The Bay Area crowd is burying the needle as the remains of the previous FAWN battle are scooped out of the ring and helped up the ramp.

The next match on the agenda would be a highlight show in the making. There would be much more than four of the top FAWN beauties involved. For THIS title match, they�d be in there banging heads, and whatever else, at the same time.

Many fans are already in mid-argument as the lights dim in preparation for the next fight.

�Ivy�d kick Kylie�s ass,� a skinny kid, somewhere in his high school years, shouts to anyone who cares.

�No, she wouldn�t,� comes a squeal from a 14-year old girl nearby.

�It doesn�t matter,� a gentleman in a tweed suit interrupts. �Sissy will Splash them all and clean them out of the ring like turds from her litter box.�

�Are you kidding? A frat boy intones. �Cynthia�s going for revenge on that bitch and, no offense to Kylie, but no one�s got the moves of my little brunette bomber.�

The sweet, sprightly strains of �There She Goes� by Sixpence None The Richer break through the darkness, bringing all attention to the upper stage. A white pin spotlight breaks from the rafters and finds Iowa�s Girl Next Door, Kylie Sanders.

The diminutive Kylie raises both arms above her and pumps her right fist in the air, the crowd exploding in ear-shattering excitement, cheering on the kid who never said die, and her new look - tousled, shoulder-length, cinnamon-hued hair of old - replaced with long, flowing blonde locks.

Kylie bounds down the aisle, slapping hands with most anyone she can reach. A bubbling mixture of enthusiasm and nervousness keeps her taut little body in constant motion. Sanders struts down the aisle in a body-hugging, black, cotton tank top that leaves a healthy rim of her midriff showing; her little biceps shown with a grin and a pose, Kylie reveling in a pocket of her �Corps�. Below, yellow-gold, satin boy-cut trunks curve to an end just beneath the taut roundness of her buttocks, the shiny softness clinging tightly. Kylie goes without footwear.

The running of the taunts had become at least as big a tradition as the running of the bulls for Kylie and one teenage boy didn�t find any trouble in putting pen to posterboard, letting Kylie know it would be a long night with a placard that states �Ivy grows on me and will be ever-so-charming to Kylie�. Below the large red, block letters was a double page spread from FAWN Monthly of the Southern flame-haired beauty showing the then brunette a bit of that charm, Ky�s hazel eyes rolling back in their sockets, her face a rosy crimson, a moment or two from succumbing to Armstrong�s specialty.

Kylie moves past without a word, also disregarding a sign pushed in her face about being Sissy the Kitty�s chew toy.

She moves on to a half-dozen of the �Kylie Corps� holding a sign of their own. �Kylie is our Little Screen Lovely: Sanders is PRIME-TIME.� She spreads hugs generously among them, planting a smooch on one or two cheeks, before moving away.

Kylie trots the rest of the distance to the squared circle and, eschewing the steps, slides in under the bottom rope.

She hops in place, occasionally checking the tension of the ropes, her eyes darting through the crowd and around the ring, waiting for her fellow combatants to join her. Sanders shadowboxes to burn off some excess nervous energy waiting for the inevitable fade of Six Pence.

The tension was making her stomach a little queasy, her brow already damp with perspiration. This was a big one, a chance to move way up the ladder in one night and, more important, a chance to impress Lindsay.

The eighties classic "Paradise City" suddenly begins pumping out the arena speakers, the crowd erupting in cheers and a few scattered jeers, for this is the signal for the entrance of Princess "Sissy" Landers.

The young blonde saunters leisurely out from the back and begins a slow and meandering walk to the ring. She stops frequently to shake hands, high five, or just generally meet the folks near the aisle. They love her for it. She's a huge fan favorite, Kylie incredulous in the ring at their adoration for a person she saw as a nasty lunatic.

However, there is no doubt, Sissy is a toned athletic girl; her wavy, blond hair swaying, as she struts to the ring. Her eyes show a lack on intensity, like she'd like to be somewhere else. She seems to have little attention focused on the ring and even less on the wary Kylie.

It's almost like she's looking for something more fun to do. Her ring attire is fairly simple, a white Adidas ringer tee, with blue trim and blue Adidas emblem over a black sports bra. Her soffe shorts are black and doubled once at the waist band to make them look tighter around her perfect thighs. The back of the shorts are decorated with white stitched-on letters bearing her personal motto "Kick It Or Kiss It."

Her boots are black with white trim and she completes her look with black knee and elbow pads. She also has a pink backpack, with the words "Sissy's Stuff", on the back. She places it in her corner.

The lights dim as t.A.T.u's rendition of "How Soon is Now?" blasts over the PA. Within seconds, Cynthia Mitchell emerges at the top of the ramp. The Armstrong makeover from her homecoming in Charlotte is gone this week, but while her clothing this time looks closer to her traditional garb, there�s little traditional about it. The purple bikini top both supported and flattered her modest but not unpleasing figure, the fabric rising into a solitary strap over the left shoulder, leaving her right one bare. The short shorts had become more of a set of bikini briefs, exposing more hip, thigh, belly and buttock than her former gear. It was a new look. And clearly, the fans thought a very good look on her.

Cynthia makes her way to the ring, slapping hands with as many of the fans as she can. Her expression is bright and cheerful, yet there is clearly an intensity and strength of purpose within her as she heads into battle. And a battle it would be. Any of these three women on their own would prove a challenge. But all three of them together? Being good would not be enough tonight. Tonight, someone would also have to be a little lucky.

Reaching the ring, Cynthia moves toward the nearest turnbuckle. Then, with an assured smile, she scales the buckles. Cynthia launches herself in a twisting backflip into the ring, sticking the landing perfectly, facing the center of the ring, poised and ready for any attack that might be forthcoming, but Sissy is busy with her backpack and Kylie only strolls over to offer a handshake, which Cynthia accepts cautiously.

She hadn�t driven Kylie to unconsciousness and then stripped her of her top in DC, but Soph most definitely had. Kylie tries to smile as they shake, but it falls well short, as does Cynthia�s effort in return. Thanks a lot sis, Cynthia thought, as Sanders backed to her corner, another person who wants to kick my ass.

Just then, �Wild Eyed Southern Boys� blasts over the arena�s sound system, and the curtains tear open to reveal Ivy Belle Armstrong in all of her Dixie glory. In addition to her signature Daisy Duke denims, she's wearing a black T-shirt cropped to show off her taut abs, with the words BOOB TUBE emblazoned across the chest, in recognition of this being for the Television Title. She acknowledges the cheers of her fans as she struts down the aisle, and when she spots one young man holding aloft a sign that reads, 'MUST SEE IVY!!! Cancel Landers, Sanders & Mitchell,' she pauses and plants a quick kiss on his lips, causing his legs to buckle with joy. Climbing into the ring, she bends forward at the waist most provocatively, tarrying long enough for her shorts to ride up even higher and giving the spectators a view they won't soon forget...or ever want to.

�If it isn�t the three little pigs,� Ivy shouts even as she throws kisses to the front rows. �I have to tell you ladies, I�m smelling a lot of cooked bacon.�

Cynthia and Kylie stare at the newest arrival with disdain as Sissy takes a deep whiff of each arm pit. Satisfied, she moves to the middle of the ring, her fellow dance partners cautiously joining her, the ref holding aloft the treasured prize, FAWN�s Television Title belt, high between the foursome.

He sneaks out between Mitchell and Sanders and hands the gold to the Belgian announcers table then signals for the bell.

DING. DING. DING.

Before the third DING can even make it to A-LING, Sissy casually backpedals to the ropes and flips backwards over the top, her arms encircling the cable as she does so. She smiles mockingly and drops to the floor.

�Go ahead you pervs ~ I know you ~ you want to have an orgy. Well ~ I�m a one-cat kitty ~ and I want Colonel Sanders� cute friend.�

�Brother,� Kylie shouts from besides the ropes, looking down at the whack job. �He�s my brother.�

�Ewww,� Sissy squeals. �That�s just sick ~ and ~ like ~ gross.�

Kylie shakes her head, exasperated.

�Get back in here. Get in here�NOW.�

But while Sissy only responds with a tongue stuck between pink lips, the redhead behind the erstwhile Iowa coed does more, spinning Sanders in place, tripping her to the mat, and catching her in a small package. Kylie struggles vainly to free herself for two counts before Cynthia boots Armstrong to the head, freeing the blonde. Kylie rolls to her feet quickly with a sigh of relief.

Damn it, Ky. Not tonight. Get your head out.

She watches as the woman who had nearly beaten her within the first ten seconds is lifted roughly to her feet and thrown to the far ropes by Cynthia. At least, this should be good.

It might have been, but Kylie wouldn�t know one way or the other. The newly minted blonde was caught sleeping again, Sissy reaching in under the bottom rope and tripping her up, Kylie landing hard on her C-cups and elfin nose. Landers pulls her out by the ankles, Sanders� bell ringing.

And it wasn�t about to get any better as the Princess lays down some rifle fire into Kylie, gut, and breasts, and mush. Finally, Sissy kisses her knuckles in front of a swaying Kylie and lands an exaggerated bolo punch to the chin that lifts Kylie to tiptoes before dropping her to the deck.

In the ring, Cynthia leaps into a barreling Ivy, the brunette�s crotch and thighs wrapping around Armstrong�s head. A backward flip tosses Ivy to the mat in a perfectly executed hurricarana. Ivy slides to a startled, wide-eyed stop, her green eyes bulging even wider as she notices a latecomer to the front row.

�Ma?�

The pronounced drawl escapes without a thought of cover.

Cynthia watches as her tutor, Belle, takes a seat and motions her daughter to get up, but the younger Mitchell decides to make the choice for Ivy, yanking the redhead to her feet with a tug of those fiery locks. Shoving Armstrong�s head into her armpit, Cynthia twists hard into a side headlock bringing a grunt from her rival, but quickly Ivy slips out the back and has the beautiful brunette�s teeth gritting, as she locks Cynthia�s arm behind her in a chickenwing. Yet before Belle can even smile for the fruit of her loins, Cynthia reverses again and it�s the adopted Mitchell in control with a tightly clasped full nelson that spins into a mat-thumping slam before the wriggling redhead can reverse once more.

A stunned Ivy stares blankly up into the lights, the blazing blue-white luminescence replaced by Cynthia�s cool, determined beauty. The brunette slides to a kneeling position next to Ivy and, after catching another glimpse of Belle, sinks a stomach claw into the tight abs of her flesh and blood. The fingers dig in like a set of stilettos, Ivy�s hands reflexively grabbing her own hair as her face contorts in pain, Cynthia�s free hand keeping her under a modicum of control.

While the torture within the ring continues, outside, Sissy picks up an ailing Kylie and steps away from the tottering blonde.

�You�re like ~ a bowling pin ~ and I�m like an ~ ummm ~ arrow.�

With that, Sissy lines up and executes a perfect dropkick that sends Kylie careening into the apron, Sanders, not only taking it on the chin, but the back as well. She slowly slides to her ass, head drooping, arm reaching for her lower back. But Sissy is far from done. She scoops Kylie up in her arms, both legs cradled in the crook of her elbows and carries her toward the crowd like the fan favorite will be offered as a sacrifice.

Indeed, it becomes apparent that Sissy has something appropriately dastardly in mind, as she climbs a nearby folding chair and halts with Kylie halfway over the steel restraining barrier, one leg on either side.

�Here�s where you become ~ like ~ a wishbone.�

But before Sissy can drop Kylie astride the metal beam, the blonde extends her legs forward and finds some footing, She �tightropes� the shaft for a split-second, grabbing Sissy�s head from over her shoulder and she drops to the other side, towing Landers behind. However, unlike Kylie, only Sissy�s head clears the barrier, the side of her neck crashing across the steel. As Kylie releases, Sissy�s head whiplashes back and she tumbles prostrate on the lightly padded cement next to the apron.

Recovering quickly, Kylie accepts a few pats on the back and ignores a tug of her shorts from the crowd, her yellow-gold trunks riding even lower on her hips, a hint of crack showing. She pops over the barrier and collects a moaning Sissy, taking a moment to glance inside the ring. Satisfied with Ivy�s predicament, the redhead yelping and thrashing as Cynthia continues to bear down with her claw, Kylie forces Sissy up then forward as she gathers enough speed to lay Sissy out with a bulldog, the right arm of the Princess twitching. Kylie sits alongside, a smile pushing through her own pain. She rolls Sissy to her back and stares into her vacant eyes.

�Lucky I can�t pin you out here.�

As Kylie rises to her feet and prepares to compel Sissy to do the same, inside the ring, Cynthia releases her talons, Ivy reflexively falling flat to the mat, her anguish momentarily relieved, five evenly-spaced welts in her flat belly growing in hue.

Still, there is no time for recovery, as the brunette hauls Ivy up by her hair and attempts to send her for the ride. But it is Cynthia�s boots that patter across the canvas, as Ivy reverses the situation and waits for Cynthia with a clothesline. Ivy waits with ferocity covering her features. She knew where that claw came from and it wasn�t dear Sophie�s teaching. The redhead swings her arm forward, hoping to take Mitchell�s head off her neck, but Cynthia ducks the effort and grabs the arm on the way by. She swings around behind Ivy and plants Armstrong�s head to canvas with a wraparound DDT that draws an �oooh� from the crowd and leaves Ivy sprawled face down on the canvas, arms limp at her sides.

Cynthia�s head spins to a sound behind her. It is Kylie �helping� Sissy back into the ring. The Princess slumps to Kylie�s knees, remaining upright only by the grasp on her calves. Sanders kicks her away and she flops to her side at Kylie�s feet.

Mitchell and Sanders stare at each other. Not long ago, it was Cynthia�s sister who had lost to this girl and then shamefully taken her frustrations out on Kylie after the match. The crowd watches in silence as they approach each other in the middle of the mat. Theirs is a look of steely determination for a moment then two and then, without a word, they move to Ivy, apparently deciding she poses the biggest threat and any difference between them can be settled later.

The two pluck Ivy off the mat, each grabbing an arm, and they fling her to the far ropes. The redhead bounds back, completely out of control, that is until Cynthia and Kylie decide to exercise their influence, with a double clothesline that spins Ivy in a 270, Armstrong revolving to the mat with an impact that even makes the veteran Belle cringe.

The successful duo share a high-five and flank Ivy from either side like hungry wolves approaching a wounded fawn, Armstrong somehow finding the wherewithal to get to hands and knees.

Cynthia and Kylie again pull Ivy to her feet and fling her off to the ropes. They share a look at each other as Ivy hits the cables, Cynthia mouthing the word �drop�. Kylie nods in return. And when Ivy makes it back to the stationed sentries, the brunette in scant purple and the blonde in black and gold hit a backdrop combo, the duo getting incredible lift as they drop Ivy over their shoulders, then, in unison fall back in a dual elbowdrops that hit home across Ivy�s chest, Cynthia taking the script �boob� on the redhead�s tightly cropped shirt, Kylie taking the �tube�.

Ivy�s body spasms upwards, legs kicking high, the assault wracking her body, before falling still between Mitchell and Sanders. Even with the dire straits of Ivy, there is seemingly no thought of a pin between the two attackers. Instead, they lift Ivy once again.

The redhead is unable to offer anything but the most token resistance as Kylie collects her in a bearhug from behind and Cynthia performs a frontal assault of the same nature. Kylie and Cynthia move their arms from around Ivy to around each other and squeeze Ivy in between in a modified hydraulic press of a bearhug, Ivy the reddening, hyperventilating meat of this peculiar, sweaty, skin-on-skin sandwich.

It was only a matter of time now, Ivy�s flailing becoming ragged and unfocused, both Cynthia and Kylie�s teeth gritting as they squeezed every bit of energy in their lithe bodies into crushing the helpless woman between them. But as Ivy�s arms fall to her sides, Cynthia catches another glimpse of Belle Armstrong in the front row. It is not sympathy for her daughter in Belle�s eyes, but disappointment and a little disgust.

The ref steps in to check Ivy�s arm and at that moment Cynthia loosens her grip, Kylie beside herself.

�WHAT ARE YOU DOING?�

Cynthia does not respond except to let Ivy skid between the sweat-slickened bodies, the redhead flopping to the mat in a disheveled lump at the feet of Kylie and Cynthia.

Kylie looks down then back up at brunette, arms still locked around each other�s backs.

�WHUUUH?�

Kylie�s question is cut off as Cynthia pulls her in with a standard variety hug, if standard meant being crushed in a vise. The blonde, ill-prepared, feels the oxygen leave her lungs and the pain from her back return with a vengeance. Oh God. Another Mitchell bearhug. Kylie�s head swings back, her long blonde hair falling down her back as Cynthia increases the pressure.

An unfortunate reprieve comes in the form of a reverse atomic drop, Cynthia falling to one knee and Kylie�s groin, spared the anguish of the restraining barrier cannot avoid the brunette�s extended thigh. She gurgles out an �Unngh� as her sex is impaled on Mitchell�s leg. The blonde begins to slowly list and fall to the right, but Cynthia prevents it. She rises and brings a stooping Kylie with her, hands delving to her privates to relieve the pain.

Thus starts the Cynthia Mitchell Show as Ivy rolls weakly toward the security of the ropes and, on the opposite side of the ring, Sissy sits in a corner; half-recovering, half-enjoying the festivities.

In the middle of the ring, Kylie gets �treated� to an array of high-flying that Shea London would be hard-pressed to match, as Cynthia begins the concerto by whipping a stumbling Kylie to the ropes. On her return, the diminutive blonde gets a faceful of Cynthia, as her crotch collides with Kylie�s mug, her thighs squeezing those apple cheeks, and she plants Kylie to the mat with a perfect hurricarana, if anything, bringing more force to bear on the slighter Kylie than she was able to manage with Ivy.

As Kylie mumbles, rocking from side to side on her back, trying to find her bearings; her tight, little cotton belly shirt riding high from her skidding stop, Cynthia moves on to a belly-crunching lionsault, the acrobatics finding Kylie�s midriff unprotected, her wind knocked out again. The brunette hooks a leg.

ONE

TWO

Kick out with a half-second to spare and, for the moment, the match continues on with four combatants, but seemingly not for long.

Cynthia yanks Kylie to her feet for Act Two. With a grip on her wrist, she hammerthrows Sanders to the far buckle, the small of Kylie�s back stuck like a dart into the top buckle. She yelps in pain, throwing her arms over the top strands to stay up, perhaps a mistake, for in a flash, Cynthia is following behind with a backspring elbow that finds the mark. Cynthia lets an obliterated Kylie stumble drunkenly out of the corner, but only so she can retrieve the blonde from behind, swing her 90 degrees and plant her with a springboard bulldog that has the fans off their feet and cheering this high-speed, high-flying demolition, Sissy included.

Forsaking the pin, Cynthia pulls Kylie to her feet. There is no need for a boot to the belly, as Kylie can�t manage to rise beyond a slumped stance. The brunette pulls Kylie�s head forward, lodging it between her slender, but powerful thighs. There is no motion by Cynthia to the crowd. There is no need. They know and roar their approval. And in a flash, it comes. The Drop Out, Cynthia�s pedigree finisher.

Mitchell lets out an exhausted sigh as she rolls the semiconscious Kylie to her back. All this just to get one out. She kneels in a straddle over Kylie�s chest and the ref slides into count.

ONE

TWO

A shock of red flies in from the side knocking Mitchell off Kylie�s unmoving body.

Sissy screams from her perch.

�You are so stupid ~ stupid and dumb.�

But Ivy couldn�t care less about keeping her odds one in four, there was nothing but rage in her heart and it had to be sated � NOW. This was more than a title Cynthia was trying to take. It was her life.

The two roll their way to the ropes, tumbling over one another until Ivy gains control with a knee that parts Cynthia�s legs, Mitchell groaning loudly and deeply, hands falling to her bikini briefs, and Ivy takes advantage, pumping fist after fist into the brunette�s chest and cheek.

She pulls Cynthia to her feet, pushing her against the ropes and nails her with a tomahawk chop that reverberates through the arena, eliciting many a �wooo�. And the �wooo�s fall like rain, as Ivy chops at Cynthia likes she�s trying to bring down a redwood. Eight, nine, ten. A rosy welt grows under Mitchell�s collarbone with ever backhanded swipe.

Satisfied with her axe work, Ivy spins Cynthia in place and pushes her neck down across the top rope, choking her senseless with the cable.

�Bitch,� Ivy screams. �Try all you want. Copy all you want. You�ll never live up to my worst day.�

With those words, she slingshots Cynthia backwards with a tug of the ropes, the younger Mitchell catapulted to a thud of a landing in the middle of the ring, clutching at her throat and gagging.

Sissy, about to pin a weakly stirring Kylie, notes the bloodlust in Ivy�s eyes, and sees an opening beyond eliminating the weakest link.

�Let me help ~ I can help ~ I�m a good friend.�

Ivy doesn�t respond to the offer. Focused on one thing, she is upon her downed rival, lifting Cynthia to unsteady feet and tossing her to the ropes with a growl. Before Mitchell can make her way back to her appointed punishment, Sissy intervenes, catching Cynthia around the thighs and lifting her heavenward over her shoulder, but with no flip. Ivy, startled by the interruption of her plan, is nonetheless able to adjust on the fly, and collects the fluttering brunette butterfly around the neck, parlaying Sissy�s effort into a crowd-silencing super-stunner that has Cynthia spasmodically flopping on the mat like a fish out of water.

The Princess is first to the catch of the day, lifting Cynthia to her feet and entwining right leg with Cynthia�s left. Ivy, a bit perturbed, goes along, doing likewise on the other lower limb. After a second, to lock eyes, Sissy and Ivy drop Mitchell to the mat with a Double Russian Legdrop that takes plenty of starch out of the former tag champion.

This time it�s Ivy who lifts Cynthia to her feet. If Sissy was going to be in the way, better to make her a tool to destroy the bitch.

�I�ve heard Princesses can�t really fly. Why don�t you show me if they can.�

It takes just that simple goading to get Sissy climbing the buckles of the nearest corner, and while she is, Ivy ducks between Cynthia�s quivering legs and lifts her atop her shoulders, chicken-fighting style. She walks Cynthia in range and Sissy takes it from there, launching off the top buckle in a missile dropkick. Boots connect with chin far above the canvas and Ivy releases simultaneously, letting the wannabe careen to the mat in a somersault, half-gainer, Mitchell landing sickeningly on her neck then lying still on her side, the double-team both beautiful and deplorable.

Within a second, Ivy is upon Cynthia. She pulls the brunette to her feet and turns to find her discarded tool, but Sissy has other ideas. The daffy blonde is already mid-flight and she takes down both Cynthia and Ivy with clotheslines to either side of her body.

Still, Ivy is quick to rise and she deflects a follow-up punch by Sissy with her shoulder. The redhead responds with an openhanded slap to Sissy�s cleavage that backs the Princess to the ropes, but the blonde retaliates in kind with a resounding smack to Ivy�s face that spins her 90 degrees.

As the two women go smack for smack, the forgotten Kylie, her recovery from Cynthia�s barrage a long time in the making, picks a devastated Mitchell off the mat and hits a spinning neckbreaker; the results - a spreadeagled brunette, no movement save the soft roll of her chest.

Kylie turns to the back-and-forth by the ropes where Ivy is beginning to land two for each of Sissy�s one. She pulls a semiconscious Cynthia to her feet, encircling her tight little waist from behind, and whispers in her ear.

�You Mitchells may have the sizzle, but I�m the steak.�

Her message delivered, but not necessarily received, the newly minted blonde lifts her ragdoll overhead in a German suplex, planting her with a harsh echoing thud to the canvas, the noise distracting Ivy enough for Sissy to drop to one knee and part Ivy�s infamous gams with a forearm, Ivy�s ruby lips forming a silent �O� as she drops to her knees in a pained trance, then falls face first over the bottom rope.

As Kylie rolls into the matchbook pin portion of her finishing combo, Sissy weaves toward them.

With Cynthia�s shoulders level against the mat and her knees pushed tight to her chest, Kylie bridging above the brunette�s head, the ref slides into place.

ONE

TWO

Sissy lays a helpful arm across Cynthia�s matchbooked legs to make sure.

THREEEE

The ref jumps to his feet and points to the announcer�s table, the PA quickly crackling to life.

�FIRST OUT OF YOUR TV TITLE MATCH�CYNTHIA MITCHELL.�

Applause mixes with a fair number of boos and catcalls, as the field dwindles to three.

Ivy, kneading away the last remnants of Sissy�s low blow, takes Sissy�s shorts at their word and boots Sissy in the behind, the Princess tumbling over the eliminated Cynthia. The redhead grabs Sissy, now on hands and knees, by the back waistband of her trunks and provides the blonde �space case� with a wedgie that would have made any backyard bully proud. As Sissy rises to tiptoes, �Kick it� is barely visible, scrunched into a blur, but �Kiss it� has been lost in the tight, tanned crevasse. With a grasp of t-shirt in one hand and newly created thong in the other, Ivy sends Sissy sprawling through the ropes and to the floor below, even as Kylie gently rolls Cynthia�s unconscious form below another set of strands.

�YOU,� Ivy shouts, as she storms toward Kylie, the Iowan popping to her feet and strategically backtracking.

�I wasn�t done with her yet. Not nearly. And you save her ass!�

She motions Kylie forward with a couple clenches of her index finger.

�Time to lose, little jobber girl. And for putting Cynthia out of reach. I�m going to make it hurt.�

Both women stride forward and tie up in a collar-and-elbow, Ivy easily countering an effort by Kylie to step through and around, the redhead roughing Sanders up with a front facelock as she womanhandles her back to the ropes. She pumps in a couple uppercuts into Kylie�s bosom, drawing squeaks of pain from the blonde. Pulling her back to the middle of the ring, she releases her hold and straightens Kylie up with a jaw-snapping kneelift. The stunned Sanders sways in front of her, ripe for the picking. Cocking and firing, Ivy throws a heartpunch that would be the prelude to the end, but Kylie swings her body out of the way and uses the extended arm to judo throw Ivy across the ring. Armstrong tumbles to a stop, her pride hurt worse than anything else.

�Matter of time, loser.�

They tie up again and quickly Kylie is sent for the ride. Ivy lines up a dropkick and springs into action, but Kylie stops short and simply grabs the offered legs. She spins Ivy to her back and quickly settles back into a spinebending Boston Crab. Ivy curses herself. The little pest had caught her.

�QUIT,� Kylie shouts. It was more of a plea then a demand, but for Ivy the demand came in the blonde�s efforts on her spine and they were good ones. Good enough to have her thinking. Too tired to power out. Ropes. Shit. A long ways. Kylie sits back further.

�NOOOO,� Ivy wails, letting the ref know before he asks.

�AHHH.�

That let Kylie know that if she could stay with it�

But alas, there remained one more figure in this play and Kylie had lost track of her. Sissy sneaks up from behind, putting a finger to her lips so the crowd won�t let Kylie know. They try their best to warn her, but to no avail. Landers, taking advantage of Kylie�s position in the Crab, swings an arm around her neck and captures her in a dragon sleeper. A panicking Ky immediately lets Ivy off the hook, the redhead�s body snapping horizontal on the mat, and struggles vainly to free herself as Sissy backs away from Ivy�s flattened form.

�I�m a kitty ~ and I�ve got my yummy ~ ummm ~ country mouse ~ umm chicken, Colonel.� If it were one-on-one, Sissy knew she could hold Kylie like this until the perv surrendered to dreamland, but Ivy was already rolling to her feet. Backing to the ropes, the Princess slides through. She releases Kylie�s neck, but quickly gathers it back, this time over the top rope. Pulling down on Sanders� chin, Sissy wrenches Kylie�s neck back, the blonde grunting through teeth forced into a clench.

Waiting. Waiting.

Sissy releases, the ropes propelling the diminutive Kylie forward and airborne into the waiting arms of a recovered Ivy, who does not hesitate. She drops Kylie to the mat with a body-shattering sitdown slam. With the impact fully absorbed, the blonde�s hazel eyes glass over, her mouth agape, as she stares toward the ceiling, legs pointed in that direction as well, Ivy holding them there, as the rest of Kylie�s body reclines between Ivy�s outstretched legs.

�Where were we, ah yes,� Ivy purrs.

The redhead spreads Kylie�s legs wide with her arms until her legs can slip over them and grapevine them into a nasty version of the splits. She then reaches forward and grabs Kylie by the hair, yanking her body forward between the stretched gams. Raising her derriere for a moment, she stuffs Kylie�s head to the mat face down and takes a seat atop her moist and matted goldilocks. Even if the little punk wanted to submit to this leg stretch, who would know, she was talking to mat. For Ivy, that was the beauty. That and showing the fans a submission they�d never seen before.

Still, Sissy was to her feet on the outside and pulling cloth from unsavory places, so as much as it pained her, Ivy gave up her newest creation and pulled a red-faced, greasy, and deflated Kylie to her feet.

�This is what a technician does when she�s got something to back it up.�

Ivy doubles Kylie with a boot to the gut and intertwines her legs and arms with those of the blonde. The resulting hoist and throw is a pumphandle slam of seismic proportions that leaves Kylie dead to the world, tortured legs in a wide �V�, one arm draped over her stilled body, the other outstretched.

But just as Ivy is about to swoop in for the cover, making this a two-woman race, Sissy attacks from behind, swinging an arm around the redhead�s neck, choking her. Ivy struggles to free herself and builds a little breathing room, so the surprisingly wily Princess calls an audible and spins Ivy in place, grasping her behind the crown of the head. From there, Sissy drops to her knees, stunning the auburn-haired beauty with a jawbreaker, Ivy tottering around the ring, as if drunk. A snatch of hair, a boot to the solar plexus, and a DDT later, and it is the Princess Sissy Landers who is Queen of all she surveys; Cynthia disposed of, Ivy and Kylie wriggling helplessly at her feet.

�Like ~ who wants to go first?�

Kylie�s body happens to spasm and the Princess takes it as a sign. She giddily vaults to the top of the nearest buckles and stands atop them, looking out on the crowd, a surprising number giving her a standing �O�. Without further hesitation, she launches back toward the ring and lands across Kylie�s undefended midriff with a textbook moonsault, Sissy showing the skill often hidden behind her unusual manner.

Sissy lifts Kylie�s head up with a yank of her golden locks, Ivy desperately clawing her way out of the ring as she does so.

�Aww ~ Armweak�s taking her ball and leaving. Time to end things ~ Colonel. I�m taking your white meat. ~ Hee Hee.�

Showing little sign of the pitched battle, Sissy clambers to the top buckle from whence she had come. She hesitates for a moment, raising her hands high, then vaults into the Oakland sky, pumping not once, but twice before she came down across the unconscious Kylie�s belly. The Sissy Splash had claimed its next victim, Sissy lying atop the blonde in a full body-on-body pin

ONE

TWO

Kylie accepted the third slap without so much as a twitch or a fluttering eyelid. THREE

But just as the third punctuation hit the canvas and the PA notifies the crowd officially of Kylie Sanders� expulsion from contention, Ivy Belle Armstrong, no acrobat by any means, is following behind in Sissy�s flightpath, having quickly scrambled up the apron and post behind Landers� liftoff. Obviously not as accomplished in the aerial arts, Ivy settles for a butt splash, her denim-clad can landing atop Sissy�s shoulderblades, driving the air from the Princess and banging Sissy�s head into Kylie�s noggin.

�Looks like you need to watch your back, too,� Ivy notes dryly, reveling in her payback. She rises and drops her finely-shaped backside into the small of Sissy�s back bringing �ooof� upon �ooof�. Feeling the Princess properly tenderized, she lifts Sissy to stooped feet and with one mighty heave, hauls her up to a piledriver position. Making sure to straddle the flotsam that was Kylie, she lowers the boom on Sissy and piledrives her onto Kylie�s bosom, the mounds providing surprisingly little shock absorbing power. Sissy flops face first into Kylie�s softly rolling cleavage.

The Princess is still in the waking world, but barely, and so Ivy decides to give the people what they came to see. Nestling atop Kylie�s broken body, she pulls Sissy�s head to her thinly-covered crotch and envelops the head of the Princess in her dreaded thighs, the truly astonishing crushing power of the Southern Charm brought to bear, the inverted Figure-Four sleeper that knew no peer.

After 15 to 20 seconds of FAWN�s most intense scissors, Sissy�s eyes roll back in her head, lids fluttering to a close; arms - faintly wriggling - cease their movement.

�Ah ladies, we knew it had to end this way,� Ivy chirps, �I only wish Cynthia could have been here to enjoy it with us.�

Armstrong turns to the ref.

�Ah believe you can do your duty.�

The man steps in and raises Kylie�s arm by mistake, dropping it to the mat.

�Uhh, hon, I do believe��

Ivy points to the sleeping blonde between her legs, reddened face pressed tightly against her pelvic mound.

Sheepishly, the ref raises Sissy�s arm once, twice, thrice and calls for the bell.

Quickly following behind is the official acknowledgement.

�YOUR WINNER AND FAWN�S FIRST TELEVISION CHAMPION�IVEEEE�BELLLLLE�AHHHRMSTRONG.�

Overcome with emotion, Ivy releases her death grip and hops to her feet next to the piled remnants of Sissy and Kylie. Perhaps surprisingly, for some, Ivy is too caught up in the moment to further humiliate or even taunt her beaten opponents. Teary eyed, she snatches the championship belt from the ref and clutches it to her chest like it's the most important item in the world, a cherished artifact handed down through the ages, and now, through her family - a wrestling championship.

Her mother and now HER.

Ivy drops to her knees and kisses the gold then buckles it around her waist and hits all four corners, accepting the adulation and adoration of all, and best of all, a sign of humble respect from her mother.

But this was HER day, HER gold, HER championship.

IVY Armstrong.

WINNER, and Television Champion: Ivy Belle Armstrong