FAWN had reached a crossroads.

When the promotion opened, its name had been built on its �edgy� attitude as well as on a handful of names. And in the first portion of FAWN�s life, it was primarily those names that had risen to the top and established FAWN�s place as a driving force in the industry. But now, those names�Chrissy Daniel, Jeanette Lansdale, Shea London�had all been vanquished by the current champion, Portia Ophelia VanBuren IV. The Old Guard had been passed by, and it was now time for new blood and new challengers to arise.

Tonight would signal one of two things. Either the current champion would cement her place in the history books, or a new era would dawn in the world of FAWN.

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.

Heavy orchestral chords flow over the darkened arena. A white-hot pin spot breaks the darkness and falls upon fortune�s favorite. As Shirley Manson�s distinctive voice surges from all corners of the arena, golden spotlights join the cavalcade spinning through the crowd in wide figure-8s. Portia Ophelia VanBuren tosses her shoulder-length mane of strawberry blonde locks and struts down the aisle to the strains of �The World Is Not Enough� by Garbage, hips swaying as she turns the trip into a sashay down the runways of Paris or Milan. White lace panties flash in a Maxim-like version of Morse code from beneath a tennis skirt sufficiently high as to be outlawed by the WTA. Above, her white lace tanktop is sheer enough to be eye-catching on a Monaco beachfront, the ensemble tastefully accessorized with Gucci shades and a diamond tennis bracelet around her left wrist.

Portia, patrician features held high, barely glances to either side as she makes her way to the ring, doing her best to ignore the throngs of human cattle that rush the restraining barriers with a cascade of boos. One hippie chick clone throws a peace sign a little too close for Portia�s comfort and VanBuren slaps the taste of ramen from of her mouth. �Dude, you like�hit her,� a fortysomething stoner in tie dye and jeans comments. Portia just shakes her head, a smirk gracing her flawless face. Farther down the aisle, she nods her head knowingly at a placard held by a �tween� street urchin apparently purchased for the night by a nattily attired stockbroker-type standing next to the child. The waif holds a placard �FAWN: Where Darwin and Portia rule.�

Continuing on her way, Portia appears delighted to arrive ringside, distance restored between her and the hordes of wannabes and never-weres. The strawberry blonde ascends the ringsteps and slides into the squared circle between the middle and top rope, her skirt riding up the scant inches that were available. Immediately, the ring is Portia�s personal property. She saunters to each corner, pumping a quick combination into the last set of buckles. All eyes drawn to her, Portia was in her element, the center of attention and envy. As it should be and ever would be.

As the referee went over the ceremonial instructions, Portia regarded the adversary across from her, and her idiot grin. For all the silliness of her appearance, Portia knew that the Hardcore Hippie was a dangerous opponent, with more in ring experience, more agility, and perhaps more raw toughness, if not a match for Portia�s own sense of determination. Breaking for their corners, Portia knew she would have to prevent Abby from fighting her game. She�

DING! DING! DING!

Unfortunately for Portia, one of the elements of Abby�s game was a relentless onslaught from bell to bell, and one that failed to give her opponents time to think. Abby was an instinctual fighter, probably more so than anyone else on the FAWN roster. Portia, meanwhile, was a plotter and a schemer. And that was something Abby knew she could not allow. Before Portia could even fully process what was happening, Abby�s shoulder drove into her slender midriff, Hoffman�s spear sending the two tumbling to the canvas.

They settled on the mat with Abby straddling Portia�s midsection, the hippie momentarily eschewing the virtues of peace, love and understanding in favor of fierce and savage lefts and rights to the socialite�s face. �That was totally uncool,� Abby said, punctuating her fists. �You don�t hit my sisters in the stands.� Opening her fists, she fills each hand with a clump of VanBuren�s strawberry blonde locks, lifting her head a few inches before slamming the back of skull down into the canvas.

�And you don�t humiliate my sisters in the ring, either.�

With Portia seeing little more than stars, the blonde hops to her feet, pleased with the first series of blows she�s landed for her fans, her friend Shea, and indeed for herself. But this wasn�t the time to dial things down. Instead, it was time to turn the nob to 11. Abby rushes into the ropes, leaping onto the middle cable and propelling herself back at the downed champion with a flawless lionsault that has Hoffman�s supporters erupting in joy.

A hook of Portia�s right leg nets only a one count, but Abby is far from discouraged. At ringside, Muncle holds aloft a sign: �PORTIA�S ASS IS GRASS, AND ABBY�S GONNA SMOKE IT!� Abby catches sight of the placard, and cannot suppress a chuckle. A little more vulgar a sentiment than she was used to her from her faithful simian sidekick, to be sure, but it was one Hoffman could nonetheless appreciate. Pulling Portia to her feet, Abby backs her into the ropes, preparing to Irish whip her�

And yet somehow, Portia finds the wherewithal to reverse the whip. However, instead of sending Abby for a ride, Portia slings her back, turning Abby to face the cables Portia�s back had moments ago been resting against. As Abby�s bosom presses into the ropes, the champion wraps her arms around Abby�s waist. Falling backward, Portia pulls the Hardcore Hippie down with her. The two roll across the mat, coming to a stop with Abby�s body folded over itself, VanBuren sitting across the backs of the blonde�s thighs� and Abby�s shoulders pressed to the mat.

The referee slides down beside them to administer the count, and Portia waits until he is down before digging her fingers under the waistband of Abby�s tie dye briefs. Portia�s grip on the bikini bottoms gives Abby�s fans a glimpse of perhaps a different form of crack than they were used to, but the majority of the crowd seems to roar in appreciation.

One� Two� Thre�

Despite Portia�s best underhanded efforts, Abby is able to extricate herself, sending the socialite stumbling back toward the ropes. Getting to her feet, Hoffman takes the briefest of moments to adjust her briefs, a sly smile creasing her features at the disappointed sigh from the crowd that greets her ears. With Portia still catching her breath, Abby approaches her, guiding her to her feet with the intent on sending the champion for a ride once more. Only this time, Portia does not reverse it.

But Portia still had more of her wits than her glassy eyes and heaving bosom might suggest. And as she raced involuntarily into the ropes, only one thought went through her mind: Don�t rebound! The ropes were Abby�s bread and butter, and the champion knew she could not allow them to come into play. Her back hits the cables, and she started to head back toward the challenger. Abby takes that moment as her cue, and launches herself into the air for a dropkick.

But one of Portia�s arms had slipped over the top rope, hooking it, and halting her momentum. Only the mat halted Abby, and did so in a far less than kind manner.

As Abby writhes on the canvas, arching her back, Portia turns toward the crowd. �Looks like I harshed her mellow,� Baby VanBuren offers, her pout offset by the glimmer of glee in her eyes.

The strawberry blonde socialite rests against the ropes, watching as Abby pushes herself up to her hands and knees. At that moment, Portia strikes, sprinting toward the challenger and launching a vicious kick to Abby�s soft midsection that sends the high flying hippie airborne. Hoffman rolls across the mat after she lands, grimacing as her arms wrap protectively around her belly, her lungs burning for the air the kick had expunged.

Now, Portia takes her time, and slowly stalks her prey. As Abby can do little more than cough, VanBuren grabs the hippie�s flaxen locks, pulling her up just enough to force Hoffman to crawl toward the ropes. The journey complete, Portia switches from pull to push, forcing Abby�s eyes down against the middle robe before roughly dragging her toward the corner.

Abby shrieks as the rubber coating around the steel cable grates at her eyes, her only respite coming as they reach the turnbuckle. But that marks only a brief pause, before Portia drives Hoffman�s forehead down into the buckle, not once, not twice, but thrice.

As Abby rests in a heap, on her knees, her forehead against the middle turnbuckle, Portia�s eyes travel down her back, over her well shaped derriere, and down the back of her smooth thighs. A cruel smirk crosses the socialite�s lips as she raises one foot into the air, and then drives her heel down hard into the back of Abby�s left knee.

Hoffman moans as Portia digs her heel into the vulnerable joint, only to wail as Portia repeats the process again, and again, and again. Finally ending the barrage, Portia steps back from the blonde, allowing Abby to curl into a protective ball as she clutches her knee.

Only the beginning, Portia sneers to herself.

Grabbing Abby�s left ankle, Portia drops to the mat herself, and rolls under the bottom rope. Her eyes lock on those of Muncle, and she offers the ape a warning. �Come anywhere near me,� Baby VanBuren hisses, �and your friend here will never walk again.�

To illustrate the seriousness of her threat, Portia gives the limb a jerk, slamming Hoffman�s already aching knee into the unyielding steel ringpost. Abby�s back arches off the mat, the blonde throwing her head back as she screams in agony. As Abby slumps back to the mat, leaning over to favor her left knee, her right leg is left completely unguarded.

Releasing one hand from Abby�s left ankle, Portia grabs her right as well. With one leg on either side of the ringpost, VanBuren gives a mighty tug, and sends Abby crotch-first into the post. This time, the Hardcore Hippie in unable to give voice to her anguish.

At least not initially.

Once more, Portia posts her challenger. Only this time, the socialite lifts her right leg and plants her foot against the apron for extra leverage. Abby practically howls, her upper body thrashing and flopping in a futile effort to alleviate her suffering.

This continues for several agonizing moments, but as spoiled brats tend to do, VanBuren grows bored. Releasing her captive, Portia simply smirks as Abby rolls onto her stomach, her hands wedged between her thighs as she slithers away from the corner.

In her full majesty, Portia ascends to the apron and returns to the ring, Hoffman able to do little more than continue to slither, her backside slightly elevated. Dismissively, VanBuren places a boot flush between the hippie�s cheeks, and with one push shoves her sprawling toward the middle of the ring. The crowd boos with a lustful vengeance, but Portia pays them no mind, instead rolling Abby over long enough to administer a Sharpshooter.

The referee does his duty, kneeling beside the blonde and asking if she wants to submit. Hoping for an affirmative, his heart sinks as Abby violently shakes her head, tears beginning to flow as Portia pours more abuse into her knee. Abby was a fighter. She wasn�t about to quit. Not to this brat. Not after�

�AAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!�

Abby�s hands tear at her scalp as Portia leans into the hold, but still, Hoffman refuses to give. Digging her elbows into the canvas, and ignoring the flames of pain that tore through her knee, Abby begins to drag herself�and Portia�over to the ropes. Her progress is painstakingly slow, but still it is progress. And eventually, she is able to clutch the bottom rope.

�Break it, Portia.�

�Say please.�

Abby moans as Portia and the ref argue, the socialite�s gambit allowing her even more time to work her sadistic magic than the traditional 5 count would have given her. Still, release finally came. But it was punctuated with a further stomp to the knee, causing Abby to yelp and curl almost into a fetal position as she hugged her abused knee.

Once more, VanBuren takes hold of Abby�s ankles, this time rolling the hippie onto her back, the blonde�s head resting on the apron. Tucking the Hardcore Hippie�s feet under her arms, Portia falls back, her slingshot launching Abby throat-first into the bottom rope.

As Hoffman clutches her windpipe, Portia tugs her up to her feet. Or, more accurately, her foot, as Abby clearly does not put any weight on her left leg. Throwing an arm around Abby�s head, the champion rushes away from the ropes with Abby, planting her with a bulldog that leaves the Hardcore Hippie spread-eagled and almost lifeless, her tie dye briefs riding up between her cheeks.

For a moment, Portia simply sits beside her foe, wiping her hands arrogantly. Then, rolling the blonde onto her back, Baby VanBuren reclines against her chest for the cover.

One� Two� Thre�

A cheer bursts forth from the crowd as Abby somehow raises a shoulder, Portia eyes wide in rage and disbelief. Furiously, she climbs to her feet, and reaches down to pulls Abby up as well.

Instead, the champion receives a punch to the gut that doubles her over.

Abby�s reserves of energy were the stuff of legend, as was her ability to survive punishment that would finish off most other women. Both would have to serve her now, as Portia struggled to recover. Hoffman knew she didn�t have much time, and so willed herself to her feet. She had to strike fast, and strike strong. And her longtime friends, the ropes, provided her best option for both.

Sadly, she couldn�t make the journey.

The moment she landed on her left foot, her battered knee gave out, sending the Hardcore Hippie crashing to the mat as if shot. As she again hugged her knee, tears of realization started to pour down her cheeks.

Her mind was willing to continue the fight. But the flesh was far too weak.

As Portia finally managed to right herself, she looked around in confusion, searching for her adversary. Once her gaze settled on Hoffman�s downed form, Portia allowed herself to relax. Seeing Abby like that, unable to capitalize on the opening she had created told Portia all she needed to know.

This match was hers.

Stalking her prey, Portia once more takes hold of Abby�s ankles, and drags her out to the center of the ring. Holding the limbs perpendicular to the mat, Portia gives the blonde just enough time to realize what was coming. To her credit, Abby does not plead.

But she still screams as Portia�s forehead drives down into her womanhood.

Portia doesn�t get up. Instead, she positions herself in a reverse straddle across the blonde�s midsection, facing Abby�s legs. The socialite�s recent obsession with driving the 911 may have made the wrestling forget it was only one of her finishers. But as she forced the blonde�s legs into a terrifyingly severe split, memories of the Long Island Iced-T returned to many.

Abby�s screams grow almost blood curdling as Portia forced the limbs apart further still, VanBuren�s posterior pressing into the underside of Abby�s breasts and forcing them up and out. Hoffman was a fighter, yes, but even she had limits. With no options left to her, she slapped the canvas, tapping out.

DING! DING! DING!

Portia dismounts the beaten hippie, Abby rolling onto her side. �Not so fast,� Portia purrs, shoving Abby onto her back. �You still have one more lesson to learn.�

Removing Abby�s belly-T and bringing the blonde�s otherwise unencumbered breasts into view, VanBuren takes a seat on the hippie�s tear-streaked face. �This isn�t Haight/Ashbury, bitch. This is the 21st Century, and the only thing worse than a Jersey girl is a Jersey girl stuck in the past.�

Portia�s fingertips skillfully tease and tug at the blonde�s nipples, quickly bringing them to attention. �FAWN, if you haven�t learned yet, is Pax Portiana,� Baby VenBuren continued, her hands trailing inside Hoffman�s tie dye briefs. �And you�re about to be �peaced out�.�

The crowd exploded into cheers.

That wasn�t right.

Looking up the ramp, Portia quickly understood the source of joy for the unwashed masses. As Shea London rushes toward the ring, Portia dismounts her vanquished rival. As London slides under one set of ropes, VanBuren rolls under another, landing on her feet and backing her way toward the ramp.

Shea stands at the ropes, glaring back at the champion, beckoning for her to return to the ring. Portia merely shakes her head. �Go tend to your fellow loser,� Portia sneers at the British Bombshell. �Go tell her how easily she got off, compared to you.�

Shea seethed, almost bursting back through the ropes and going after Portia. �Come an� prove it won�t a fluke,� London goads, as the ref and Muncle attend to the topless Hoffman.

Portia just smiled. Regardless of this little exchange, she had made one thing crystal clear this evening: the VanBuren was nowhere near over.

WINNER: Portia Ophelia VanBuren IV