Post by bigfan on Dec 4, 2016 7:37:11 GMT
The FAWN crowd rumbles in anticipation of the next battle. And when the sound of ‘God Save The Queen’ erupts from the sound system, they understand the organization’s reformed Boarding School Princess is about to hit the stage.
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tN9EC3Gy6Nk )
Behind the curtain, Elizabeth and Sammie Sinclair share a high-five, but that’s not quite enough for the People’s Princess and she tugs Lizzie into a tight snug.
“Don’t hold back out there,” Sammie whispers in Cromwell’s ear, “even against me. You deserve this as much as me or anyone else. Believe in yourself.”
“Thanks,” Elizabeth grunts from within the bearhug. “Sammie. I think they’re waiting.”
“Oh yeah. Sorry.”
Sammie’s face blushes and she releases Lizzie for battle. But after Cromwell steps and turns. She turns back to Sammie and gives her a peck on the cheek.
“Really. Thanks.”
Elizabeth storms though the curtains as 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 )
Liverpool’s favorite daughter strides to center stage, noticeably keeping a ‘branded’ cheek pointing away from the crowd for as long as possible. It would be a reminder and an embarrassment she’d have to live with for several weeks until it faded, but until then she’d be a member of the ‘BJ’ herd. Still, a chance to be heralded FAWN’s Best Brit was worth the awkwardness and Bareback would get hers in due time.
Lizzie waves enthusiastically at her fans before heading down the ramp and aisle, ready to make some noise and survive three of her countrywoman, including her bestie.
ELIZABETH 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.
“Tonight’s next match is a Fatal Four-Way and is for the title FAWN’s Best Brit. First, 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.
“Thank you ladies and gentlemen. When I first came into FAWN, I proclaimed myself the World’s Best Brit. And for a while it sure seemed that way. Since those early days, not so much. But I think I’m a better person now and I’m ready to earn it through action, rather than presume it through words.”
The assembled roars its approval.
“So let the best woman win!”
The crowd ignites as Elizabeth tosses the microphone back to the FAWN flunky who’d provided it. She shadowboxes and stretches her way to a corner, ready to grasp the brass ring.
A veteran of his profession, the Announcer knew when it was best to wait, the FAWNatics remaining in full voice for several moments as they rained down approval for the reformed Boarding School Princess. If the side of Angels had a Hellion, then the red headed Cromwell was surely it, and these days the Loyalist Legionnaires were more than happy to have her on board. It didn’t take too long for that chant to find a new form, the arena falling in line as they began to chant three words in unison, the name of a Tag Team that had been too long absent from Orlando, one that had formed in the face of adversity, and one that Elizabeth was proudly one half of.
“WORLDS! BEST!! BRITS!!! WORLDS! BEST!! BRITS!!! WORLDS! BEST!! BRITS!!!”
Deciding that this was the best cue he was ever going to be able hope for tonight, the Announcer brought his microphone back up to his lips, and began to reveal the next contestant.
“And her first opponent, hailing from Nottingham, England, standing in at five foot four and weighing in one hundred and ten pounds, she is the People’s Princess, SA...”
Before he could even finish, the loud speakers burst into renewed life, heralding the return of a long absent favourite.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=b5zXinAj5TI
The moment the long absent Samantha Sinclair appeared on stage, the FAWNatics truly lost their sh*t, the Leader of the Upstart Nation standing as tall as her perfectly petite mass would allow her, catching the light in all the right places as she whipped both her arms up high and waved. Five foot four and one hundred and ten pounds of athletically sculptured, miniature might, Sammie Sinclair was every inch the People’s Princess as she cheered back, shimmering in her golden/yellow attire and blushing fiercely with her dimple, freckled cheeks flushing a delightful crimson.
For a bright, shining moment, it was as if the miniature brunette had never been away. Her sports bra remained the same, smoothly curved about her small, proud bosom, leaving her softly sculptured tummy bare and her upraised arms the same way. It was to be her boy cut shorts that had apparently vanished, replaced instead by a short skirt which, with a generous slit running up the right side, revealed a wonderful shot of her firm thigh as the baby brown eyed darling hopped up onto her tip toes and spiraled. Her boots were similarly altered, still bright blue and reaching upwards to just beneath her kneecaps, they were now tanned from firm leather and sported lacing right up the front.
SAMMIE SINCLAIR:
With the flourish of her spiral completed, the People’s Princess set her feet apart and kept her fingers wiggling heavenwards, nodding to her followers with a knowing smirk and, just before she lead them in her usual declaration of intent.
ONCE!
TWICE!!
THRICE!!!
And with her statement of intent made clear she pointed directly towards the squared circle, a hearty explosion of pyrotechnics erupting to either side of the stage that she was standing on. Samantha Sinclair was here and, with a joy induced skip she headed down the aisle at a swift sprint, the second generation superstar with chocolate curls bouncing free about her slender shoulders now a little older, a little wiser and, after the last year, stood a little stronger. The girl was now a young woman, and she was looking all the bolder for it.
Fearless? Perhaps not, the Little Sparrow would be the first to admit to her short fallings, but nerve?
She most defiantly had nerve.
The moment Sinclair reached the squared circle, the Golden Girl took her short detour right ways and, much to the delight of those who found themselves closet, Sammie began clapping every outstretched hand that she discovered, paying particular attention to the youngest in attendance. Beating a fast track around the ring, she soon found herself back at start, a run, skip and jump taking her clean up onto the apron. Grasping the top coil with both her paws, the Bright Eyed Wonder leaned back and, following a cheeky shake her pert buttocks, she shot right over the top rope with an applause-worthy sault.
Landing lightly on her feet and clapping once more, she paused only to smile sheepishly in the direction of the Announcer and offered him the most sincere apology that one could ever hope to hear. “Sorry,” she smiled in his direction, “couldn’t wait,” she confirmed, heading almost straight on past towards the opposite corner, “too excited!”
Sinclair almost hopped up the turnbuckles to stand as tall as possible, facing outwards towards the crowd and throwing her arms up once again. The Legionnaires ROARED back in answer, the Little Sparrow applauding them in return before she hopped back down, the freckled cheeked wonder heading immediately over to her one time fiercely heated rival, and now best friend, Elizabeth Cromwell, the two clasping one another in a firm, wrist to wrist handshake, as much for the audience as it was for themselves.
“Show off,” Cromwell scolded mildly.
“Damn straight,” Sinclair answered with a grin before the two backed away, “all business now?”
“All business,” Lizzie agreed with a short nod.
“Best Brit,” Sammie declared with impish teasing as she pointed to her own bosom.
“Not tonight,” the red head disagreed with a rolling of her neck, “not while I’m here.”
With nothing else left to be said, both young women found their own corners, ready to go at it yet again with the confines of the squared circle.
“And their next opponent,” the Announcer, somewhat wisely given how hazardous the next participant tended to be for those in his profession, opted to beat a hasty exit to the outside of the ring for the moment. “Hailing from Manchester, England, standing in at five foot four and weighing in one hundred and twenty five pounds, the Weaponised Wolverine!! IRMA!! IRONS!!”
www.youtube.com/watch?v=e8-sMJZTYf0
The curtains parted and Irons burst through, tearing a path across the stage with such aggression her heavy duty footwear all but tore a trench in her wake. She paused, just before the ramp, raven tresses free and wild about her shoulders as she stood imperiously with feet braced wide apart and whipped both her arms upwards, biceps flexing as she delivered the double, two fingered salute to one and all!
She was breathing heavily, full of fire and volcanic fury, sheeted with a layer of sweat that suggested she had already been wailing on some hapless victim. Her dark eyes were unflinching, her gaze unbroken as she bore a glare towards the waiting ring, every muscle in her powerhouse build pulsing and tensing, a fuse waiting to be lit.
The FAWNatics responded, for there could be few who could be more reviled in wrestling, the malcontent making herself known for all the wrong reasons. She reveled in it, the curtain of catcalls and boos, the overwhelming negative reception that Irma threw back at them a thousand fold, justifying her spite against mankind and feeding off it in turn.
She dropped her arms and smirked, filled with a sickening amount of smug self-satisfaction as her intro ended with a sudden, ear splitting and shrieking screeeeeeeech! The packed arena cringed as one following the auditory assault and Irons only smirked all the more, the video package upon the massive screen behind her rigid shoulders juddering, squealing and then snapping back into stark clarity, new footage replaying before the eyes of a shocked crowd.
IRMA IRONS:
It was a series of five second sequences that repeated over and over, looping a mind numbing number of times, taken from the Highlight Reels of several PPV’s and House Shows, moments in history that no-one had ever wanted to see. The chain link choking of the People’s Princess, Samantha Sinclair, the dry humping of Cassandra Vale, the beating of Tulip Morrison and the demolition of Shea London.
BITCHES! GET! BROKE!!
The three words appeared over and over as the spectacle continued, plastered across the almost hypnotic imagery that had been seen by every FAWNatic across the world.
BITCHES GET! BROKE!!
Irons threw back her head and laughed in a short, vicious tone, grinning in a cruel and mirthless manner as she tore her way down the ramp and the isle with short, stomping strides, wrapped in a tank top and well-worn shorts that were the same stark raven as her hair, her fists clenched and wrapped in gloves and a chain wrapped tightly about her midriff.
The FAWNatics who had paid good money to be the closet to the action had apparently learned their lesson and leaned back as far as possible, the timid display only proving to encourage the young woman’s aggressive humor further. She pivoted and kicked the metal gratings with the suspiciously heavy duty toe caps of her boots at random intervals, rattling them with gusto, behaving in a manner that suggested no-one was going to stop her.
She had every reason to believe that they wouldn’t.
There was not even a moment’s hesitation, a moment’s concern as she stomped her way up the steel steps and ducked between the ropes. She stormed to centre stage, ripping a microphone from the hands of a hapless flunky on the way there, and whatever thin reserves of good humor she possessed evaporated into vapor, replaced only with concentrated malice.
“Hold the F**K on!!” she snapped, turning this way and that with a frantic, bestial energy like a Rottweiler who didn’t know which way she wanted to bite. “This is BULLSH*T!!”
The FAWNatics responded, souring in her presence and raining down their displeasure onto the ring.
“Best of F***ING Britain!?!” Irons pushed on regardless, or perhaps because of the crowds distilled hate, “I AM THE BEST OF BRITAIN!! I BEAT SHEA LONDON!!”
The boos continued to build in intensity, the crowd unhappy with being reminded by the ending of that feud.
“I F***ING BURIED SHEA LONDON!! ME!! I ain’t got nothin’ more to prove to no-one, NOTHING!! Not to you,” she turned on the spot, pointing at Samantha Sinclair, the smaller brunette quietly fuming, “a bytch I’ve left unconscious THREE TIMES both inside and outside this ring!! And not to you!!” she turned just as sharply to face Cromwell, “a Tramp Stamped f***ing loser who got herself branded by a f***ing American!!”
If Sammie had been willing to wait for the bell, Lizzie apparently wasn’t, the red head fully about to push her way free from her corner to throw down, violence about to begin immediately unless something dramatic intervened...
But before fisticuffs can erupt in the ring, booming orchestral chords erupt in a certain familiar melody of regal bearing ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=sDI9HuVduDI&feature=related ) the crowd roaring more in surprise than joy, Irma and Elizabeth halted in their tracks. For they know as well as everyone in the building, it heralds the Grand Dame of British wrestling, a former FAWN Intercontinental and Lightweight champion, and, yes, semi-retired combatant who’d taken to managing in her homeland for the last year plus.
The assembled rise and erupt in a torrent of boos when the shock wears off. Inside the ring, there are stunned faces as well, as much as the trio tries to keep poker faces in place.
Striding into view of the hateful mob, Her Ladyship exudes an undeniable royal comportment and overwhelming arrogant air. Having made her way back to the Americas, the Duchess of East Anglia is resplendent. She reviews the boisterous crowd with her usual disdain.
The ring announcer, overcome with excitement, immediately finishes the introductions.
“And finally, from Finsbury Park, London, England, standing 5 feet 7 inches tall, weighing in at 8 stone 13…Lady Fiona Waterford.”
LADY FIONA WATERFORD:
The athletic build of the Englishwoman is much appreciated and accentuated beautifully by a striking midnight blue lace bra and panties with red bows on either hip and a royal coat of arms on her taut bum ( en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_coat_of_arms_of_the_United_Kingdom ). The attire leaves just the right amount to the imagination, which in this case was little. As a perfect bit of flair, red fishnet stockings reach up from midnight blue boots, red garters ending the stockings at mid-thigh.
Fiona strides down the aisle and hops to the apron. The Brit slides through the cables and moves to the center where she gives the raucous crowd a backhanded ‘V’, palm inward, letting her true feelings of the great unwashed be reinforced. A microphone, already in hand, is drawn to her lips.
“I heard about what Bethany Christian had in mind.” Fiona shouts over the crowd, “and to save her the humiliation of running a complete scam, I informed her I would be willing to lend credence to the title that will be awarded me.”
The crowd begins to chant “SAM-EEE. SAM-EEE” drawing a scowl from Fiona.
“I did not leave civilization in Finsbury Park to come to Orlando and hear you chant that whelp’s name. So shut your mouths!”
The chant only grows in strength. Waterford holds up a hand until they quiet, if only in the slightest.
“You will recognize me as FAWN’s Best Brit. I will force you and the other…women…in this ring to confess it to be so.”
Fiona tosses the microphone to a FAWN flunky on the floor below. She turns to the only unoccupied corner and takes up residence for the bell.
The immediate rebuttal of the People’s Princess was less than elegant, a pained “erf!” escaping from her lips as Sinclair’s temple was pulled in tight to her Tag Team Partners hip. She recovered quickly, one hand pulling on Cromwell’s forearm whilst the other moved to push against the other Brits hip, the effort however proving to be a brief one as a sharp twist and flex of Lizzie’s bicep added a severe torque to Sammie’s noggin.
The smaller of the two Best Brit’s dropped down hard to one knee, Cromwell leaning on the pressure to keep her high flying counterpart grounded, knowing better than most that it was imperative to keep the Little Sparrow anywhere but airborne. “What was that?” Lizzie doubled down on her resolve and leaned into the headlock even further, mounting considerable pressure onto Sinclair’s notoriously vulnerable neck, “No snappy come back tonight? You really are rusty.”
“Mwampfhth!!” Sammie answered with an incoherent mumble, every possible syllable lost somewhere between the smaller brunettes smushed lips, and the red heads firm thigh.
“No,” Lizzie didn’t give an inch, dropping down to one knee herself and threatening to take her fellow Brit right down to the mat. “I think I’m starting to remember just how much I like you being right where you are.”
“MWAMPGHTH!!” the People’s Princess declared just as incoherently as before, only now she matched her gibberish with action. With one hand back on Lizzie’s hip, the smaller of the two Brits managed to brace her petite frame and SHOVED HARD!! forcing a somewhat surprised Cromwell away and allowing her own noggin to slip free with an almost audible POP!!
Neither girl was idle in the fractions of a moment after, Lizzie exercising commendable reflexes as she spun about on the spot to meet any danger that might well be fast approaching. Sammie was responding likewise, shooting back up to standing like a jack in the box and, with the excited inhale of a thousand Loyalist Legionnaires watching, prepared to snap out a Sammie Kick!!
SAMMIE KICK @1:17:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=GJ5haOtUroc
Before the People’s Princess could finish the full rotation of her delightfully athletic frame however, the Boarding School Princess revealed just how savvy she had become to her Tag Partners move set. With her own eyes wide in startled panic, the red head backpedalled and dropped sharply into a defensive posture, her heart skipping a few beats even as she made the required safe distance, a smirking Samantha aborting the manoeuvre halfway.
It didn’t take too long for the red head to smile back, Elizabeth shaking her finger in Sinclair’s direction, “Not tonight.”
“Just warming up,” the English Import of Perfectly Petite Proportions continued smirking like a cat eyeing up a canary, “it’s a coming.”
“We’ll see.”
Simultaneously, as half the arena were held enraptured by a show down between the World’s Best Brits, the other half couldn’t tear their eyes away from Irons. The Malevolent Malcontent was living up to her namesake and then some, spitting furious and straddling the hips of downed Waterford, utterly impervious to the warnings of the far too timid Official as she rained down brutal forearm after forearm towards the scowling features of the taller women.
“Think you’re better than me do you!?! Well!?! DO YOU!?!” Irons went on, her white hot tirade almost going on unbroken and she poured out venom upon the personification of her countries Upper Class. “F***ING RICH BYTCH!! What kind of limp wristed t*ss*r like you knows how to put up a fight!?! F***!! ING!! TOURIST!!”
Waterford, for all the constant bombardment, was far from wilting, unwilling to simply lie there and take it, her own arms up in a defensive cage over her head and torso. The vast majority of Irons’ carpet bomb assault was being blunted, but enough of the frenzied offence was getting through to rattle the Fiona’s senses, and enough was eventually enough if the Lady intended to survive this opening onslaught.”
Fiona SLAMS a shin up between the wickets. The blast to Irma’s crotch takes a split second to work its way through Irons’ adrenaline, but when it does the battering ends in a hurry. Her jaw having dropped, Irma’s arms fall toward her throbbing privates.
Her Ladyship slides out from under the Irons. Irma’s settled to her haunches, eyes welling in agony.
“You bytch,” Irons squeaks, otherwise, unable to move.
The Duchess draws in her lithe left leg and pistons it into Irons’ chest, knocking her over, Irma’s hammies folding atop her calves.
“You were saying?” a wincing Waterford manages, hugging her ribs with a swaddling left arm as she slowly makes her knees a few feet from the Malcontent.
“And how dare you ignore my bona fides? HOW DARE YOU?”
When Irma pushes back up to her knees, she finds Fiona risen to full vertical and is knocked flat again, this time by a raised right knee catching flush under the chin of Irons.
“I’m royalty in and out of this ring,” Her Ladyship informs loudly, taking a quick glance across the ring to make sure the two twerps are keeping each other busy. “YOU should be cleaning my loo.”
The words elicit a growl from Irma. She rolls to her chest and pushes to all fours, only to receive a wicked soccer kick to her right ribs, Fiona sending her foe barrel rolling toward the ropes. Irma uses the momentum to keep right on going. She slips under and drops to the floor with a meaty ‘THWACK’.
Lady Waterford strides to the cables and looks over, only to have Irma hop to her feet and grab an ankle. Irons rips Fiona’s legs out from under her and drags Waterford to the outside, where she NAILS Her Ladyship with a European Uppercut that snaps the brunette’s head back. If not for the ring behind her, the Duchess might have taken a seat.
And it might have been better if she had, for Irma grabs a wrist and Irish whips the Grande Dame of British wrestling down the length of the ring, Fiona forced to dip and bury a shoulder into the steel ring steps, Waterford splattering to the floor in a moaning mess after hitting the metal full force.
Inside the ring, things are more cordial if not less competitive, the freckled fighters recommencing with their Upstarty feuding. Elizabeth takes the lead, apparently sensing an opening. She rushes Sammie with a clothesline, but Sinclair drops to a set of splits and Lizzie’s swipe of her right arm misses by a mile.
As Cromwell skids to a stop, the People’s Princess slides her abbreviated stems together, forcing her way up to a stance behind the redhead. When Elizabeth spins to face her bestie, she’s met with a toe kick to the tummy that doubles the BSP over with a grunt.
In immediate motion, Sinclair spins into a repeat of her Sammie Kick, this one aimed a little lower and she CLUNKS her boot into Lizzie’s right temple, sending Cromwell staggering toward a corner.
To her credit, Elizabeth remains upright, throwing an arm over the top rope on either side of the buckles. Sammie is close behind and she dips a ramming shoulder into the bare midriff of the Liverpudlian. Lifted off her feet, Elizabeth is creased deep into the corner, her tush nearly sent to the ring post between the upper and middle ropes, Sinclair’s right shoulder inserted deep into her gulping tummy.
The Loyalist Legionnaires have more to cheer as Sammie pulls out a foot or two and spears Lizzie again and again, driving more air from Elizabeth with each corner spear. Satisfied at a half dozen, Sinclair spins away with a raised hand, the troops rallying loudly as Sammie strides to the opposite corner when she sees a breathless Cromwell’s stems give way, leaving her seated in the corner, butt to canvas, legs extended in front of her.
Dander raised, friend or not, her competitive nature loosed, Sammie speeds across the canvas and launches from a few feet out, her sinewy lower limbs leading the way. And she CRUNCHES into Cromwell, her bum THUMPING into Lizzie’s chest. Sinclair quickly grabs the middle ropes on either side of the reeling redhead and pumps her best Bronco Buster into chest then chin as a bombarded Lizzie melts lower as the busting takes its toll.
Sammie dismounts and takes a step back to review the wreckage, a hint of a blush rushing to her face at the sight of Lizzie laid out. It quickly passes as she grabs Cromwell’s left wrist and ankle and drags her friend out to the middle, dropping across Lizzie in a crossbody pin for ONE…TWO…and Elizabeth kicks her way free.
Sinclair rises and turns to find Irma sinking her nails into Lady Waterford’s long dark locks, dragging the Duchess to her feet outside the ring. With no disqualifications tonight, they could stay out there all night and, for the moment, the Little Sparrow is happy to fly in less crowded airspace.
Ready to soar, Sammie takes off for the ropes behind her and rebounds out of the rubber-coated steel. The diminutive brunette skips over her tag partner and races to the opposite strands where she leaps into the middle ropes and backflips gracefully toward the splayed Cromwell with a Lionsault.
Sinclair lands on target, but it’s not the touchdown she wants. For while the Upstart Supreme is in mid-air, the Upstart-by-proxy pulls up her knees and provides Sammie a much pointer landing spot for her belly.
A coughing, gagging Sinclair rolls away, hugging her abdomen. It only takes a few seconds before Cromwell is on her feet, tracking down her partner. Grabbing Sammie by a wrist and shoulder, the redhead tugs the Golden Girl to her feet. Before she can send Sinclair for the ride, Sammie breaks free and lands a right cross to Lizzie’s jaw that turns her head. Cromwell returns one of her own that finds paydirt, staggering the tiny brunette; both women clearly setting aside their friendship with the ‘Best Brit in FAWN’ moniker on the line.
Sammie loads up another volley but before she can make good, Lizzie sends both hands wrapping around Sinclair’s neck. The ginger quickly leaps into a tight tuck, knees pressing into Sammie’s chest. The drop to Cromwell’s back is a lot less expensive for the Boarding School Princess than it is for the Golden Girl as Elizabeth delivers a facebreaker that has Sammie spasming after the brutal impact, hands flashing to her features, as Sinclair ends on her back.
<B>Double Knee Facebreaker</B> (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=56v0bXIy7nU ).
Lizzie dives atop her friend, hooking a leg and pulling the People’s Princess into a tight cradle for ONE…TWO…and Sammie stays alive with a flinch that gets a shoulder off the canvas.
“I’m gonna getcha,” Elizabeth informs as she pushes to her feet with a deep breath. “I’m gonna…”
Cromwell feels something against the back of her legs and finds the shoulder of a dazed Lady Fiona bumping against her, Waterford having been thrown back into the ring by Irma, who strides toward her.
“You can get out of the way and take care of that little golden greasespot,” Irma advises, “or you can eat my fist, Red. I’m officially dethroning the Queen of the Damned.”
++
More than most, Lizzie had little reason to stand up on behalf of Waterford, and tonight was to be no different, the well-being of her Ladyship far from Cromwell’s thoughts as she pushed herself up onto her feet. And yet the threat implicit in Irons’ tone carried with it the sense of telling the Boarding School Princess what to do, and that was something she found to be especially irksome.
A murmur grew steadily in intensity throughout the audience as they sat there in anticipation, a confrontation building that had been in the making since both of their arrivals, the Malevolent Malcontent and Red Headed Hellion squaring off for the first time. Liverpool and Manchester colliding in the only way that they knew how.
“Are you deaf, Cromwell,” Irma squared her shoulders, her breathing tight and ragged as her knuckles cracked into tight fists, “or just dense. I told you to back, the F*CK, OF...”
Elizabeth CRACKED!! Irons across the jaw with a wicked right hand, the FAWNatics accompanying the terrific blow with a wild “WHOOP!!”, rallying behind the Upstart-in-Law with gusto. The staggered Irma wasn’t about to take that without reply, her own eyes wide with fury and, having somehow retained her own footing, whiplashed her Hardbody frame about and SMASHED!! her new rival’s jaw with a hellacious uppercut.
While the collision had been audible, and the red head’s freckled noggin had snapped backwards with worrying momentum, Cromwell proved that neither of these Brit’s was willing to topple. Back and forth the two went, upping the ante with solid impact after impact, little thought given to defence as the Legionnaires in attendance willed the reformed Elizabeth to come out on top.
After the exchange of a further half dozen blows however, it seemed as though that wouldn’t be the outcome, Irma taking the lead in their exchanges after following up a thunderous right with a just as brutal left, bypassing the wilting redheads reply with the rapid one, two combo. With a shimmy in her knees and own her arms now hanging limp, the crowd favourite had clearly lost the two’s first exchange, the Boarding School Princess reduced to easy meat for the Weaponised Wolverine to further tenderise.
With her crooked grin in place, Irma surged forwards, seizing the near ragdolled Cromwell by her wrist and, after ducking low, hupped the suitably compliant Hellcat across her shoulders, a bewildered grown emerging from the shell shocked redhead. Irons’ grin grew only wider as the Gladiatrix Photographers swooped in to capture a FAWN moment, the Malevolent Malcontent stood at centre ring with two women splayed out around her feet, and a third strapped across her back in a cruel wrack.
They had to be quick though, for while that captured image would no doubt live on in infamy, it lasted barely longer than a moment. Irma’s satisfaction transforming rapidly into anger as, with a sudden surge of effort, the young women she dominantly held aloft wriggled and tore herself free from her grasp, landing on her feet with a thump behind the surprised Irons and rapidly taking advantage.
With the Malevolent Malcontent standing with her back to her, Elizabeth wasted not a moment of opportunity, grabbing the Hardbody brunette by her wild mane and, with claws dug in deep, the Hellcat YANKED the Wolverine backwards and dropped herself down to one knee. With Cromwell’s solid, firm thigh waiting, and Irons forced into a wickedly fast tumble, Irma’s spine CRACKED into an agonising angle across her new Rival’s posted knee, the backbreaker living up to its name and then some.
With several vertebrae popping, and Irons shout filled with as much rage as it was pain, somehow the Malcontent refused to crumple. Instead the bone rattling collision shot her back up to standing and reeling away, her short, powerfully compact frame stumbling and tumbling towards the furthest set of ring ropes. There she caught them, the rubber coated steel arguably the only thing keeping her knees from buckling, the Raven Haired Destroyer spitting murder and issuing threats as though the entire world had turned against her.
Elizabeth was unimpressed, getting back up to her own feet and preparing to follow through on her momentum...
As was the case, however, with four wrestlers in the ring at the same time, Lizzie was to find herself confronted with the unexpected as a blue and yellow blur shot past her peripheral vision like a flash of lightning, the roar from the FAWNatics filling in the remaining blanks. Cromwell was filled with a sudden surge of panic, not for herself, but with the realisation her best friend was surely about to do something spectacular... and equally as stupid...
Irons, for her part, had even less warning for what was coming, not spotting the sprinting frame of Samantha until it was far too late. Sammie went airborne, an inevitable conclusion to one of her jaw dropping sprints, and as the Upstart Supreme took to the skies she wrapped both her thighs about the head of the Weaponised Wolverine. With the flying headscissors locked firmly into place, there was no hesitation in Sinclair transferring her momentum into a Hurricanrana, one hundred and ten pounds of her delightful, rapidly rotating mass RIPPING Irma from off her feet, tipping her over the top rope and sending them both PLUMMETING outside the ring, past the apron and sent CRASHING towards the barely padded concrete far below.
TOP ROPE HURDLE HURRICANRANA: @6:57
www.youtube.com/watch?v=GviSvHfk3Gw
Sinclair, however, was not the only downed competitor to have regained her feet and, before Lizzie could both pursue and ensure the Upstart Supreme hadn’t taken her own head off, she felt a firm hand grasp her by the shoulder and spin her about. Suddenly face to face with an adversary of old, Lizzie didn’t have time to speak a word to the women who had previously taken a Lightweight Title from her, not before Waterford GUTTED!! her with a firm boot to her trim tummy.
With Cromwell winded and folded forwards, Fiona collected one of the redhead’s arms and neatly slung it across her shoulder before securing a domineering headlock. “You, young lady,” Fiona sneered, finally feeling as though she were being paid her due respect by the bowed ‘cretin’, whipped the Hellcat into a pitch perfect Snap Suplex, “need to be reminded of your position.”
The Duchess, having buggywhipped Elizabeth over in a front flip, Cromwell’s spine CRASHING against the canvas, Lizzie’s vertebrae arching in pain, rips Cromwell to her feet and repeats the process, snapping Elizabeth over again. The crowd groans when Waterford twists and rises, dragging a flagging Lizzie with her for another snap-thump, this time the brunette releasing, letting Cromwell slide a few inches after her third connection with the canvas.
Cromwell’s dark eyes squint as she bites her lip, left hand reaching for the base of her backbone. Meanwhile, the Grande Dame is looking awfully spry for just returning from semi-retirement. Having risen, she smugly slaps Elizabeth on the top of her head when Cromwell makes it to all fours.
“More reminding? Really?” she asks.
The grinning Fiona shrugs and tugs Elizabeth to wobbly feet. Waterford dips, scoops an arm between Lizzie’s legs and ‘hups’ Cromwell across her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. FAWN royalty strides around the ring with the redhead in her possession until she settles on the proper location. Lady Fiona tosses Elizabeth up, over, and off her left shoulder, but genuflects as she does, sending Cromwell’s neck CRACKING down across the bony joint with her Waking Nightmare.
<B> Waking Nightmare</B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4OCCuWlEcvU ) @00:13
The crowd reflexively groans in unison as the dazed and rubbery redhead sits stupefied for a half second before being pulled to her back by Waterford. Fiona climbs aboard in a domineering full body pin, the brunette rising to a straddle on all fours, her palms pressing into the front of Cromwell’s shoulders for the ONE…TWO…THRNOOO!
Elizabeth escapes to the audible relief of the FAWNatics, though they can hardly keep their attention inside the ring when Sammie and Irma are flying about outside it.
It’s mostly the Golden Girl with the aerobatics currently. Her petite, perfect proportions race across the outside of the ring as she leaps toward a bewildered Irons. Irma turns into the leaping Sinclair, Sammie vaulting off the apron, her knees landing flush with the Malcontent’s shoulders. The diminutive brunette rides Irma down to the thinly-padded cement floor with the Thesz Press and starts firing away with furious little fists, swabbing Irons with lefts and rights until Irons gets her hands between Sammie’s legs, palms pressed to her bum cheeks. She heaves the People’s Princess up and over her head, sliding out the backside.
Determined, Irons curses under her breath and she pushes toward vertical. Halfway there, the frenetic Sammie races in from behind, snatching the head of the Manchester native as she speeds by. Dragging Irma along in a side headlock, Sammie means to go big and go home by bulldogging Irons into the displaced metal ring steps. However, Irma has other ideas and, when Sinclair launches, Irons scoops under Sammie’s tush and shoves the Golden Girl off before she can deliver. Instead, Sammie becomes a flying pinball and bounces off the ring post, her noggin having led the way.
With Sinclair ending on the floor in a motionless heap, even the most loyal Legionnaires have a lump in their throat for the Upstart Supreme. Irma leans against the railing, not far away, drawing in deep breaths and taking a moment to enjoy Lady Fiona’s show inside the squared circle.
There, Waterford has a frazzled Cromwell racing to the ropes courtesy an Irish Whip. As the redhead bounces off the cables, Her Ladyship shows she’s still plenty limber, dropping and sliding through Lizzie’s legs. She trips up Cromwell in the process, the Boarding School Princess falling flat, her face thumping against the thinly-sheathed plywood.
As Elizabeth checks her aching nose, Fiona grabs an ankle of her foe, and rolls to a reverse-facing straddle with the left leg in tow. Her single-leg Crab quickly secured, Waterford wrenches and stretches, testing the limits of the lower limb and Cromwell’s spinal column.
<B> Rolling Boston Crab</B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fHSASf05imc )
The dastardly royal sidles up Elizabeth’s frame, drawing the redhead’s stem with her. She curls Cromwell into a frightening arch, Lizzie mewling in pain, but shaking her head when the official asks if she wants to give in.
“NahhhAHHHHH. NAHWAYYY.”
“Are you sure, sweetheart?” Fiona grunts, trying to touch Lizzie’s heel to the crown of her foe’s head.
After a half dozen seconds of yipping and moaning but no surrender from the BSP, Waterford SPIKES Cromwell’s raised knee into the canvas.
“As stubborn as every scrubwoman from Liverpool,” Fiona informs.
She takes a tight lap around the flattened and face-down redhead, providing a stomp to the spine every three or four steps and a quick glance to the outskirts where Irma has Sammie airborne in a blatant choke.
The ref, busy making sure Waterford isn’t going for a pin, finally turns to scold Irons, as a redfaced, gasping Sammie pries at her foe’s throttling, dual-hand grip. It’s only keeping Sinclair airborne for a considerable amount of time that forces the Malcontent to allow the flailing boots of Sinclair to touch earth once more.
They do so for little more than a few ticks as Irma hammer-throws the People’s Princess into the ring under the bottom ropes, Irma quickly sliding in after her, making the ring crowded confines of British pulchritude and prowess.
Irma and Lady Fiona seem perfectly willing to ignore the other so each can continue to take apart their own piece of Upstart Nation. Irons drags Sammie to rubbery legs and, a half dozen feet away, Waterford does the same with a shaky Lizzie.
Irma and Fiona make eye contact and nothing more. But it’s enough to prompt them to bully each of their foes into opposite corners. Irons and Waterford grab wrists and aim Lizzie and Sammie for a SUPERSNUG of a mid-ring collision, each woman sent on her way with a wickedly strong Irish Whip.
Upstart and Friend zoom toward each other at warp speed but instead of a hitting head on, the duo lock elbows in a momentary square dance, each sent sprinting back in the opposite direction at full speed. The tag teamers bear down on the wide-eyed Waterford and Irons, that is until Fiona and Irma each lift a big boot and, in stereo, Irons nearly removes Sammie’s head with the Duchess doing the same with Lizzie’s. Cromwell and Sinclair are violently floored, the back of their noggins THUMPING against the deck with sickening thuds.
With both halves of the World’s Best Brits visibly down and out, the FAWNatics grew increasingly concerned as both Irons and Waterford drop to the canvas in unison, hearts catching in throats as they both hooked up a leg and rolled up an Upstart for a duo of tight little pinfalls. The Official, at centre ring, only needed a moment to gather his own bearings and, unable to attend both of the opposite corners at the same time, instead dropped to the canvas right where he was and began to slap the mat for both at the same time...
ONE!
TWO!!
THRENOOOO!!!
Sinclair and Cromwell kicked out with barely a slither of air to spare, and the Legionnaires in attendance POPPED!! with a loud cheer, a rapid, three beat mantra beginning to pick up steam from one end of the arena to the other. It was the Upstart Nation’s march to war, and all of the Legionnaires in attendance hoped their heroines would rally.
Irma, on the other hand, was less optimistic, viciously delivering a backhanded SLAP!! to Samantha’s exposed temple as the People’s Princess wearily rolled over. That sharp smack, accompanied by a frustrated growl, served to keep the smaller brunette rattled as the Weaponised Wolverine seized a double handful of hair and YANKED the Little Sparrow in her care right up to vertical. It was clearly no act of mercy, Irons turning about sharply and whipping her outmatched Rival into the turnbuckles back first, watching in cruel satisfaction as the petite young women GUFFED!! out a pained gasp of air and slumped, pert buttocks coming to rest on the middle turnbuckle, her chin tucked in towards her chest.
“Do you still not get it Sinclair?” Irma snarled, rolling her shoulders as she marched in a short circle, fingers clenching and unclenching into fists. “You ain’t gonna beat me, you ain’t NEVER gonna beat me, NONE OF YOU UPSTARTS CAN BEAT ME!!”
Irons unleashed a horrendous chop after she screamed, SLAMMING!! her forearm into the exposed bosom of the flagging Sinclair, deeply enjoying the cry of pain that she had forced out of the crowd favourite as she was buried deeper into the corner. She enjoyed it so much she prepared to deliver a second, and a third, and a fourth, and so on, inhaling deeply each time as she prepared to savour the carnage.
By comparison, Lady Waterford was visibly more composed concerning Cromwell’s own escape, and yet was clearly no more pleased about Upstart tenacity. With a tut on her lips and a disdainful scowl upon her features, the Dame of British Wrestling was back up onto one knee with all of the poise that was befitting of her station, looking back over her shoulder at her foes ruin with barely constrained contempt. She shook her head in exasperation, cursing the common class as she pushed herself back up to standing, towering over the struggling redhead as Lizzie could barely bring herself up to hands and knees.
Fiona helped her part of the way, snatching a firm handful of auburn mane before forcibly YANKING!! the younger women’s head back sharply. With Cromwell still on her knees, knelt penitent before her, as was befitting, Waterford resisted the urge to just smack the scrub there and then, the Boarding School Princess barely able to raise a hand in defiance.
“Admit it dear,” Fiona chided as she would an unruly infant, “doesn’t this feel better?”
Elizabeth responded by the only way she knew how, up swinging an almighty hammer blow between the open thighs of her upper class rival, SLAMMING!! her forearm into the exposed nether regions of Royalty!! Fiona’s astonished eyes flew open wide as she her knocked knees shook visibly. The FAWNatics GASPED!! in surprise, the shock rapidly transforming into a loud cheer as their favourite Redheaded Hellcat snarled and shoved her weary frame right back up standing, following up the low blow with a pitch perfect, European Uppercut!!
With a flabbergasted Fiona caught flush beneath her chin; the Dame of British Wrestling was rocked back onto her heels, Cromwell not granting her even a single moment to recover. Lizzie surged forwards, bullying the veteran into a solid, standing side headlock and, after a firm wrench for good measure, lead her ‘better’ over to the closest set of ring ropes, forcing her peepers to rest over the top coil. “You took my Title from me Waterford,” Lizzie pushed out between clenched teeth, feeling every one of her aches and pains, “and while I may not be the same Cow I was then, I can still be TWICE the Bytch!!”
Without further ado, Cromwell began her ‘Saturday Evening Constitutional’, marching forwards and forcing the captured Fiona to keep pace, RAKING the Royal’s eyes across the top rope as they went. Fiona shrieked in response, a series of profanities escaping her lips that wouldn’t be welcome in ‘proper’ company, her left arm flailing out to the side whilst her right desperately pulled on her younger Rival’s tensed bicep.
For the entire length of the ring rope her protests and attempts to escape were for entirely for naught, Lizzie unwilling to give her even an inch of space, not until she reached the next turnbuckle, pulling back just enough to grab a hold of the veteran’s own hair, and pulled her head back. Waterford blinked her eyes furiously in an effort to recover, but even the scant time she was given proved to be a luxury as, with a satisfied shove, Cromwell threw her foes head forwards and SLAMMED!! the Royalist face first into the uppermost buckle.
The Loyalists cheered in approval as Fiona was literally struck silent, and their vocal support for the Boarding School Princess was reaching a crescendo...
At least it was until Waterford saw fit to sour the mood, the Elite European forgoing the momentary need to see and powering on through. Catching Elizabeth off guard, the taller women ducked down for a moment and, after securing a duo of handholds, gritted her teeth and scooped the smaller Brit clean off the canvas, a growl of effort escaping her athletically sculptured frame as, within her grasp, Cromwell went up... and swiftly came crashing back down!!
In a clean, fluid motion, the Boarding School Princess had been both lifted and thrown clean over the top rope, a protest escaping the redeemed redhead before she was unceremoniously left to drop. With a loud and gutted GROAN!! Lizzie hit the apron back first, the severe impact jarring her entire frame and knocking every ounce of air from her perfectly formed body. With a pained stutter and shock induced shudder, the shellshocked BSP continued rolling, slipping free of the apron and dropping again, this time landing just as hard on the cold concrete outside of the squared circle.
“Just so that we both understand each other clearly,” Fiona scolded, leaning heavily against the ropes as she tried desperately to regain her vision, “the gutter, that is your place.”
If the Loyalist Legionnaires in attendance switched their attention from that catastrophe to the second confrontation, they would find little more reason to find hope. Sinclair remained buried in the turnbuckles as Irons had reached the all-important number, a full ten meaty forearm smashes to her flagging opponent in the corner. Taking a moment to massage her aching wrist, Irma allowed herself a crooked smile of satisfaction, holding out her arms and allowing the FAWNatics to observe her dominance.
“Is it sinking in yet Sinclair,” Irma’s grin grew more pronounced, her breathing heavy, “I buried Shea London, none of you little sh*t stains can beat me.”
Sammie, summoning her reserves, inhaled a deep, pained breath and, after solidifying her hold of the top ring ropes, managed to pull herself up to some semblance of vertical. Perking up her chin, the People’s Princess caught the eyes of her frequent tormentor, Babyface dander rising as her button nose scrunched. “We can beat you,” she insisted, undaunted.
“Bullsh*t” Irons retorted bluntly.
Sinclair, finding reserves she shouldn’t possess, broke the smallest of wry smiles, “Katya beat you...”
If what passed for Irma’s psyche were a sheet of glass, then the FAWNatics in the front rows would swear later that they heard it shatter, the moment that she was reminded of that defeat snapping her from smug satisfaction to bloodthirsty murder. With a heart stopping roar the Malevolent Malcontent SURGED right back into the breach, pulling back her forearm for an eleventh smash...
Which almost immediately proved to be a poorly conceived idea!!
From the moment her powerful limb made contact with her Rival’s unprotected bosom, Sinclair steeled her resolve, tightly gripped the top ropes and rode out the pain. With a shout of her own, Sammie WHIPPED both of her athletic legs up and off the canvas, achieving impressive air as she snapped them about her opponent’s surprised noggin in an impromptu headscissors. Releasing the top ropes, the Little Sparrow continued to ride the momentum, swinging her perfectly petite frame about and, as the Loyalist’s ROARED in approved, all but ripped Irons off her feet with the Hurricanrana from no-where, sending the Raven Haired Destroyer tumbling away across the canvas with a head rattling bump.
@4:30 www.youtube.com/watch?v=fcHjyKXikdk
Sinclair landed with a bump as well, although hers was far more pleasant, the petite young women rolling with her controlled decent and looking far better for it. She popped right back up onto her knees and Loyalists popped right along with her, the Former Lightweight Champion looking like to was ready to mark her return with a...
Waterford dashed across the canvas and reminded everyone in attendance that, when there were four women in the ring, no-one was ever safe. Before anyone watching could even voice a warning, Fiona had already launched her assault, SLAMMING the entirety of her boot into the side of Sammie’s adorable noggin, snapping her head sideways and sending the beloved, gold clad grappler to the canvas. Sinclair spun wildly and flopped out onto the mat in a motionless starfish, right leg twitching as though she had been shot.
Fiona’s sprint ended in a satisfied saunter, a few more wipes across her eyes easing her still blurry vision back to normal. “Now that,” she declared, brooking no further arguments from the filthy commoners who dared to consider themselves to be the ‘Best of Britain’, “is quite enough from all of yo...”
The FAWNatics ERUPTED!! as Lizzie almost seemed to appear from no-where, diving back into the ring with a growl and, in turn, launching into a sprint of her own! Waterford lacked the time to complete her gloat as the momentum of the contest refused to settle in anyone’s favour, her eyes snapping wide in surprise just before the assaulting Elizabeth nearly beheaded the Royalist with a clothesline from hell, one that smashed her into the ropes, and then flung her clean over the top of them!
Up and over Waterford went, until she took her turn to hit the apron, smacking off the hardest part of the ring before she disappeared down towards the concrete.
Elizabeth was left standing triumphant, a prideful smile warring with the pain visible upon her features, the Redheaded Hellcat riding the wave of the Loyalists approval as they applauded. “Just so that YOU understand me clearly,” she directed towards the evicted Fiona, regardless of whether or not she could be heard, “my place is right! HERE!!”
Cromwell surveys the remaining inhabitants in the ring, those being her bestie Sammie and her, well, not-bestie Irma. She clearly wants to move to Sammie and help her recover but seeing Irma quickly convalescing, she decides on a different course.
“Get up, Sammie,” Lizzie shouts as she moves toward the dangerous Irons. “Free snugs for Upstart Supremes!” she adds loudly as she races to the Malcontent and lifts a knee, smashing it into the temple of a rising Irma.
Irons spins with the terrible torque from the impact, Irma ending on her haunches, noggin lowered, chin to chest. Elizabeth sinks a set of nails into Irons’ dark tresses and turns to find Sinclair up and clearing her head with an adorable rattle.
“Did someone say free snugs?” she asks, with a hint of a grin emerging.
“They could be bearsnugs, just sayin’,” Elizabeth responds. “But for now…”
Cromwell motions to a groaning Irma with a shrug. She pulls Irons to her feet with a wrist and spins the Malevolent One through an Irish whip toward the People’s Princess.
Sammie launches on her foe’s approach and NAILS Irma with a crisp dropkick to the chin, decking Irons in violent fashion, the back of Irma’s skull THUMPING against the canvas.
Sinclair kips to her feet, drawing a huge roar from the Legionnaires, which only grows louder when Sammie and Lizzie share a high five.
Sinclair offers a pantomime pout.
“You said snugs.”
“SAM-MEE,” Elizabeth answers in mock sternness. “Miss Irons would like to take the rest of the night off.”
“Fair enough,” Sammie says, and together they lift Irons to unsteady feet.
The tag partners send Irma for the ride, whipping her to the far ropes and charging after her, hands locked for a double clothesline. Knots grow in the FAWNatics’ throats when Irma doesn’t play nicely with the Upstarts’ plans, dipping beneath the limbs of the startled twosome and racing to the opposite cables.
Elizabeth and Samantha skid to a stop and turn in unison with Irma already rebounding. Improvising, and apparently reading the other’s mind, both brunette and redhead fly into stereo spinning leg lariats that CRASH into the face of the charging Malcontent, knocking her to the deck in spectacular fashion.
Outside the ring, Lady Waterford is up and leaning heavily against the guardrail. Likely torn between the good of seeing her toughest competitor being blasted and the bad of knowing she’d be facing two against one if things continued, Fiona seems satsified in knowing she can dispatch two Upstarts as easy as one.
A gobsmacked Irma had hit with enough force to drive her up to a seat on the canvas.
“LIVERPOOL,” shouts Lizzie, adding a soccer kick to Irma’s chest.
“ARSENAL,” insists Sammie, providing one of her own.
The debate continues for several more kicks until a big right boot from the Boarding School Princess settles the matter, Irons finally flattened.
“See. I told ya,” Cromwell says with a wide smile.
“Hmmpph,” Sammie snorts.
Lizzie directs Sinclair toward the nearest corner and a smirking Sammie obliges. While the Golden Girl moves toward her launching pad, Elizabeth scoops up the pummeled Manchester native and, with Irma’s rubbery legs nearly failing her, the redhead tugs Irons into a front facelock.
The BSP tosses a limp arm of Irma over a shoulder and, with a loud grunt, launches the legally double-teamed Malcontent off her feet. Lizzie turns the golden-skinned, muscular frame of Irons as she lifts and rudely deposits Irma with a ring-rattling Prep School Expulsion.
<B>Prep School Expulsion </B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ttqciIH5dA )
Elizabeth, sitting out, drops Irma’s head and neck across her mat-supported limb, Snapping Irons’ body forward, the crowd offering a reflexive sympathetic groan on the disturbing impact.
Irons flops into a wide starfish. But instead of covering, Lizzie rolls clear, and for good reason. Far above, Sammie is ready to fly.
However, unbeknownst to the People’s Princess, the Duchess of East Anglia is climbing the apron from Sammie’s blind side to the worried squeals of many in the audience. Lady Waterford’s right hand forms a hook to unsettle Sammie’s footing and sending her tumbling, who knows where.
But before Waterford can trip the Upstart from her penthouse perch, Sammie vaults into the stratosphere, rotating gorgeously through her patented double rotation moonsault.
With Irma already ‘expelled’ below, the semiconscious Malcontent is pancaked into the canvas by Sammie’s Sinclair Summer Slam, the Golden Girl splattering Irma beneath her specialty, tummy THUMPING across tummy.
The Upstart hits with enough force she bounces off what’s left of Irma, Irons not appearing very malicious at the moment. But it takes only a second before a grimace disappears from Sammie’s face and she lies back down on the demolished Irma.
Elizabeth stands nearby in spectator mode, watching gleefully as her BFF picks up the ONE…TWO…THREE!
Simultaneous to the third joyous slap of the mat, Her Ladyship, who’d mistimed her attempt to upend Sinclair, does not make the same mistake in attacking the distracted Elizabeth from behind, throwing a wicked chop block into the back of Cromwell’s left knee.
A yelping Lizzie goes down in a heap. She grasps at her joint, howling in pain, interrupting any sense of Sammie’s satisfaction in pinning her long-time antagonist. Sinclair scrambles to her feet, pushing off Irma’s motionless body as the ring announcer states the obvious.
“Your first elimination, Irma Irons by pinfall, courtesy of the PEOPLE’S PRINCESS SAMMIE SINCLAIR!”
Lady Fiona stomps the knee of the downed redhead, Lizzie trying to pull the limb into a protective ball as her bestie races to the rescue.
Unfortunately for the Legionnaires, Fiona is ready for the cavalry, perhaps even counting on it. She delivers a deep toe kick to Sammie’s very low abdomen. Sinclair’s baby browns bulge, her jaw falling wide from the blow. Stopped cold and doubled over, Sammie is pulled forward roughly, Lady Waterford capturing Sinclair’s arms one at a time in underhooks.
Seamlessly, the regal brunette spins so the women are back to back, Fiona pulling the back of Sammie’s neck over a shoulder. Her Ladyship sits out, dragging Sammie down with her and snaps her foe’s neck viciously when the grapplers hit the deck.
<B> Double Underhook Neckbeaker </B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zLbxYtMLSf0 )
A spasming Sammie flops to her back, cradling the back of her noggin and Fiona dives to a crossbody pin, hooking a leg of the dark-haired cutie for ONE…TWO…THRNOOO!
Sinclair kicks her way loose of the pin, rolling to her side. Fiona, up to all fours next to the Upstart, stares threateningly at the official.
“You’re not one of those damnable Legionnaires, are you?”
The ref holds up his palms proclaiming his innocence to the charge.
Fiona glances over her shoulder at a still writhing redhead, Lizzie trying to get her knee in working order. She returns her attention to Sammie, grabbing Sinclair by the hair and ripping Sammie to her feet as she rises, Her Ladyship scoffing at the boos and catcalls.
“Like you didn’t all know I was the best in Britain already,” she pronounces.
Placing a wobbly Sammie just so, Waterford takes a couple steps back, raises her thumbs and forefingers, connecting them into a frame of Sinclair’s chin and vaults into a standing dropkick that is perfection. The boots thump into the point of Sammie’s jaw and sends her hurtling backward with enough force she hits the ropes and tumbles over in a backflip. The People’s Princess clatters off the apron and puddles on the floor.
But Sammie gained her Upstart-in law some time and, as Fiona moves to the ropes and examines her handiwork, Lizzie strides with a noticeable limp to Lady Waterford and grabs a shoulder and wrist. She spins Fiona to face her, perhaps preparing to send the Duchess of East Anglia to the far ropes with a whip. But Fiona turns with more than a startled look, kneeing Cromwell in the privates.
Lizzie’s eyes bulge, her lips forming a silent ‘o’ as she collapses into Fiona’s arms. A moment of maneuvering with Lizzie’s frozen form places the Boarding School Princess across Fiona’s shoulders in a fireman’s carry and the Grande Dame of English wrestling walks her mewling bundle to the nearest corner.
Showing the strength neither of her remaining opponents can match, Lady Waterford steps up to the middle ropes carefully, facing forward. She takes a moment to collect herself, Elizabeth fidgeting futilely in her grasp, and leaps forward.
Flipping, Fiona PLANTS Elizabeth to the deck with her Channel Plunge, Her Ladyship rolling through the impact while Cromwell takes the brutal brunt.
<B> Channel Plunge</B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NR9RH1sORmU )
Lizzie is seated for a moment but faints to horizontal, spreading out in a demolished starfish.
FAWN royalty takes a glance outside the ring and only now is Sammie stirring. That view seems to provide Waterford’s choice to not go for the pin, instead drawing a rubbery Lizzie to her feet.
Collecting her foe’s head in a front facelock, Fee likewise gathers Cromwell’s left leg, corralling it in a cradle then powering Sammie’s BFF off the canvas, holding her ass over tea kettle for several long seconds before destroying her with the Late Knighthood.
<B> Late Knighthood</B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ic1Vze0zf88 )
Cromwell’s unconscious body ‘explodes’ out of the cradle at impact and into a motionless spreadeagle. Fiona rolls to all fours, crawls to the KOd Cromwell and presses tight in a full body pin, sending a forearm into Elizabeth’s face to send a flushed cheek flat to the canvas for the…
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
A grinning Waterford nods and rises to a kneeling straddle of the vanquished redhead. Taking a peek over her shoulder, Fiona sees Sammie is up and mobile, climbing through the cables with a distraught look on her face.
Waterford pops to her feet and brushes Elizabeth into a lifeless roll to the apron’s edge with a couple dismissive backward sweeps of her boot.
“Too late, luv,” Her Ladyship informs Sinclair. And the ring announcer makes that message official.
“Your second elimination, Elizabeth Cromwell by pinfall…courtesy of LADY FIONA WATERFORD!”
Sammie scrunches her nose, her dander raised to its highest level.
“You’re not winning, Your Losership,” Sinclair informs, baiting Fiona instead of falling for Waterford’s lure.
And the insult has the Duchess red-faced.
“How dare you?” Waterford asks, incredulous. “You little whelp.”
Fiona charges with clothesline drawn, but Sammie easily slips under the scythe-like right arm. The diminutive Upstart grabs the limb and leaps across Waterford’s back, her abbreviated legs scissoring around the London native’s opposite upper limb. Momentum takes Fiona over with the crucifix, Waterford’s shoulders pinned to the canvas under Sammie’s control for…
ONE…
TWO…
The Duchess wriggles her way free, rolling to her knees and scrambling to her feet, shouting “TWO” at the official. The man agrees.
But while Waterford is confirming, Sammie is already up and on the prowl. She delivers a dropkick to the chops of the royal, flattening Waterford to the deck. Skipping over the top, Sammie leaps into the ropes to Fiona’s side. Landing on the middle cable, she grabs the top and backflips gracefully over the downed Duchess.
Sinclair lands across Fiona’s ivory-skinned midriff with a meaty slap of tummy to tummy, her lionsault SPLASHING the air from Fee, Waterford jackknifing around the impact before settling to the canvas where the People’s Princess hooks a leg for…
ONE…
TWO…
And Fiona kicks free again, though breathlessly on this occasion, sucking air deeply.
Feeling her oats, the Upstart kips to her feet, bringing a roar from the crowd. She grabs a wrist and tugs a reeling Fiona there as well. Lining a gassed Waterford to the far ropes, the Brit of perfectly petite proportions sends her foe off on a sprint to the opposite ropes. Sinclair stations herself mid-ring and leaps at the returning Fiona, lithe legs extended and clamping around Waterford’s head to toss her fellow survivor with a hurricarana.
But when Sammie sends her body in reverse to flip Fiona forward, the Grande Dame of English wrestling manages to keep her boots planted, defying the force of the Upstart. Sammie drapes down Fiona’s front and Waterford scoops Sinclair up, Sammie’s baby browns going wide with trepidation as she’s moved to a cradled seat on Waterford’s shoulders.
The emotion proves true when Fiona sits out and THUMPS Sinclair into the deck with a ring-rattling powerbomb that takes the starch out of the People’s Princess. Sammie lies motionless between Fiona’s extended stems, shoulders against the deck, arms above, wide and unmoving, legs in control of the Duchess for…
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOO!
Sinclair kicks loose, ending on her left side, groaning, seemingly unsure where she is.
Fiona, still in control of Sammie’s legs, tosses them aside in the direction Sinclair rolled and pushes to her feet to get in the official’s grill.
“I understand,” Her Ladyship protests, “the simple-minded find the little brat appealing. That doesn’t mean you should disregard the rules in order to get her a title she does not deserve and will surely tarnish.”
The man starts to respond but Waterford holds up a hand.
“Simply count to three after the following is all that is required.”
The Duchess moves back to Sinclair, the Upstart Supreme having made it to hands and knees. Fiona grabs a handful of chocolate-hued locks and tugs a yipping Sinclair to her feet. Waterford shoves Sammie to the nearest ropes and the slight Golden Girl bounds back to Her Ladyship.
Sammie tries to counter into a Flying Headscissors but Fiona cuts off the attempt halfway through, leaving Sammie draped across Fiona’s right shoulder, Sammie set for Waterford’s ‘Long Live the Queen’ finale.
<B> Long Live The Queen </B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C8YueVTcOj4 )
But before the Duchess can twist Sammie to the deck and receive her newest title, Sammie furiously heaves elbows into Waterford’s chin, Fiona eventually losing her grip, Sinclair squirming her way down her foe’s back.
Hitting the canvas behind the regal brunette, Sammie cups her hands under Fiona’s chin while simultaneously leaping into a tuck pressed tight to Waterford’s shoulderblades. Using gravity, the People’s Princess tugs her foe to the deck, backstabbing Fiona in the process.
<B> Backstabber </B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z5fGWczK_q0 )
Waterford’s body whiplashes at impact, the crowd with a collective ‘WHOA’ as a dazed Duchess flops to her side semiconscious.
A risen Sinclair shoves Waterford to her back with a push of her boot. She surges to the ropes a few feet away, hopping into the middle strand and jumping out in a 180, the Upstart’s extended legs CRASHING down across the throat and chest of Her Ladyship.
A tremor is sent through Fiona’s body, her legs and torso flinching into the air, her chest, neck and head kept matbound by Sinclair’s stems. But instead of allowing the referee to drop and start his count, Sammie kips to her feet and zooms to the nearest buckles, scurrying up in the blink of an eye.
The tensed crowd murmurs with excitement as Sammie smiles at her legion then dips slightly before launching HIGH into a rafter-scraping backflip from the top. Reaching the deck, Sammie’s midriff SPLASHES across the center of the Duchess CRUSHING Fiona under the Horizon Comet.
A ruined Waterford folds and unfolds beneath the wincing Upstart, all oxygen and fight blasted out of the Grande Dame. Sammie hooks a leg for certainty and waits for the…
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
Waterford doesn’t so much as flinch beneath the cover and a flexing Sammie only relaxes atop her foe after the third slap of the mat. She rolls to her back to lounge on the remains of the royal as the ring announcer makes the result an official one.
“Your final elimination, Fiona Waterford by pinfall, courtesy of the BEST BRIT EVER…SAMMIE SINCLAIR!”
The words are enough to provide the adrenaline necessary to send Sinclair in one final kip off Fiona’s motionless form. A glistening, beaming Sammie stands in a straddle over the runner-up and accepts the accolades as a chant erupts throughout.
“BEST…BRIT…EVER!”
A jubilant Sinclair raises her arms high. The triumphant Sammie picks a recovered Elizabeth out of the roaring mass of humanity, Cromwell striding down the aisle. The grinning Liverpudlian reaches the ring and slides under, hopping to her feet.
The two meet in an embrace and Lizzie lifts Sammie off the canvas, giving her a 360-spin before placing her gently back on the mat.
“Congrats, Sammie,” Elizabeth says. “You were…are stupendous.”
“So were…” Sammie interrupts, but Cromwell won’t let her continue.
“NO…this is your night…and you really have proven that, at least for now.” Elizabeth halts and touches the tip of her nose to Sinclair’s. “At least for now…you are the Best Brit Ever.”
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tN9EC3Gy6Nk )
Behind the curtain, Elizabeth and Sammie Sinclair share a high-five, but that’s not quite enough for the People’s Princess and she tugs Lizzie into a tight snug.
“Don’t hold back out there,” Sammie whispers in Cromwell’s ear, “even against me. You deserve this as much as me or anyone else. Believe in yourself.”
“Thanks,” Elizabeth grunts from within the bearhug. “Sammie. I think they’re waiting.”
“Oh yeah. Sorry.”
Sammie’s face blushes and she releases Lizzie for battle. But after Cromwell steps and turns. She turns back to Sammie and gives her a peck on the cheek.
“Really. Thanks.”
Elizabeth storms though the curtains as 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 )
Liverpool’s favorite daughter strides to center stage, noticeably keeping a ‘branded’ cheek pointing away from the crowd for as long as possible. It would be a reminder and an embarrassment she’d have to live with for several weeks until it faded, but until then she’d be a member of the ‘BJ’ herd. Still, a chance to be heralded FAWN’s Best Brit was worth the awkwardness and Bareback would get hers in due time.
Lizzie waves enthusiastically at her fans before heading down the ramp and aisle, ready to make some noise and survive three of her countrywoman, including her bestie.
ELIZABETH 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.
“Tonight’s next match is a Fatal Four-Way and is for the title FAWN’s Best Brit. First, 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.
“Thank you ladies and gentlemen. When I first came into FAWN, I proclaimed myself the World’s Best Brit. And for a while it sure seemed that way. Since those early days, not so much. But I think I’m a better person now and I’m ready to earn it through action, rather than presume it through words.”
The assembled roars its approval.
“So let the best woman win!”
The crowd ignites as Elizabeth tosses the microphone back to the FAWN flunky who’d provided it. She shadowboxes and stretches her way to a corner, ready to grasp the brass ring.
A veteran of his profession, the Announcer knew when it was best to wait, the FAWNatics remaining in full voice for several moments as they rained down approval for the reformed Boarding School Princess. If the side of Angels had a Hellion, then the red headed Cromwell was surely it, and these days the Loyalist Legionnaires were more than happy to have her on board. It didn’t take too long for that chant to find a new form, the arena falling in line as they began to chant three words in unison, the name of a Tag Team that had been too long absent from Orlando, one that had formed in the face of adversity, and one that Elizabeth was proudly one half of.
“WORLDS! BEST!! BRITS!!! WORLDS! BEST!! BRITS!!! WORLDS! BEST!! BRITS!!!”
Deciding that this was the best cue he was ever going to be able hope for tonight, the Announcer brought his microphone back up to his lips, and began to reveal the next contestant.
“And her first opponent, hailing from Nottingham, England, standing in at five foot four and weighing in one hundred and ten pounds, she is the People’s Princess, SA...”
Before he could even finish, the loud speakers burst into renewed life, heralding the return of a long absent favourite.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=b5zXinAj5TI
The moment the long absent Samantha Sinclair appeared on stage, the FAWNatics truly lost their sh*t, the Leader of the Upstart Nation standing as tall as her perfectly petite mass would allow her, catching the light in all the right places as she whipped both her arms up high and waved. Five foot four and one hundred and ten pounds of athletically sculptured, miniature might, Sammie Sinclair was every inch the People’s Princess as she cheered back, shimmering in her golden/yellow attire and blushing fiercely with her dimple, freckled cheeks flushing a delightful crimson.
For a bright, shining moment, it was as if the miniature brunette had never been away. Her sports bra remained the same, smoothly curved about her small, proud bosom, leaving her softly sculptured tummy bare and her upraised arms the same way. It was to be her boy cut shorts that had apparently vanished, replaced instead by a short skirt which, with a generous slit running up the right side, revealed a wonderful shot of her firm thigh as the baby brown eyed darling hopped up onto her tip toes and spiraled. Her boots were similarly altered, still bright blue and reaching upwards to just beneath her kneecaps, they were now tanned from firm leather and sported lacing right up the front.
SAMMIE SINCLAIR:
With the flourish of her spiral completed, the People’s Princess set her feet apart and kept her fingers wiggling heavenwards, nodding to her followers with a knowing smirk and, just before she lead them in her usual declaration of intent.
ONCE!
TWICE!!
THRICE!!!
And with her statement of intent made clear she pointed directly towards the squared circle, a hearty explosion of pyrotechnics erupting to either side of the stage that she was standing on. Samantha Sinclair was here and, with a joy induced skip she headed down the aisle at a swift sprint, the second generation superstar with chocolate curls bouncing free about her slender shoulders now a little older, a little wiser and, after the last year, stood a little stronger. The girl was now a young woman, and she was looking all the bolder for it.
Fearless? Perhaps not, the Little Sparrow would be the first to admit to her short fallings, but nerve?
She most defiantly had nerve.
The moment Sinclair reached the squared circle, the Golden Girl took her short detour right ways and, much to the delight of those who found themselves closet, Sammie began clapping every outstretched hand that she discovered, paying particular attention to the youngest in attendance. Beating a fast track around the ring, she soon found herself back at start, a run, skip and jump taking her clean up onto the apron. Grasping the top coil with both her paws, the Bright Eyed Wonder leaned back and, following a cheeky shake her pert buttocks, she shot right over the top rope with an applause-worthy sault.
Landing lightly on her feet and clapping once more, she paused only to smile sheepishly in the direction of the Announcer and offered him the most sincere apology that one could ever hope to hear. “Sorry,” she smiled in his direction, “couldn’t wait,” she confirmed, heading almost straight on past towards the opposite corner, “too excited!”
Sinclair almost hopped up the turnbuckles to stand as tall as possible, facing outwards towards the crowd and throwing her arms up once again. The Legionnaires ROARED back in answer, the Little Sparrow applauding them in return before she hopped back down, the freckled cheeked wonder heading immediately over to her one time fiercely heated rival, and now best friend, Elizabeth Cromwell, the two clasping one another in a firm, wrist to wrist handshake, as much for the audience as it was for themselves.
“Show off,” Cromwell scolded mildly.
“Damn straight,” Sinclair answered with a grin before the two backed away, “all business now?”
“All business,” Lizzie agreed with a short nod.
“Best Brit,” Sammie declared with impish teasing as she pointed to her own bosom.
“Not tonight,” the red head disagreed with a rolling of her neck, “not while I’m here.”
With nothing else left to be said, both young women found their own corners, ready to go at it yet again with the confines of the squared circle.
“And their next opponent,” the Announcer, somewhat wisely given how hazardous the next participant tended to be for those in his profession, opted to beat a hasty exit to the outside of the ring for the moment. “Hailing from Manchester, England, standing in at five foot four and weighing in one hundred and twenty five pounds, the Weaponised Wolverine!! IRMA!! IRONS!!”
www.youtube.com/watch?v=e8-sMJZTYf0
The curtains parted and Irons burst through, tearing a path across the stage with such aggression her heavy duty footwear all but tore a trench in her wake. She paused, just before the ramp, raven tresses free and wild about her shoulders as she stood imperiously with feet braced wide apart and whipped both her arms upwards, biceps flexing as she delivered the double, two fingered salute to one and all!
She was breathing heavily, full of fire and volcanic fury, sheeted with a layer of sweat that suggested she had already been wailing on some hapless victim. Her dark eyes were unflinching, her gaze unbroken as she bore a glare towards the waiting ring, every muscle in her powerhouse build pulsing and tensing, a fuse waiting to be lit.
The FAWNatics responded, for there could be few who could be more reviled in wrestling, the malcontent making herself known for all the wrong reasons. She reveled in it, the curtain of catcalls and boos, the overwhelming negative reception that Irma threw back at them a thousand fold, justifying her spite against mankind and feeding off it in turn.
She dropped her arms and smirked, filled with a sickening amount of smug self-satisfaction as her intro ended with a sudden, ear splitting and shrieking screeeeeeeech! The packed arena cringed as one following the auditory assault and Irons only smirked all the more, the video package upon the massive screen behind her rigid shoulders juddering, squealing and then snapping back into stark clarity, new footage replaying before the eyes of a shocked crowd.
IRMA IRONS:
It was a series of five second sequences that repeated over and over, looping a mind numbing number of times, taken from the Highlight Reels of several PPV’s and House Shows, moments in history that no-one had ever wanted to see. The chain link choking of the People’s Princess, Samantha Sinclair, the dry humping of Cassandra Vale, the beating of Tulip Morrison and the demolition of Shea London.
BITCHES! GET! BROKE!!
The three words appeared over and over as the spectacle continued, plastered across the almost hypnotic imagery that had been seen by every FAWNatic across the world.
BITCHES GET! BROKE!!
Irons threw back her head and laughed in a short, vicious tone, grinning in a cruel and mirthless manner as she tore her way down the ramp and the isle with short, stomping strides, wrapped in a tank top and well-worn shorts that were the same stark raven as her hair, her fists clenched and wrapped in gloves and a chain wrapped tightly about her midriff.
The FAWNatics who had paid good money to be the closet to the action had apparently learned their lesson and leaned back as far as possible, the timid display only proving to encourage the young woman’s aggressive humor further. She pivoted and kicked the metal gratings with the suspiciously heavy duty toe caps of her boots at random intervals, rattling them with gusto, behaving in a manner that suggested no-one was going to stop her.
She had every reason to believe that they wouldn’t.
There was not even a moment’s hesitation, a moment’s concern as she stomped her way up the steel steps and ducked between the ropes. She stormed to centre stage, ripping a microphone from the hands of a hapless flunky on the way there, and whatever thin reserves of good humor she possessed evaporated into vapor, replaced only with concentrated malice.
“Hold the F**K on!!” she snapped, turning this way and that with a frantic, bestial energy like a Rottweiler who didn’t know which way she wanted to bite. “This is BULLSH*T!!”
The FAWNatics responded, souring in her presence and raining down their displeasure onto the ring.
“Best of F***ING Britain!?!” Irons pushed on regardless, or perhaps because of the crowds distilled hate, “I AM THE BEST OF BRITAIN!! I BEAT SHEA LONDON!!”
The boos continued to build in intensity, the crowd unhappy with being reminded by the ending of that feud.
“I F***ING BURIED SHEA LONDON!! ME!! I ain’t got nothin’ more to prove to no-one, NOTHING!! Not to you,” she turned on the spot, pointing at Samantha Sinclair, the smaller brunette quietly fuming, “a bytch I’ve left unconscious THREE TIMES both inside and outside this ring!! And not to you!!” she turned just as sharply to face Cromwell, “a Tramp Stamped f***ing loser who got herself branded by a f***ing American!!”
If Sammie had been willing to wait for the bell, Lizzie apparently wasn’t, the red head fully about to push her way free from her corner to throw down, violence about to begin immediately unless something dramatic intervened...
But before fisticuffs can erupt in the ring, booming orchestral chords erupt in a certain familiar melody of regal bearing ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=sDI9HuVduDI&feature=related ) the crowd roaring more in surprise than joy, Irma and Elizabeth halted in their tracks. For they know as well as everyone in the building, it heralds the Grand Dame of British wrestling, a former FAWN Intercontinental and Lightweight champion, and, yes, semi-retired combatant who’d taken to managing in her homeland for the last year plus.
The assembled rise and erupt in a torrent of boos when the shock wears off. Inside the ring, there are stunned faces as well, as much as the trio tries to keep poker faces in place.
Striding into view of the hateful mob, Her Ladyship exudes an undeniable royal comportment and overwhelming arrogant air. Having made her way back to the Americas, the Duchess of East Anglia is resplendent. She reviews the boisterous crowd with her usual disdain.
The ring announcer, overcome with excitement, immediately finishes the introductions.
“And finally, from Finsbury Park, London, England, standing 5 feet 7 inches tall, weighing in at 8 stone 13…Lady Fiona Waterford.”
LADY FIONA WATERFORD:
The athletic build of the Englishwoman is much appreciated and accentuated beautifully by a striking midnight blue lace bra and panties with red bows on either hip and a royal coat of arms on her taut bum ( en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_coat_of_arms_of_the_United_Kingdom ). The attire leaves just the right amount to the imagination, which in this case was little. As a perfect bit of flair, red fishnet stockings reach up from midnight blue boots, red garters ending the stockings at mid-thigh.
Fiona strides down the aisle and hops to the apron. The Brit slides through the cables and moves to the center where she gives the raucous crowd a backhanded ‘V’, palm inward, letting her true feelings of the great unwashed be reinforced. A microphone, already in hand, is drawn to her lips.
“I heard about what Bethany Christian had in mind.” Fiona shouts over the crowd, “and to save her the humiliation of running a complete scam, I informed her I would be willing to lend credence to the title that will be awarded me.”
The crowd begins to chant “SAM-EEE. SAM-EEE” drawing a scowl from Fiona.
“I did not leave civilization in Finsbury Park to come to Orlando and hear you chant that whelp’s name. So shut your mouths!”
The chant only grows in strength. Waterford holds up a hand until they quiet, if only in the slightest.
“You will recognize me as FAWN’s Best Brit. I will force you and the other…women…in this ring to confess it to be so.”
Fiona tosses the microphone to a FAWN flunky on the floor below. She turns to the only unoccupied corner and takes up residence for the bell.
The immediate rebuttal of the People’s Princess was less than elegant, a pained “erf!” escaping from her lips as Sinclair’s temple was pulled in tight to her Tag Team Partners hip. She recovered quickly, one hand pulling on Cromwell’s forearm whilst the other moved to push against the other Brits hip, the effort however proving to be a brief one as a sharp twist and flex of Lizzie’s bicep added a severe torque to Sammie’s noggin.
The smaller of the two Best Brit’s dropped down hard to one knee, Cromwell leaning on the pressure to keep her high flying counterpart grounded, knowing better than most that it was imperative to keep the Little Sparrow anywhere but airborne. “What was that?” Lizzie doubled down on her resolve and leaned into the headlock even further, mounting considerable pressure onto Sinclair’s notoriously vulnerable neck, “No snappy come back tonight? You really are rusty.”
“Mwampfhth!!” Sammie answered with an incoherent mumble, every possible syllable lost somewhere between the smaller brunettes smushed lips, and the red heads firm thigh.
“No,” Lizzie didn’t give an inch, dropping down to one knee herself and threatening to take her fellow Brit right down to the mat. “I think I’m starting to remember just how much I like you being right where you are.”
“MWAMPGHTH!!” the People’s Princess declared just as incoherently as before, only now she matched her gibberish with action. With one hand back on Lizzie’s hip, the smaller of the two Brits managed to brace her petite frame and SHOVED HARD!! forcing a somewhat surprised Cromwell away and allowing her own noggin to slip free with an almost audible POP!!
Neither girl was idle in the fractions of a moment after, Lizzie exercising commendable reflexes as she spun about on the spot to meet any danger that might well be fast approaching. Sammie was responding likewise, shooting back up to standing like a jack in the box and, with the excited inhale of a thousand Loyalist Legionnaires watching, prepared to snap out a Sammie Kick!!
SAMMIE KICK @1:17:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=GJ5haOtUroc
Before the People’s Princess could finish the full rotation of her delightfully athletic frame however, the Boarding School Princess revealed just how savvy she had become to her Tag Partners move set. With her own eyes wide in startled panic, the red head backpedalled and dropped sharply into a defensive posture, her heart skipping a few beats even as she made the required safe distance, a smirking Samantha aborting the manoeuvre halfway.
It didn’t take too long for the red head to smile back, Elizabeth shaking her finger in Sinclair’s direction, “Not tonight.”
“Just warming up,” the English Import of Perfectly Petite Proportions continued smirking like a cat eyeing up a canary, “it’s a coming.”
“We’ll see.”
Simultaneously, as half the arena were held enraptured by a show down between the World’s Best Brits, the other half couldn’t tear their eyes away from Irons. The Malevolent Malcontent was living up to her namesake and then some, spitting furious and straddling the hips of downed Waterford, utterly impervious to the warnings of the far too timid Official as she rained down brutal forearm after forearm towards the scowling features of the taller women.
“Think you’re better than me do you!?! Well!?! DO YOU!?!” Irons went on, her white hot tirade almost going on unbroken and she poured out venom upon the personification of her countries Upper Class. “F***ING RICH BYTCH!! What kind of limp wristed t*ss*r like you knows how to put up a fight!?! F***!! ING!! TOURIST!!”
Waterford, for all the constant bombardment, was far from wilting, unwilling to simply lie there and take it, her own arms up in a defensive cage over her head and torso. The vast majority of Irons’ carpet bomb assault was being blunted, but enough of the frenzied offence was getting through to rattle the Fiona’s senses, and enough was eventually enough if the Lady intended to survive this opening onslaught.”
Fiona SLAMS a shin up between the wickets. The blast to Irma’s crotch takes a split second to work its way through Irons’ adrenaline, but when it does the battering ends in a hurry. Her jaw having dropped, Irma’s arms fall toward her throbbing privates.
Her Ladyship slides out from under the Irons. Irma’s settled to her haunches, eyes welling in agony.
“You bytch,” Irons squeaks, otherwise, unable to move.
The Duchess draws in her lithe left leg and pistons it into Irons’ chest, knocking her over, Irma’s hammies folding atop her calves.
“You were saying?” a wincing Waterford manages, hugging her ribs with a swaddling left arm as she slowly makes her knees a few feet from the Malcontent.
“And how dare you ignore my bona fides? HOW DARE YOU?”
When Irma pushes back up to her knees, she finds Fiona risen to full vertical and is knocked flat again, this time by a raised right knee catching flush under the chin of Irons.
“I’m royalty in and out of this ring,” Her Ladyship informs loudly, taking a quick glance across the ring to make sure the two twerps are keeping each other busy. “YOU should be cleaning my loo.”
The words elicit a growl from Irma. She rolls to her chest and pushes to all fours, only to receive a wicked soccer kick to her right ribs, Fiona sending her foe barrel rolling toward the ropes. Irma uses the momentum to keep right on going. She slips under and drops to the floor with a meaty ‘THWACK’.
Lady Waterford strides to the cables and looks over, only to have Irma hop to her feet and grab an ankle. Irons rips Fiona’s legs out from under her and drags Waterford to the outside, where she NAILS Her Ladyship with a European Uppercut that snaps the brunette’s head back. If not for the ring behind her, the Duchess might have taken a seat.
And it might have been better if she had, for Irma grabs a wrist and Irish whips the Grande Dame of British wrestling down the length of the ring, Fiona forced to dip and bury a shoulder into the steel ring steps, Waterford splattering to the floor in a moaning mess after hitting the metal full force.
Inside the ring, things are more cordial if not less competitive, the freckled fighters recommencing with their Upstarty feuding. Elizabeth takes the lead, apparently sensing an opening. She rushes Sammie with a clothesline, but Sinclair drops to a set of splits and Lizzie’s swipe of her right arm misses by a mile.
As Cromwell skids to a stop, the People’s Princess slides her abbreviated stems together, forcing her way up to a stance behind the redhead. When Elizabeth spins to face her bestie, she’s met with a toe kick to the tummy that doubles the BSP over with a grunt.
In immediate motion, Sinclair spins into a repeat of her Sammie Kick, this one aimed a little lower and she CLUNKS her boot into Lizzie’s right temple, sending Cromwell staggering toward a corner.
To her credit, Elizabeth remains upright, throwing an arm over the top rope on either side of the buckles. Sammie is close behind and she dips a ramming shoulder into the bare midriff of the Liverpudlian. Lifted off her feet, Elizabeth is creased deep into the corner, her tush nearly sent to the ring post between the upper and middle ropes, Sinclair’s right shoulder inserted deep into her gulping tummy.
The Loyalist Legionnaires have more to cheer as Sammie pulls out a foot or two and spears Lizzie again and again, driving more air from Elizabeth with each corner spear. Satisfied at a half dozen, Sinclair spins away with a raised hand, the troops rallying loudly as Sammie strides to the opposite corner when she sees a breathless Cromwell’s stems give way, leaving her seated in the corner, butt to canvas, legs extended in front of her.
Dander raised, friend or not, her competitive nature loosed, Sammie speeds across the canvas and launches from a few feet out, her sinewy lower limbs leading the way. And she CRUNCHES into Cromwell, her bum THUMPING into Lizzie’s chest. Sinclair quickly grabs the middle ropes on either side of the reeling redhead and pumps her best Bronco Buster into chest then chin as a bombarded Lizzie melts lower as the busting takes its toll.
Sammie dismounts and takes a step back to review the wreckage, a hint of a blush rushing to her face at the sight of Lizzie laid out. It quickly passes as she grabs Cromwell’s left wrist and ankle and drags her friend out to the middle, dropping across Lizzie in a crossbody pin for ONE…TWO…and Elizabeth kicks her way free.
Sinclair rises and turns to find Irma sinking her nails into Lady Waterford’s long dark locks, dragging the Duchess to her feet outside the ring. With no disqualifications tonight, they could stay out there all night and, for the moment, the Little Sparrow is happy to fly in less crowded airspace.
Ready to soar, Sammie takes off for the ropes behind her and rebounds out of the rubber-coated steel. The diminutive brunette skips over her tag partner and races to the opposite strands where she leaps into the middle ropes and backflips gracefully toward the splayed Cromwell with a Lionsault.
Sinclair lands on target, but it’s not the touchdown she wants. For while the Upstart Supreme is in mid-air, the Upstart-by-proxy pulls up her knees and provides Sammie a much pointer landing spot for her belly.
A coughing, gagging Sinclair rolls away, hugging her abdomen. It only takes a few seconds before Cromwell is on her feet, tracking down her partner. Grabbing Sammie by a wrist and shoulder, the redhead tugs the Golden Girl to her feet. Before she can send Sinclair for the ride, Sammie breaks free and lands a right cross to Lizzie’s jaw that turns her head. Cromwell returns one of her own that finds paydirt, staggering the tiny brunette; both women clearly setting aside their friendship with the ‘Best Brit in FAWN’ moniker on the line.
Sammie loads up another volley but before she can make good, Lizzie sends both hands wrapping around Sinclair’s neck. The ginger quickly leaps into a tight tuck, knees pressing into Sammie’s chest. The drop to Cromwell’s back is a lot less expensive for the Boarding School Princess than it is for the Golden Girl as Elizabeth delivers a facebreaker that has Sammie spasming after the brutal impact, hands flashing to her features, as Sinclair ends on her back.
<B>Double Knee Facebreaker</B> (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=56v0bXIy7nU ).
Lizzie dives atop her friend, hooking a leg and pulling the People’s Princess into a tight cradle for ONE…TWO…and Sammie stays alive with a flinch that gets a shoulder off the canvas.
“I’m gonna getcha,” Elizabeth informs as she pushes to her feet with a deep breath. “I’m gonna…”
Cromwell feels something against the back of her legs and finds the shoulder of a dazed Lady Fiona bumping against her, Waterford having been thrown back into the ring by Irma, who strides toward her.
“You can get out of the way and take care of that little golden greasespot,” Irma advises, “or you can eat my fist, Red. I’m officially dethroning the Queen of the Damned.”
++
More than most, Lizzie had little reason to stand up on behalf of Waterford, and tonight was to be no different, the well-being of her Ladyship far from Cromwell’s thoughts as she pushed herself up onto her feet. And yet the threat implicit in Irons’ tone carried with it the sense of telling the Boarding School Princess what to do, and that was something she found to be especially irksome.
A murmur grew steadily in intensity throughout the audience as they sat there in anticipation, a confrontation building that had been in the making since both of their arrivals, the Malevolent Malcontent and Red Headed Hellion squaring off for the first time. Liverpool and Manchester colliding in the only way that they knew how.
“Are you deaf, Cromwell,” Irma squared her shoulders, her breathing tight and ragged as her knuckles cracked into tight fists, “or just dense. I told you to back, the F*CK, OF...”
Elizabeth CRACKED!! Irons across the jaw with a wicked right hand, the FAWNatics accompanying the terrific blow with a wild “WHOOP!!”, rallying behind the Upstart-in-Law with gusto. The staggered Irma wasn’t about to take that without reply, her own eyes wide with fury and, having somehow retained her own footing, whiplashed her Hardbody frame about and SMASHED!! her new rival’s jaw with a hellacious uppercut.
While the collision had been audible, and the red head’s freckled noggin had snapped backwards with worrying momentum, Cromwell proved that neither of these Brit’s was willing to topple. Back and forth the two went, upping the ante with solid impact after impact, little thought given to defence as the Legionnaires in attendance willed the reformed Elizabeth to come out on top.
After the exchange of a further half dozen blows however, it seemed as though that wouldn’t be the outcome, Irma taking the lead in their exchanges after following up a thunderous right with a just as brutal left, bypassing the wilting redheads reply with the rapid one, two combo. With a shimmy in her knees and own her arms now hanging limp, the crowd favourite had clearly lost the two’s first exchange, the Boarding School Princess reduced to easy meat for the Weaponised Wolverine to further tenderise.
With her crooked grin in place, Irma surged forwards, seizing the near ragdolled Cromwell by her wrist and, after ducking low, hupped the suitably compliant Hellcat across her shoulders, a bewildered grown emerging from the shell shocked redhead. Irons’ grin grew only wider as the Gladiatrix Photographers swooped in to capture a FAWN moment, the Malevolent Malcontent stood at centre ring with two women splayed out around her feet, and a third strapped across her back in a cruel wrack.
They had to be quick though, for while that captured image would no doubt live on in infamy, it lasted barely longer than a moment. Irma’s satisfaction transforming rapidly into anger as, with a sudden surge of effort, the young women she dominantly held aloft wriggled and tore herself free from her grasp, landing on her feet with a thump behind the surprised Irons and rapidly taking advantage.
With the Malevolent Malcontent standing with her back to her, Elizabeth wasted not a moment of opportunity, grabbing the Hardbody brunette by her wild mane and, with claws dug in deep, the Hellcat YANKED the Wolverine backwards and dropped herself down to one knee. With Cromwell’s solid, firm thigh waiting, and Irons forced into a wickedly fast tumble, Irma’s spine CRACKED into an agonising angle across her new Rival’s posted knee, the backbreaker living up to its name and then some.
With several vertebrae popping, and Irons shout filled with as much rage as it was pain, somehow the Malcontent refused to crumple. Instead the bone rattling collision shot her back up to standing and reeling away, her short, powerfully compact frame stumbling and tumbling towards the furthest set of ring ropes. There she caught them, the rubber coated steel arguably the only thing keeping her knees from buckling, the Raven Haired Destroyer spitting murder and issuing threats as though the entire world had turned against her.
Elizabeth was unimpressed, getting back up to her own feet and preparing to follow through on her momentum...
As was the case, however, with four wrestlers in the ring at the same time, Lizzie was to find herself confronted with the unexpected as a blue and yellow blur shot past her peripheral vision like a flash of lightning, the roar from the FAWNatics filling in the remaining blanks. Cromwell was filled with a sudden surge of panic, not for herself, but with the realisation her best friend was surely about to do something spectacular... and equally as stupid...
Irons, for her part, had even less warning for what was coming, not spotting the sprinting frame of Samantha until it was far too late. Sammie went airborne, an inevitable conclusion to one of her jaw dropping sprints, and as the Upstart Supreme took to the skies she wrapped both her thighs about the head of the Weaponised Wolverine. With the flying headscissors locked firmly into place, there was no hesitation in Sinclair transferring her momentum into a Hurricanrana, one hundred and ten pounds of her delightful, rapidly rotating mass RIPPING Irma from off her feet, tipping her over the top rope and sending them both PLUMMETING outside the ring, past the apron and sent CRASHING towards the barely padded concrete far below.
TOP ROPE HURDLE HURRICANRANA: @6:57
www.youtube.com/watch?v=GviSvHfk3Gw
Sinclair, however, was not the only downed competitor to have regained her feet and, before Lizzie could both pursue and ensure the Upstart Supreme hadn’t taken her own head off, she felt a firm hand grasp her by the shoulder and spin her about. Suddenly face to face with an adversary of old, Lizzie didn’t have time to speak a word to the women who had previously taken a Lightweight Title from her, not before Waterford GUTTED!! her with a firm boot to her trim tummy.
With Cromwell winded and folded forwards, Fiona collected one of the redhead’s arms and neatly slung it across her shoulder before securing a domineering headlock. “You, young lady,” Fiona sneered, finally feeling as though she were being paid her due respect by the bowed ‘cretin’, whipped the Hellcat into a pitch perfect Snap Suplex, “need to be reminded of your position.”
The Duchess, having buggywhipped Elizabeth over in a front flip, Cromwell’s spine CRASHING against the canvas, Lizzie’s vertebrae arching in pain, rips Cromwell to her feet and repeats the process, snapping Elizabeth over again. The crowd groans when Waterford twists and rises, dragging a flagging Lizzie with her for another snap-thump, this time the brunette releasing, letting Cromwell slide a few inches after her third connection with the canvas.
Cromwell’s dark eyes squint as she bites her lip, left hand reaching for the base of her backbone. Meanwhile, the Grande Dame is looking awfully spry for just returning from semi-retirement. Having risen, she smugly slaps Elizabeth on the top of her head when Cromwell makes it to all fours.
“More reminding? Really?” she asks.
The grinning Fiona shrugs and tugs Elizabeth to wobbly feet. Waterford dips, scoops an arm between Lizzie’s legs and ‘hups’ Cromwell across her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. FAWN royalty strides around the ring with the redhead in her possession until she settles on the proper location. Lady Fiona tosses Elizabeth up, over, and off her left shoulder, but genuflects as she does, sending Cromwell’s neck CRACKING down across the bony joint with her Waking Nightmare.
<B> Waking Nightmare</B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4OCCuWlEcvU ) @00:13
The crowd reflexively groans in unison as the dazed and rubbery redhead sits stupefied for a half second before being pulled to her back by Waterford. Fiona climbs aboard in a domineering full body pin, the brunette rising to a straddle on all fours, her palms pressing into the front of Cromwell’s shoulders for the ONE…TWO…THRNOOO!
Elizabeth escapes to the audible relief of the FAWNatics, though they can hardly keep their attention inside the ring when Sammie and Irma are flying about outside it.
It’s mostly the Golden Girl with the aerobatics currently. Her petite, perfect proportions race across the outside of the ring as she leaps toward a bewildered Irons. Irma turns into the leaping Sinclair, Sammie vaulting off the apron, her knees landing flush with the Malcontent’s shoulders. The diminutive brunette rides Irma down to the thinly-padded cement floor with the Thesz Press and starts firing away with furious little fists, swabbing Irons with lefts and rights until Irons gets her hands between Sammie’s legs, palms pressed to her bum cheeks. She heaves the People’s Princess up and over her head, sliding out the backside.
Determined, Irons curses under her breath and she pushes toward vertical. Halfway there, the frenetic Sammie races in from behind, snatching the head of the Manchester native as she speeds by. Dragging Irma along in a side headlock, Sammie means to go big and go home by bulldogging Irons into the displaced metal ring steps. However, Irma has other ideas and, when Sinclair launches, Irons scoops under Sammie’s tush and shoves the Golden Girl off before she can deliver. Instead, Sammie becomes a flying pinball and bounces off the ring post, her noggin having led the way.
With Sinclair ending on the floor in a motionless heap, even the most loyal Legionnaires have a lump in their throat for the Upstart Supreme. Irma leans against the railing, not far away, drawing in deep breaths and taking a moment to enjoy Lady Fiona’s show inside the squared circle.
There, Waterford has a frazzled Cromwell racing to the ropes courtesy an Irish Whip. As the redhead bounces off the cables, Her Ladyship shows she’s still plenty limber, dropping and sliding through Lizzie’s legs. She trips up Cromwell in the process, the Boarding School Princess falling flat, her face thumping against the thinly-sheathed plywood.
As Elizabeth checks her aching nose, Fiona grabs an ankle of her foe, and rolls to a reverse-facing straddle with the left leg in tow. Her single-leg Crab quickly secured, Waterford wrenches and stretches, testing the limits of the lower limb and Cromwell’s spinal column.
<B> Rolling Boston Crab</B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fHSASf05imc )
The dastardly royal sidles up Elizabeth’s frame, drawing the redhead’s stem with her. She curls Cromwell into a frightening arch, Lizzie mewling in pain, but shaking her head when the official asks if she wants to give in.
“NahhhAHHHHH. NAHWAYYY.”
“Are you sure, sweetheart?” Fiona grunts, trying to touch Lizzie’s heel to the crown of her foe’s head.
After a half dozen seconds of yipping and moaning but no surrender from the BSP, Waterford SPIKES Cromwell’s raised knee into the canvas.
“As stubborn as every scrubwoman from Liverpool,” Fiona informs.
She takes a tight lap around the flattened and face-down redhead, providing a stomp to the spine every three or four steps and a quick glance to the outskirts where Irma has Sammie airborne in a blatant choke.
The ref, busy making sure Waterford isn’t going for a pin, finally turns to scold Irons, as a redfaced, gasping Sammie pries at her foe’s throttling, dual-hand grip. It’s only keeping Sinclair airborne for a considerable amount of time that forces the Malcontent to allow the flailing boots of Sinclair to touch earth once more.
They do so for little more than a few ticks as Irma hammer-throws the People’s Princess into the ring under the bottom ropes, Irma quickly sliding in after her, making the ring crowded confines of British pulchritude and prowess.
Irma and Lady Fiona seem perfectly willing to ignore the other so each can continue to take apart their own piece of Upstart Nation. Irons drags Sammie to rubbery legs and, a half dozen feet away, Waterford does the same with a shaky Lizzie.
Irma and Fiona make eye contact and nothing more. But it’s enough to prompt them to bully each of their foes into opposite corners. Irons and Waterford grab wrists and aim Lizzie and Sammie for a SUPERSNUG of a mid-ring collision, each woman sent on her way with a wickedly strong Irish Whip.
Upstart and Friend zoom toward each other at warp speed but instead of a hitting head on, the duo lock elbows in a momentary square dance, each sent sprinting back in the opposite direction at full speed. The tag teamers bear down on the wide-eyed Waterford and Irons, that is until Fiona and Irma each lift a big boot and, in stereo, Irons nearly removes Sammie’s head with the Duchess doing the same with Lizzie’s. Cromwell and Sinclair are violently floored, the back of their noggins THUMPING against the deck with sickening thuds.
With both halves of the World’s Best Brits visibly down and out, the FAWNatics grew increasingly concerned as both Irons and Waterford drop to the canvas in unison, hearts catching in throats as they both hooked up a leg and rolled up an Upstart for a duo of tight little pinfalls. The Official, at centre ring, only needed a moment to gather his own bearings and, unable to attend both of the opposite corners at the same time, instead dropped to the canvas right where he was and began to slap the mat for both at the same time...
ONE!
TWO!!
THRENOOOO!!!
Sinclair and Cromwell kicked out with barely a slither of air to spare, and the Legionnaires in attendance POPPED!! with a loud cheer, a rapid, three beat mantra beginning to pick up steam from one end of the arena to the other. It was the Upstart Nation’s march to war, and all of the Legionnaires in attendance hoped their heroines would rally.
Irma, on the other hand, was less optimistic, viciously delivering a backhanded SLAP!! to Samantha’s exposed temple as the People’s Princess wearily rolled over. That sharp smack, accompanied by a frustrated growl, served to keep the smaller brunette rattled as the Weaponised Wolverine seized a double handful of hair and YANKED the Little Sparrow in her care right up to vertical. It was clearly no act of mercy, Irons turning about sharply and whipping her outmatched Rival into the turnbuckles back first, watching in cruel satisfaction as the petite young women GUFFED!! out a pained gasp of air and slumped, pert buttocks coming to rest on the middle turnbuckle, her chin tucked in towards her chest.
“Do you still not get it Sinclair?” Irma snarled, rolling her shoulders as she marched in a short circle, fingers clenching and unclenching into fists. “You ain’t gonna beat me, you ain’t NEVER gonna beat me, NONE OF YOU UPSTARTS CAN BEAT ME!!”
Irons unleashed a horrendous chop after she screamed, SLAMMING!! her forearm into the exposed bosom of the flagging Sinclair, deeply enjoying the cry of pain that she had forced out of the crowd favourite as she was buried deeper into the corner. She enjoyed it so much she prepared to deliver a second, and a third, and a fourth, and so on, inhaling deeply each time as she prepared to savour the carnage.
By comparison, Lady Waterford was visibly more composed concerning Cromwell’s own escape, and yet was clearly no more pleased about Upstart tenacity. With a tut on her lips and a disdainful scowl upon her features, the Dame of British Wrestling was back up onto one knee with all of the poise that was befitting of her station, looking back over her shoulder at her foes ruin with barely constrained contempt. She shook her head in exasperation, cursing the common class as she pushed herself back up to standing, towering over the struggling redhead as Lizzie could barely bring herself up to hands and knees.
Fiona helped her part of the way, snatching a firm handful of auburn mane before forcibly YANKING!! the younger women’s head back sharply. With Cromwell still on her knees, knelt penitent before her, as was befitting, Waterford resisted the urge to just smack the scrub there and then, the Boarding School Princess barely able to raise a hand in defiance.
“Admit it dear,” Fiona chided as she would an unruly infant, “doesn’t this feel better?”
Elizabeth responded by the only way she knew how, up swinging an almighty hammer blow between the open thighs of her upper class rival, SLAMMING!! her forearm into the exposed nether regions of Royalty!! Fiona’s astonished eyes flew open wide as she her knocked knees shook visibly. The FAWNatics GASPED!! in surprise, the shock rapidly transforming into a loud cheer as their favourite Redheaded Hellcat snarled and shoved her weary frame right back up standing, following up the low blow with a pitch perfect, European Uppercut!!
With a flabbergasted Fiona caught flush beneath her chin; the Dame of British Wrestling was rocked back onto her heels, Cromwell not granting her even a single moment to recover. Lizzie surged forwards, bullying the veteran into a solid, standing side headlock and, after a firm wrench for good measure, lead her ‘better’ over to the closest set of ring ropes, forcing her peepers to rest over the top coil. “You took my Title from me Waterford,” Lizzie pushed out between clenched teeth, feeling every one of her aches and pains, “and while I may not be the same Cow I was then, I can still be TWICE the Bytch!!”
Without further ado, Cromwell began her ‘Saturday Evening Constitutional’, marching forwards and forcing the captured Fiona to keep pace, RAKING the Royal’s eyes across the top rope as they went. Fiona shrieked in response, a series of profanities escaping her lips that wouldn’t be welcome in ‘proper’ company, her left arm flailing out to the side whilst her right desperately pulled on her younger Rival’s tensed bicep.
For the entire length of the ring rope her protests and attempts to escape were for entirely for naught, Lizzie unwilling to give her even an inch of space, not until she reached the next turnbuckle, pulling back just enough to grab a hold of the veteran’s own hair, and pulled her head back. Waterford blinked her eyes furiously in an effort to recover, but even the scant time she was given proved to be a luxury as, with a satisfied shove, Cromwell threw her foes head forwards and SLAMMED!! the Royalist face first into the uppermost buckle.
The Loyalists cheered in approval as Fiona was literally struck silent, and their vocal support for the Boarding School Princess was reaching a crescendo...
At least it was until Waterford saw fit to sour the mood, the Elite European forgoing the momentary need to see and powering on through. Catching Elizabeth off guard, the taller women ducked down for a moment and, after securing a duo of handholds, gritted her teeth and scooped the smaller Brit clean off the canvas, a growl of effort escaping her athletically sculptured frame as, within her grasp, Cromwell went up... and swiftly came crashing back down!!
In a clean, fluid motion, the Boarding School Princess had been both lifted and thrown clean over the top rope, a protest escaping the redeemed redhead before she was unceremoniously left to drop. With a loud and gutted GROAN!! Lizzie hit the apron back first, the severe impact jarring her entire frame and knocking every ounce of air from her perfectly formed body. With a pained stutter and shock induced shudder, the shellshocked BSP continued rolling, slipping free of the apron and dropping again, this time landing just as hard on the cold concrete outside of the squared circle.
“Just so that we both understand each other clearly,” Fiona scolded, leaning heavily against the ropes as she tried desperately to regain her vision, “the gutter, that is your place.”
If the Loyalist Legionnaires in attendance switched their attention from that catastrophe to the second confrontation, they would find little more reason to find hope. Sinclair remained buried in the turnbuckles as Irons had reached the all-important number, a full ten meaty forearm smashes to her flagging opponent in the corner. Taking a moment to massage her aching wrist, Irma allowed herself a crooked smile of satisfaction, holding out her arms and allowing the FAWNatics to observe her dominance.
“Is it sinking in yet Sinclair,” Irma’s grin grew more pronounced, her breathing heavy, “I buried Shea London, none of you little sh*t stains can beat me.”
Sammie, summoning her reserves, inhaled a deep, pained breath and, after solidifying her hold of the top ring ropes, managed to pull herself up to some semblance of vertical. Perking up her chin, the People’s Princess caught the eyes of her frequent tormentor, Babyface dander rising as her button nose scrunched. “We can beat you,” she insisted, undaunted.
“Bullsh*t” Irons retorted bluntly.
Sinclair, finding reserves she shouldn’t possess, broke the smallest of wry smiles, “Katya beat you...”
If what passed for Irma’s psyche were a sheet of glass, then the FAWNatics in the front rows would swear later that they heard it shatter, the moment that she was reminded of that defeat snapping her from smug satisfaction to bloodthirsty murder. With a heart stopping roar the Malevolent Malcontent SURGED right back into the breach, pulling back her forearm for an eleventh smash...
Which almost immediately proved to be a poorly conceived idea!!
From the moment her powerful limb made contact with her Rival’s unprotected bosom, Sinclair steeled her resolve, tightly gripped the top ropes and rode out the pain. With a shout of her own, Sammie WHIPPED both of her athletic legs up and off the canvas, achieving impressive air as she snapped them about her opponent’s surprised noggin in an impromptu headscissors. Releasing the top ropes, the Little Sparrow continued to ride the momentum, swinging her perfectly petite frame about and, as the Loyalist’s ROARED in approved, all but ripped Irons off her feet with the Hurricanrana from no-where, sending the Raven Haired Destroyer tumbling away across the canvas with a head rattling bump.
@4:30 www.youtube.com/watch?v=fcHjyKXikdk
Sinclair landed with a bump as well, although hers was far more pleasant, the petite young women rolling with her controlled decent and looking far better for it. She popped right back up onto her knees and Loyalists popped right along with her, the Former Lightweight Champion looking like to was ready to mark her return with a...
Waterford dashed across the canvas and reminded everyone in attendance that, when there were four women in the ring, no-one was ever safe. Before anyone watching could even voice a warning, Fiona had already launched her assault, SLAMMING the entirety of her boot into the side of Sammie’s adorable noggin, snapping her head sideways and sending the beloved, gold clad grappler to the canvas. Sinclair spun wildly and flopped out onto the mat in a motionless starfish, right leg twitching as though she had been shot.
Fiona’s sprint ended in a satisfied saunter, a few more wipes across her eyes easing her still blurry vision back to normal. “Now that,” she declared, brooking no further arguments from the filthy commoners who dared to consider themselves to be the ‘Best of Britain’, “is quite enough from all of yo...”
The FAWNatics ERUPTED!! as Lizzie almost seemed to appear from no-where, diving back into the ring with a growl and, in turn, launching into a sprint of her own! Waterford lacked the time to complete her gloat as the momentum of the contest refused to settle in anyone’s favour, her eyes snapping wide in surprise just before the assaulting Elizabeth nearly beheaded the Royalist with a clothesline from hell, one that smashed her into the ropes, and then flung her clean over the top of them!
Up and over Waterford went, until she took her turn to hit the apron, smacking off the hardest part of the ring before she disappeared down towards the concrete.
Elizabeth was left standing triumphant, a prideful smile warring with the pain visible upon her features, the Redheaded Hellcat riding the wave of the Loyalists approval as they applauded. “Just so that YOU understand me clearly,” she directed towards the evicted Fiona, regardless of whether or not she could be heard, “my place is right! HERE!!”
Cromwell surveys the remaining inhabitants in the ring, those being her bestie Sammie and her, well, not-bestie Irma. She clearly wants to move to Sammie and help her recover but seeing Irma quickly convalescing, she decides on a different course.
“Get up, Sammie,” Lizzie shouts as she moves toward the dangerous Irons. “Free snugs for Upstart Supremes!” she adds loudly as she races to the Malcontent and lifts a knee, smashing it into the temple of a rising Irma.
Irons spins with the terrible torque from the impact, Irma ending on her haunches, noggin lowered, chin to chest. Elizabeth sinks a set of nails into Irons’ dark tresses and turns to find Sinclair up and clearing her head with an adorable rattle.
“Did someone say free snugs?” she asks, with a hint of a grin emerging.
“They could be bearsnugs, just sayin’,” Elizabeth responds. “But for now…”
Cromwell motions to a groaning Irma with a shrug. She pulls Irons to her feet with a wrist and spins the Malevolent One through an Irish whip toward the People’s Princess.
Sammie launches on her foe’s approach and NAILS Irma with a crisp dropkick to the chin, decking Irons in violent fashion, the back of Irma’s skull THUMPING against the canvas.
Sinclair kips to her feet, drawing a huge roar from the Legionnaires, which only grows louder when Sammie and Lizzie share a high five.
Sinclair offers a pantomime pout.
“You said snugs.”
“SAM-MEE,” Elizabeth answers in mock sternness. “Miss Irons would like to take the rest of the night off.”
“Fair enough,” Sammie says, and together they lift Irons to unsteady feet.
The tag partners send Irma for the ride, whipping her to the far ropes and charging after her, hands locked for a double clothesline. Knots grow in the FAWNatics’ throats when Irma doesn’t play nicely with the Upstarts’ plans, dipping beneath the limbs of the startled twosome and racing to the opposite cables.
Elizabeth and Samantha skid to a stop and turn in unison with Irma already rebounding. Improvising, and apparently reading the other’s mind, both brunette and redhead fly into stereo spinning leg lariats that CRASH into the face of the charging Malcontent, knocking her to the deck in spectacular fashion.
Outside the ring, Lady Waterford is up and leaning heavily against the guardrail. Likely torn between the good of seeing her toughest competitor being blasted and the bad of knowing she’d be facing two against one if things continued, Fiona seems satsified in knowing she can dispatch two Upstarts as easy as one.
A gobsmacked Irma had hit with enough force to drive her up to a seat on the canvas.
“LIVERPOOL,” shouts Lizzie, adding a soccer kick to Irma’s chest.
“ARSENAL,” insists Sammie, providing one of her own.
The debate continues for several more kicks until a big right boot from the Boarding School Princess settles the matter, Irons finally flattened.
“See. I told ya,” Cromwell says with a wide smile.
“Hmmpph,” Sammie snorts.
Lizzie directs Sinclair toward the nearest corner and a smirking Sammie obliges. While the Golden Girl moves toward her launching pad, Elizabeth scoops up the pummeled Manchester native and, with Irma’s rubbery legs nearly failing her, the redhead tugs Irons into a front facelock.
The BSP tosses a limp arm of Irma over a shoulder and, with a loud grunt, launches the legally double-teamed Malcontent off her feet. Lizzie turns the golden-skinned, muscular frame of Irons as she lifts and rudely deposits Irma with a ring-rattling Prep School Expulsion.
<B>Prep School Expulsion </B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ttqciIH5dA )
Elizabeth, sitting out, drops Irma’s head and neck across her mat-supported limb, Snapping Irons’ body forward, the crowd offering a reflexive sympathetic groan on the disturbing impact.
Irons flops into a wide starfish. But instead of covering, Lizzie rolls clear, and for good reason. Far above, Sammie is ready to fly.
However, unbeknownst to the People’s Princess, the Duchess of East Anglia is climbing the apron from Sammie’s blind side to the worried squeals of many in the audience. Lady Waterford’s right hand forms a hook to unsettle Sammie’s footing and sending her tumbling, who knows where.
But before Waterford can trip the Upstart from her penthouse perch, Sammie vaults into the stratosphere, rotating gorgeously through her patented double rotation moonsault.
With Irma already ‘expelled’ below, the semiconscious Malcontent is pancaked into the canvas by Sammie’s Sinclair Summer Slam, the Golden Girl splattering Irma beneath her specialty, tummy THUMPING across tummy.
The Upstart hits with enough force she bounces off what’s left of Irma, Irons not appearing very malicious at the moment. But it takes only a second before a grimace disappears from Sammie’s face and she lies back down on the demolished Irma.
Elizabeth stands nearby in spectator mode, watching gleefully as her BFF picks up the ONE…TWO…THREE!
Simultaneous to the third joyous slap of the mat, Her Ladyship, who’d mistimed her attempt to upend Sinclair, does not make the same mistake in attacking the distracted Elizabeth from behind, throwing a wicked chop block into the back of Cromwell’s left knee.
A yelping Lizzie goes down in a heap. She grasps at her joint, howling in pain, interrupting any sense of Sammie’s satisfaction in pinning her long-time antagonist. Sinclair scrambles to her feet, pushing off Irma’s motionless body as the ring announcer states the obvious.
“Your first elimination, Irma Irons by pinfall, courtesy of the PEOPLE’S PRINCESS SAMMIE SINCLAIR!”
Lady Fiona stomps the knee of the downed redhead, Lizzie trying to pull the limb into a protective ball as her bestie races to the rescue.
Unfortunately for the Legionnaires, Fiona is ready for the cavalry, perhaps even counting on it. She delivers a deep toe kick to Sammie’s very low abdomen. Sinclair’s baby browns bulge, her jaw falling wide from the blow. Stopped cold and doubled over, Sammie is pulled forward roughly, Lady Waterford capturing Sinclair’s arms one at a time in underhooks.
Seamlessly, the regal brunette spins so the women are back to back, Fiona pulling the back of Sammie’s neck over a shoulder. Her Ladyship sits out, dragging Sammie down with her and snaps her foe’s neck viciously when the grapplers hit the deck.
<B> Double Underhook Neckbeaker </B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zLbxYtMLSf0 )
A spasming Sammie flops to her back, cradling the back of her noggin and Fiona dives to a crossbody pin, hooking a leg of the dark-haired cutie for ONE…TWO…THRNOOO!
Sinclair kicks her way loose of the pin, rolling to her side. Fiona, up to all fours next to the Upstart, stares threateningly at the official.
“You’re not one of those damnable Legionnaires, are you?”
The ref holds up his palms proclaiming his innocence to the charge.
Fiona glances over her shoulder at a still writhing redhead, Lizzie trying to get her knee in working order. She returns her attention to Sammie, grabbing Sinclair by the hair and ripping Sammie to her feet as she rises, Her Ladyship scoffing at the boos and catcalls.
“Like you didn’t all know I was the best in Britain already,” she pronounces.
Placing a wobbly Sammie just so, Waterford takes a couple steps back, raises her thumbs and forefingers, connecting them into a frame of Sinclair’s chin and vaults into a standing dropkick that is perfection. The boots thump into the point of Sammie’s jaw and sends her hurtling backward with enough force she hits the ropes and tumbles over in a backflip. The People’s Princess clatters off the apron and puddles on the floor.
But Sammie gained her Upstart-in law some time and, as Fiona moves to the ropes and examines her handiwork, Lizzie strides with a noticeable limp to Lady Waterford and grabs a shoulder and wrist. She spins Fiona to face her, perhaps preparing to send the Duchess of East Anglia to the far ropes with a whip. But Fiona turns with more than a startled look, kneeing Cromwell in the privates.
Lizzie’s eyes bulge, her lips forming a silent ‘o’ as she collapses into Fiona’s arms. A moment of maneuvering with Lizzie’s frozen form places the Boarding School Princess across Fiona’s shoulders in a fireman’s carry and the Grande Dame of English wrestling walks her mewling bundle to the nearest corner.
Showing the strength neither of her remaining opponents can match, Lady Waterford steps up to the middle ropes carefully, facing forward. She takes a moment to collect herself, Elizabeth fidgeting futilely in her grasp, and leaps forward.
Flipping, Fiona PLANTS Elizabeth to the deck with her Channel Plunge, Her Ladyship rolling through the impact while Cromwell takes the brutal brunt.
<B> Channel Plunge</B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NR9RH1sORmU )
Lizzie is seated for a moment but faints to horizontal, spreading out in a demolished starfish.
FAWN royalty takes a glance outside the ring and only now is Sammie stirring. That view seems to provide Waterford’s choice to not go for the pin, instead drawing a rubbery Lizzie to her feet.
Collecting her foe’s head in a front facelock, Fee likewise gathers Cromwell’s left leg, corralling it in a cradle then powering Sammie’s BFF off the canvas, holding her ass over tea kettle for several long seconds before destroying her with the Late Knighthood.
<B> Late Knighthood</B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ic1Vze0zf88 )
Cromwell’s unconscious body ‘explodes’ out of the cradle at impact and into a motionless spreadeagle. Fiona rolls to all fours, crawls to the KOd Cromwell and presses tight in a full body pin, sending a forearm into Elizabeth’s face to send a flushed cheek flat to the canvas for the…
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
A grinning Waterford nods and rises to a kneeling straddle of the vanquished redhead. Taking a peek over her shoulder, Fiona sees Sammie is up and mobile, climbing through the cables with a distraught look on her face.
Waterford pops to her feet and brushes Elizabeth into a lifeless roll to the apron’s edge with a couple dismissive backward sweeps of her boot.
“Too late, luv,” Her Ladyship informs Sinclair. And the ring announcer makes that message official.
“Your second elimination, Elizabeth Cromwell by pinfall…courtesy of LADY FIONA WATERFORD!”
Sammie scrunches her nose, her dander raised to its highest level.
“You’re not winning, Your Losership,” Sinclair informs, baiting Fiona instead of falling for Waterford’s lure.
And the insult has the Duchess red-faced.
“How dare you?” Waterford asks, incredulous. “You little whelp.”
Fiona charges with clothesline drawn, but Sammie easily slips under the scythe-like right arm. The diminutive Upstart grabs the limb and leaps across Waterford’s back, her abbreviated legs scissoring around the London native’s opposite upper limb. Momentum takes Fiona over with the crucifix, Waterford’s shoulders pinned to the canvas under Sammie’s control for…
ONE…
TWO…
The Duchess wriggles her way free, rolling to her knees and scrambling to her feet, shouting “TWO” at the official. The man agrees.
But while Waterford is confirming, Sammie is already up and on the prowl. She delivers a dropkick to the chops of the royal, flattening Waterford to the deck. Skipping over the top, Sammie leaps into the ropes to Fiona’s side. Landing on the middle cable, she grabs the top and backflips gracefully over the downed Duchess.
Sinclair lands across Fiona’s ivory-skinned midriff with a meaty slap of tummy to tummy, her lionsault SPLASHING the air from Fee, Waterford jackknifing around the impact before settling to the canvas where the People’s Princess hooks a leg for…
ONE…
TWO…
And Fiona kicks free again, though breathlessly on this occasion, sucking air deeply.
Feeling her oats, the Upstart kips to her feet, bringing a roar from the crowd. She grabs a wrist and tugs a reeling Fiona there as well. Lining a gassed Waterford to the far ropes, the Brit of perfectly petite proportions sends her foe off on a sprint to the opposite ropes. Sinclair stations herself mid-ring and leaps at the returning Fiona, lithe legs extended and clamping around Waterford’s head to toss her fellow survivor with a hurricarana.
But when Sammie sends her body in reverse to flip Fiona forward, the Grande Dame of English wrestling manages to keep her boots planted, defying the force of the Upstart. Sammie drapes down Fiona’s front and Waterford scoops Sinclair up, Sammie’s baby browns going wide with trepidation as she’s moved to a cradled seat on Waterford’s shoulders.
The emotion proves true when Fiona sits out and THUMPS Sinclair into the deck with a ring-rattling powerbomb that takes the starch out of the People’s Princess. Sammie lies motionless between Fiona’s extended stems, shoulders against the deck, arms above, wide and unmoving, legs in control of the Duchess for…
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOO!
Sinclair kicks loose, ending on her left side, groaning, seemingly unsure where she is.
Fiona, still in control of Sammie’s legs, tosses them aside in the direction Sinclair rolled and pushes to her feet to get in the official’s grill.
“I understand,” Her Ladyship protests, “the simple-minded find the little brat appealing. That doesn’t mean you should disregard the rules in order to get her a title she does not deserve and will surely tarnish.”
The man starts to respond but Waterford holds up a hand.
“Simply count to three after the following is all that is required.”
The Duchess moves back to Sinclair, the Upstart Supreme having made it to hands and knees. Fiona grabs a handful of chocolate-hued locks and tugs a yipping Sinclair to her feet. Waterford shoves Sammie to the nearest ropes and the slight Golden Girl bounds back to Her Ladyship.
Sammie tries to counter into a Flying Headscissors but Fiona cuts off the attempt halfway through, leaving Sammie draped across Fiona’s right shoulder, Sammie set for Waterford’s ‘Long Live the Queen’ finale.
<B> Long Live The Queen </B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C8YueVTcOj4 )
But before the Duchess can twist Sammie to the deck and receive her newest title, Sammie furiously heaves elbows into Waterford’s chin, Fiona eventually losing her grip, Sinclair squirming her way down her foe’s back.
Hitting the canvas behind the regal brunette, Sammie cups her hands under Fiona’s chin while simultaneously leaping into a tuck pressed tight to Waterford’s shoulderblades. Using gravity, the People’s Princess tugs her foe to the deck, backstabbing Fiona in the process.
<B> Backstabber </B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z5fGWczK_q0 )
Waterford’s body whiplashes at impact, the crowd with a collective ‘WHOA’ as a dazed Duchess flops to her side semiconscious.
A risen Sinclair shoves Waterford to her back with a push of her boot. She surges to the ropes a few feet away, hopping into the middle strand and jumping out in a 180, the Upstart’s extended legs CRASHING down across the throat and chest of Her Ladyship.
A tremor is sent through Fiona’s body, her legs and torso flinching into the air, her chest, neck and head kept matbound by Sinclair’s stems. But instead of allowing the referee to drop and start his count, Sammie kips to her feet and zooms to the nearest buckles, scurrying up in the blink of an eye.
The tensed crowd murmurs with excitement as Sammie smiles at her legion then dips slightly before launching HIGH into a rafter-scraping backflip from the top. Reaching the deck, Sammie’s midriff SPLASHES across the center of the Duchess CRUSHING Fiona under the Horizon Comet.
A ruined Waterford folds and unfolds beneath the wincing Upstart, all oxygen and fight blasted out of the Grande Dame. Sammie hooks a leg for certainty and waits for the…
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
Waterford doesn’t so much as flinch beneath the cover and a flexing Sammie only relaxes atop her foe after the third slap of the mat. She rolls to her back to lounge on the remains of the royal as the ring announcer makes the result an official one.
“Your final elimination, Fiona Waterford by pinfall, courtesy of the BEST BRIT EVER…SAMMIE SINCLAIR!”
The words are enough to provide the adrenaline necessary to send Sinclair in one final kip off Fiona’s motionless form. A glistening, beaming Sammie stands in a straddle over the runner-up and accepts the accolades as a chant erupts throughout.
“BEST…BRIT…EVER!”
A jubilant Sinclair raises her arms high. The triumphant Sammie picks a recovered Elizabeth out of the roaring mass of humanity, Cromwell striding down the aisle. The grinning Liverpudlian reaches the ring and slides under, hopping to her feet.
The two meet in an embrace and Lizzie lifts Sammie off the canvas, giving her a 360-spin before placing her gently back on the mat.
“Congrats, Sammie,” Elizabeth says. “You were…are stupendous.”
“So were…” Sammie interrupts, but Cromwell won’t let her continue.
“NO…this is your night…and you really have proven that, at least for now.” Elizabeth halts and touches the tip of her nose to Sinclair’s. “At least for now…you are the Best Brit Ever.”