Heavy orchestral chords flow over the loudspeakers, the local crowd unsure of what it means when, Shirley Manson's distinctive voice blares into the Cancun sky in accompaniment, though the FAWN fanatics in attendance, who spared no expense to join their favorite fighting females, are clearly in disbelief. They stand as one, necks craning to see if it can be true, breath held, hearts pumping. Being at a Pay-Per-View was one thing, but, if true, this would be a seminal moment. And then, there she is, a roar erupts in unison, the crowd, for a moment, all of one language, as, after their thrill, they rain a Caribbean torrent of boos upon one Portia Ophelia VanBuren IV. Fortune's Favorite, her shoulder-length mane of strawberry blonde tossed with a haughty flip, struts down the aisle to the strains of 'The World Is Not Enough' by Garbage, looking as those she were the cat who swallowed the canary. Her hips sway, as she turns the trip into a sashay down the runways of Paris or Milan, or better yet, her beloved Big Apple.

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 even on a Cancun's beachfront, Portia's small but perky bosom flattered to great effect. The ensemble is tastefully accessorized with Gucci shades and a diamond tennis bracelet around her left wrist. But, most noticeably, it is also accessorized with a synthetic knee brace made as close to VanBuren's flesh color as possible. Still, causing a slight hitch in the giddyup of this polo filly, it is as conspicuous as her silk panties for those as interested in the wrestling as the women.

Portia, patrician features held high, barely glances to either side as she makes her way to the ring, doing her best to ignore the disgusting throngs of human cattle that push against the restraining barriers with a cascade of boos, gleefully loosing their emotions on her for the first time in months. One hater pushes close, shoving a sign in Portia's face. 'London will tower over you and break your back in the Bridge, bitch.' Apparently, the fan didn't care which bitch Shea was going to break and now knowing it was Portia gave his eyes a special gleam. Portia took the credit in her mind for stirring the mob into a frenzy. The sign gets a little too close and Portia snatches it from the hands of its owner, ripping it in half. She shakes her head, a smirk gracing her flawless face.

Finishing her trip down the runway, Portia appears relieved to arrive ringside, distance restored between her and the hordes of wannabes and losers. The strawberry blonde ascends the ringsteps and slides into the squared circle between the ropes, her skirt riding up the scant inches that were available. Immediately, the ring is Portia's personal property. The time missed had not taken that away. She saunters to each corner, bumping shoulders with Shea as she passes her fellow ex-FAWN World Champion. She pumps a quick combination into the last set of buckles.

All eyes drawn to her, Portia was in her element, once again the center of attention and envy and it felt s-o-o-o good, s-o-o-o overdue. Moving to mid-ring, Portia exudes an air of confidence that bordered on supremacy, no less so than she was the champ and FAWN her personal domain. Shea would be the first to learn, it soon would be again.

In her corner, Shea discreetly scoops her jaw off the canvas. Portia? She'd been truly trumped, having barely even given FAWN's only two-time champion a passing thought. VanBuren would require a quick mental adjustment, and working quickly, Shea took in the form of her now revealed opponent. Naturally, Shea's eyes focus on Portia's knee brace. Those two gatecrashers had certainly done a number on Portia all those months ago, enough so that a number of wrestling pundits thought Portia's days as a wrestler were through. Obviously, VanBuren was here tonight to prove those skeptics wrong.

But the brace was telling. Even if Portia had been cleared to wrestle, surely that knee was not complete recovered. And if Shea knew Portia (which she most certainly did) if her knee was even close to being ready, she wouldn't have entered the ring wearing such a bull'seye as a brace.

Still, if Portia was going to wrestle her, then that knee was fair game. London thought back to her last match with Fortune's Favorite, a match in which her own knee had been somewhat damaged by Chrissy Daniel just a couple of weeks beforehand. Portia had certainly shown no reluctance to focus her efforts on it then.

Shea was looking forward to returning the favor.

The bell brings both women out of their corners, the two longtime rivals circling each other warily. Still, Portia offers her foe a quick wink. "Be honest now, Jersey," Portia sneers. "You missed me, didn't you?"

Shea's forehead crinkles in an approximation of confusion. "Oh, I'm sorry... Were ya gone at all? I don't think anyone noticed, really."

Portia's contempt is nearly palpable. "I'm not surprised. I'm guessing everyone was too busy watching nobodies like Lorelei Butler play you like a harp. And now, you're going from being played by a middle school orchestra to being played by the Met."

Snarling, Shea instantly lunged forward, locking up with the taller though willowy socialite. Alas, it's a lock up that is brought to a quick and screeching end. Not even bothered to try her hand at wrestling the veteran first, Portia's fingernails rake across Shea's eyes, blinding the Brit and putting an abrupt halt to her early charge. With Shea's attention fully on restoring her vision, she offers no defense as Portia drives her knee (the good one) up into London's gut, Shea moaning as the bony joint plows through her stomach.

Portia smiles cruelly, pleased not only with the effectiveness of her kneelift, but also with her other leg's ability to function as her plant leg. Perhaps Thor had been exaggerating the dangers of this contest a little bit. To be sure, as VanBuren brings her first knee down, she sends the other savagely into Shea's midsection, the brace giving its impact a little extra 'oomph!', and causing Shea's knees to buckle as she slumps into Portia's waiting arms.

And that was the worst place Shea could have ended up. Quickly, Portia's arms wrap around the Brit's waist, VanBuren grunting as she hoists London off her feet. She only holds Shea aloft for a second or two, before depositing her blonde foe crotch-first across her knee in an inverted atomic drop. Shea's eyes widen, her agonized groan catching in her throat as she slides off Baby VanBuren's knee, pitching to the canvas below chest first, on her knees, backside elevated as her hands slip between her quivering legs in an effort to put out the building fire below.

God, Portia had missed this.

With a disdainful shove of her tennis shoe, VanBuren nudges Shea over onto her back, London's undercarriage still in enough distress to prevent her from responding. Grabbing Shea by the right ankle, Portia raises Shea's leg, giving the shapely gam a pointed tug to further enflame her groin. Draping the ankle across the middle rope, VanBuren then takes a dual handhold of the top cable, moving to straddle Shea's suspending leg. Bouncing lightly on her heels a couple of times, Portia then lifts herself into the air, only to drop her delightful derriere across Shea's knee.

"GAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!" Shea wails, sitting up off the canvas. A second butt drop from Baby VanBuren, though, causes her to flop back, eyes clenched shut in anguish. A third has Shea's free foot stomping the mat in a further expression of suffering.

Portia pushes down a bit longer and harder on her last bounce, before easing off her mount. Grabbing the Brit's ankle again, VanBuren drags her away from the ropes. Her motives soon become clear, as Portia deftly rolls Shea into an effective Boston crab. Groaning, London rises onto her left elbow, straining forward with her right arm.

But the sanctuary of the ropes remain tantalizingly out of reach.

"I haven't been away long enough to forget about those, Shea," Portia scoffs, sitting back a little further in her crab. Shea drops her right arm, getting both elbows under her now, tugging on her own hair with both hands to redirect the pain. The ref kneels beside them, asking Shea if she wants to call it a night, only minutes after her night had begun. London vigorously shakes her head. "No, nuuuhhhaaaaagggghhh!!!" Shea tries to answer, but Portia eases back a little more, sending a new round of shockwaves through the Brit's spine.

She had to get to the ropes. Had to, or else this match was going to be over in disastrously short time. With her elbows still under her, Shea digs into the mat, beginning a slow crawl to salvation. Feeling herself being forced to move, and certain of the direction she was being taken, Portia absently reaches back with her right arm.

And quickly, Portia's fingers find a way of entwining in Shea's hair.

"AAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Shea screams, now finding herself being bent into more of a 'C' than a 'U' shape. "HAAAAAIIIIIIR, REEEFF!!! HAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIRRRR!!!!!!"

The official bobs his head up, but a fraction of a second too late, as Portia has already relinquished her grip on London's locks. Unable to call what he didn't see, the ref turns his attention back to Shea, and Portia in turn begins to reach back for another hand hold.

But before she can, Shea's fingers coil around the bottom rope.

"Break, Portia!" the referee barks.

"No," Portia replies impishly. "Not break Portia. Break Shea. Admittedly, the Breaking Shea club isn't the most exclusive club I've been a part of, but you have to admit few do it better."

The official was not amused.

"ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!"

Without a second to spare, Portia relents, allowing Shea's lower body to join her torso in a heap, London reaching an arm to massage the small of her back. Rising to her full, triumphant height, Portia looks down at her sprawled conquest. "I knew you were washed up," she hisses, "but I had no idea you'd fallen this far, this soon. Your new little Indian panty sniffer friend gave me more of a workout than this."

Dragging Shea to unsteady feet, Portia backs her into the ropes. Grabbing a wrist, VanBuren sends her for an Irish whip, bending over to deliver a backdrop on her return-one quarter of the live Pay Per View audience reacting quite enthusiastically to the unencumbered view of VanBuren's unmentionables that this movement provides.

Alas, for the first time in this match, Portia shows some signs of ring rust. Ducking an instant too soon, Baby VanBuren gives Shea all the tip off the Brit needs to know what's coming. Halting her momentum, Shea fires a kick to Portia's modest chest that lands with an echoing 'THWACK!", the force of the blow sending Portia upright, eyes glazed and knees knocked. Before she can regroup, Shea is on her way back into the ropes, this time by her own accord.

And her lariat nearly takes Portia's head off.

In a heartbeat, Shea scampers to drape herself across Portia's chest, hooking a leg.

One...

Kickout.

Shea bounds back to her feet, and sends a couple of quick stomps to Portia's bad knee in order to keep VanBuren off hers. Raising the strawberry blonde socialite's injured leg off the mat, Shea quickly cinches in a spinning toe hold, London making a point of twisting and tugging on VanBuren's captive foot.

And now, Portia found her wounded knee starting to betray her.

"Not so glib now, are we, Portia," Shea taunts, another twist of Fortune's Favorite's foot resulting in a further strain of the surgically repaired ligaments in her knee, and causing a loud hiss of protest from Portia. "It sucks 'avin' a bad wheel an' tryin' ta wrestle with it, doesn't it, Portia?" Shea asked, giving VanBuren's tootsie another turn.

Unwinding the toe hold, Shea drops Portia's leg to the mat, shifting her grip to press a palm into her foe's calf and the other into Portia's thigh. As Shea pushes up into a handstand, Portia knows what's coming, and pleadingly shakes her head. But neither gravity nor Shea have any mercy, and soon, both conspire to bring Shea's two good knees slamming down into Portia's one bad one.

"GGGAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWDDDDDDDDDDDDDD!!!!!!!!!!" Portia cries out, the waves of excruciating pain radiating from her knee frightfully reminiscent of the damage done by those trailer tramps back in September.

"'E might 'ave some pity on ya," Shea muses, pulling Portia up and then pushing her back into the nearest corner. "But 'E's prolly be tha only one."

London unloads with a knife edged chop, the crowd responding with the required rite of reverence.

"WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

On impact, Portia's arms spasm away from her sides, and one wrist finds its way into Shea's grasp. With an whip, London sends VanBuren across the ring, into the opposite corner, allowing a moment before following in pursuit. But while Portia's path was a forceful charge, Shea's a graceful tumbling run, culminating in a back elbow that connects with (and almost pounds through) Portia's chest.

With a deflating wheeze, Portia starts to slump down against the buckles, but Shea will have none of that. Tucking Portia's head under her right arm, London sprints out of the corner with VanBuren in tow. A few strides later, Shea leaves her feet, her bulldog resulting in a spread-eagled former two-time champ, Portia's tennis skirt folding up to allow all an tremendous view of her exquisite backside. But practical concerns require Shea to put an end to the show, rolling her rival onto her back and hooking a leg.

ONE...

TWO...

Kickout.

Undeterred, Shea hops up, making a beeline to the top turnbuckle. Neither time nor movement are wasted, and Shea is balanced atop her perch just before Portia starts dragging herself to her feet. Baby VanBuren turns around, just in time to see Shea's boots plow directly into her face, knocking her back off her feet and into a crumpled heap.

Again, Shea kips up, and foregoes a third pin attempt for a second trip to the top turnbuckle, Portia moaning softly as her body relaxes into a splayed rest. Again Shea is all business, climbing to the top in little time, and taking only the briefest second to balance herself. With Portia showing no signs of rising, Shea doesn't wait. Instead, Air London takes flight, twisting into an awe-inspiring moonsault...

... that tragically ends with her abdomen crashing across Portia's raised knees.

Wind driven violently from her lungs, Shea flounders onto her back, arms wrapped around her belly as she coughs and wretches. But though her instincts had saved her from a far worse fate, Portia finds herself momentarily unable to capitalize on this turn of events. Instead, she rolls onto her side, clutching the aching knee she had just sacrificed in the service of grounding London.

The ref's count reaches seven before Portia manages to be the first on her feet, Shea following a couple of seconds later. But though Portia is the first up, Shea manages to land the first blow, sending a haymaker to Portia's head that buckles the strawberry blonde's legs. Portia answers with one of her own, London staggering back a stride and a half in response. Shea fires another haymaker, this one a bit sloppier, and though it connects, it doesn't register the same damage as the first.

And it does nothing to prevent Portia from reaching out and gouging Shea's eyes a second time. Shea shrieks, her hands flying to her face as she pivots away from Portia. "Never turn your back on me, guttersnipe," VanBuren hisses, taking advantage of Shea's disoriented state to take the Brit down with a swinging neckbreaker. With London starfished, Portia hooks a leg and covers.

ONE...

TWO...

Shoulder up.

"Stupid bitch," Portia spits, but rather than rising off London, she scoots into a straddle atop the blonde's stomach. With both hands, she reaches down, digging all ten of her sharp nails into Shea's breasts.

"AAAAIIIIIIIYYYYYYYYEEEEEGGGGHHHH!!!!" Shea screams as Portia's talons rip through her top, tearing at the fabric in much the same way they tore into her tender flesh. Shea brought her arms up, swiping at her rival, her body writhing under VanBuren's relentless mauling. Baby VanBuren refused to relent, shifting her weight against Shea's abused abs to quell her struggles while pressing ahead with her dual claws.

Finally, the ref intercedes, forcing a break at the count of four and pulling Portia off the British Bombshell. Her sportsbra not torn, stretches of angry red flesh now visible amid the dark blue fabric, Shea rolls onto her side, curling into a protective ball as she struggles to regroup.

Breaking free of the ref's grasp, Portia is back on the attack, hauling Shea up and backing her into the rope. A loud chop to Shea's enflamed chest brings a loud gasp from London, and an equally loud gasp from her partisans in the crowd. With another Irish whip, Portia sends Shea for a ride, scooping the Brit up on her return, only to deposit her in a backbreaker across Portia's knee.

It was a move Portia instantly regretted, as her knee again exploded in a new round of pain. Gingerly, she rises to her feet, testing her bum leg while Shea writhes below her. Aching, but still functioning. That was good.

Moving toward Shea with the slightest trace of a limp, VanBuren peels Shea's legs off the mat, holding them aloft and parted wide. Just as Shea manages to open her eyes long enough to look up, Portia is coming down, her head dissecting London's gams with a forceful heabutt to the Brit's groin.

"OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHUUUUUUUGGHHHHH!!!!"

Though Shea unquestionably took the worst of the headbutt, Portia still winces as she returns to her feet. Her knee had not liked the landing with the canvas, and it was starting to fail her. She needed to end this soon, and she knew it.

Pulling a wobbly legged Shea off the mat, Portia backs her into the ropes. She fires Shea away with another Irish whip, but this time, Shea reverses. Portia rushes into the ropes against her will, knee throbbing with each stride as she's sent back London's way. Shea leaps into the air, snaking her legs around Portia's head and whipping the socialite off her feet, her hurricarana ending with Shea atop Portia's sternum in a schoolgirl pin. Frantically, she reaches back to secure a leg.

ONE...

TWO...

THR... kickout.

Calling upon a VanBuren's drive and sense of purpose, Portia ignores the increasing discomfort in her aching knee long enough to spring back to her feet, and delivers a swift kick to the back of Shea's head to halt the Brit's efforts to join her. But as soon as Shea's body slumps back to the mat, Portia's gate falters.

It was now or never.

She had hoped to punctuate her glorious return with a nice ride of the 911. But that would take to long in her present state, as would the Long Island Iced-T. And whether her knee would consent long enough to opt for her Caviar Dreams was a question she wasn't sure she wanted to find out.

That left one option open. And there'd be plenty of time to take the 911 out for a spin after the bell. And so, as the ref's attention was focused on the recovering Shea, Portia deftly fished out her brass knucks (arguably this girl's best friend) .

"They were good enough for Bethy," Portia whispers, waiting for a groggy Shea to turn around. "They'll be good enough for you." Once Shea had spun to face her, Portia swings...

... and MISSES!

Whether Shea saw the knucks or was simply reacting to the incoming punch was a matter for debate, but for whatever reason, the East Hampton Sucker Punch does NOT connect. And as Portia vainly attempts to curtail her follow through, London delivers a kick to VanBuren's midsection that double the socialite over while sending her onto her tiptoes. With Portia bent at the waist at sucking in air, Shea grabs one of her arms, swings a leg over and behind VanBuren's head, and drives her almost through the mat with a Rocker Dropper.

Feeding off the roar of the fans, Shea kips up, and then pulls a swaying Portia up to join her. With Portia facing away from her, Shea slips an arm over and around Portia's neck. "Lemme show ya somethin' I picked up from tha' 'Indian panty sniffer' friend o' mine," Shea whispers, and then plants VanBuren with a Scorpion Death Drop!

VanBuren's nearly insensate body trembles as Shea rolls up onto her knees. "Good, innit?" Shea asks, but Portia is too far gone to answer. Dispensing with talking, Shea rolls Portia onto her stomach before digging her knees into the small of VanBuren's back. Then, using one hand to cup Portia's chin and the other to secure her legs, Shea rocks back, pulling Portia into London's Bridge.

The move immediately brings Portia back to life, her arms thrashing and flailing as Shea works the submission hold with expert precision. "UUUUAUAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH"

"Think ya can 'old out in this a second time?" Shea asks, wrenching back on Portia's head and legs, causing another gasp of pain from the former champ.

She had survived this hold the last time they met, but only because Shea's knee had failed her, rather than any successful means she had found to escape. Now, Portia was the one with the knee that had failed her, and Shea was showing no signs of giving up this hold.

It couldn't end this way. Not for her comeback. Not against Shea, who couldn't seem to beat anyone these days without that Indian at her side. Desperately, Portia's arms sought out the ropes, but found only air.

Another wrench of the hold compelled another scream for Portia's trembling lips. No escape. But still, she couldn't. Not this way. A VanBuren didn't surrender. She couldn't.

She WOULDN'T!

"Come on, Portia," Shea hisses. "Just two easy li'l words... "

Portia could feel the strain on her knee, and that wasn't good. She'd lost nearly two-thirds of a year of her career, during her prime, to a knee injury. And the longer she fought this hold, the more it became clear that she might lose more than that if this hold was held on much longer.

Damn you, you cockney whore, Portia thought. You WILL pay for this!

And with that thought, Portia's hand began slapping Shea's thigh.

DING! DING! DING!

As the ref instructs her to break the hold, Shea hesitates. This was a woman that had cheated her out of a chance to take her world title back from Chrissy Daniel. This was a woman that had unspeakably humiliated her in front of her entire family. And this was a woman she now had entirely at her mercy.

Shea London held Portia VanBuren's career in her hands... or, rather, on her knees

But as tempting as that thought was, it wasn't her way. Finally, mercifully, she released the Bridge, allowing Portia to convulse bonelessly to the mat. Shea stood, beaming as the ref raised her hand in victory.

It wasn't a title. But beating someone on Portia's level felt almost as good.

WINNER: Shea London.