The Wrestling Show

Part 2: Catfighter

Rainy.  New York City night. Dark. Sirens are the background music. Only the unfortunate and the unfortunate victims are on the street at this time of night. A large LED light proclaims it is 2:59am. Tick. 3:00am. Sony, America's favorite brand name. Did anybody even remember it was Japanese? A long sleek black limousine ignores the lights and speeds through the red, leaving a fine mist of rain in its wake.

Francis the driver looks through his rear view mirror in vain, as the shield is up. Blackness stares back. The blackness of the shield however, and not the soft, supple blackness of the latex catsuit the passenger was wearing. Sexy, "umm..hummm" Francis told himself.

He pulled up to the penthouse and let the occupant out. He watched in lust as she glided out, the form fitting suit showing only the general outline of her curves. Damn the rain he thought, frowning when the view from the back was obscured by her black leather slicker. All he knew for sure was that she was caucasian. Her eyes had been hidden behind sunglasses, her hair under her cowel.

Inside the pentouse the rich, old, man was pouring himself a drink and one for the Cat. She was everything he had been told she would be. $2000 for the visit was a bargain, especially since he was allowed to videotape it. He adjusted his tripod in the corner of the room. She counted out her money, always paid in advance, and stuck it into her cleavage. The Cat's adversary sat quiet, obediently in the corner of the room in some damn lotus position. Her own outfit for the encounter picked out by her sugar daddy industrialist was a retro red leather and lace combo made popular over 25 years ago by a show called "Hellfire".

The two women came together in the middle of the penthouse, sizing each other up. Redd attacked first but it was the awkward lunge of an amateur. An armbar actually slowed down her descent to the floor which was a good thing, but without the arm her face hit first, which was not such a good thing. A cross face chickenwing and The Cat was told to release the hold by the event's sponsor. He needed Redd healthy, she was much more to him than just a catfighter. They circled again. This time Cat attacked first with a a legsweep that Redd never saw coming, until she was looking up at the ceiling. Slingshot followed, sending Redd smacking into the drywall. The paintings rattled and a cheer went up from the sponsor. Cat quickly grew bored of the encounter, but she went through the motions. She carried her opponent through 10 minutes of action never once allowing herself to be vulnerable to beginner's luck. In the end she enjoyed the satisfaction of making her opponent tap out to the Catseye, a move once called the Texas Cloverleaf, one that if she desired could do real damage to an opponent's back.

Redd retreated licking her wounds, and jealousy flared in her eyes as her sugar daddy was on his feet applauding the leather clad vixen. "Don't Touch Me" the Cat had to warn him as he drew closer. Redd stood to her feet as the Cat approached her, running a hand down her cheek. "You did fine. Remember the moves I used on you and practice them. Hopefully we will have a rematch." With that the Cat gave Redd a quick peck on the lips and walked out the door.

In the elevator on the way down she collapsed to the floor. Sobbing. Her thoughts returned to Madison Square Gardens a little more than a decade ago. She was a young up and comer, in the world of pro wrestling. She saw herself being awarded the Women's World Title by that leach who called himself President. It was no longer a world title like big goldy. The new gimmicked title that he wrapped around her waist, innocently copping a feel of course as he did so, was more of a phallic symbol than a title belt. Then they had passed that damn law.

The old lift ground to a halt. Lifting herself to her feet she stumbled onto the street. The limo was there waiting and Francis was very eager to help her into the back. She instead turned the other way and ran down the street. Her feet splashed away the reflections of the mascara running down her face that she saw in the puddles.

One day at a time she told herself. And with $2000 she could afford to take a few days off. She deserved it.

Sirens wailed in the night.

Sawyer woke with a start. Sitting bolt upright in the motel bed. He had been dreaming of the perfect vixen. A real doll compared to the waitress cougar from last night. Sex though seemed like the least he could do for rescuing him on the back of a snowmobile. Remembering the night before he looked to the spot beside him, but all that was left was the indent where she had laid. The bathroom light was on, the door open a crack and he heard her move within. He called out to her and she came to him, holding the black videotape. "What's this" she asked him with an impish smile. "Old Porn?"

She handed it to him and he turned it around in his hands. No markings on the outside. "No. Better, much better."