forehead to the top turnbuckle pad and closing her eyes, hands tightly gripping the ropes on either side to keep her standing, as she calls upon the dregs of her waning strength to give her a desperately needed second wind.
Meanwhile, eyes watery and with a gurgled moan escaping her lips, Cromwell achingly rolls over and gets to all fours, her own forehead pressed to the canvas as she staves off a touch of nausea, and commands her body to obey her will and to rise up. And through it all, the referee gives a desultory count, stretching it out as long as he can, in the hopes that at least one of them will be able to do something. Because if there's one thing that FAWN Chief Exec Bethany Christian loathes, it's a double count out, and she has a habit of dressing down refs who allow them to happen.
Happily for this particular zebra, he is spared from a browbeating as one battling beauty at last sufficiently recovers, even as the last, drawn-out syllable of "nineteen" fades away.
Pushing off from the buckles, the freckled cowgirl sees Cromwell lifting her head from the canvas, but remaining on all fours. Jenkins sidles in from Elizabeth’s six o’clock and mounts the English filly in a front facing straddle-scissors. Compressing Cromwell’s ribs with her wrapping legs, Bareback Beth sinks her right set of fingers into the auburn locks of the Boarding School Princess to control her and reaches back to punish Lizzie with her left, those talons sinking into Cromwell’s privates with an underhand grip.
Her signature Eight Second Ride prompting Elizabeth to buck and twist, the rodeo queen expertly remains in the saddle, torturing the Brit as she digs her nails into the thinly-sheathed crotch of her fellow redhead.
The wailing Cromwell, eyes welling, tries vainly to shake off her rider, but the grips above and most especially below, lessen her ability and willingness to disobey the cowgirl. Apparently deciding she has no other choice, Elizabeth carries Jenkins forward, despite the gut wrenching squeezes of her kitty.
Cromwell collapses a couple feet short of the strands, but slithers close enough to reach them. She sobs out a request of release and Beth digs in only deeper, driving her digits further into Lizzie until the official demands Bareback give up her Ride. Beth holds for a further ‘FOUR’ before unclenching her fingers and dismounting. She uses Cromwell’s back to push to her feet and hover over the mewling Englishwoman.
“Upsy daisy,” Jenkins chuckles, having waited long enough for Lizzie to rise and only making it to her knees. Jenkins grabs a handful of mane and tugs her up the rest of the way.
“I’ll always have a special place in my heart for the first woman to join the second coming of the ‘BJ’ ranch livestock.”
Jenkins dips and scoops a single leg of the faltering Brit off the canvas, launching the groaning Cromwell to a cradled Fireman’s Carry position across her shoulders. The BSP desperately reaches for the top cable but Jenkins marches her out of range, stopping dead center. There the cowgirl races forward and lays out, splattering Cromwell to the deck with her signature Sun Devil.
Sun Devil
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RTyPpvsawq0 )
The ring rattles from the collision of Cromwell to canvas and Elizabeth spreads out in a wide starfish, blasted to the edge of incoherence. Bareback Beth scrambles up to one knee, settling next to the remnants of the self-styled ‘Best Brit Ever’. She hesitates. But then lifts a thumb to her throat and drags it across.
Jenkins sinks her nails into Lizzie’s scalp once more and uses the grip to convince a ragdolled Cromwell to laboriously rise against her will. Snuggling in close from behind, Bareback Beth draws a backhand grip across the throat of the blasted Brit, bending Cromwell backwards into a momentary dragon sleeper.
But Jenkins isn’t about to let Cromwell doze off. Instead, the freckled cowgirl vaults her fellow redhead HIGH into the air, pointing Elizabeth’s boot soles to the rafters. For a moment, Cromwell’s body creases over Bareback’s left shoulder but Beth sends Lizzie’s depleted frame from whence it came, Burying the Brit at Boot Hill with her Inverted Implant DDT finisher.
Buried at Boot Hill
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pAw8i0E_hkQ )
Cromwell ends splayed in an unconscious spreadeagle and a smirking Bareback Beth climbs aboard in a domineering full-body pin for the anticlimactic ONE…TWO…THREE!
The FAWNatics let their displeasure be known, growing louder as Jenkins lingers atop the demolished BSP. Not until the ring announcer makes his call does Jenkins begin to slowly slither off her vanquished foe.
“Your winner…by pinfall…Bareback Beth Jenkins!”
The rodeo queen rotates to a crossbody and props her chin in the cup of two joined palms, her pointed elbows alternately leaning into the chest and navel of Cromwell.
“Are we ready?” Beth shouts, nodding despite the mounting calls in the negative.
Bareback pops to her feet and strides to the ropes. She slips through and drops to the floor, moving to the timekeeper’s table to collect her belongings, most particularly, her branding ‘iron’. The inkjet, crafted to appear identical to the heated metal device, is twirled in Beth’s right hand. She hops to the canvas and rejoins the softly stirring Elizabeth.
Jenkins strides to Cromwell and shovels her fellow redhead to her chest with a boot. The cowgirl stomps a heavy boot into the base of Elizabeth’s spine, Cromwell arching in pain, awakening from her daze.
Looking over her shoulder at the hovering Jenkins and seeing Bareback’s favorite tool poised, the Boarding School Princess shrieks and squirms, trying to slink her way out from beneath Jenkins.
The infamous ‘BJ’ ink gun is poised and Beth PRESSESS it HARD into the right butt cheek of the Brit, ‘branding’ the yelping, auburn-haired ‘livestock’ as property of the BJ Ranch and it’s proprietor, Beth Jenkins.
With a sobbing Cromwell claimed as her own, Jenkins lifts the ‘iron’ and shows off her ‘brand’, the black-blue ink making a readily seen mark on Lizzie’s light skin. Jenkins raises her tool high and shouts to the crowd.
“Who’s next? Who’s joining my herd?”
Beth brings the side of the ‘iron’ to her lips and gives it a smooch before heading to and through the ropes, leaving a whimpering Cromwell, twisting and turning in the middle of the ring to get a better view of the booty vandalism perpetrated against her, a tear-filled, humiliated Lizzie scrubbing at the brand with her palm in fruitless fashion.
( www.youtube.com/watch?v=NC0IhlquYlI )
Quickly behind, FAWN’s infamous cowgirl appears and the welcome is far from welcoming. The freckled redhead is clad in her trademark attire, Arizona state flag patterned vest—small enough to leave a sliver of midsection bare—blue thong bottoms and tan leather chaps. Her feet are adorned in a pair of battered old cowboy boots, spurs clicking against the floor as she saunters down the aisle. A coiled lasso is attached to her hip, and sitting atop her head is a black cowboy hat with a curved brim. Most noticeable of all is a mock ‘branding iron’ long since banned from ringside after Beth had used the ‘Wild West’-like ink gun to ‘assign’ several wrestlers to her ‘BJ’ ranch.
Ignoring the jeers and catcalls from the crowd, the Pale Rider strides directly and determinedly toward the squared circle. The redhead looks as though she’s headed down Main Street of old Tombstone at high noon, keeping out of the reach of those extending for a handshake or high-five as if the rabble is contaminated.
As she reaches the ring, the PA makes her arrival back to Pay-Per-View action a long-awaited official one.
“Tonight’s next contest is one fall with a 20-minute time limit. First...hailing from Tombstone, Arizona, standing 5 feet 6 inches tall and weighing in at 124lbs…BAREBACK BETH JENKINS!”
BETH JENKINS:
The redhead continues past the steps and to the announcer’s table. Beth turns in her spurs, lasso and ten-gallon for a microphone. Jenkins raises the stick to her rosy lips as she walks back to the steps and strides up, halting just after she slips through the ropes.
“Did y’all get the news?” Jenkins asks, walking up and down the length of the ring, twirling the ‘iron’ in her opposite fingers. “Miss Christian believes some of these lightweights have been runnin’ a little rampant. I assured her I could settle these little lassies down, but only if I could bring back the family brand. Well, guess what?”
The crowd boos lustily as Bareback raises the ‘branding iron’ high.
“Time to recreate my herd, girls. Y’all have had free rein and that, ladies, is coming to an end.”
Beth plants the ‘iron’ into the canvas to leave her mark there, black ink injected into the mat before the freckled cowgirl pulls the ‘iron’ off and places it carefully in her corner.
She hands over the stick to a FAWN flunky and takes a shortened lap, again ending in her corner, ready to reassert her position in the division she once, if fleetingly, had control over. The ginger cowgirl drops into an expectant crouch, waiting for her foe to make her way down for a beating.
The sound of ‘God Save The Queen’ erupts from the sound system, turning jeers to cheers.
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tN9EC3Gy6Nk )
Knowing the Boarding School Princess is on the way, the crowd, having grown accustomed to supporting the redhead after her reclamation by Sammie Sinclair, shows its support for another former lightweight champion. The Brit’s backers grow louder still when Space’s ‘The Female of the Species’ rolls over the top of England’s anthem.
( www.youtube.com/watch?v=F1NBpVKWh_c&ob=av2e )
Almost simultaneously, another grappler with another freckled face, this one from slightly east of the Pecos, namely Liverpool, strides confidently to center stage. Her blossoming tag career with Upstarty friend Sammie put on hold while Sinclair worked the home front for the better part of the past six months, Cromwell had been drawn back to singles with middling success on the house show circuit. A chance for the ‘Best Brit ever’ to get back on a big show is a chance not to be wasted.
Lizzie waves enthusiastically at her fans before heading down the ramp and aisle, ready to make some noise and reignite her stalled singles career.
LIZZIE CROMWELL:
Elizabeth’s blue bikini bottoms are tied at each hip, ‘BSP’ emblazoned in bold white strokes across her backside. Above remains the familiar sports bra, containing a twisting blend of the colors of her UK with a black outline of the British flag on her right breast. White boots and pads finish the attire.
Beaming, Cromwell slaps hands with the FAWNatics, crisscrossing to each side, ready to reclaim the white-hot start of her career. The ring announcer makes the proper introduction.
“And her opponent…from Liverpool, England, standing five feet five inches tall and weighing in at 54 and half kilos, the Boarding School Princess, Elizabeth Cromwell.”
The Englishwoman skips up the ring steps, sliding through the ropes and moving to the center of the squared circle. Cromwell calls for a microphone and snatches one out of the air, raising it to her parted lips.
“It’s a great honor to be back in front of the best fans ever. While it’s sad Sammie is still away cleaning up her and my home turf, I really need to get in the business of making the ring in Orlando safe for all the honorable competitors. And the best way I can think of doing that tonight is to run this rabble-rouser and her ‘branding iron’ all the way back to her dude ranch in the dust.”
The assembled roars its approval.
“So cowgirl come on out here and let me show you how a British Bulldog can part those chaps with a good swift kick.”
The crowd ignites as Elizabeth tosses the microphone back to the FAWN flunky who’d provided it. She shadowboxes and stretches her way to the corner opposite a snarling Beth where Lizzie waits to renew her climb back up the lightweight ladder.
The referee proves to be one of those optimistic souls who insists on calling the wrestlers to the center of the ring, where he will go over rules that they will ignore, and which he has little power to enforce. Neither Beth nor Elizabeth pay him much heed as he drones on; instead their eyes lock, as each tries to discern some tiny chink in the armor of the other.
Jenkins breaks the silence between them, a smug half-smile coming to her mouth as she says, "I know that over in merry old England, you're all about dressage. Well darlin', back in Tombstone, we don't go much for fancy horse dancing. We like our broncos feisty." Leaning in a bit closer and narrowing her eyes ever so slightly, the desert demolisher continues, "I think I see a bit of feistiness in you...I'm going to enjoy breaking you, little filly."
Tilting her head back a tiny bit, so she almost seemed to be looking down her nose at her opposite number, Cromwell sniffs, "Better women than you have tried." Having laid down her haughty retort in the best English tradition, the Brit turns to walk back to her corner and await the opening bell. And in a spectacular case of epic fail of battle instincts, Lizzie does not heed the sudden swell of alarm from the crowd.
An instant later, a wrecking ball slams between her shoulder blades, sending Cromwell stumbling forward until she collides chest-first with the turnbuckle. She then feels fingers grabbing tight to her hair, and hears the leering Southwestern drawl of her opponent. "Damn, I guess you forgot everything when you went soft, didn't you girl? Rule Number One: Don't talk bull to a cowgirl and then turn your back on her!' Pulling Elizabeth's head backward by her hair, Beth then smashes her face into the padded buckle, drawing a grunt from the English lass.
Having suitably stunned her opponent, Jenkins now fills both fists with the Brit's chestnut mane and pulls her out of the corner. Then with a roar, the Arizonian whips the now squealing Cromwell around, pulling her off of her feet and throwing her to the mat with a hair mare that leaves Elizabeth's scalp burning in pain. Moaning, Cromwell rolls onto her back...and is met with a boot stomp to the belly that pounds a burst of air from Lizzie's lungs with a loud whoosh.
Not giving her adversary time to recoup, Beth peels her up off of the canvas with a double hairpull again, stands her upright on unsteady pegs, then turns her around 180 degrees, so that the American can wrap her arms around the Brit's waist, pulling their bodies together tightly. Chin resting on Cromwell's right shoulder, Jenkins purrs into her ear, "Get ready to be ridden hard and put away wet, sugar!" And with that, she executes a belly to back suplex, the back of Lizzie's skull taking the full brunt of the impact when she is spiked with a thud back into the thin canvas that covers the plywood beneath.
Cromwell remains folded atop herself, boot tips beside her ears, derriere pointed to the rafters. Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, Bareback Beth scrambles to the upturned tush of the once upon a time ‘Best Brit Ever’ and plants her ass on Lizzie’s. The cowgirl reaches her palms to the back of Cromwell’s knees for good measure, keeping the Upstart-in-law matchbooked for ONE…TWO…and Elizabeth spasms her way to the side, getting one shoulder off the mat before the final count.
The spilled Jenkins glances up at the official who holds two fingers high.
“Don’t screw it up when I do get the three,” Jenkins threatens. “That iron of mine has more than one brand a night loaded.”
The man gulps noticeably before backing away and motioning the redheads to continue the fight, though only the Arizonan seems prepared, stomping every piece of Cromwell real estate she can find uncovered. After a half-dozen two-steps, Jenkins yanks a battered Lizzie to her feet with a wrist and a shoulder. She uses the grips to line up the reformed Boarding School Princess and send Lizzie on her way with a flinging Irish Whip.
Elizabeth zooms across the canvas to the opposite corner, turning into a heavy collision that rocks the frame of the Englishwoman, enough so her legs give out and she plops to her bum. There Cromwell sits, legs extended in front of her, leaning into the buckles behind, seemingly in a daze, the rodeo wrangler running rings around her.
And soon enough Beth’s running directly at her as well, Jenkins sprinting at her foe and leaping, her lower limbs leading the way as she RAMS her undercarriage into Lizzie’s chest and chin. The initial impact buffets the BSP as do the rapid fire succession of NINE more, each booty thrust leaving Elizabeth in a deeper daze. Jenkins finally dismounts at the considerable encouragement of the referee and steps back to get a better look at her handiwork.
“You’re a disgrace to our name,” Beth tells Lizzie, “and a disgrace to our profession. Sammie made you soft. Correction. Softer.”
The words prompt Cromwell to bite her lower lip and use handholds on the middle ropes on either side of the corner to rise. Jenkins steps forward and lifts her foe’s chin a lot faster with a European Uppercut that rattles the Brit’s braincase. After the head snap from impact, Lizzie bounces drunkenly out of the buckles and staggers down the length of the ropes, trying to find some room to maneuver and rethink her strategy against the redheaded, runaway bronco.
Bareback corrals her foe from behind, using Lizzie’s locks like reigns, Cromwell yelping as she gets spun and dragged back into a shortarm clothesline that violently decks her, the back of the Brit’s head bouncing off the thinly-sheathed plywood. Elizabeth cradles her noggin with both hands as her boot soles patter against the mat.
Feeling her oats, Jenkins plants a boot on Lizzie’s chest, raising her hands high and counting along with the official for ONE…TWO…and the one-time phenom turned ham-and-egger kicks free of the arrogant pin, keeping herself alive. To what end seems the immediate question, as Sammie’s tag partner can’t seem to get to square one, let alone off it.
On hands and knees, Lizzie heads for the ropes, hoping to sneak out for a breather. Bareback easily tracks her foe down before Cromwell can make it outside, snatching an ankle. But the Brit shakes free and rolls out under the bottom cable, landing on her feet and sweeping her matted auburn locks over a shoulder.
“C’mon Cromwell,” a front-row FAWNatic shouts. “Take her to Boarding School.”
Elizabeth nods wearily in appreciation. Up in the ring, the cowgirl is less impressed.
“Yeah, Lizzie,” Jenkins snaps, hovering above, watching her foe over the ropes. “Show me how it’s done. Y’know that ass is going to look awfully nice with the ‘BJ’ brand tattooed on it.”
Cromwell inches forward to enter but barely avoids a stomp from the Tombstone native.
“Get her back,” Cromwell demands of the official. “At least try to do your job.”
The ref intercedes, backing Beth several steps and Lizzie slides in. But as she does, Jenkins pushes the striped-shirt aside and launches into an elbow drop toward the back of the Brit’s head. At the last second, Elizabeth rolls clear and Bareback plants her joint into the unyielding deck. She yips in pain, grasping at her arm and cursing Cromwell while Lizzie pushes to her feet.
The cowgirl scrambles toward hers, but as she rises, Cromwell twists into a spin kick that claps across the left temple of Jenkins. Knocked to all fours, Beth blinks her baby blues wide, trying to shake off the well-placed boot. But as she does, Lizzie jumps aboard her freckled mount, the BSP straddling and scissoring Bareback Beth.
Jenkins immediately jerks and rears and jostles, like any good bronc, but with a couple handfuls of auburn locks in her possession, Cromwell’s catty days of yore come back in a flash, her pulling of Beth’s mane keeping Jenkins under control until the Brit rolls to her side and takes Beth off her ‘hooves’. Squeezing her thighs for all she’s worth, Lizzie pinks up the alabaster skin covering Bareback’s ribs, not to mention cinching the muscles and bones beneath. And, despite the official’s warnings, Elizabeth whips the cowgirl’s head from side to side, her fingers yanking the fiery follicles of the rodeo queen every which way, scrambling Beth’s brain cells.
At the count of a belated ‘FOUR’, Cromwell releases her grips and the head of the dizzied Beth is on a bobble, Jenkins appearing slightly nauseous.
“I know I rode you hard, cowslut,” Cromwell growls cheekily, “so I suppose it’s time to put YOU away wet.”
With two good handfuls of hair, the Brit hauls her embattled opponent up to unsteady stems, as Beth stands there a-swaying, glazed eyes heavily-lidded, and her mouth hung slackly open. "Here now," Cromwell says in her best Headmistress voice. "It simply won't do for you to have your mouth agape that way...it denotes a lack of intelligence. Here, let me help you with that." She places the palm of her left hand down upon the top her adversary's head, then swings her right fist up, slamming it into Jenkins's chin, violently shutting her mouth...and also causing the cowgirl to bite the top of her own tongue, bringing forth a sharp yelp. The sudden pain helps bring her out of her stupor, but not enough to prevent the English lass from sudden Irish whipping the Southwesterner across the ring to the corner.
Lizzie has deftly thrown her rival in such a way that her momentum causes her to flip forward as she nears the corner, resulting in Beth hitting the turnbuckles upside down. Her knees bent, Bareback finds herself hung up in a Tree of Woe. With a malicious smirk on her face, Elizabeth pads the canvas with her right boot as a bull might before the charge. And then it comes...the Brit dashing the length of the ring, throwing herself feet-first as she nears her target, aiming a Bronco Buster...equal parts damaging to both the flesh and the pride...at her adversary's freckled face.
Alas, plans go awry for the agile Anglo; no longer quite as dazed as Cromwell had believed, Beth is able to pull her legs free of the ropes and drop down to the mat bare instants before her attacker lands. As a result, Lizzie's undercarriage collides not with her foe's lovely features, but rather agonizingly with the unyielding steel ring post. Cromwell lets out a bellow of anguish, her body suddenly limp as a ragdoll.
With a groan, the American grabs at the ropes and, much like a newborn colt rising for the first time, rather clumsily pulls herself back up to her feet. Still reeling and nowhere near as ready to resume the fight as she would prefer to be, she is still able to put a boot to good use, landing a rough stomp to the belly of the Brit, pounding air from her lungs and extending Cromwell's period of incapacitation. Still holding fast to the ropes to keep from keening over, Jenkins staggers down the line to the next corner, pressing her forehead to the top turnbuckle pad and closing her eyes, hands tightly gripping the ropes on either side to keep her standing, as she calls upon the dregs of her waning strength to give her a desperately needed second wind.
Meanwhile, eyes watery and with a gurgled moan escaping her lips, Cromwell achingly rolls over and gets to all fours, her own forehead pressed to the canvas as she staves off a touch of nausea, and commands her body to obey her will and to rise up. And through it all, the referee gives a desultory count, stretching it out as long as he can, in the hopes that at least one of them will be able to do something. Because if there's one thing that FAWN Chief Exec Bethany Christian loathes, it's a double count out, and she has a habit of dressing down refs who allow them to happen.
Happily for this particular zebra, he is spared from a browbeating as one battling beauty at last sufficiently recovers, even as the last, drawn-out syllable of "nineteen" fades away.
Pushing off from the buckles, the freckled cowgirl sees Cromwell lifting her head from the canvas, but remaining on all fours. Jenkins sidles in from Elizabeth’s six o’clock and mounts the English filly in a front facing straddle-scissors. Compressing Cromwell’s ribs with her wrapping legs, Bareback Beth sinks her right set of fingers into the auburn locks of the Boarding School Princess to control her and reaches back to punish Lizzie with her left, those talons sinking into Cromwell’s privates with an underhand grip.
Her signature Eight Second Ride prompting Elizabeth to buck and twist, the rodeo queen expertly remains in the saddle, torturing the Brit as she digs her nails into the thinly-sheathed crotch of her fellow redhead.
The wailing Cromwell, eyes welling, tries vainly to shake off her rider, but the grips above and most especially below, lessen her ability and willingness to disobey the cowgirl. Apparently deciding she has no other choice, Elizabeth carries Jenkins forward, despite the gut wrenching squeezes of her kitty.
Cromwell collapses a couple feet short of the strands, but slithers close enough to reach them. She sobs out a request of release and Beth digs in only deeper, driving her digits further into Lizzie until the official demands Bareback give up her Ride. Beth holds for a further ‘FOUR’ before unclenching her fingers and dismounting. She uses Cromwell’s back to push to her feet and hover over the mewling Englishwoman.
“Upsy daisy,” Jenkins chuckles, having waited long enough for Lizzie to rise and only making it to her knees. Jenkins grabs a handful of mane and tugs her up the rest of the way.
“I’ll always have a special place in my heart for the first woman to join the second coming of the ‘BJ’ ranch livestock.”
Jenkins dips and scoops a single leg of the faltering Brit off the canvas, launching the groaning Cromwell to a cradled Fireman’s Carry position across her shoulders. The BSP desperately reaches for the top cable but Jenkins marches her out of range, stopping dead center. There the cowgirl races forward and lays out, splattering Cromwell to the deck with her signature Sun Devil.
Sun Devil
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RTyPpvsawq0 )
The ring rattles from the collision of Cromwell to canvas and Elizabeth spreads out in a wide starfish, blasted to the edge of incoherence. Bareback Beth scrambles up to one knee, settling next to the remnants of the self-styled ‘Best Brit Ever’. She hesitates. But then lifts a thumb to her throat and drags it across.
Jenkins sinks her nails into Lizzie’s scalp once more and uses the grip to convince a ragdolled Cromwell to laboriously rise against her will. Snuggling in close from behind, Bareback Beth draws a backhand grip across the throat of the blasted Brit, bending Cromwell backwards into a momentary dragon sleeper.
But Jenkins isn’t about to let Cromwell doze off. Instead, the freckled cowgirl vaults her fellow redhead HIGH into the air, pointing Elizabeth’s boot soles to the rafters. For a moment, Cromwell’s body creases over Bareback’s left shoulder but Beth sends Lizzie’s depleted frame from whence it came, Burying the Brit at Boot Hill with her Inverted Implant DDT finisher.
Buried at Boot Hill
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pAw8i0E_hkQ )
Cromwell ends splayed in an unconscious spreadeagle and a smirking Bareback Beth climbs aboard in a domineering full-body pin for the anticlimactic ONE…TWO…THREE!
The FAWNatics let their displeasure be known, growing louder as Jenkins lingers atop the demolished BSP. Not until the ring announcer makes his call does Jenkins begin to slowly slither off her vanquished foe.
“Your winner…by pinfall…Bareback Beth Jenkins!”
The rodeo queen rotates to a crossbody and props her chin in the cup of two joined palms, her pointed elbows alternately leaning into the chest and navel of Cromwell.
“Are we ready?” Beth shouts, nodding despite the mounting calls in the negative.
Bareback pops to her feet and strides to the ropes. She slips through and drops to the floor, moving to the timekeeper’s table to collect her belongings, most particularly, her branding ‘iron’. The inkjet, crafted to appear identical to the heated metal device, is twirled in Beth’s right hand. She hops to the canvas and rejoins the softly stirring Elizabeth.
Jenkins strides to Cromwell and shovels her fellow redhead to her chest with a boot. The cowgirl stomps a heavy boot into the base of Elizabeth’s spine, Cromwell arching in pain, awakening from her daze.
Looking over her shoulder at the hovering Jenkins and seeing Bareback’s favorite tool poised, the Boarding School Princess shrieks and squirms, trying to slink her way out from beneath Jenkins.
The infamous ‘BJ’ ink gun is poised and Beth PRESSESS it HARD into the right butt cheek of the Brit, ‘branding’ the yelping, auburn-haired ‘livestock’ as property of the BJ Ranch and it’s proprietor, Beth Jenkins.
With a sobbing Cromwell claimed as her own, Jenkins lifts the ‘iron’ and shows off her ‘brand’, the black-blue ink making a readily seen mark on Lizzie’s light skin. Jenkins raises her tool high and shouts to the crowd.
“Who’s next? Who’s joining my herd?”
Beth brings the side of the ‘iron’ to her lips and gives it a smooch before heading to and through the ropes, leaving a whimpering Cromwell, twisting and turning in the middle of the ring to get a better view of the booty vandalism perpetrated against her, a tear-filled, humiliated Lizzie scrubbing at the brand with her palm in fruitless fashion.