The Charlotte Colosseum would have been packed to the rafters - the crowd on the edge of unruliness - without the special nature of the next match-up, Candace Caine and Kystal Erway having worked the throng into a frenzy. However, the next two combatants demand a fever pitch and the Carolinians oblige with a sustained roar.

Hometown girl made very good, Cynthia Mitchell, is returning, and though perhaps not at the top of her game or the top of the FAWN ranks, she presents a tough task for any foe, particularly with the support of a brimming, bellowing hometown crowd behind her. Despite her travails with the Armstrongs, the slender chestnut-maned beauty couldn�t help but be amped when she sees this lovefest. There are signs everywhere promoting every member of the Mitchell clan, but Cynthia, perhaps for the first time, was, head and shoulders, the most popular tonight. Included in the masses, are shots at Sissy Landers, Cynthia�s longtime rival and opponent tonight, along with disparaging remarks about Miriam Gaiman and the Armstrongs.

A chant begins to gather, softly at first, but within seconds, it booms across the packed house.

�CYN-THEE-AHHH� �CYN-THEE-AHHH�

But surely, the prodigal daughter�s return would be delayed, Bethany Christian giving the spotlight of second entrance to the fan�s favorite, prolonging their anticipation.

Instead, the knowledgeable patrons among the crowd await the strains of �Paradise City� by Guns N. Roses, but their wait proves fruitless tonight. Instead, the arena goes completely dark.

SUDDENLY ~ the arena is washed in white and pink light. Joined by the sounds of a scratchy, almost mono tune. Recognizable to any fan of 80�s cartoons, it�s the theme from �Battle of the Planets.�

The narrator�s voice speaks up as Sissy Landers makes her way out of the curtain.

�BATTLE OF THE PLAAAAAAANETS! G-Force: Princess, Tiny, Keyop, Mark, Jason.�

Sissy�s dress is a perfect replica of the �Princess� from G-Force. A pink, short sleeved shirt with a huge red �3� on it, some pink and white striped pants and black wrestling boots. She�s even died her hair (temporarily) green. Sissy starts her walk to the ring, swinging and moving in perfect �Princess� style.

�And watching over them from Center Neptune, their computerized coordinator: 7-Zark-7. Watching�warning of surprise attacks by alien galaxies from beyond space. G-Force, fearless young orphans protecting Earth�s entire galaxy. G-Force: always five, acting as one.�

Sissy stops every once in a while to talk to some fans at ringside, pull her green hair or just look kinda confused. At one point she pulls out a Yo-Yo, reminiscent of the weapon used by Princess and starts to twirl it. Instead of being a deft assassin, as her role model, she inadvertently slams a ringside denizen in the face with an errant Yo-Yo move.

Finally, our �Princess� makes it to the ring and slowly walks to the center of the mat. She takes one last twirl on her Yo-Yo and nearly decapitates the referee. Finally, she puts the erstwhile weapon away and takes up a microphone in its place. The crowd settles, fixated on the site of Sissy�s latest �persona.� You get the sense they�d follow her anywhere, but only out of morbid curiosity. Finally, The Princess speaks.

�Cynthia Mitchell ~ you are not human! You are a ~ um ~ uh ~ oh, what were they called? You�re a ~ an ~ um ~ a ~ uh ~ you are a ~ ya know ~ like Zoltar! A ~ hehehehehehehehe ~ he was both.�

A loud �thwacking� sound permeates the arena as the entire collective of FAWN fans slap their foreheads. Finally, a light bulb goes off in Sissy�s head. It burns out shortly thereafter.

�You�re a Spectra! Right! And I have come from ~ uh ~ Center Neptune ~ because ~ um ~ Robot Guy said I need to beat you and save Earth from your threat! So now ~ um ~ I�m going to beat you just like on G-Force! But first I have to ~ uh ~ change into my costume!�

Furled brows punctuate the arena denizens as Sissy brings her wrist to her face. Speaking into a perfect replica of the G-Force wristband, she enunciates clearly and forcefully:

�TRANSMUTE!�

With mouths agape, a collective holding of breath by the thousands in attendance frames the action in the ring�or rather the inaction of the moment. Obviously, nothing happens. Sissy looks around, her face a mask of confusion. She looks down at herself, then touches the top of her head. No helmet. No pink Catsuit and skirt. No white boots or cape. Just plain old Sissy Landers. She tries again.

�TRANSMUTE!�

Once again, she�s met with a stunned (and frightened) silence from the arena populace. She checks her legs ~ still in pink and white pants. She checks her body and chest ~ still a t-shirt. She touches the top of her head ~ no helmet. Sissy brings a quizzical forefinger to her lips ~ thinking, thinking. Why can�t she transmute? She brings the wristband to her face once again.

Before she can speak again, the referee (who�s been watching in dumbstruck awe) approaches our clueless heroin and taps her on the shoulder.

�Sweety ~ maybe the wristband�s broken.�

Sissy looks the wristband over, checking for tears or faulty wiring. She looks back at the referee. He sees the look in her eyes and employs the Jedi Mind Trick.

�You can get it fixed after the match.�

Sissy nods. She removes the wristband and hands it to the ref.

�Could you hold it for me until after the match? I don�t want to break it worse.�

The ref sighs and takes the wristband. He puts it in his pocket and motions to the corner.

�Now, you go to your corner and we can get this match started. Won�t that be fun?�

Sissy just shrugs and goes to her corner, still in full confused look.

The lights dim as t.A.T.u's rendition of "How Soon is Now?" begins to blast over the PA. Within seconds, Cynthia Mitchell emerges at the top of the ramp. The fans, cheering from the first chord, erupt in a chorus of gasps and excited catcalls, but also even louder and more enthusiastic shouts of support. While she still has her purple knee and elbow pads, gone are the matching lycra bikini top and matching short shorts. In their place are a sea-foam green crop top, the word �HOMEGROWN� emblazoned across the chest in 70�s-style cursive script, and the most revealing pair of denim cutoffs this side of Uriah, Alabama.

She could have almost been an Armstrong. And while some in attendance seemed surprised and perhaps confused by Cynthia�s decision to adopt this look, the vast majority appeared to be enjoying her fashion choices immensely.

She makes her way to the ring, slapping hands with as many of the fans as she can. Her expression is bright and cheerful, yet her eyes display two characteristics that might be startling to those only familiar with the brunette from her early days in FAWN. The first was a burning intensity as she eyes Landers in the ring, but the second is simply confidence. For the first time on the FAWN stage, Cynthia Mitchell truly looked confident in her own skin. Maybe it was the hometown crowd. But could it also have had something to do with her most recent experiences? Being away from home? Being forced to stand for herself, fully and completely?

Reaching the ring, Cynthia moves toward the nearest turnbuckle. Then, with an assured smile, she scales the buckles. Her eyes locked on Sissy Landers the entire time. Who and/or what was she playing with that get-up? What did it matter?

Mitchell waits until she is convinced Sissy will remain in her corner. Once satisfied, Cynthia launches herself in a twisting backflip into the ring, sticking the landing perfectly, facing Sissy, poised and ready for any attack that might be forthcoming.

She had learned her lesson once before. Tonight, Sissy was going to learn a few from her.

Both women move confidently toward the middle of the ring and they begin to circle as the bell brings the match to order, the crowd already roaring in anticipation.

(She�s so stupid ~ ummm ~ I mean dumb to wrestle me)

�You�re so stupid and dumb to wrestle ~ ummm ~ me,� Sissy says, as the laps around the ring whirlpool in for a tie-up.

(I called her stupid AND dumb ~ hee hee)

The blonde-cum-chlorophyll colored cutie and the brunette reach for a collar-and-elbow, but before hands and collars are clasped, Cynthia slides to the mat, her legs encircling Sissy�s right ankle and she sends the Princess crashing to the mat with a drop toe hold, Sissy�s perky, tanned body hitting surprisingly hard.

Landers tries to scramble away, but Cynthia grabs her ankle, lifting the leg high. Sissy looks back to see what bear trap has her.

�Welcome to FAWN and Charlotte,� Cynthia says, confidently beaming. �I believe re-introductions are in order.�

Sissy shakes her head, her dyed locks flying this way and that. Either she didn�t need the formal renewal of acquaintance or she could read Cynthia�s mind, perhaps both. The second-generation star lays a boot to Sissy�s knee then wrenches the joint to the side. The brunette flings the limb back to the mat, Sissy�s knee striking the canvas with a resounding thud.
The Princess grimaces as she cradles the battered ball and socket, but she is left no time for recovery. A determined Mitchell is back on the attack within an instant, yanking Sissy to her feet, despite a squeal of protest. Cynthia whips Landers to the far ropes and Landers, concentration broken from the throbbing in her leg, only exacerbated by the pounding journey, is easy pickings for an acrobatic hurricarana. The youngest of the Mitchell clan leaping into a startled Sissy, her thighs clamping around the erstwhile blonde�s head before whipping her to the mat in a violent display of gymnastic force.

Skidding to a dizzied stop, Sissy�s momentum brings her to a seated position, but the impact and spin take their toll and she drops prostrate. Cynthia slides in beside her.

�How�s that for a forget-me-not?�

She hooks Landers leg into a cradle, the green-haired girl�s shoulders firmly planted.

ONE�

TWO�

Sissy kicks out in unison with the second slap of the mat, eyes displaying shock with her opponent�s success, but the shock become OW, her lids clenching, when her pink-and-white clad right leg once again is gathered and booted. Cynthia�s teeth grit in steely resolve as she lays leather to the inside of the knee a half dozen times. She twists the limb around her left leg, winding the appendage maliciously, a crease of a smile emerging as Sissy yips from the punishment.

Deciding to turn up the pressure, she entwines her legs with those of Cynthia in practiced precision and drops into a Figure-4 leg scissors. Sissy howls in pain.

�TRANSMUTE. Pleeease TRANSMUTE,� she shouts, tapping the verdant strands on her head wildly.

But when that fails, she edges her way to the nearest set of cables. Cynthia, somewhat unfamiliar with submission wrestling, is unable, despite her efforts, to deny Sissy the saving bands.

The ref moves forward, tapping Cynthia on the shoulder and calling for the break. She pretends not to feel or hear his words, pouring every last bit of energy into the four seconds she has. Finally, she disengages her sleek, silky gams from those of Sissy and hops to her feet, reveling for a moment in the outpouring of noise, and yes, love from the audience.

Still, it is only a momentary flicker of self-congratulation, for the slender brunette is quickly back to the task, Cynthia reaching down to pluck her foe from the ropes. This time, however, Sissy�s arm shoots out from her crumpled form and grabs the front rim of Mitchell�s denim cutoffs. With a robust jerk, she pulls Cynthia toward her, then over, then through the ropes to the floor below, the Armstrong dress-a-like landing unceremoniously on her right hip before skidding to the guardrail.

The next several moments are designated as recovery time by both women, the accelerated pace of the match already causing heaving bosoms both in and outside the ring. But it is clearly Sissy who remains the worse for wear, and Cynthia makes her way back to the apron just as Sissy, favoring her left leg, rises to feet steadied by her hold on the ropes. As Cynthia climbs from floor to mat, she drives a shoulder between the ropes and between Sissy�s slack defenses, finding a taut tummy to gut. Sissy doubles over, coughing and holding her midsection. The brunette takes the opportunity to snatch the preoccupied cartoon character, lift her drooping head over the top rope, and drop to the floor.

Sissy slingshots back to the middle of the ring, her back slamming hard against the canvas and there she lies, not knowing which part of her ravaged body to tend to first.

As Cynthia slides back into the ring, the Colosseum crowd comes to its feet, proud to be a part the graduation, the transformation of one of their own. She strides to the weakly stirring live anime in front of her with the confidence of a VanBuren, or a Lansdale, or an Armstrong.

But as she reaches Sissy, standing over her, Cynthia�s sheepskin is snatched away with a flash kick to her denim-covered groin, the brunette�s face drains of color and the surety she�d had moments before escapes, as well. Through sheer force of will, she remains standing, though knock-kneed, her lips curled into a silent circle, eyes tearing from the bolts of pain emanating from her crotch. A suddenly revived Princess-cum-superhero speaks jovially as she rises next to the Cynthia, Mitchell posed like a pained statue.

�Hehe ~ now you can�t have babies.�

(Not that bi-pervs usually do. Hey ~ ummm when am I having a baby ~ I mean ~ litter?)

�I do remember you,� Sissy continues.

She sinks an uppercut deep into Cynthia�s belly, lifting her to tip toes and doubling her supple form.

�I even remember your sister ~ the plow horse.�

(I�m a pretty show horse ~ Hee Hee ~ like My Little Pony ~ with a green mane ~ but no tail ~ definitely no tail)

With her hands still tightly stuffed between her legs, Cynthia provides no defense to a knee lift that sends her to the canvas, as if shot, the back of her head slapping hard against the mat. Mitchell writhes in agony, boos cascading down upon the interloper from some Halloween party.

Landers limps to the nearest set of buckles, still able to climb them without a problem, her athletic prowess overcoming the remaining numbness in her right leg. At the top, she perches, waiting for her hated rival to stand.

�I�m like a pretty pink penguin ~ waiting to fly,� Sissy shouts to the crowd.

Wary that the attack has not continued, Cynthia rolls slowly to her feet, head on a swivel, one hand still pasted to her button fly. Her eyes fly from corner to corner as her nubile body pivots on its axis, the last set of buckles, unfortunately being where the G-Force awaits.

Leading her receiver like an All-Pro QB, Sissy connects with a missile dropkick perfectly placed to the chin of the ex-tag team champ, Cynthia launched backwards, slamming against the canvas, the momentum sending her heels over head into a momentary headstand before flopping, spreadeagled to her chest, head turned, mouth agape, beautiful blue-green eyes clouded.

�You�re all hurty,� the Princess says between giggles, approaching from halfway across the ring, where her flight had ended.

It was a picture-perfect, direct hit and even one as easily distracted as Sissy senses the opportunity. She glides down to the mat next to Cynthia and pushes her roughly to her back, Sissy�s forearm wedged hard into Cynthia�s cheek.

ONE�

TWO�

THRRR�

Sissy feels a pat on her shoulder and leaps to her feet, tight little pink cotton T riding up her taut midriff.

�Only two. ONLY TWO,� the ref shouts.

But the perv�s shoulders hadn�t moved one inch. She was as dead as Kenny from South Park, if he was still dead. Sissy was less sure about that.

The ref points to the ropes and Cynthia�s boot lying atop the bottom rung.

(If there�s one thing I hate it�s bleu cheese, ~ but if there�s ~ another thing ~ it�s cheating)

Landers pulls Cynthia to her feet and whips her to the far ropes. She follows behind to mid �ring and waits with an outstretched arm, waiting for the inevitable clothesline that would disconnect Cyn�s head from her body, but the brunette continues to show her raised game. She ducks the attempt, grabbing the arm on the way by, spins behind Sissy and plants head to canvas with a wraparound DDT, the crowd �oohing� with the thud of impact. The Princess flops to her back, arms outstretched, eyes fluttering, a green skid mark left where her head connected with lightly-covered plywood.

Cynthia sits at the top of her downed opponent, legs spread at 45 degrees, Sissy�s head lolling between the angle. She reaches forward and collects the legs of the Princess, locking each beneath an arm, and falls back to her seat, matchbooking Sissy in front of her. At one, there is a shiver of desperation down Sissy�s body. At two, her legs strain against Cynthia�s tremulous arms. After three seconds, Sissy remains pinned to the deck and the crowd erupts in celebration. But three seconds had not meant three counts, as Cynthia, feeling her grasp giving way, had secured two handfuls of pink-and-white striped tights. She had won the battle to keep Sissy in place, but the ref had been alert, and had kept her from winning the war, demanding that she break the pinning combination.

Showing no remorse for her attempt, she rises and shrugs playfully to the audience and they instantly accept her effort as a part of war, cheering her without reservation as she lifts Sissy to her feet with a handful of margarita-colored strands. She straps herself to Landers� back, her bosom contracting tightly against the shoulderblades of the Princess, her arms looping under those of Sissy and connecting behind the erstwhile blonde�s neck in a full nelson.

The warm breath of her effort washes over Sissy�s right ear, Cynthia rattling the psycho�s coconut from side to side with her nelson, the Princess� head turned maraca. Landers� eyes blink wide as the brunette takes a breather.

�Um ~ you�re such a gross perv,� Sissy pants softly, the few marbles she maintained, dropping back into place after the brain scramble.

Cynthia smiles and wordlessly moves from full nelson to abdominal stretch, pulling her green-tufted taffy to the right, over an extended knee, Sissy�s tight and tawny abdominals and obliques tense to the snapping point. The Princess groans in anguish, her beautiful features twisting in a mask of pain.

The ref goes to one knee in front of Sissy and asks if she wants to submit. There is no daft banter in return, only a shaken head. After 30 grueling seconds of torture, Cynthia relents and is ready to try a new tactic. She releases her stretch and pushes an anguished Sissy to the mat. Rolling Landers to her back, the brunette straddles her legs, rolls the already creeping pink t-shirt up to Sissy�s breasts, and digs into the inviting tract of flesh with dual claws. The already weakened midsection of the Princess crumbles under the further abuse, waves of pain radiating through her body, Cynthia using her experience with the Armstrongs to devastating effect.

Sissy howls in pain, pulling at her grassy mane. Suddenly, she finds the wherewithal to raise her upper body and take a swing and a miss at her tormentor, only to be met with a left cross from Cynthia that drops her level to the mat once again, Mitchell digging her second claw back in after rebuffing the effort.

�How �bout it Sissy? You wanna give?� the ref shouts. Cynthia chimes in with a little harmony, encouraging Sissy to end her suffering, but she only gets a guttural �mmm-mmm� and a shake.

�You know, you sound a lot smarter when you keep it to groans,� Cynthia adds.

Perhaps encouraged in a different way, Sissy�s upper body again rises from the deck, but this time she waits for Cynthia to disengage her left claw and make the fist move, grabbing Mitchell�s left wrist when the punch is thrown. With her opposite hand, Sissy reaches forward, through the blinding pain, and rakes her claws into Cynthia�s exquisite, almond-shaped eyes. The effort is like a key unlocking a door, as Cynthia squeals and falls to her side, rubbing at the attack point. The women lie next to each other grimacing in pain.

Perhaps channeling some of her persona�s powers, it is Sissy who is able to act first, popping a weak right fist into the �Home� of Cynthia�s crop top. The �uhh� escaping the brunette�s lips were enough to elicit another stronger effort that struck home on the �Grown� portion of Cynthia�s rack.

�Mmmm,� she mewls.

�You�re breasts are all squishy�,� Sissy notes between deep breaths. She continues, as if signaling her recovery.

�� like, they�re real ~ but they�re not.�

(They�re a little TOO squishy)

The Princess stands and takes a step toward the nearest set of buckles, but Cynthia grabs a boot before she can make a clean getaway. Sissy shakes off the weakened effort easily and lets Mitchell�s tits have a feel of her boot as well, stomping the juicy pair and grinding them into the breastbone, Cynthia�s unfettered high-pitched squeals, for the first time, casting a pall of doubt in the hometown crowd. They respond with a roar to get �their� girl going. Sissy retorts by yanking Mitchell to her feet by her long chestnut mane, holding an open hand aloft, and slapping the taste of grits out of her mouth, Cynthia�s head spinning from the impact, her head drooping slightly upon its return.

(Why is it grits anyhow ~ ummm ~ couldn�t you stop at just one grit. I�m sure I could ~ given the chance)

Sissy turns her attention from Southern breakfasts back to the brunette and sends her flying to the far corner, Landers running behind her for an instantaneous mini-splash. But a few steps ahead, Cynthia does not crash chest-first into the corner. Instead, she leaps onto the middle buckle and, with only enough time to slow her momentum, Sissy finds Mitchell crashing across her chest in a modified springboard crossbody block. Cynthia plants Sissy on the follow through, the soles of the Princess� boots getting a little face time as they point to the lights and rafters of Charlotte Colosseum. Unable to pass up the possibility, the brunette lays her body across that of Sissy, their hearts beating against each other in intense unison.

ONE�

TWO�

Landers gets a shoulder up with a half-tick to spare.

Frustrated, Cynthia slaps the mat. Unfortunately for her, the third slap she provides means nothing. But when she balls her fists and pounds away at Landers� open and enticing midriff and breasts, it most certainly does. Sissy rolls from side to side, trying to throw up defenses with her arms, but Cynthia finds paydirt time and time again The Princess rolls into a protective ball, but Mitchell cracks that egg open with sweeping blows to her kidneys that has Sissy coughing, groaning, squeaking, and, more importantly opening back up.

This was a chance. Sissy�s battered midsection had been tenderized into putty and one more massive blow would leave her unable to respond, at least within three ticks of the clock. Cynthia lands a glancing blow to the cheek that would keep Sissy in place. She hops to her feet, runs to the ropes, and launches in a lionsault that will salt away the match.

But Sissy�s drive and seemingly inexhaustible fitness turns coupe de grace into disaster,for as the brunette flips away from the ropes, Sissy pulls her legs in and Cynthia skewers herself on the knees of the Princess. Now, it�s Cynthia�s turn to suffer the anguish of being gutshot, the bony joints impaling her in brutal fashion. She rolls away hugging her tummy, eyes bulging, as she tries to catch her breath. Both combatants embrace their bellies; Sissy�s tawny and taut; Cynthia�s slender and ivory.

But as they do, one of Sissy�s hands moves slightly from her gut to a string in the waistband of her pants. It�s not the shoddy work of K-Mart casuals, but instead Sissy pulls a yo-yo from a small inside pocket. She lets the toy roll along the mat, the line unwinding as the yo-yo wheels to her knees. Thinking quickly, she grabs either end, and rolls next to Cynthia, swinging what has become a handy garrote around the brunette�s neck.

The FAWN official is slow to realize what is causing Cynthia�s face to turn from pink to rosy to crimson and even when he does see the toy, he is slow to admonish, in a strange way, impressed that a child�s plaything could be used so cleverly. Finally, he starts his count. But as he does, Cynthia�s arms have already slowed from full take-off flapping to slow, spastic jerks. Her eyes partially rolled, flutter; her body flaccidly leaning into Sissy�s upturned lap.

The ref, not waiting for four, grabs the yo-yo away from Sissy and flings it into the corner, a look of anger flushing Sissy�s face, though not nearly as red as Cynthia�s. Rolling from beneath Mitchell and rising, she pushes the zebra aside, and turns back to her prize, choked into semi-consciousness.

Casually, the Princess lifts Cynthia to wavering feet, the crowd silent. It was only a matter of�

A flashing knee juts forward, but the crowd gasps. It is Cynthia driving her leg into Sissy�s belly once more, the erstwhile blonde grunting �Uhh, Guuhd,� as she doubles at the waist. The battered brunette quickly pulls Sissy forward, her sleek, glistening thighs closing around the green follicles and the head they frame. She collects Sissy�s arms in her familiar fashion, as the crowd explodes in anticipation.

DROP OUT. Cynthia�s pedigree finisher.

Alas, to the crowd�s consternation, Sissy interrupts the execution, flipping Cynthia up and over, the brunette landing on her back with a heavy thud, her breath driven from her.

Even Sissy�s motor is running low, as she pushes wearily to her feet without fanfare. She lifts her rival to her feet with a tug of hair and hammer throws her to the far ropes. Somehow, Cynthia remains upright on both legs of the journey, that is, until Sissy, who had climbed to the second buckle, launches into a flying clothesline that nearly decapitates poor Cynthia, the brunette beauty spinning 270 degrees before splatting face-first to the canvas, her limbs spreadeagled.

The proverbial pin could be heard dropping in Charlotte. Could there possibly be another midnight reprieve?

Sissy goes to one knee next to Cynthia and rolls Mitchell to her back, a look of peaceful slumber on the brunette�s face.

�You�re no kitty,� says the Princess. �Kitty cats always land on their feet and, guess what else, kitty cats say meow.�

With that, the hellcat licks the backs of her hands with long, lollypop strokes, and grooms her sweat-soaked, matted, green fur. The throng boos the conquering feline unmercifully as she stumbles to her feet and, fighting her aching belly and legs every step of the way, climbs to the top buckle of the nearest corner.

Sissy stands atop the buckles, measuring carefully, taking into account her weariness. It still had to be a double-pump Sissy Splash, no weak imitations would do. And into the sky, she launches, easily gaining enough height to pump twice and come down catastrophically across Cynthia�s unguarded tummy. Mitchell�s body reflexively jackknifes around Sissy, but just as quickly fades silently back to the mat, a small sliver of tongue protruding from between Cynthia lips..

With all the grace and energy of a centenarian, Sissy flings herself atop Cynthia, pulling her into a cradle, Landers hooking her fingers into a belt loop on the rear of the brunette�s barely-there cutoffs, giving a lucky few in the front rows, the most glorious version of plumber�s crack, they were likely ever to see.

The ref slowly drops next to the duo, unhappy with his next assignment, but nonetheless duty-bound to carry it through.

ONE�

TWO�

THREE.

As if plugged into a battery charger, Sissy leaps to her feet with the end of count, the crowd showering her with boos and catcalls.

(Hey, they�re calling me.)

The PA blasts to life and announces what all can see from the joyous bouncing Princess to the limp and beaten Cynthia.

�YOUR WINNER � THE PRINCESS � SISSSSY LANDERSSS.�

Immediately upon hearing the official pronouncement, Sissy�s face turns from one of happiness to one of bemusement, a Cheshire grin breaking wide across her face.

(Hee hee ~ I get to feed baby her bottle ~ and in front of ~ umm ~ like ~ her whole family)

The victorious faux superhero strolls lackadaisically to Cynthia�s vanquished form and grabs her by the hair �cavemanning� her out of the ring. She pulls the now weakly stirring Mitchell behind her, forcing the brunette under the bottom rope and plopping her onto the cement of the arena floor, Cynthia�s derriere taking quite a jolt, along with her spinal column, the impact further drawing her from her stupor, if slightly.

Reaching beneath the ring apron by her corner, Landers pulls a couple of previously, strategically-placed instruments for tonight�s virtuoso performance. One familiar � a set of handcuffs, key neatly inserted. One not � a blue bottle with an oddly familiar label, with the name Phillips� emblazoned across the top. Something only Sissy, or rather, only Sissy and her newly admitted colleagues would think to use - Milk of Magnesia.

Sissy drags Cynthia, now by an arm, to the guardrail, Mitchell softly, slowly coming back to consciousness, battling weakly to regain control of her arm, from what, she does not yet realize.

CLICK

Wrist is encircled by the steel of the cuff.

CLICK

And now the battling beauty is leashed to the rail like a dog, if one put a leash around a dog�s paw.

Slapping Cynthia�s cheek, Sissy slowly but surely fetches her back to something closer to full consciousness, enough to know what�s going on, but still too weak to do anything but put up futile defenses.

�Who�s your Mommy?� Sissy asks, leaning in close to pour the laxative as if from her breast, her opposite hand, keeping Cynthia�s mouth open as best she can.

Cynthia gags as the white, viscous fluid goes down, Sissy giving her a moment to choke down some air before forcing the chugfest to continue. The crowd aghast, but unable to turn away.

With the full 24 ounces of the bottle emptied, Sissy forces Cynthia�s mouth closed and elicits one final swallow, some excess curdling out from the corners of her mouth and dripping down either cheek.

�EWWW. I knew you were a perv,� the Princess screams, watching the white fluid drip from her cheeks.

�And now comes the reason why you needed all of that yummy milk.�

Sissy holds the key high to a chorus of boos and works at prying a rapidly awakening and frightened Cynthia�s maw open, in order to giver her the final treat of the day.

Suddenly, the jeers morph into a steady buzz, then cheers, then an ovation, as a figure runs down the ramp toward the ring. In street clothes, consisting of a white button-down blouse and Levi�s, Kylie Sanders crashes the party, knocking an otherwise engaged Sissy away from her amusement, the key falling at Cynthia�s feet.

The Princess barely has time to stand before the coed knocks her over the rail and into the front row with a clothesline. Taking a cue from the pointed finger of a still groggy and shaken Cynthia, Kylie finds the key and deftly unlocks the brunette, then places her next to the apron, making sure she is in between the two combatants.

�You won,� Kylie shouts. �Now go celebrate somewhere else. With someone else.�

Kylie pulls Cynthia to her feet.

If this Phillips� was still a quality product, they�d have to get backstage in short order. It might be a long night, but it�d be much longer caught out here.

As Cynthia leans heavily against her savior, and the duo trek up the ramp away from a furious Sissy, now back in the ring, they can hear her shout behind them.

�We know where you two are going ~ Hee hee ~ wherever losers go to drop in the toilet the best part of themselves.�