Post by alyadmirer on Feb 10, 2018 11:36:25 GMT
“Ladies and gentlemen,” our friendly neighborhood ring announcer begins, “the following contest is scheduled for one fall with a 20-minute time limit. Introducing first, hailing from South Boston, Massachusetts, she stands five feet nine inches tall and weighs in this evening at one hundred and thirty-three pounds… Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome ROOOXXXAAANNNNNNEEE McccCCCRRIIIMMMMMMOOONNN!”
”JUMP AROUND”:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=XhzpxjuwZy0
ROXIE McCRIMMON:
The unmistakable horn fanfare, appropriated from Bob & Earl, leads directly into the House of Pain hip-hop classic ‘Jump Around‘. It takes a hard soul NOT to become pumped--first by the music, and then by the sight of blonde that bursts through the curtains at the start of the first verse, as enthusiastic as she is gorgeous.
Touted as a big-time player from the moment she’d joined the main roster, Roxanne McCrimmon had really come into her own since she and Becky Clayton had formed the BFG’s and proceeded on an incredibly successful run as FAWN Tag Team champions. But as grateful as she might be for her accomplishments alongside the Army of One Hot Chick, her dreams had always been about winning titles on her own.
And scoring a win over a FAWN Original, icon, and multi-time decorated champion would be an effective way of launching herself towards that singles success.
Too excited to linger more than a few seconds atop the stage, McCrimmon races down to the ring, readily accepting the slaps and offered encouragement of the capacity crowd. The blonde's long, sculpted legs are left bared, save for white kneepads and boots, her upper body sheathed under a green number 11 Celtics jersey. Bounding up the steel steps, McCrimmon slips through the ropes and heads toward her corner. Raising her right arm, Roxie follows the command of her anthem, jumping up and down--and beckoning the fans to do likewise with a wave of her hand. And a substantial portion of the crowd opt to play along.
Settling down, the blonde powerhouse grabs the hem of her Kyrie Irving jersey and pulls it up and overhead to reveal a green one piece, her taut abs at full extension and bared by the broad shamrock-pattern cutout at her midsection. Turning to the ropes, Roxie flings the garment off into the stands, where it disappears amidst a sea of questing hands.
As the Boston blonde basks in the approval of the crowd, her moment is intruded upon by the shrill voice of the announcer.
"And her opponent, hailing from Uriah, Alabama, she stands five feet eight tall and weighs one-hundred and twenty pounds...she is a former FAWN World Champion, and the very first Television Champ...she is...IIIIIVYYYYYYY AAAAAAAARMSTROOOOOOONG!!!” An instant later, the opening strains of .38 Special's "Wild Eyed Southern Boys" fills the atmosphere.
WILD EYED SOUTHERN BOYS:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=7KMYZR0-gM4
IVY ARMSTRONG:
What had merely been a cacophony of sound erupts into a primordial roar of exultation from the thousands-strong crowd. Even those who fully intend to root against her this night are most pleased by the ‘Bama Slamma’s presence on the card, for they know they’re in for a superlative exhibition of pro wrestling at its finest.
Stunning in a red and black satin corset and her trademark denim shorts, cut provocatively to show off, as the redhead refers with a smile, "the hamhocks', Ivy reached out to slap palms and brush fingertips with many of the outstretched hands, while her green eyes scanned the crowd for supportive signs. One neatly lettered posterboard reads: YEE-HAA!!! BAMA BEATS DOWN BOSTON TONIGHT!
Finally making her way to the ring, she climbed the steps and walked along the apron edge to the center of the ropes. There, facing the crowd, she grabbed the top rope with both hands extended for leverage, and then flipped backward, arcing as slowly as possible so that the fans could get a good long look at her sculpted gams.
Alighting to the mat, she kicked out of her ring slippers and handed them to a ringside attendant. Armstrong took a few gingerly steps to fully get the feel of the canvas under her now bare feet. Confident that the mat would suit her purposes tonight, she suddenly dashed to a far corner, leapt up to the middle rope, and held her arms outstretched.
“Y’all need to show me some love!” she called out in her most sugary tones, an impertinent grin upon her alabaster face. The mob burst forth with an even louder wall of sheer sound.
“Oh, don’t worry,” the sculpted Irish-American blonde assures Ivy, as Armstrong hops down from her perch. “They’re gonna show some love. They’re gonna show a whole lotta love as I’m kicking your ass up one side of this ring and down the other.”
Somewhat surprisingly, the ‘Bama Slamma doesn’t offer a verbal response. Instead, she merely shakes her head with a slight smile pursing her lips, her expression more befitting having just heard a small child tell her something patently (but adorably) untrue than of just having been challenged.
“Ring the bell!” the referee orders, and the signal is given, bringing this contest to an official opening. Blonde and redhead move out of their corners, cautiously circling one another. In spite of her bravado, the respect the Beantown Bombshell holds her older, more accomplished adversary in is evident as she eyes Ivy, both searching for an opening and remaining mindful of any tricks being sprung on her…
In the end, the two grapplers surge forward, locking up in a collar and elbow. But in spite of only giving up about an inch to the younger woman, it takes a distressingly brief amount of time for Ivy to find herself forced into retreat, her lithe frame yielding against the force the more muscular blonde can exert, until at last the redheaded hellcat finds her back pushed up against the buckles. “You know the drill, Rox,” the ref mutters. “Gimme a clean break, would ya?”
“Of course,” McCrimmon replies with a nod, pulling back her arms. But she can’t resist giving Ivy a parting gift, delivering a pair of open handed slaps to the southern wildcat’s sternum, the impact filling the air with a loud ‘CRAAAAAAAK!’ Almost immediately, twin crimson handprints begin to mar Ivy’s fair, flawless skin.
“Don’t worry,” McCrimmon purrs. “I’ll give your ass a matching set later.”
There's no denying that the chops are more than a little unpleasant for the redhead, but they're hardly the stuff of devastation. But that's not the way Ivy plays it. Instead, she lets out a howl of anguish that rattles the rafters of the arena, staggering along the ropes, seemingly ready to topple to the canvas save for her right hand gliding along the top cable. The camera even catches the glint of a tear in the corner of her eye.
Roxie recognizes this for the theater that it is, and she scoffs, "Oh come on...it didn't hurt that much!" But she fails to realize what her wily, more experienced opponent is doing: while it comes as no surprise that the referee is largely irrelevant in a FAWN match, the great charade that is expected to be upheld is that they in fact are the dominant figure in the ring. The unspoken rule...the kayfabe of kayfabes...is that this fiction must at least be paid lip service to in the early minutes of the match; after that, all bets are off.
So when the official, in the opening minute of the match, commands a wrestler to make a clean break, then she at the very least ought to not take too great advantage of the moment. And yet here now, judging by the Southern gal's reaction, it seems obvious that McCrimmon has disregarded this sacred tenet; indeed, for all intents and purposes, it is as if she had spat upon FAWN tradition. That she actually did nothing of the sort matters little.
Infuriated that his veneer of authority has been shredded, the zebra wheels around and gets in the blonde's face, poking his finger under her nose. "When I say make a clean break, McCrimmon," he seethes, red-faced, "I expect you to do just that. Pull another stunt like that, and I'll DQ you so fast, you'll get whiplash!" Startled by the outburst, Roxie stammers a few mumbles syllables, they sheepishly turns her attention back to Armstrong. But the buffed blonde is clearly rattled.
They go for a lockup again, and suddenly Ivy is pushed back to the ropes with ridiculous ease, shrieking the entire time. "HAIR, REF! HAIR!" From his vantage point, the zebra cannot see that Roxie's hand is nowhere near the 'Bama Slamma's scarlet tresses, but he can only act upon what he does witness, and that's the blonde seemingly once again flaunting the rules right in front of him without even the pretense of trying to obey them for a few minutes. Now he puts a hand to McCrimmon's shoulder and pulls her back from her adversary, barking, "Last warning, Roxie. Wrestle clean, or else!"
Having found her voice at last, the Boston bombshell protests, "I didn't do anything! She's lying!" Her frustration erupts into boiling anger as she looks over the shoulder of the official to see Ivy thumbing her nose and sticking her tongue out at her. Roxie tries to muscle the ref aside and lunge at her taunting opponent, but he wraps his arms around her waist and physically lifts her up, turning around the setting her back down, and barring her efforts to again push past him. "You're going to calm down right this very instant," he commands. "And you're going to step back!"
Flummoxed and flustered, Roxie sputters a few obscenities under her breath, but as the referee steps aside, her defenses are down. Unfortunately for her, Ivy's offense is up...literally. The redhead unleashes a standing dropkick, the balls of her feet slamming into her adversary's chest like twin ball peen hammers, the impacts sending the startled Bay Beauty sailing backward, her battered breasts bouncing wildly in their cups, and she skids along the mat with a stunned grunt.
Ivy scrambles back to her feet quickly, but she doesn’t stay there long. Cocking her right elbow, the redheaded hellion drops back to the canvas, mashing the bony joint into the cleft of the Beantown Bombshell’s bosom. Again, Armstrong rises quickly, and drops a SECOND elbow to McCrimmon’s chest. She adds a third for good measure, the winded blonde rolling to her right hip as the smirking ‘Bama Slamma climbs as far as her knees.
Rather than pick herself up once more, Armstrong instead kneewalks over to behind Roxanne, grabbing the Irish-American beauty by the shoulders and pulling her foe up to a seated position, in front of her. Ivy then lifts her right knee, planting it firmly between the former tag champ’s shoulderblades as she reaches both hands around Roxie’s noggin, deftly slapping on a chinlock.
Ivy probably doesn’t get enough credit from the casual fan for her tactical thinking, but tonight, as usual, her approach is on point: her opponent’s biggest advantage in this contest is her power. The more the redhead can keep McCrimmon grounded on the mat, the less that power advantage comes into play. And the more time Roxie spent on the canvas, the more opportunities Armstrong would have to employ HER greatest strength: those steel trap legs of hers. Of course, Roxie would need some softening up first…
… and, of course, cheating is just so much dang fun!
Ever so subtly, the redhead’s pointer fingers more away from the Beantown Bombshell’s jawline, curling as the slip inside the corners of the sculpted blonde’s mouth. And McCrimmon’s groans turn to howls when Ivy cruelly begins to YANK back on those fishhooks, earning herself first a reprimand from the official, and then a proper count…
“ONE!
TWO!!
THREE!!!
FOUR!!!!”
The redheaded hellion pulls her hands away with a flourish, though her knee remains wedged in place against Roxie’s back. And the blonde barely has time to draw in a relieved breath when Armstrong slaps a new chinlock on… albeit this time with only her right hand. A playful Ivy lets the fingers of her left hand do the walking, from the crown of McCrimmon’s skull down her forehead… until they then begin to GOUGE the Beantown Bombshell’s eyes! Roxie can’t keep from crying out, her feet kicking, her hands flailing to find the hands attacking hers…
“ONE!
“TWO!!
THREE!!!
FOUR!!!!”
Ivy pushes it to the brink, but she isn’t about to let this Yankee blonde pick up a cheap DQ win at HER expense. Pressing her hands against McCrimmon’s shoulders, Armstrong pushes herself up to her feet, then claims a handful of hair to yank the blinded robobabe off the canvas as well. Snatching Roxie’s right wrist, the ‘Bama Slamma traps her foe’s arm behind her back in a hammerlock, before threading her other arm between the blonde’s powerful thighs. With a grunt of exertion, the redhead scoops her prey up to her chest, holding her there for just a moment before delivering the bodyslam—and driving ALL of Roxie’s own weight down onto her captive limb.
The sudden jolt of pain to her shoulder and limb stuns the blonde for a long moment, and that's all the time her adversary needs to prop her up in a seated position, take a seat on the mat behind McCrimmon, and for Armstrong to then yank her foe's arms backward while bringing her own legs up. An instant later, Roxie is shocked out of her daze by the anguish of a Lotus Lock on her arms.
Under any circumstances, it's never wise to be caught between the thighs of the 'Bama Slamma. But in this instance it's almost worse, because the Lotus doesn't require the redhead to exert a great deal of force into her hold, meaning that she drains precious little of her own reserves of strength while nonetheless putting her victim in a world of hurt. The Bostonian grunts in hurt and frustration as she tries to pull free, but with no success. Crouching close to her, the referee asks, "Whadaya say, Rox? Give the word and it's all over."
Gritting her teeth, McCrimmon snarls, "Piss off, ya friggin' gump!" Her Boston bonafides firmly established, she sets about the arduous task of saving herself. She stretches out her left leg, desperate to close the tantalizingly narrow gap between her foot and the bottom rope. At long last she's able to hook the cable with the toe of her boot, and the ref duly instructs Armstrong, "Break the hold, Ivy...she's in the ropes."
"Ah can't see that from here," the redhead says with honeyed tones, her gams still locked agonizingly tight around her opponent's arms.
Heatedly, the zebra replies, "Doesn't matter if you can see it or not. I see it, and I say break!"
"But, Ah don't want to," the Southern rassler says sweetly, yet matter-of-factly.
"C'mon Ivy," the official says with a heavy sigh. "Let's not play this game. Just let her go, okay?"
"Fer Chrissakes, stop making nice with her and DQ her if she doesn't let me go!" the exasperated Roxie barks.
Armstrong gives one more pulse of her legs, drawing forth a small yip of sharp discomfort from her adversary, and then her limbs snap open. The Alabamian does a backward somersault and kips up to her feet, while the grumbling McCrimmon struggles up as well, albeit far less gracefully. With her left hand she massages her right shoulder, as that arms hands limply at her side. "Are you okay, Roxie," the referee inquires. "Can you continue?"
"I can't feel my arm just yet," the blonde groans.
Smirking, Ivy steps closer and purrs, "Awww, is the big girl's widdle wing all sore?"
Casting a side-eye that, if looks could kill, would send her up the river for 20 to life, McCrimmon says in a low, angry tone, "Yeah, I won't be pitching for the Sox tonight. But that's not your problem."
In the next instant, McCrimmon's left arm flashes out, her hand tightening around the throat of the startled redhead. "Your problem is, I've got another arm." And with that, the New England powerhouse choke slams her foe to the canvas, the ring shaking from the impact. Roxie next rotates her right arm and starts to feel the sensation of life back into it.
Slightly unfocused eyes blinking, Armstrong looks up at the woman standing above her, features darkened as the harsh arena lights above her cast her in a deceptively placid halo of light. Then comes the voice that shatters any thought of peace the redhead may have: "You've got a whole new set of problems now."
And things get a lot darker for the ‘Bama Slamma when her opponent leaps into the air. Granted, Roxie McCrimmon would never be mistaken for the likes of Shea London. The flying game was NOT her trademark. But really, she didn’t need to fly here. All she needs to do is fall, and when she does, the Beantown Bombshell drops a knee across Armstrong’s forehead, sending a spasm that runs all the way down to the redhead’s toes.
Still showing a little favor to her throbbing right shoulder, the sculpted blonde stoops down, snatching a handful of crimson tresses with her left hand. Tugging the reeling FAWN Original up to her bare feet, Roxie transfers her grip to Armstrong’s wrist and whips her foe toward the ropes… or rather, STARTS to. For Ivy manages to find enough of her scattered marbles to dig in her heels and reverse the whip, the Beantown Bombshell uttering a slight groan as she is sent off for the ride.
The lithe redheaded hellion takes a couple of steps toward those ropes, in anticipation of Roxie McCrimmon’s return trip. But while the ropes often provide whoever bounds off them with a little extra speed, the Irish-American blonde seems to EXPLODE off the cables with a fierce roar, coming back at Ivy quicker the ‘Bama Slamma anticipates. And what’s more, Roxie raises her left arm out to her side, catching her opponent with a MASSIVE running clothesline that turns Ivy inside out as she’s sent flipping through the air and CRASHING down to the canvas.
Not that she gets to stay there long.
Approaching the fallen redhead, Roxie reaches down for another helping of hair—this time, notably, with her right arm. And the Irish-American hardbody shows fewer lingering after effects of Ivy’s earlier assault on her arm and shoulder when she tugs Armstrong up onto wobbly legs. Roxie’s arms slip around her foe’s slender waist, many in the crowd anticipating the blonde pulling her prey into a rib-crushing bearhug. But instead, McCrimmon has different ideas, her arms dropping lower, embracing the redhead’s renowned thighs as she lifts Ivy off her feet.
The Beantown Bombshell then pivots, dropping to one knee, and executing a crisp inverted atomic drop, Roxie’s knee splitting Ivy wickets with a vengeance. The slackjawed redhead is launched back to her feet, those strong legs of hers looking anything but as she spins and falteringly staggers away. Unfortunately for her, she doesn’t get too far before a rising Roxie captures the ‘Bama Slamma’s right wrist and, much as Armstrong had done to her earlier, McCrimmon locks that limb up behind Ivy’s back in a hammerlock. The blonde hardbody then takes her foe’s left arm and laces it behind her neck. Reaching down with her free hand, Roxanne gathers up Ivy’s left thigh, and with a grunt she uses that grip to muscle the redhead off her feet and across the blonde’s shoulder. She then drops to her back, SLAMMING Armstrong’s head and shoulders into the mat with her signature Boston Pop’skull.
BOSTON POP’SKULL:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1phJlgdiw4
The impact momentarily propels the ‘Bama Slamma up to a seated position, head bowed, her hands flying up to cradle the back of her neck. But it’s only a moment before the redhead slumps over onto her right hip. And, a moment after that, Roxie presses Armstrong down to her back, shoulders down, covering for the…
ONE…
TWO…
THNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!
Ivy gets a shoulder up.
“They told me that head of yours is a hard one,” Roxie mutters, shaking her head slightly, “but I know that HAD to put a dent in it…”
As she again climbs to her feet, Roxie fills her fists with scarlet tresses and peels Armstrong up off of the mat. Now both standing (albeit Ivy far more unsteadily), McCrimmon turns away from her opponent and presses her back to the redhead's. The Boston Bombshell then dips at the knees and reaches up and behind, wrapping her arms around the Southern gal's midsection. Pulling Ivy backward, she rises up, lifting her unwilling cargo up in a Gory Special. Roxie then puts her own regional touch on it, hooking her fingers into the corners of Armstrong's mouth for a 'St. Charles Fishhook'.
The 'Bama Slamma lets out a plaintive yowl, her hands clutching frantically at her tormentor's wrists, but to no avail. With no other option available to her, Ivy starts to kick her right heel at McCrimmon's back again and again. The buff blonde grunts with each blow, until finally she flips her opponent over to the canvas. Roxie takes a few heartbeats to rub the ache in her back, then bends down to again take her adversary by the hair.
This time however, Armstrong's left hand flashes up, the red-painted tips of two fingers executing a Piper Poke to McCrimmon's green eyes, causing the New Englander to shriek. Releasing her hold on Ivy's mane, Roxie drops to her knees, knuckles rubbing at her momentarily blind and sore peepers. Pressing her palms to the mat, Ivy swings her legs up, ensnaring them around her rival's head, and then yanking her downward for a faceplant. The hardbody's features mash roughly into the canvas, and she topples to her side with a dazed moan. That's all the opportunity that the redhead needs to roll away and under the ropes, alighting rather clumsily to the ringside floor. Just a little time, she assures herself, and she'll be composed enough to put the Beantown bimbo in her place.
As cowardly as it might strike those partisan to the New Englander, the thinking was undeniably sound. Roxie’s power game could change the course of a match in a matter of seconds, and could drain a fighter of plenty of her strength in even less that amount of time. Slowing things down and catching her breath absolutely behooves Ivy’s chances in this contest…
But there’s just one problem: back in the ring, the Beantown Bombshell was beginning to shake off the effects of her faceplant, and blinking eyes were beginning to regain a semblance of focus, however blurry that might be. And McCrimmon soon catches fuzzy sight of a crimson rebel-shaped and colored blur on the other side of the ropes. Roxie rolls to her side, soon dropping from the apron to the floor, her vision continuing to clear…
And, locating Armstrong on the other side of the ringpost, the Irish-American blonde charges around the ring.
Of course, a veteran the likes of the ‘Bama Slamma can judge the shift in the roar of the crowd, and ascertain that she was about to have a company. A quick glance over her shoulder confirms the redhead’s suspicions, and Ivy lets out an almost inaudible, alarmed “Eeep!” before she takes off as well. McCrimmon chases her foe around the ring for one lap, and then a second, until Ivy changes course and dives under the bottom rope. The Beantown Bombshell starts to slide in after her…
… only to catch a knee drop to the back of the head for her troubles.
The impact sends Roxie’s mug slamming into the mat, leaving the sculpted blonde once again momentarily dazed and confused, which is really all that Ivy had hoped to achieve with it. And McCrimmon’s current stupor served a purpose of its own for the rising redhead, by giving her an opportunity to stomp her heel down against the former tag team champion’s right shoulder.
The Beantown Bombshell groans from the impact, Ivy’s lack of footwear doing little to lessen the amount of force that the redheaded hellion could bring to bear. Dropping to her knees off Roxie’s right hip, Armstrong’s right hand latches on to her opponent’s arm, just above the wrist, and she stretches the limb away from McCrimmon’s body. Then, cocking her left elbow, the FAWN Original digs the point of the joint into the meat of Roxie’s bicep, and begins to griiiiiiind away with abandon. Crying out in pain, the Irish-American robobabe’s boots drum at the mat for a moment, before straaaiiiining to try to find the bottom rope.
And they would have found the cable in a couple more seconds, if Ivy hadn’t lifted her elbow and shoved the blonde over to her back.
Slapping on a wristlock, Armstrong forces Roxie’s arm downward, placing a steadying hand against McCrimmon’s bicep as she presses the back of the blonde’s hand down onto the canvas—and leaving the Beantown Bombshell’s elbow pointed upwards.
“Prob’bly a good thing y’all got that other arm, shoog,” Ivy purrs, before dropping a knee onto Roxie’s vulnerable elbow. The blonde hardbody can keep herself from unleashing a wail of agony as she rockets up to a seat, her left hand flying up to cradle her other arm tight to her chest.
“Ah think ya might NEED it.”
Her face darkening several shades with the purpling of seething fury, McCrimmon casts her eyes upward at her smirking rival. Through teeth gritted against the pain she hisses, "Naw, I won't need it at all." And with that she sweeps her right leg out, knocking the pins of the startled redhead out from under her, and sending Ivy crashing onto her back.
Roxie scrambles up to her feet, her haste dimmed only by the momentary lack of use of her right arm, and she lunges at the 'Bama Slamma, anxious to go for the pin. But while Armstrong was caught by surprise, her battle instincts immediately kick in; she pulls her knees up tight to her body, and as the blonde dives down upon her, Ivy's feet press against Roxie's torso. Suddenly extending her fabled gams, the Southern gal propels her opponent backward, and sends her tumbling backward to the canvas.
Once more, Ivy pulls her legs in tight, then kicks them forward, using the momentum to jump up to her feet with feline-like dexterity. On the mat, McCrimmon is already starting to scramble, pushing up with her palms...and wincing from the strain to her wounded wing...in order to regain her footing as well. But the redhead suddenly plunges downward, delivering a headbutt with the shamrock-shaped exposure of her rival the target. The Boston battler gives a heavy grunt as air is forcibly expelled from her lungs, and she flops onto her back. Desperate to no longer provide the Alabamian with such an opportunity again, the blonde rolls over onto her stomach.
But that suits Armstrong just fine. She raises her hands like a concert pianist about to play a dramatic chord, and then with viper-swiftness strikes, her fingers gouging into the tender crescent between Roxie's gluteus maximus and adductor magnus, executing what, in pro wrestling parlance, is known as the Hammy Clamp. And regardless of how toned one may be, this particular part of the anatomy is particularly vulnerable to assault such as this, as evidenced by the raspy yowl that is torn from McCrimmon's throat. Nearly paralyzed with pain, she pounds her left fist repeatedly to the mat, and although she shakes her head vigorously from side to side when the ref queries as to whether she is ready to submit, even her most ardent acolyte can't help but question whether she can withstand this punishment much longer.
"Fight it as long as you like, sweetness," Ivy purrs contentedly. "Ah can keep doing this just as long as it takes. But points to y'all for tryin' to hold out. Bless your heart."
She REALLY could.
Truthfully, the Hammy Clamp is an EXTREMELY low energy hold, but it yields HIGH agony for the unfortunately soul on the receiving end. The nerve hold renders the victim’s closing weapons with which to fight back, her legs, increasingly useless with each passing second, and the attacker’s positioning—at least with a SMART attacker, like Ivy—along with that of the woman being tortured makes striking back with her arms extremely difficult and provides her little leverage to fight back with. Really, about the only factor that would inhibit how long Armstrong can could the hold locked in (other than a submission, of course) is how long it takes for the redhead’s fingers to start cramping.
And by the time that might happen, Roxie McCrimmon might not be able to walk.
Still, the Beantown Bombshell refuses to surrender. Gritting her teeth, the sculpted blonde digs her left elbow into the mat and starts to drag herself toward the ropes. When she tries to do the same with her right elbow, Roxie lets out a howl of anguish, waves of pain shooting both through that elbow and shoulder, thanks to Ivy’s systematic targeting of that limb. McCrimmon pushes through that torment, however, and one last lunge allows the former tag team champion to latch her left hand onto the bottom rope.
“Alright, Ivy,” the ref orders. “She’s in the ropes. You gotta break the hold.”
“Wanna bet?” Armstrong asks with a cheeky grin.
Of course, the referee has no choice but to start a count. But it’s a well-known running joke in the referee’s locker room that calling for a disqualification in FAWN on a Sunday night would result in being found in the Kissimmee River Monday morning—a running joke that Ivy Armstrong happens to be more than aware of, the redhead keeping both hands dug harshly into McCrimmon’s skin through the count of “FOUR!!!” before dramatically releasing and raising her right hand into the sky…
Ivy’s left hand CONTINUES to savage Roxie’s glute and thigh.
“Not good enough, Ivy!” the official snaps.
“Oh, honey,” the ‘Bama Slamma offers, in her most honeyed drawl, “when have ya EVAH known me to be a GOOD girl?”
A new count ensues, which just as with previous one, Ivy ignores for four and nine-tenths seconds. She then, with equal flourish, releases her left-handed pincers…
… only for her right hand to latch on a renewed clamp!
“GYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Roxie screams, the pain growing so overwhelming that her left hand almost—ALMOST—releases the bottom rope, to instead plunge into her golden locks. But the Irish-American blonde’s survival instincts keep that from happening.
“DAMMIT, IVY!” the ref barks, starting one more count—and Ivy knows that, even in a place like FAWN, she couldn’t push her luck much longer. At some point, as much as he might not WANT to, he would HAVE to DQ her, if for no other reason than to preserve the illusion of his authority. So this time, when his count makes it to four, Ivy at last breaks the Hammy Clamp. Climbing to her feet, the Southern redhead grabs a hold of McCrimmon’s blonde locks and yanks the Yankee up to her feet. In a small act of mercy, Armstrong turns her foe to face the cables, allowing Roxie to spill her arms over the top rope—and when Ivy elects to release the Beantown Bombshell’s hair for a moment, those arms are the only things that prevent the former tag champ’s numbed thighs from dropping her back to the canvas.
Claiming another helping of hair, the redheaded hellion guides her opponent into the near corner, turning Roxie’s back to the buckles before mashing a forearm against her sternum to hold her in place. Stooping down slightly, Armstrong’s free hand goes to work lifting one of Roxie’s boots and lifting her leg into the air, draping that gam across the middle rope before bending McCrimmon’s knee against the rubber coated steel. Ivy repeats the process with the other leg, leaving Roxie trussed up sitting against the middle buckle, her shapely legs forced open wide…
Then, showing some characteristic ingenuity and playfulness, Armstrong grabs the top rope with both hands before placing a bare sole against one of Roxie’s bronzed thighs, climbing into a standing straddle of the seated blonde—and standing on McCrimmon’s own legs to do so. Ivy’s left hand then plunges into her foe’s locks, tilting the blonde hardbody’s head back as she raises her right hand into the air, balling her fist and letting the crowd know EXACTLY what she has in mind, so that they can’t start counting her off the moment the punches start flying.
“ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
FOUR!
FIVE!”
The combination of Roxie’s bound stems and Ivy’s bodyweight pressing down against her thighs denies the buff blonde her best avenue of escape.
“SIX!
SEVEN!
EIGHT!
NINE!”
The ‘Bama Slamma brings her fist to her lips, planting a kiss against her knuckles before firing away with a final…
“TEN!”
Armstrong hops down, Roxie’s head slumping forward, blonde locks falling across her face to obscure her dazed features. The FAWN Original takes a couple of steps back, before shouting to the crowd, “HEY, DID Y’ALL KNOW AH WAS THE PLACEKICKER ON MY HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL TEAM?”
The redhead shuffles a couple of steps to her left…
“ROLL TIDE!!!”
Ivy surges forward to launch a powerful kick that splits Roxie’s wickets, her form impressive enough that she might well expect a message on her cell phone from Nick Saban once she got back to her dressing room. McCrimmon’s eyes cross beneath fluttering lids as she pitches forward, Armstrong’s blow powerful enough to dislodge her from her bonds, the glistening, sculpted blonde crumpling into the base of the corner and curling into a tight, protective shell.
Almost casually, Armstrong saunters over to her battered adversary. Hands on her knees, she bends down over McCrimmon and says in her honey-laden drawl, "Aww now darlin', y'all have got to admit that that was the game-winnin' score." She then wraps her hands around Roxie's right ankle and drags the mewling blonde to center ring. There, the Second Generation Siren throws herself down across her opponent's torso and, almost as an afterthought, pulls her right leg up. The zebra drops to the mat and begins his count...
ONE...
TWO...
TRHNOOOOOOO!
At the last possible instant, McCrimmon's body gives a violent spasm, kicking out of the pinfall with more authority than anyone...least of all Ivy...thought she still had in her. The redhead rolls off of her rival and sits up, clearly annoyed that Roxie was so pointlessly resisting the inevitable. Climbing to her feet, she turns and bends down over her for, reaching for her hair in order to peel her up off of the canvas. "If that's the way you wanna play it, shoog, then Ah guess we'll just have to take another spin or two on the merry-go-round."
The final syllable of the taunt barely leaves the Southern gal's lips when McCrimmon suddenly explodes into action, grabbing Armstrong's arm and...since the redhead is off-balance as she leans over...easily pulling her down. In a fraction of an instant, Roxie has Ivy rolled up in the small package, the Alabamian's bare feet bicycle kicking in the air as the ref again slaps his hand to the mat...
ONE...
TWO...
THRNOOOOOOO!
As had McCrimmon, Armstrong is able to execute a last moment escape. She swiftly rolls across the canvas, putting distance between herself and her adversary. Ivy gets up on her knees, and all trace of amusement is gone from her eyes, replaced by shock etched with fury. She has victory in hand, and this...this...YANKEE nearly steals the win with a damned roll up?!? Oh, hell no!
Anyone with any true knowledge of wrestling knows that Ivy Armstrong is a master tactical grappler, someone who formulates a plan and, more often as not, sees it through to victory. Except, that is, when her Scots-Irish temper is provoked. When that happens, the redhead tends to let her anger get the better of her.
For instance, Ivy now kips back up to her feet and stomps over to Roxie. From behind the blonde, who is now sitting up, Armstrong fills her fists with flaxen mane and starts to haul the yelping New Englander up. "Ah have had my fill of you, cupcake," the redhead snarls. But as she's being pulled up, McCrimmon reaches up with and grabs her opponent's scarlet locks. Suddenly, Roxie's legs crumple beneath her as she drops to the mat, pulling her opponent down with her. The blonde's rear end hit the canvas simultaneous with Ivy's jaw slamming into the top of McCrimmon's skull, sending the full impact with teeth-rattling intensity into Armstrong's jaw.
The redhead sails backward and rolls languidly back and forth on the canvas, glassy eyes staring up at the arena lights as she moans. Roxie is also dazed, sitting with her legs spread wide, her unfocused eyes like glazed marbles as her body sways. An eerie hush comes over the crowd as they await to see which beauty comes to first.
And to the crowd’s distress, the first sign of movement from either woman comes from the Beantown Bombshell, which ordinarily one would think would be a cause for celebration. But not when that movement is slumping to her side, winding up almost as sprawled as her adversary. However, it’s only a moment later before Roxie McCrimmon begins to drag herself toward the ropes. Clutching out the rubber coated steel, the sculpted blonde starts to haul her way up, noticeably grimacing each time she had to use her right arm to do so. But while her legs still feel a certain leadenness, the numbness was dissipating…
Unfortunately, her problems are just beginning, as despite the head start she had given her foe, Ivy fights her way back to verticality first. Glaring daggers at her opponent, Roxie continuing to sag heavily into the ropes, ALL trace of frivolity has left the ‘Bama Slamma’s eyes. But while there is no denying the redhead’s anger, there’s also knowledge and experience at play here. At the risk of venturing into clichés here, Ivy understands fully that she is now sharing the ring with a wounded animal, and how dangerous that can be. There would be PLENTY of time to make an example out of this muscle-headed blonde AFTER Roxie had been left slobbering into Armstrong’s denim. Grabbing a handful of hair, Armstrong tugs the blonde away from the ropes, indulging in a smirk as she witnesses the slight tremor remaining in Roxie’s muscular stems. Releasing McCrimmon’s locks, Ivy draws back, firing a punch…
… only for the Beantown Bombshell to intercept it. Maintaining control of Ivy’s forearm, Roxie ducks under the arm, coming out the other side. Back to back off Armstrong’s left flank, she reaches back with her free hand, her fingers slipping underneath Armstrong’s chin. Finally releasing the hellion’s arm, the Irish-American robobabe laces her fingers together underneath Ivy’s jaw and drops to one knee, pulling the Second Generation Siren down with her and SMASHING the redhead’s mush onto her posted knee.
DR. TEETH
www.youtube.com/watch?v=eiR3jnWO2Dc
McCrimmon barely manages to pull her hands apart before the impact of Ivy’s face with her knee rockets the ‘Bama Slamma back onto her heels, precariously balanced but somehow remaining upright. Pushing up from her knee, just as it appears that her foe might be about to trip over her own two feet and crash to her ass, Roxie leans forward to catch Armstrong by one wrist and attempts to launch her toward the ropes with an Irish whip. AND YET… Astoundingly, as out of it as the redheaded hellion had appeared, Ivy summons a reversal. And she STILL appears to be not ENTIRELY sure of where she might be as she moves to meet McCrimmon…
Roxie McCrimmon, on the other, knows DAMN well where she is, and where Ivy is, and just what she can do about it. Instinct taking over for the Beantown Bombshell, the Irish-American blonde lowers her shoulder and PLOWS through the ‘Bama Slamma’s yielding midriff with a massive spear! Armstrong is driven to the deck with a breathless moan, Roxie letting out a groan of her own as she follows suit. But as the former tag champ sits up and begins to roll her right shoulder, despite the grimace gracing her features, the pain is significant…
… but endurable.
Wanting to see just how much she could ask if her worked over shoulder, McCrimmon hairhauls Ivy off the canvas and launches her toward the ropes, no reversal forthcoming this time from the FAWN Original. As Armstrong rushes back toward her, Roxie brings her hands to the hellion’s torso, and she THRUSTS the redhead airborne, deftly catching her opponent across her brawny shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Many of the FAWNatics are still scraping their jaws off the floor from Roxie’s initial display of power, but the Beantown Bombshell then lays out, falling to her right hip, slinging her cargo off her shoulders and SLAMMING Armstrong’s back (and the back of her head) into the mat.
BOSTON MASSACRE @7:57:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=8IaCtIbeVC0
Again, as she picks herself up, McCrimmon shakes out some sting from her right shoulder, but clearly the sculpted blonde is gaining renewed use of the limb. And as she starts to hoist Ivy up to her feet, one drunken fan in the front row attempts to start a chant of, “F*ck her up, Rox-ie! F*ck her up!” While it doesn’t quite catch on with the majority of the audience, it DOES register with an audience of one, Roxie smirking as she bullies the redhead back into the near corner.
“OH, TRUST ME,” McCrimmon shouts with a vengeful grin, “BYTCH IS ABOUT TO GET MORE F*CKED THAN SHE’S BEEN SINCE HOMECOMING!”
A promise made is a promise kept, Roxie drawing back her right hand before BLISTERING Ivy’s chest with an open hand chop. Before the redhead can even let out a yelp of pain from that blow, McCrimmon SLAMS a forearm into the hellion’s jaw. The powerful blonde alternates a couple more chops and forearms, before snatching a handful two handfuls of hair, steadying Armstrong’s noggin before she administers a rapid-fire trio of headbutts. By the time she’s done, Ivy’s eyes are glazed, but the Irish-American beauty barely registers a ding as she snapmares the ‘Bama Slamma out of the corner, depositing the redhead right on her patootie. After stuffing a trio of swift, stiff kicks to the hellion’s back, Roxie shifts on her feet to allow her to mash a pair of quick and brutal knees to her opponent’s mush. Tugging the redhead up without a hint of mercy, Ivy slumped forward, McCrimmon delivers a quartet of kicks to the bowed Armstrong’s chest…
VIOLENCE PARTY:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=GDuqpbZATV4
Now, under most circumstances, Roxie McCrimmon would bring her Violence Party to a close by doing her damnedest to decapitate her foe with a wicked clothesline. Tonight, however, as she straightens Ivy up, the Beantown Bombshell spins the FAWN Original to face away from her before lacing an arm over and across the redhead’s throat. A dragon sleeper would have been bad enough, but instead, the blonde hardbody grunts and ‘hup’s her foe off her feet, swinging Ivy upward until her denim clad backside is pointed straight at the rafters, Armstrong’s knees slumping toward Roxie’s shoulder. Ordinarily, she might have been inclined to show off her cargo for a few moments, but when her right shoulder still protesting via pulses of anguish, McCrimmon instead promptly drops to a seat, parting her legs in a ‘V’ as she descends, leaving plenty of room to DRILL Ivy’s head and shoulders into the canvas with her destructive Beantown Bomb.
BEANTOWN BOMB:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=4LRYbG2JZrk
Roxie captures Ivy’s stems before the obliterated redhead can melt out of her matchbook, hooking them under her arms as the referee slides into position to count the…
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!!!!!
As the bell sounds, McCrimmon tosses away those vaunted, now lifeless gams, and accepts the official’s offered hand in making her way up to her feet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer declares, “your winner, via pinfall… ROOOXXXIIIEEE McccCCCRRRIIIMMMMMMOOONNN!!!!!”
The ref raises Roxie’s hand (the left, because he’s a gentleman) in triumph, the lingering ache in her right shoulder remaining etched on her face, despite the thrill of victory. And what a thrilling victory it was, a resilient showing against a bona fide future FAWN Hall of Famer. There could be no doubt about it: the Beantown Bombshell is BACK…
… and she WILL be reckoned with.
”JUMP AROUND”:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=XhzpxjuwZy0
ROXIE McCRIMMON:
The unmistakable horn fanfare, appropriated from Bob & Earl, leads directly into the House of Pain hip-hop classic ‘Jump Around‘. It takes a hard soul NOT to become pumped--first by the music, and then by the sight of blonde that bursts through the curtains at the start of the first verse, as enthusiastic as she is gorgeous.
Touted as a big-time player from the moment she’d joined the main roster, Roxanne McCrimmon had really come into her own since she and Becky Clayton had formed the BFG’s and proceeded on an incredibly successful run as FAWN Tag Team champions. But as grateful as she might be for her accomplishments alongside the Army of One Hot Chick, her dreams had always been about winning titles on her own.
And scoring a win over a FAWN Original, icon, and multi-time decorated champion would be an effective way of launching herself towards that singles success.
Too excited to linger more than a few seconds atop the stage, McCrimmon races down to the ring, readily accepting the slaps and offered encouragement of the capacity crowd. The blonde's long, sculpted legs are left bared, save for white kneepads and boots, her upper body sheathed under a green number 11 Celtics jersey. Bounding up the steel steps, McCrimmon slips through the ropes and heads toward her corner. Raising her right arm, Roxie follows the command of her anthem, jumping up and down--and beckoning the fans to do likewise with a wave of her hand. And a substantial portion of the crowd opt to play along.
Settling down, the blonde powerhouse grabs the hem of her Kyrie Irving jersey and pulls it up and overhead to reveal a green one piece, her taut abs at full extension and bared by the broad shamrock-pattern cutout at her midsection. Turning to the ropes, Roxie flings the garment off into the stands, where it disappears amidst a sea of questing hands.
As the Boston blonde basks in the approval of the crowd, her moment is intruded upon by the shrill voice of the announcer.
"And her opponent, hailing from Uriah, Alabama, she stands five feet eight tall and weighs one-hundred and twenty pounds...she is a former FAWN World Champion, and the very first Television Champ...she is...IIIIIVYYYYYYY AAAAAAAARMSTROOOOOOONG!!!” An instant later, the opening strains of .38 Special's "Wild Eyed Southern Boys" fills the atmosphere.
WILD EYED SOUTHERN BOYS:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=7KMYZR0-gM4
IVY ARMSTRONG:
What had merely been a cacophony of sound erupts into a primordial roar of exultation from the thousands-strong crowd. Even those who fully intend to root against her this night are most pleased by the ‘Bama Slamma’s presence on the card, for they know they’re in for a superlative exhibition of pro wrestling at its finest.
Stunning in a red and black satin corset and her trademark denim shorts, cut provocatively to show off, as the redhead refers with a smile, "the hamhocks', Ivy reached out to slap palms and brush fingertips with many of the outstretched hands, while her green eyes scanned the crowd for supportive signs. One neatly lettered posterboard reads: YEE-HAA!!! BAMA BEATS DOWN BOSTON TONIGHT!
Finally making her way to the ring, she climbed the steps and walked along the apron edge to the center of the ropes. There, facing the crowd, she grabbed the top rope with both hands extended for leverage, and then flipped backward, arcing as slowly as possible so that the fans could get a good long look at her sculpted gams.
Alighting to the mat, she kicked out of her ring slippers and handed them to a ringside attendant. Armstrong took a few gingerly steps to fully get the feel of the canvas under her now bare feet. Confident that the mat would suit her purposes tonight, she suddenly dashed to a far corner, leapt up to the middle rope, and held her arms outstretched.
“Y’all need to show me some love!” she called out in her most sugary tones, an impertinent grin upon her alabaster face. The mob burst forth with an even louder wall of sheer sound.
“Oh, don’t worry,” the sculpted Irish-American blonde assures Ivy, as Armstrong hops down from her perch. “They’re gonna show some love. They’re gonna show a whole lotta love as I’m kicking your ass up one side of this ring and down the other.”
Somewhat surprisingly, the ‘Bama Slamma doesn’t offer a verbal response. Instead, she merely shakes her head with a slight smile pursing her lips, her expression more befitting having just heard a small child tell her something patently (but adorably) untrue than of just having been challenged.
“Ring the bell!” the referee orders, and the signal is given, bringing this contest to an official opening. Blonde and redhead move out of their corners, cautiously circling one another. In spite of her bravado, the respect the Beantown Bombshell holds her older, more accomplished adversary in is evident as she eyes Ivy, both searching for an opening and remaining mindful of any tricks being sprung on her…
In the end, the two grapplers surge forward, locking up in a collar and elbow. But in spite of only giving up about an inch to the younger woman, it takes a distressingly brief amount of time for Ivy to find herself forced into retreat, her lithe frame yielding against the force the more muscular blonde can exert, until at last the redheaded hellcat finds her back pushed up against the buckles. “You know the drill, Rox,” the ref mutters. “Gimme a clean break, would ya?”
“Of course,” McCrimmon replies with a nod, pulling back her arms. But she can’t resist giving Ivy a parting gift, delivering a pair of open handed slaps to the southern wildcat’s sternum, the impact filling the air with a loud ‘CRAAAAAAAK!’ Almost immediately, twin crimson handprints begin to mar Ivy’s fair, flawless skin.
“Don’t worry,” McCrimmon purrs. “I’ll give your ass a matching set later.”
There's no denying that the chops are more than a little unpleasant for the redhead, but they're hardly the stuff of devastation. But that's not the way Ivy plays it. Instead, she lets out a howl of anguish that rattles the rafters of the arena, staggering along the ropes, seemingly ready to topple to the canvas save for her right hand gliding along the top cable. The camera even catches the glint of a tear in the corner of her eye.
Roxie recognizes this for the theater that it is, and she scoffs, "Oh come on...it didn't hurt that much!" But she fails to realize what her wily, more experienced opponent is doing: while it comes as no surprise that the referee is largely irrelevant in a FAWN match, the great charade that is expected to be upheld is that they in fact are the dominant figure in the ring. The unspoken rule...the kayfabe of kayfabes...is that this fiction must at least be paid lip service to in the early minutes of the match; after that, all bets are off.
So when the official, in the opening minute of the match, commands a wrestler to make a clean break, then she at the very least ought to not take too great advantage of the moment. And yet here now, judging by the Southern gal's reaction, it seems obvious that McCrimmon has disregarded this sacred tenet; indeed, for all intents and purposes, it is as if she had spat upon FAWN tradition. That she actually did nothing of the sort matters little.
Infuriated that his veneer of authority has been shredded, the zebra wheels around and gets in the blonde's face, poking his finger under her nose. "When I say make a clean break, McCrimmon," he seethes, red-faced, "I expect you to do just that. Pull another stunt like that, and I'll DQ you so fast, you'll get whiplash!" Startled by the outburst, Roxie stammers a few mumbles syllables, they sheepishly turns her attention back to Armstrong. But the buffed blonde is clearly rattled.
They go for a lockup again, and suddenly Ivy is pushed back to the ropes with ridiculous ease, shrieking the entire time. "HAIR, REF! HAIR!" From his vantage point, the zebra cannot see that Roxie's hand is nowhere near the 'Bama Slamma's scarlet tresses, but he can only act upon what he does witness, and that's the blonde seemingly once again flaunting the rules right in front of him without even the pretense of trying to obey them for a few minutes. Now he puts a hand to McCrimmon's shoulder and pulls her back from her adversary, barking, "Last warning, Roxie. Wrestle clean, or else!"
Having found her voice at last, the Boston bombshell protests, "I didn't do anything! She's lying!" Her frustration erupts into boiling anger as she looks over the shoulder of the official to see Ivy thumbing her nose and sticking her tongue out at her. Roxie tries to muscle the ref aside and lunge at her taunting opponent, but he wraps his arms around her waist and physically lifts her up, turning around the setting her back down, and barring her efforts to again push past him. "You're going to calm down right this very instant," he commands. "And you're going to step back!"
Flummoxed and flustered, Roxie sputters a few obscenities under her breath, but as the referee steps aside, her defenses are down. Unfortunately for her, Ivy's offense is up...literally. The redhead unleashes a standing dropkick, the balls of her feet slamming into her adversary's chest like twin ball peen hammers, the impacts sending the startled Bay Beauty sailing backward, her battered breasts bouncing wildly in their cups, and she skids along the mat with a stunned grunt.
Ivy scrambles back to her feet quickly, but she doesn’t stay there long. Cocking her right elbow, the redheaded hellion drops back to the canvas, mashing the bony joint into the cleft of the Beantown Bombshell’s bosom. Again, Armstrong rises quickly, and drops a SECOND elbow to McCrimmon’s chest. She adds a third for good measure, the winded blonde rolling to her right hip as the smirking ‘Bama Slamma climbs as far as her knees.
Rather than pick herself up once more, Armstrong instead kneewalks over to behind Roxanne, grabbing the Irish-American beauty by the shoulders and pulling her foe up to a seated position, in front of her. Ivy then lifts her right knee, planting it firmly between the former tag champ’s shoulderblades as she reaches both hands around Roxie’s noggin, deftly slapping on a chinlock.
Ivy probably doesn’t get enough credit from the casual fan for her tactical thinking, but tonight, as usual, her approach is on point: her opponent’s biggest advantage in this contest is her power. The more the redhead can keep McCrimmon grounded on the mat, the less that power advantage comes into play. And the more time Roxie spent on the canvas, the more opportunities Armstrong would have to employ HER greatest strength: those steel trap legs of hers. Of course, Roxie would need some softening up first…
… and, of course, cheating is just so much dang fun!
Ever so subtly, the redhead’s pointer fingers more away from the Beantown Bombshell’s jawline, curling as the slip inside the corners of the sculpted blonde’s mouth. And McCrimmon’s groans turn to howls when Ivy cruelly begins to YANK back on those fishhooks, earning herself first a reprimand from the official, and then a proper count…
“ONE!
TWO!!
THREE!!!
FOUR!!!!”
The redheaded hellion pulls her hands away with a flourish, though her knee remains wedged in place against Roxie’s back. And the blonde barely has time to draw in a relieved breath when Armstrong slaps a new chinlock on… albeit this time with only her right hand. A playful Ivy lets the fingers of her left hand do the walking, from the crown of McCrimmon’s skull down her forehead… until they then begin to GOUGE the Beantown Bombshell’s eyes! Roxie can’t keep from crying out, her feet kicking, her hands flailing to find the hands attacking hers…
“ONE!
“TWO!!
THREE!!!
FOUR!!!!”
Ivy pushes it to the brink, but she isn’t about to let this Yankee blonde pick up a cheap DQ win at HER expense. Pressing her hands against McCrimmon’s shoulders, Armstrong pushes herself up to her feet, then claims a handful of hair to yank the blinded robobabe off the canvas as well. Snatching Roxie’s right wrist, the ‘Bama Slamma traps her foe’s arm behind her back in a hammerlock, before threading her other arm between the blonde’s powerful thighs. With a grunt of exertion, the redhead scoops her prey up to her chest, holding her there for just a moment before delivering the bodyslam—and driving ALL of Roxie’s own weight down onto her captive limb.
The sudden jolt of pain to her shoulder and limb stuns the blonde for a long moment, and that's all the time her adversary needs to prop her up in a seated position, take a seat on the mat behind McCrimmon, and for Armstrong to then yank her foe's arms backward while bringing her own legs up. An instant later, Roxie is shocked out of her daze by the anguish of a Lotus Lock on her arms.
Under any circumstances, it's never wise to be caught between the thighs of the 'Bama Slamma. But in this instance it's almost worse, because the Lotus doesn't require the redhead to exert a great deal of force into her hold, meaning that she drains precious little of her own reserves of strength while nonetheless putting her victim in a world of hurt. The Bostonian grunts in hurt and frustration as she tries to pull free, but with no success. Crouching close to her, the referee asks, "Whadaya say, Rox? Give the word and it's all over."
Gritting her teeth, McCrimmon snarls, "Piss off, ya friggin' gump!" Her Boston bonafides firmly established, she sets about the arduous task of saving herself. She stretches out her left leg, desperate to close the tantalizingly narrow gap between her foot and the bottom rope. At long last she's able to hook the cable with the toe of her boot, and the ref duly instructs Armstrong, "Break the hold, Ivy...she's in the ropes."
"Ah can't see that from here," the redhead says with honeyed tones, her gams still locked agonizingly tight around her opponent's arms.
Heatedly, the zebra replies, "Doesn't matter if you can see it or not. I see it, and I say break!"
"But, Ah don't want to," the Southern rassler says sweetly, yet matter-of-factly.
"C'mon Ivy," the official says with a heavy sigh. "Let's not play this game. Just let her go, okay?"
"Fer Chrissakes, stop making nice with her and DQ her if she doesn't let me go!" the exasperated Roxie barks.
Armstrong gives one more pulse of her legs, drawing forth a small yip of sharp discomfort from her adversary, and then her limbs snap open. The Alabamian does a backward somersault and kips up to her feet, while the grumbling McCrimmon struggles up as well, albeit far less gracefully. With her left hand she massages her right shoulder, as that arms hands limply at her side. "Are you okay, Roxie," the referee inquires. "Can you continue?"
"I can't feel my arm just yet," the blonde groans.
Smirking, Ivy steps closer and purrs, "Awww, is the big girl's widdle wing all sore?"
Casting a side-eye that, if looks could kill, would send her up the river for 20 to life, McCrimmon says in a low, angry tone, "Yeah, I won't be pitching for the Sox tonight. But that's not your problem."
In the next instant, McCrimmon's left arm flashes out, her hand tightening around the throat of the startled redhead. "Your problem is, I've got another arm." And with that, the New England powerhouse choke slams her foe to the canvas, the ring shaking from the impact. Roxie next rotates her right arm and starts to feel the sensation of life back into it.
Slightly unfocused eyes blinking, Armstrong looks up at the woman standing above her, features darkened as the harsh arena lights above her cast her in a deceptively placid halo of light. Then comes the voice that shatters any thought of peace the redhead may have: "You've got a whole new set of problems now."
And things get a lot darker for the ‘Bama Slamma when her opponent leaps into the air. Granted, Roxie McCrimmon would never be mistaken for the likes of Shea London. The flying game was NOT her trademark. But really, she didn’t need to fly here. All she needs to do is fall, and when she does, the Beantown Bombshell drops a knee across Armstrong’s forehead, sending a spasm that runs all the way down to the redhead’s toes.
Still showing a little favor to her throbbing right shoulder, the sculpted blonde stoops down, snatching a handful of crimson tresses with her left hand. Tugging the reeling FAWN Original up to her bare feet, Roxie transfers her grip to Armstrong’s wrist and whips her foe toward the ropes… or rather, STARTS to. For Ivy manages to find enough of her scattered marbles to dig in her heels and reverse the whip, the Beantown Bombshell uttering a slight groan as she is sent off for the ride.
The lithe redheaded hellion takes a couple of steps toward those ropes, in anticipation of Roxie McCrimmon’s return trip. But while the ropes often provide whoever bounds off them with a little extra speed, the Irish-American blonde seems to EXPLODE off the cables with a fierce roar, coming back at Ivy quicker the ‘Bama Slamma anticipates. And what’s more, Roxie raises her left arm out to her side, catching her opponent with a MASSIVE running clothesline that turns Ivy inside out as she’s sent flipping through the air and CRASHING down to the canvas.
Not that she gets to stay there long.
Approaching the fallen redhead, Roxie reaches down for another helping of hair—this time, notably, with her right arm. And the Irish-American hardbody shows fewer lingering after effects of Ivy’s earlier assault on her arm and shoulder when she tugs Armstrong up onto wobbly legs. Roxie’s arms slip around her foe’s slender waist, many in the crowd anticipating the blonde pulling her prey into a rib-crushing bearhug. But instead, McCrimmon has different ideas, her arms dropping lower, embracing the redhead’s renowned thighs as she lifts Ivy off her feet.
The Beantown Bombshell then pivots, dropping to one knee, and executing a crisp inverted atomic drop, Roxie’s knee splitting Ivy wickets with a vengeance. The slackjawed redhead is launched back to her feet, those strong legs of hers looking anything but as she spins and falteringly staggers away. Unfortunately for her, she doesn’t get too far before a rising Roxie captures the ‘Bama Slamma’s right wrist and, much as Armstrong had done to her earlier, McCrimmon locks that limb up behind Ivy’s back in a hammerlock. The blonde hardbody then takes her foe’s left arm and laces it behind her neck. Reaching down with her free hand, Roxanne gathers up Ivy’s left thigh, and with a grunt she uses that grip to muscle the redhead off her feet and across the blonde’s shoulder. She then drops to her back, SLAMMING Armstrong’s head and shoulders into the mat with her signature Boston Pop’skull.
BOSTON POP’SKULL:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1phJlgdiw4
The impact momentarily propels the ‘Bama Slamma up to a seated position, head bowed, her hands flying up to cradle the back of her neck. But it’s only a moment before the redhead slumps over onto her right hip. And, a moment after that, Roxie presses Armstrong down to her back, shoulders down, covering for the…
ONE…
TWO…
THNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!
Ivy gets a shoulder up.
“They told me that head of yours is a hard one,” Roxie mutters, shaking her head slightly, “but I know that HAD to put a dent in it…”
As she again climbs to her feet, Roxie fills her fists with scarlet tresses and peels Armstrong up off of the mat. Now both standing (albeit Ivy far more unsteadily), McCrimmon turns away from her opponent and presses her back to the redhead's. The Boston Bombshell then dips at the knees and reaches up and behind, wrapping her arms around the Southern gal's midsection. Pulling Ivy backward, she rises up, lifting her unwilling cargo up in a Gory Special. Roxie then puts her own regional touch on it, hooking her fingers into the corners of Armstrong's mouth for a 'St. Charles Fishhook'.
The 'Bama Slamma lets out a plaintive yowl, her hands clutching frantically at her tormentor's wrists, but to no avail. With no other option available to her, Ivy starts to kick her right heel at McCrimmon's back again and again. The buff blonde grunts with each blow, until finally she flips her opponent over to the canvas. Roxie takes a few heartbeats to rub the ache in her back, then bends down to again take her adversary by the hair.
This time however, Armstrong's left hand flashes up, the red-painted tips of two fingers executing a Piper Poke to McCrimmon's green eyes, causing the New Englander to shriek. Releasing her hold on Ivy's mane, Roxie drops to her knees, knuckles rubbing at her momentarily blind and sore peepers. Pressing her palms to the mat, Ivy swings her legs up, ensnaring them around her rival's head, and then yanking her downward for a faceplant. The hardbody's features mash roughly into the canvas, and she topples to her side with a dazed moan. That's all the opportunity that the redhead needs to roll away and under the ropes, alighting rather clumsily to the ringside floor. Just a little time, she assures herself, and she'll be composed enough to put the Beantown bimbo in her place.
As cowardly as it might strike those partisan to the New Englander, the thinking was undeniably sound. Roxie’s power game could change the course of a match in a matter of seconds, and could drain a fighter of plenty of her strength in even less that amount of time. Slowing things down and catching her breath absolutely behooves Ivy’s chances in this contest…
But there’s just one problem: back in the ring, the Beantown Bombshell was beginning to shake off the effects of her faceplant, and blinking eyes were beginning to regain a semblance of focus, however blurry that might be. And McCrimmon soon catches fuzzy sight of a crimson rebel-shaped and colored blur on the other side of the ropes. Roxie rolls to her side, soon dropping from the apron to the floor, her vision continuing to clear…
And, locating Armstrong on the other side of the ringpost, the Irish-American blonde charges around the ring.
Of course, a veteran the likes of the ‘Bama Slamma can judge the shift in the roar of the crowd, and ascertain that she was about to have a company. A quick glance over her shoulder confirms the redhead’s suspicions, and Ivy lets out an almost inaudible, alarmed “Eeep!” before she takes off as well. McCrimmon chases her foe around the ring for one lap, and then a second, until Ivy changes course and dives under the bottom rope. The Beantown Bombshell starts to slide in after her…
… only to catch a knee drop to the back of the head for her troubles.
The impact sends Roxie’s mug slamming into the mat, leaving the sculpted blonde once again momentarily dazed and confused, which is really all that Ivy had hoped to achieve with it. And McCrimmon’s current stupor served a purpose of its own for the rising redhead, by giving her an opportunity to stomp her heel down against the former tag team champion’s right shoulder.
The Beantown Bombshell groans from the impact, Ivy’s lack of footwear doing little to lessen the amount of force that the redheaded hellion could bring to bear. Dropping to her knees off Roxie’s right hip, Armstrong’s right hand latches on to her opponent’s arm, just above the wrist, and she stretches the limb away from McCrimmon’s body. Then, cocking her left elbow, the FAWN Original digs the point of the joint into the meat of Roxie’s bicep, and begins to griiiiiiind away with abandon. Crying out in pain, the Irish-American robobabe’s boots drum at the mat for a moment, before straaaiiiining to try to find the bottom rope.
And they would have found the cable in a couple more seconds, if Ivy hadn’t lifted her elbow and shoved the blonde over to her back.
Slapping on a wristlock, Armstrong forces Roxie’s arm downward, placing a steadying hand against McCrimmon’s bicep as she presses the back of the blonde’s hand down onto the canvas—and leaving the Beantown Bombshell’s elbow pointed upwards.
“Prob’bly a good thing y’all got that other arm, shoog,” Ivy purrs, before dropping a knee onto Roxie’s vulnerable elbow. The blonde hardbody can keep herself from unleashing a wail of agony as she rockets up to a seat, her left hand flying up to cradle her other arm tight to her chest.
“Ah think ya might NEED it.”
Her face darkening several shades with the purpling of seething fury, McCrimmon casts her eyes upward at her smirking rival. Through teeth gritted against the pain she hisses, "Naw, I won't need it at all." And with that she sweeps her right leg out, knocking the pins of the startled redhead out from under her, and sending Ivy crashing onto her back.
Roxie scrambles up to her feet, her haste dimmed only by the momentary lack of use of her right arm, and she lunges at the 'Bama Slamma, anxious to go for the pin. But while Armstrong was caught by surprise, her battle instincts immediately kick in; she pulls her knees up tight to her body, and as the blonde dives down upon her, Ivy's feet press against Roxie's torso. Suddenly extending her fabled gams, the Southern gal propels her opponent backward, and sends her tumbling backward to the canvas.
Once more, Ivy pulls her legs in tight, then kicks them forward, using the momentum to jump up to her feet with feline-like dexterity. On the mat, McCrimmon is already starting to scramble, pushing up with her palms...and wincing from the strain to her wounded wing...in order to regain her footing as well. But the redhead suddenly plunges downward, delivering a headbutt with the shamrock-shaped exposure of her rival the target. The Boston battler gives a heavy grunt as air is forcibly expelled from her lungs, and she flops onto her back. Desperate to no longer provide the Alabamian with such an opportunity again, the blonde rolls over onto her stomach.
But that suits Armstrong just fine. She raises her hands like a concert pianist about to play a dramatic chord, and then with viper-swiftness strikes, her fingers gouging into the tender crescent between Roxie's gluteus maximus and adductor magnus, executing what, in pro wrestling parlance, is known as the Hammy Clamp. And regardless of how toned one may be, this particular part of the anatomy is particularly vulnerable to assault such as this, as evidenced by the raspy yowl that is torn from McCrimmon's throat. Nearly paralyzed with pain, she pounds her left fist repeatedly to the mat, and although she shakes her head vigorously from side to side when the ref queries as to whether she is ready to submit, even her most ardent acolyte can't help but question whether she can withstand this punishment much longer.
"Fight it as long as you like, sweetness," Ivy purrs contentedly. "Ah can keep doing this just as long as it takes. But points to y'all for tryin' to hold out. Bless your heart."
She REALLY could.
Truthfully, the Hammy Clamp is an EXTREMELY low energy hold, but it yields HIGH agony for the unfortunately soul on the receiving end. The nerve hold renders the victim’s closing weapons with which to fight back, her legs, increasingly useless with each passing second, and the attacker’s positioning—at least with a SMART attacker, like Ivy—along with that of the woman being tortured makes striking back with her arms extremely difficult and provides her little leverage to fight back with. Really, about the only factor that would inhibit how long Armstrong can could the hold locked in (other than a submission, of course) is how long it takes for the redhead’s fingers to start cramping.
And by the time that might happen, Roxie McCrimmon might not be able to walk.
Still, the Beantown Bombshell refuses to surrender. Gritting her teeth, the sculpted blonde digs her left elbow into the mat and starts to drag herself toward the ropes. When she tries to do the same with her right elbow, Roxie lets out a howl of anguish, waves of pain shooting both through that elbow and shoulder, thanks to Ivy’s systematic targeting of that limb. McCrimmon pushes through that torment, however, and one last lunge allows the former tag team champion to latch her left hand onto the bottom rope.
“Alright, Ivy,” the ref orders. “She’s in the ropes. You gotta break the hold.”
“Wanna bet?” Armstrong asks with a cheeky grin.
Of course, the referee has no choice but to start a count. But it’s a well-known running joke in the referee’s locker room that calling for a disqualification in FAWN on a Sunday night would result in being found in the Kissimmee River Monday morning—a running joke that Ivy Armstrong happens to be more than aware of, the redhead keeping both hands dug harshly into McCrimmon’s skin through the count of “FOUR!!!” before dramatically releasing and raising her right hand into the sky…
Ivy’s left hand CONTINUES to savage Roxie’s glute and thigh.
“Not good enough, Ivy!” the official snaps.
“Oh, honey,” the ‘Bama Slamma offers, in her most honeyed drawl, “when have ya EVAH known me to be a GOOD girl?”
A new count ensues, which just as with previous one, Ivy ignores for four and nine-tenths seconds. She then, with equal flourish, releases her left-handed pincers…
… only for her right hand to latch on a renewed clamp!
“GYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Roxie screams, the pain growing so overwhelming that her left hand almost—ALMOST—releases the bottom rope, to instead plunge into her golden locks. But the Irish-American blonde’s survival instincts keep that from happening.
“DAMMIT, IVY!” the ref barks, starting one more count—and Ivy knows that, even in a place like FAWN, she couldn’t push her luck much longer. At some point, as much as he might not WANT to, he would HAVE to DQ her, if for no other reason than to preserve the illusion of his authority. So this time, when his count makes it to four, Ivy at last breaks the Hammy Clamp. Climbing to her feet, the Southern redhead grabs a hold of McCrimmon’s blonde locks and yanks the Yankee up to her feet. In a small act of mercy, Armstrong turns her foe to face the cables, allowing Roxie to spill her arms over the top rope—and when Ivy elects to release the Beantown Bombshell’s hair for a moment, those arms are the only things that prevent the former tag champ’s numbed thighs from dropping her back to the canvas.
Claiming another helping of hair, the redheaded hellion guides her opponent into the near corner, turning Roxie’s back to the buckles before mashing a forearm against her sternum to hold her in place. Stooping down slightly, Armstrong’s free hand goes to work lifting one of Roxie’s boots and lifting her leg into the air, draping that gam across the middle rope before bending McCrimmon’s knee against the rubber coated steel. Ivy repeats the process with the other leg, leaving Roxie trussed up sitting against the middle buckle, her shapely legs forced open wide…
Then, showing some characteristic ingenuity and playfulness, Armstrong grabs the top rope with both hands before placing a bare sole against one of Roxie’s bronzed thighs, climbing into a standing straddle of the seated blonde—and standing on McCrimmon’s own legs to do so. Ivy’s left hand then plunges into her foe’s locks, tilting the blonde hardbody’s head back as she raises her right hand into the air, balling her fist and letting the crowd know EXACTLY what she has in mind, so that they can’t start counting her off the moment the punches start flying.
“ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
FOUR!
FIVE!”
The combination of Roxie’s bound stems and Ivy’s bodyweight pressing down against her thighs denies the buff blonde her best avenue of escape.
“SIX!
SEVEN!
EIGHT!
NINE!”
The ‘Bama Slamma brings her fist to her lips, planting a kiss against her knuckles before firing away with a final…
“TEN!”
Armstrong hops down, Roxie’s head slumping forward, blonde locks falling across her face to obscure her dazed features. The FAWN Original takes a couple of steps back, before shouting to the crowd, “HEY, DID Y’ALL KNOW AH WAS THE PLACEKICKER ON MY HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL TEAM?”
The redhead shuffles a couple of steps to her left…
“ROLL TIDE!!!”
Ivy surges forward to launch a powerful kick that splits Roxie’s wickets, her form impressive enough that she might well expect a message on her cell phone from Nick Saban once she got back to her dressing room. McCrimmon’s eyes cross beneath fluttering lids as she pitches forward, Armstrong’s blow powerful enough to dislodge her from her bonds, the glistening, sculpted blonde crumpling into the base of the corner and curling into a tight, protective shell.
Almost casually, Armstrong saunters over to her battered adversary. Hands on her knees, she bends down over McCrimmon and says in her honey-laden drawl, "Aww now darlin', y'all have got to admit that that was the game-winnin' score." She then wraps her hands around Roxie's right ankle and drags the mewling blonde to center ring. There, the Second Generation Siren throws herself down across her opponent's torso and, almost as an afterthought, pulls her right leg up. The zebra drops to the mat and begins his count...
ONE...
TWO...
TRHNOOOOOOO!
At the last possible instant, McCrimmon's body gives a violent spasm, kicking out of the pinfall with more authority than anyone...least of all Ivy...thought she still had in her. The redhead rolls off of her rival and sits up, clearly annoyed that Roxie was so pointlessly resisting the inevitable. Climbing to her feet, she turns and bends down over her for, reaching for her hair in order to peel her up off of the canvas. "If that's the way you wanna play it, shoog, then Ah guess we'll just have to take another spin or two on the merry-go-round."
The final syllable of the taunt barely leaves the Southern gal's lips when McCrimmon suddenly explodes into action, grabbing Armstrong's arm and...since the redhead is off-balance as she leans over...easily pulling her down. In a fraction of an instant, Roxie has Ivy rolled up in the small package, the Alabamian's bare feet bicycle kicking in the air as the ref again slaps his hand to the mat...
ONE...
TWO...
THRNOOOOOOO!
As had McCrimmon, Armstrong is able to execute a last moment escape. She swiftly rolls across the canvas, putting distance between herself and her adversary. Ivy gets up on her knees, and all trace of amusement is gone from her eyes, replaced by shock etched with fury. She has victory in hand, and this...this...YANKEE nearly steals the win with a damned roll up?!? Oh, hell no!
Anyone with any true knowledge of wrestling knows that Ivy Armstrong is a master tactical grappler, someone who formulates a plan and, more often as not, sees it through to victory. Except, that is, when her Scots-Irish temper is provoked. When that happens, the redhead tends to let her anger get the better of her.
For instance, Ivy now kips back up to her feet and stomps over to Roxie. From behind the blonde, who is now sitting up, Armstrong fills her fists with flaxen mane and starts to haul the yelping New Englander up. "Ah have had my fill of you, cupcake," the redhead snarls. But as she's being pulled up, McCrimmon reaches up with and grabs her opponent's scarlet locks. Suddenly, Roxie's legs crumple beneath her as she drops to the mat, pulling her opponent down with her. The blonde's rear end hit the canvas simultaneous with Ivy's jaw slamming into the top of McCrimmon's skull, sending the full impact with teeth-rattling intensity into Armstrong's jaw.
The redhead sails backward and rolls languidly back and forth on the canvas, glassy eyes staring up at the arena lights as she moans. Roxie is also dazed, sitting with her legs spread wide, her unfocused eyes like glazed marbles as her body sways. An eerie hush comes over the crowd as they await to see which beauty comes to first.
And to the crowd’s distress, the first sign of movement from either woman comes from the Beantown Bombshell, which ordinarily one would think would be a cause for celebration. But not when that movement is slumping to her side, winding up almost as sprawled as her adversary. However, it’s only a moment later before Roxie McCrimmon begins to drag herself toward the ropes. Clutching out the rubber coated steel, the sculpted blonde starts to haul her way up, noticeably grimacing each time she had to use her right arm to do so. But while her legs still feel a certain leadenness, the numbness was dissipating…
Unfortunately, her problems are just beginning, as despite the head start she had given her foe, Ivy fights her way back to verticality first. Glaring daggers at her opponent, Roxie continuing to sag heavily into the ropes, ALL trace of frivolity has left the ‘Bama Slamma’s eyes. But while there is no denying the redhead’s anger, there’s also knowledge and experience at play here. At the risk of venturing into clichés here, Ivy understands fully that she is now sharing the ring with a wounded animal, and how dangerous that can be. There would be PLENTY of time to make an example out of this muscle-headed blonde AFTER Roxie had been left slobbering into Armstrong’s denim. Grabbing a handful of hair, Armstrong tugs the blonde away from the ropes, indulging in a smirk as she witnesses the slight tremor remaining in Roxie’s muscular stems. Releasing McCrimmon’s locks, Ivy draws back, firing a punch…
… only for the Beantown Bombshell to intercept it. Maintaining control of Ivy’s forearm, Roxie ducks under the arm, coming out the other side. Back to back off Armstrong’s left flank, she reaches back with her free hand, her fingers slipping underneath Armstrong’s chin. Finally releasing the hellion’s arm, the Irish-American robobabe laces her fingers together underneath Ivy’s jaw and drops to one knee, pulling the Second Generation Siren down with her and SMASHING the redhead’s mush onto her posted knee.
DR. TEETH
www.youtube.com/watch?v=eiR3jnWO2Dc
McCrimmon barely manages to pull her hands apart before the impact of Ivy’s face with her knee rockets the ‘Bama Slamma back onto her heels, precariously balanced but somehow remaining upright. Pushing up from her knee, just as it appears that her foe might be about to trip over her own two feet and crash to her ass, Roxie leans forward to catch Armstrong by one wrist and attempts to launch her toward the ropes with an Irish whip. AND YET… Astoundingly, as out of it as the redheaded hellion had appeared, Ivy summons a reversal. And she STILL appears to be not ENTIRELY sure of where she might be as she moves to meet McCrimmon…
Roxie McCrimmon, on the other, knows DAMN well where she is, and where Ivy is, and just what she can do about it. Instinct taking over for the Beantown Bombshell, the Irish-American blonde lowers her shoulder and PLOWS through the ‘Bama Slamma’s yielding midriff with a massive spear! Armstrong is driven to the deck with a breathless moan, Roxie letting out a groan of her own as she follows suit. But as the former tag champ sits up and begins to roll her right shoulder, despite the grimace gracing her features, the pain is significant…
… but endurable.
Wanting to see just how much she could ask if her worked over shoulder, McCrimmon hairhauls Ivy off the canvas and launches her toward the ropes, no reversal forthcoming this time from the FAWN Original. As Armstrong rushes back toward her, Roxie brings her hands to the hellion’s torso, and she THRUSTS the redhead airborne, deftly catching her opponent across her brawny shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Many of the FAWNatics are still scraping their jaws off the floor from Roxie’s initial display of power, but the Beantown Bombshell then lays out, falling to her right hip, slinging her cargo off her shoulders and SLAMMING Armstrong’s back (and the back of her head) into the mat.
BOSTON MASSACRE @7:57:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=8IaCtIbeVC0
Again, as she picks herself up, McCrimmon shakes out some sting from her right shoulder, but clearly the sculpted blonde is gaining renewed use of the limb. And as she starts to hoist Ivy up to her feet, one drunken fan in the front row attempts to start a chant of, “F*ck her up, Rox-ie! F*ck her up!” While it doesn’t quite catch on with the majority of the audience, it DOES register with an audience of one, Roxie smirking as she bullies the redhead back into the near corner.
“OH, TRUST ME,” McCrimmon shouts with a vengeful grin, “BYTCH IS ABOUT TO GET MORE F*CKED THAN SHE’S BEEN SINCE HOMECOMING!”
A promise made is a promise kept, Roxie drawing back her right hand before BLISTERING Ivy’s chest with an open hand chop. Before the redhead can even let out a yelp of pain from that blow, McCrimmon SLAMS a forearm into the hellion’s jaw. The powerful blonde alternates a couple more chops and forearms, before snatching a handful two handfuls of hair, steadying Armstrong’s noggin before she administers a rapid-fire trio of headbutts. By the time she’s done, Ivy’s eyes are glazed, but the Irish-American beauty barely registers a ding as she snapmares the ‘Bama Slamma out of the corner, depositing the redhead right on her patootie. After stuffing a trio of swift, stiff kicks to the hellion’s back, Roxie shifts on her feet to allow her to mash a pair of quick and brutal knees to her opponent’s mush. Tugging the redhead up without a hint of mercy, Ivy slumped forward, McCrimmon delivers a quartet of kicks to the bowed Armstrong’s chest…
VIOLENCE PARTY:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=GDuqpbZATV4
Now, under most circumstances, Roxie McCrimmon would bring her Violence Party to a close by doing her damnedest to decapitate her foe with a wicked clothesline. Tonight, however, as she straightens Ivy up, the Beantown Bombshell spins the FAWN Original to face away from her before lacing an arm over and across the redhead’s throat. A dragon sleeper would have been bad enough, but instead, the blonde hardbody grunts and ‘hup’s her foe off her feet, swinging Ivy upward until her denim clad backside is pointed straight at the rafters, Armstrong’s knees slumping toward Roxie’s shoulder. Ordinarily, she might have been inclined to show off her cargo for a few moments, but when her right shoulder still protesting via pulses of anguish, McCrimmon instead promptly drops to a seat, parting her legs in a ‘V’ as she descends, leaving plenty of room to DRILL Ivy’s head and shoulders into the canvas with her destructive Beantown Bomb.
BEANTOWN BOMB:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=4LRYbG2JZrk
Roxie captures Ivy’s stems before the obliterated redhead can melt out of her matchbook, hooking them under her arms as the referee slides into position to count the…
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!!!!!
As the bell sounds, McCrimmon tosses away those vaunted, now lifeless gams, and accepts the official’s offered hand in making her way up to her feet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer declares, “your winner, via pinfall… ROOOXXXIIIEEE McccCCCRRRIIIMMMMMMOOONNN!!!!!”
The ref raises Roxie’s hand (the left, because he’s a gentleman) in triumph, the lingering ache in her right shoulder remaining etched on her face, despite the thrill of victory. And what a thrilling victory it was, a resilient showing against a bona fide future FAWN Hall of Famer. There could be no doubt about it: the Beantown Bombshell is BACK…
… and she WILL be reckoned with.