The promise of a match for the tag team titles ordinarily was enough to incite the crowd into a frenzied excitement. But the further prospect of a �warm up� match that in and of itself would determine the next woman to get a shot at Portia VanBuren�s FAWN title was enough to guarantee pandemonium.

Ivy Belle Armstrong, though young to the sport, was practically part of the �old guard� of FAWN. She had been around for most of the promotion�s life, and had indeed been one of the 8 women to compete in the inaugural FAWN title tournament. Abby Hoffman, conversely, while being an established veteran and a title holder in other promotions, was still fairly new to the world of FAWN, although she had at least been around long enough to know there was no other promotion quite like this one. The resulting contrasts in overall experience versus FAWN experience had most of the talking heads fairly evenly divided. However, they all at least agreed on one thing: the previous number one contender�s matches had all gone down as classics: VanBuren-London, Lansdale-Malenakova, London-Daniel. No one doubted for a second that Armstrong-Hoffman would be spoken of in the same circles, once it was all said and done.

As the Grateful Dead�s "China Cat Sunflower" chirps into the loudspeakers, all eyes turn to the entrance ramp. Pyrotechnic spinners shoot out heralding�nothing. Suddenly, a murmur and then a cheer blossoms from one side of the crowd. The cameras and spotlights frantically pan until they hit upon their intended quarry. A lithe, sinewy blonde with large, blue eyes that constantly smile and sparkle, walks through the audience! Her lightly tanned body radiates exuberance and energy. The crowd gives her plenty of room, as it seems her escort has those close, a bit on edge. As the blonde nears the ring, it finally becomes clear why. She is attended to by a simian! A baboon to be precise. But one that seems to walk next to her friend with a regal bearing, if a royal were to hold placards under their arm. Some of the crowd erupts as they recognize the duo from successful stints in other organizations, and even before the PA can welcome her as FAWN�s newest force of nature, much of the crowd picks up a chant.

As Abby Hoffman gets into the �Dead� groove, she starts dancing through the audience, stopping every so often to get jiggy with someone she likes. Meandering and twirling her way down, her long skirt and her tie-dye crop tee providing a miasma of swirling color. Abby gets to the guardrail, where she takes off her billowy skirt, and throws it into the crowd, leaving the Cosmic Cutie in her tie dye bikini briefs and matching belly tee. Next Abby takes off her floppy suede hat, and places it on the head of hunky guy in the front row. Playfully kissing the happy youngster on the lips, Abby gives him a hug before bounding over the barrier and onto the floor. The camera picks up on two things: Abby�s beautiful dimpled smile and the fact that the most accomplished valet/ape in women�s wrestling history, Muncle, is placing his stack of placards in Abby�s corner. Abby playfully skips a lap around the floor, slapping hands with each side of the front row, before scaling the turnbuckle and doing a back flip into the ring. Muncle, the more reserved of the two, of course follows her in.

The lights go out again, and the spotlight returns to the curtain at the head of the ramp. �s .38 Special's "Wild Eyed Southern Boys" pumps through the speakers, and a redhead in denim cut-off's and a cropped green tank T-shirt with the word CHAMPION in faux diamonds across the front tears open the curtains and begins striding towards the ring, slapping the occasional outstretched hand.

One fan holds aloft a sign that reads �I LOVE ME SOME GRITS! (Girls Raised In The South)�, and he is rewarded with the redhead cupping his cheeks in her hands and planting a kiss on his lips, his knees buckling from the bounty. In the ring, the Hardcore Hippie turned toward a section of the crowd not from the nearby trailer park, and made a theatrical show of placing her finger down her throat, Abby�s fellow flower children rejoicing. With a scowl of disdain toward that unkempt corner of the audience, Ivy saunters up the ring steps and onto the apron. Her cutoffs, already an immodest length, ride dangerously further up as the Southern Belle bends and slips through the ropes and into the ring.

The bell sounds, the crowd almost electric as these two gladiatrixes circle, for the briefest of moments both girls waiting for an opening to emerge. However, almost before the moment had begun, Abby lunges toward her foe. Ivy prepares to respond in kind, but instead of finding the Hardcore Hippie, her hands find only air, Abby ducking under her sweeping arms and sweeping her own out as she passed. A good sized portion of the crowd howls with laughter as Abby�s lands an open handed slap to Armstrong�s denim clad booty, Hoffman winking playfully at her opponent as Ivy spins.

Ivy�s eyes widen in surprise, and then quickly narrow in annoyance. If looks could kill, Hoffman would have been reduced to a pile of ash on the spot. Instead, it took action to do in this wild child. Ivy smirks cruelly, launching herself onto the attack. Action and Ivy had not been strangers for many a day.

Still, Abby proves elusive, once more ducking out of Ivy�s grasp. This time, however, there is no playfulness. Instead, the blonde launches herself toward the ropes, leaping onto the middle cable and propelling herself backwards. The redhead turns, quick enough to handle most conventional attacks launched out of this situation. But Abby was not conventional, and Armstrong�s movements proved a shade to slow for what was coming. As Abby flies back at the �Bama Brawler, she deftly tucks Ivy�s head under her arm, and drives the crown of her skull into the canvas as she falls back. The springboard DDT leaves Ivy face down, motionless save for the weak kicking of her left leg, her cutoffs threatening to become even more thong-like than normal.

Abby wastes no time, springing to her feet as Muncle holds up the first of his many placards: �Take a bite out of that snack cracker!� And Abby obliges, again with the aide of the ropes as she nails the downed redhead with a lionsault, mashing Ivy�s chest down into the mat. Rolling her over, Hoffman is quick to hook a leg, but Ivy is even quicker to kick out, the ref�s hand barely touching down one time.

Abby smiles, nodding in respect and approval as her fellow sister in combat proves unwilling to yield. Scrambling to her feet, Abby brings the dazed Southern Belle up with her, and then sends her shooting into the ropes. Ivy rebounds, too rattled by the lightening quick barrage she has already endured to resist or counter as Hoffman�s shapely gams wrapped around her neck and snapped her off her feet, Abby�s hurricarana sending the daughter of Dixie sprawling. As she too lands, Abby slithers toward her foe, intent on another cover� but Ivy headily uses her momentum to slide under the bottom rope to the safety of ringside. She needed some time to breathe, to think, and to recover.

She would receive none.

Abby rushes back into the opposite ropes, building speed as she darts back toward the set of cables Ivy stood outside of. As the blonde neared them, she dropped into a slide, shooting under the bottom rope herself in a tie-dyed flash, the soles of her bare feet slamming into Armstrong�s unsuspecting back and sending her staggering into the ringside barrier.

Muncle again eggs on the crowd, this time with a sign reading �How to Make a Redneck a Black & Blueneck.� True to her nickname, the Hardcore Hippie finds herself at home on the outside of the ring, and her smile shows it. Pulling Ivy�s crumpled form back to her feet, she throws Armstrong down again into the barricade, this time forehead first. Ivy shoots back up, stumbling drunkenly back toward the ring, and Abby is only too happy to give her a helping hand. Grabbing Ivy�s head, she steadies the redhead for a couple of strides, only to then send her face smashing down into the ring apron.

Still, Armstrong doesn�t go down. This time, she staggers away from Abby, weaving unsteadily on her way toward the ringsteps. Recognizing an opening when she sees it, the blonde grabs her wrist�

� and Ivy springs into action.

From some deep reserve, Ivy summons enough clarity of focus to be able to reverse the whip, and it is Hoffman who instead slams hard into unyielding steel. On the other side of the ring, Muncle covers his face with one of his signs, but then holds it aloft, albeit a little uncertainly: �She�s Alright, Folks!� Shaking her head to clear away the cobwebs, Armstrong notices it out of the corner of her eye.

�Not for long,� Ivy drawls venomously, and as Abby begins to stir, the �Bama Beauty fires a savage kick to her midsection. Hoffman folds over, coughing and gagging. Bending down, Ivy gathers the blonde in her arms, scooping her up and holding the hippie against her chest for a moment. Then, with a scream of rage and exertion, she sends Abby down back first onto the steps with a body slam.

Abby moans, her back arching in agony as she melts to the floor. The battered blonde comes to rest on her stomach, her left hand pressed soothingly to the small of her back. Slipping her fingers inside the back of Abby�s belly shirt, Ivy pulls her up to all fours, Hoffman puffing her blonde locks out of her face. Roughly, Armstrong rips the hippie off the ground and rolls her back into the ring, and quickly follows her back in.

Abby had afforded her no time to rest earlier in their showdown, and Ivy was now keen to return the favor. Helping herself to Abby�s gold mane, Ivy forces her foe to crawl toward the ropes, ending the journey by shoving Hoffman down throat first into the middle rope.

�C�mon, Ivy!� the ref shouts. �Keep this a clean wrestling match!�

�Don�t you ever WATCH these matches, sugah?� Ivy purrs, easing up on Hoffman before bearing all of her weight down onto the hippie�s neck. Abby�s hands grasp at the rope, desperately straining to push herself away as her bare feet kick at the mat.

The ref begins to administer the count, and predictably, Ivy waits until just before the count of five to obey his instruction. And perhaps just as predictably, Hoffman�s respite is only temporary. Gripping the top rope to steady herself, Ivy plants her knees against Abby�s shoulder blades, again driving her throat down into the cable.

�Ivy!� the official wails, as effectively as ever. That is to say, not very effective at all. The blonde�s eyes bulge, her tongue lolling out of her gaping mouth as Ivy�s full weight bears down on her. Another four count follows before Ivy dismounts her throne, allowing Abby to slide off the ropes and into a wheezing heap.

As the boos shower her, Ivy cannot help but be pleased with her handiwork. She had survived the initial wave of Hurricane Abby, and had not only survived, but she had the Hardcore Hippie on the brink of defeat.

And now it was time to dispatch her.

Ivy reaches down, and tugs the limp blonde up to jell-o legs. Letting Hoffman lean against the ropes, Ivy unloads with a chop that echoes through the entire arena.

�WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!�

Abby�s right leg leaves the canvas, her left arm flying to her throbbing chest as her mouth remains open in pain. Ivy grabs that wrist, pulling her arm away and whipping her into the ropes. Abby rebounds back at the southern charmer, and back into a heartpunch that stops her dead in her tracks. A faint gurgle sound comes from the blonde�s lips as her eyes cross. Then her legs give out, and Abby drops to the mat, lifeless.

Ivy drops to the mat beside her opponent, arrogantly reclining across Abby�s torso. This little hippie bitch had been rendered into a state she was no doubt familiar with:

Toasted.

The official�s hand slapped the canvas once, twice, thric�

Ivy frowned, surprised by the lack of sound from the third count. A glance over her shoulder solved the mystery, as Hoffman�s ankle lay draped over the bottom rope.

Ivy�s head turned from her right shoulder to her left, spying Abby�s head still tilted to the left, her eyes still closed. �Ah�ll say this for ya,� Ivy drawled with a pinch of genuine admiration. �Ya got guts. No brains to speak of, but guts.�

Grabbing the wasted hippie�s ankles, the redhead drags her away from the ropes. Then, crawling alongside her prey, Armstrong forces her right leg under Abby�s back and places her left just above Abby�s heaving bust. And then those sculpted gams, arguably the most feared on FAWN, compressed around Hoffman�s ribs.

Abby�s eyes snapped open, as did her mouth, Ivy�s exquisite legs forcing what air remained in Abby�s lungs to vacate. Concern etched on his face, the ref kneels beside them. �You wanna give, Abby?�

The blonde starts to shake her head and instantly regrets it as a wave of nausea overtakes her. �No,� she moans weakly, and then not so weakly as Ivy gives a further squeeze, Abby�s bosom threatening to be forced from the confines of her belly-tee.

In both a display of contempt and strength, Ivy leisurely props her head up on her elbow, feigning a yawn as a further tightening of the vice around Abby�s chest threatened to bring tears to the blonde�s eyes, Hoffman�s eyes rolling for a second.

For all her toughness, even Abby had limits, and she knew she couldn�t hold out against this particular weapon in Ivy�s arsenal. However, at this point, her options were extremely limited. About her last choice was to resort to what had once been described as the �chick fight thing�: with a groan of both anguish and determination, Hoffman dug her fingernails as deep as she could into Ivy�s straining thighs.

Ivy hissed, tightening the pressure even more for a second. But as Abby�s nails tore down her legs, she couldn�t ignore it for long. Grudgingly, she releases the scissors, taking note of the red welts that now marred her creamy thighs. The redhead turns her attention back to the hippie with murderous intent.

Climbing to her feet, Ivy snarls as she pulls Abby up as well. A swift kick to the midsection doubles her over, and leaves her easy pickings for a follow-up stunner. Or so Ivy had anticipated. Yet somehow, Abby finds the wherewithal to counter the impending stunner by reversing it into a swinging neckbreaker!

Both girls are left lying on the canvas; Abby spread eagled on her back, and Ivy facedown with parted legs and arms wrapped tightly around her aching neck. Both had endured a lot in this match, and both were desperately searching for a third wind. But as the ref began to count both girls out of the match, it seems unlikely that either would find the strength to answer.

It was an interesting question: if neither woman won the match to determine who would next face Portia, then who indeed would receive the next title shot? However, as the ref reached seven, the question was rendered academic.

Agonizingly, Abby drags herself over to Ivy�s body. Rolling the rebel onto her back, Abby drapes on arm across her chest, too drained at the moment to offer any further cover.

It was almost enough. Just before the count of three, Armstrong willed one shoulder off the mat.

Both women had very little left in their respective tanks, yet somehow Abby is able to tap into those amazing reserves of energy that had helped her build her reputation. Glistening as the arena lights strike against her sweat-soaked skin, Abby springs to her feet. Ignoring the fatigue and burning in her leg muscles, she practically sprints into the ropes, springboarding off the middle rope and dropping a leg across Ivy�s throat on her return.

Ivy�s legs spasm off the canvas, and then those impressive stalks that had only moments earlier tortured Abby so effectively lay still. Abby thought about going for the pin, but she quickly discards the notion. Ivy was reeling, but Abby knew it would take more to finish this match. Guiding the Southern Belle to her feet, Abby whips her across the ring, into a corner. Ivy�s back strikes the buckles hard, her neck snapping backward. The redhead�s legs give out, and Ivy slumps to her denim clad backside in the corner.

The invitation was too inviting for Abby to resist.

Abby darts into the corner, to the delight of even the staunchest of the Confederate flag demographic launching herself at Armstrong with a bronco buster. Time after time the Hardcore Hippie� crotch slammed down into Ivy�s chest and face, the redhead�s vision little more than a tie-dye swirl.

Doing the Deuce�s Candace Caine one better, Abby dislodges herself from her filly at 11, leaving the �Bama beauty with glazed eyes. For Ivy, the end appeared to be pretty seriously nigh. Hoisting Armstrong up, Abby lifts her to take a perch on the top turnbuckle, the redhead offering no resistance. Abby then scales the buckles herself, facing her prey. Tucking Ivy�s head under her arm, Hoffman finishes her ascent by standing on the very top rope. Grabbing hold of the waistband of Ivy�s cutoff, the blonde gives a momentary glance at her main monkey, Muncle offering her an encouraging nod.

And then she superplexes Ivy back to earth.

Again, the wear and tear of the battle showed itself on both women, Abby too dazed from her own impact with the canvas to follow up on her success. Still, she knew she had to make the cover to get the win. Groaning, the Hardcore Hippie pulls herself over to Ivy�s body, hooking her left leg.

What�s good for the goose�

Just as Abby her thwarted Ivy earlier, now Ivy�s ankle lay across the bottom rope. And again, in spite of herself, Abby couldn�t help but grin in appreciation of this sister�s fighting spirit. Still, they were opponents. And Abby still had a match to win.

At this point, though, the ref was starting to grow concerned about the fate of these women should the battle wage too much longer. As Abby slowly pulls Ivy up to her knees, he moves closer, coming up behind Abby to check them�

In a flash of movement, Ivy�s arm shot up between the blonde�s parted legs, her forearm driving into Abby�s womanhood. And, unfortunately for the ref, Armstrong�s fist found its mark by driving into his crotch. Both Abby and the officials knees buckle, the ref tumbling into Abby�s back. Abby staggers herself, directly into Ivy�s shoulder. The redhead treats both like a tackling slide at a Crimson Tide practice, driving both into the corner, crushing Abby and the ref in the process.

Ivy steps back, allowing the official to drop to the mat as Hoffman sways toward her, and into a precisely executed jawbreaker. The Hardcore Hippie flops to the mat in her best impression of goldfish knocked from its bowl, finally coming to rest on her belly.

Ivy didn�t waste the opportunity, swiftly pulling Hoffman�s face tight to her crotch before clamping her thighs closed. Many had fallen victim to her Southern Charm. Now, it was time to add Abby�s name to the list. Her magnificent thighs pulsed, crushing Abby�s head. Hoffman writhed, her limbs thrashing, her face wriggling against the redhead�s womanhood through her denim.

Abby�s sensed reeled, her skull pounding from the pressure exerted by Ivy�s deadliest weapons, her head growing light, the precious little breath she was able to inhale thick with Ivy�s own musk. After everything else, it was just too much. Too much. Her hand moved to slap the canvas�

�We can�t have that, darlin�,� Ivy drawls, grabbing Hoffman�s wrist and pulling back. The effect was twofold, both preventing Abby from tapping and also driving her face even deeper into No Woman�s Land. Moments later, all movements ceased. Ivy smiled, releasing her vanquished foe�s arms and allowing the limbs to fall. All that was left was for the ref to declare Abby knocked out.

Only there was no ref�

Ivy looked up, spying the ref still crumpled in the corner, and cursed herself. Her little gambit had proven too effective. And yet, suddenly, she heard cheers. The ref still wasn�t moving, yet the crowd had been whipped up to fever pitch. All of Ivy�s instincts told her this did not bode well. She looked up�

For the briefest of seconds, Sophie Mitchell�s face was visible. And then it was obscured by the steel chair�

CLAAAANNNNNGGG!!!!!

Ivy�s legs relax from around Abby�s head as she falls back to the canvas herself, now as unconscious as the blonde who drooled against her right thigh. Discarding the chair, Sophie then set about evening the score for the victory she simply knew Ivy had cost her two short weeks ago. Separating Armstrong completely from Abby, Mitchell gently positioned Abby�s body across Ivy�s. Rolling out of the ring, the tall blonde then made her way to the ref�s corner, prodding him awake.

As Sophie exits the arena floor, the ref recovers his wits and takes stock of the situation. Noting the pin, he scampers as quickly as possible to the side of the fallen warriors.

One� Two� Three!

Neither Abby nor Ivy heard the bell, not the raucous cheers of the fans as Muncle entered the ring to awaken his friend. But it was doubtful either would forget this match for a long, long time.