The drone of Irish pipes fills the arena as the house lights dim. Then, just as a single spotlight hits two figures tearing open the curtain at the top of the ramp, the music erupts into a burst of techno. With confidence in their every step, Maeve and Moira Kane stride down the runway, slapping outstretched hands as they pass, but their gaze is fixed firmly upon the ring. One fan holds aloft a sign reading, TONIGHT SHEA AND JULIET ARE GONNA HAVE IRISH TROUBLES!!! Moira makes a point of blowing the man a kiss.

Climbing to the ring apron, the Kanes demand the referee sit on the middle rope and lift the top cable with his shoulder, allowing the blondes to enter. Once in the ring, they raise their arms to signal confidence in their impending victory. Maeve, the older of the two and clad in a green one-piece outfit, steps impassively to the Kane corner to await the bell, while the somewhat more impulsive Moira, in a similar black outfit, jumps up on the middle rope in the corner to face the crowd and encourage their cheers... and drive the fans who jeer into an angry frenzy.

Suddenly, the crowd's attention shifts as the PA system blasts the Def Leppard staple: 'Pour Some Sugar on Me'. Within moments, the British Bombshell and Tempe Temptress emerge atop the ramp, the ovation for Shea London and Juliet Bloodwind thunderous.

Bloodwind struts down the steel toward the ring, the pigtailed Juliet slapping hands with the fans standing along the ramp, her imitation deerskin string bikini and matching knee high boots leaving very little to the public's imagination, and receiving a rousing vocal endorsement. She gives a thumbs up to a fan holding aloft a sign that reads "JULIET BLOODWIND: PUTTING ARISTOCRATIC EUROTRASH IN THEIR PLACE SINCE SPRING BREAK"

Shea follows alongside, all smiles, likewise slapping hands with the fans as she goes. The gorgeous blonde wears a dark blue sports bra and a pair of matching bikini briefs, the Union Jack in all its glory across Shea's brassiere, no mutiny for her bounty; the remainder of her outfit, a pair of stylish, red wrestling boots. London grins as she catches sight of one particular sign, the Union Jack a background for the inscription: "KICK THEM, THEY'RE IRISH!"

At ringside, the pair makes a complete circuit around the ring, continuing to press the flesh with the assembled fans. Their lap completed, Shea and Juliet move quickly toward the ring, gracefully hopping onto the apron. With her back to the ropes, arms draped over the top rope, the nubile Native American gives a suggestive wiggle of her hips before leaning backward, flipping herself over the top rope and landing on her feet inside the ring. While the crowd reacts appreciatively to Bloodwind's exhibition, their volume only increases as London follows her partner's lead, right down to an uncharacteristic (but hardly unappealing) hip wiggle of her own, the beautiful Brit grinning as she lands on her feet, the fan's endorsement overriding any other concerns.

Perhaps a little too happy with their hip waggles, Shea and Juliet lose track of the waiting, scowling Irishwomen and the Kanes take advantage, Moira landing an axhandle blow to the back of Shea's head, while Maeve drives a kick deep into Juliet's belly as she turns toward the blonde. Moira grabs Shea by her dirty blonde mane and Maeve does the same with Juliet's jet black pigtails. The sisters step to each other, then introduce Shea and Juliet the hard way, noggin to noggin.

Bloodwind's head appears harder as she stumbles away from the collision while the Brit falls to the canvas, her back slamming hard against the boards. The ref calls for the bell as Maeve collects the stunned Juliet and drops her to the canvas with a precise Olympic Slam that puts the raven-haired beauty on the mat next to her partner, arched in pain, grasping at her back. Already in a deep hole to the regals from Galway, the claxon call of the bell marks the official start of the festivities.

Each Irish blonde takes to stomping a Louisiana mudhole, with their opponent as the moist earth, Moira kicking the crumpet out of her neighbor to the east and Maeve's boots trample the golden-skinned desert flower. Shea and Juliet cover as best they can, but both are reduced to fetal cocoons. With the tenderizing accomplished, the Kanes pull Juliet to her feet and whip her to the ropes. The blondes collect her around either thigh, backpedal several steps, and follow-through on a delayed double back body drop, Bloodwind tumbling over the ropes, to the floor far below.

With one foe removed, Moira and Maeve set upon a rising Shea. Entwining their legs around London's, the duo drop her to the mat with a double Russian Legsweep. Moira rolls Shea's Union Jack to the mat and climbs aboard, quickly securing a painful Camel Clutch. Not to be outdone, Maeve goes butt-to-butt with her sister and gathers in Shea's kicking gams. The elder Kane leans back into her sibling, applying a simultaneous Boston Crab, London squealing in anguish as the Kanes bend her backbone in a monstrously fiendish manner.

"REEEFFFF," Shea cries, a further pull from the M&M girls eliciting a desperate 'PLEEEEASE'.

"Ya can-na be expectin' any-ting less, ya limey bitch," Moira whispers in Shea's ear. "We be breakin' ya. Ya knew tat... or are ya daft."

The referee finally gathers his wits and starts counting against the double team. At four, Maeve releases her Crab, apparently deciding Moira has earned the right to beat the Englishwoman to a bloody pulp.

After nearly a minute, her legs cramping, Moira pulls Shea out of the Camel Clutch and to her feet, only to step around and seamlessly move into an Abdominal Stretch, Moira distending Shea's delectable bare tummy to the left, her muscles expertly stretched to their limit by the cheeky, cheery blonde lass. As an added bonus, Moira occasionally reaches around with a closed fist and buries it into the Brit's taut belly, eliciting low grunts from between anxious moans.

Then, flawlessly, Moira slides out of the stretch, trips Shea to the canvas and transitions to a punishing body scissors, London learning firsthand the technical prowess of the Sisters Kane. Moira sends a pulse through her slender but powerful stems, Shea's weakening abs and back gripping in agony, the Kanes working her midriff like a part-time job.

Shea rolls up to a seat, Moira's legs still wrapping tightly around her tummy, making each breath an ordeal. But before London can think of prying her way free, Moira rotates her body, barrelrolling in a wide arc around the ring and, trapped inside her scissors, Shea spins like a wheel, from bum to side to head to side back to bum, time and time again, once, twice, thrice. The ride ends with Shea's booty pointed to the rafters and her shoulders flattened against the mat.

ONE

TWO

KICKOUT

The blue-eyed blonde scrambles to her feet and pulls Shea up the rest of her way. Cinching in close, Moira attempts a belly-to-belly suplex, but the Brit blocks it with a grapevining leg. Furious that her momentum has been momentarily stalled, the younger Kane drives a knee into Shea's crotch, London grunting as she raises to tiptoes, her beautiful face twisting in anguish. Properly heeled, Moira tries again with the suplex and sends the now compliant bombshell up and over, Shea's back and backside slamming hard. The Brit has time to slap the mat in pain and frustration, but little else, as Moira is quickly upon her again.

Kane yanks Shea to her feet with a handful of dirty blonde locks and sends her back to the canvas with one, two, three hair mares. Grinning evilly, Moira pulls Shea to her feet one final time, the former World Champion's big brown eyes wide and blinking. She whips Shea to the Kane corner and not only is the Brit greeted with unforgiving turnbuckles, but a follow-up knee to the ribs and an arm around the throat from Maeve. Moira, running from across the ring, dips and dives in with a spear to Shea's midsection, London's body folding up like a suitcase around the impaling blade. Pleased with her work, Moira slaps a tag on her sister's open hand and turns the sacking of London over to her sibling.

"Sure'n, ya be learnin' your place, ya soggy tart," Maeve scolds, the green-clad beauty grabbing Shea by the hair and bringing her nose to nose. "But it's jus beginin innit."
With that, Maeve slams Shea's forehead into the top buckle and proceeds to do so again and again. Quickly, the crowd picks up on the count despite themselves.

"SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE, TEN!"

A glassy-eyed Shea drunkenly stumbles away from the barrage before totally losing her bearings and her feet. She face-plants into the canvas, arms limp and upturned at her side. The Kanes are in the midst of teaching a tag lesson and Shea London is the blackboard.

Immediately, Maeve applies her chalk, grabbing London's left leg and placing Shea's ankle between her thighs. Kane then lays on top of Shea's back and locks her arms around the the Brit's head. With the STF locked in, Maeve pulls back, stretching Shea's back, neck, and knee. The brutalized Brit cries out once more, her hand first reaching plaintively for a bouncing Juliet, but the Tempe Temptress is well out of reach. Shea can only scoot toward the ropes, barely making it there with one final grasp. Her fingertips curl around the lowest cable and the ref starts his count, Maeve breaking at the customary four.

Kane rises, barking a curse at Shea, who lists on one knee. She grabs London's arm, but Shea counters with a snatch of her own, falling back into the ropes and sending a startled, doe-eyed Maeve flying through to the cement floor beyond. Shea's interest in Maeve's condition is non-existent. The battered blonde crawls on hands and knees to her corner, halfway across as Maeve makes her feet and slides back into the ring. It's a race to the corner now and Shea makes it first, slapping hands with a positively vibrating Juliet.

The Native American/French beauty roars out of the corner, nearly decapitating a wide-eyed Maeve with a clothesline. Sensing the cavalry arriving, she sprints to the far corner and sends an entering Moira exiting with a shoulderblock. A U-turn puts Maeve back in the firing line. She races up to the Irishwoman, leaps into the air, and takes the elder Kane down with a flying headscissors. Bloodwind scrambles on top, hooking a leg.

ONE

TWO

KICKOUT

Juliet moves to a straddle of Maeve's waist and unleashes a torrent of blows that Kane is only partially successful in blocking. Finally, Maeve bucks her off, rolls to her side, massages her jaw, and shakes out some of the cobwebs. But Juliet is still on high octane. Already on her feet, she pulls a complaining Maeve up to her with a handful of hair. Grapevining a leg around one of Maeve's, she sends the blonde rocketing back to the mat with a Russian legsweep, Kane's arm reflexively cradling her skull as she winces in pain. The reigning Television champion rolls Maeve onto her chest then bends back her legs, interlocking them, her own right leg becoming the key that bolts them in place. Juliet's golden-skinned body falls back in a bridge, the Indian Deathlock instantly paying dividends as Maeve wails unintelligibly, perhaps in Gaelic. The ref asks if she'd care to submit, but Maeve wildly shakes her head. She couldn't. She couldn't. But ten seconds later, the declaration in her mind had morphed to 'could she?' A worried Moira cheers her sister on, the younger sibling appearing more and more ready to make a saving run with every second, but Maeve seems to rescue herself, sliding to the ropes and snatching them, then loudly demanding her release in high-pitched tones. However, a nearby Shea kicks Maeve's hands loose with a retaliatory stomp. The ref scolds London, but meanwhile Juliet bears down for a few more precious seconds, the Irishwoman cursing, wailing, pleading. She manages to grasp the strand again and Juliet complies with the ref's demands after a count of four. Juliet pulls Maeve to her feet, the blonde favoring her right leg, and calls in Shea with no more than a look from her dark, expressive eyes.

"Now you're going to find out that when it comes to double-teams," Juliet says, "we give as good as we get."

The twosome each grab an arm of Maeve, the crowd going wild in anticipation. They gather some momentum and send her flying away to the far ropes, Shea and Juliet following behind to the center of the ring. As Maeve hits the cables, ready to be launched back to them, both women lift-off into spectacular dropkicks, spectacular failures as it turns out, as Kane locks her arms around the top rope and the dynamic duo hit nothing but air. Juliet and Shea plummet to the canvas, both taking awkward, mat-thumping impacts.

Always quick to seize an opportunity, Maeve hustles forward and drops dual elbows that find the racks of each good girl, both beauties spasming from their respective blows. Moira, not waiting for a call, joins her sister, and is immediately directed to snatch the right leg of Juliet and the left of Shea. She does so around the ankles of the stunned lovelies. Maeve does the same with opposite gams. The Kanes take a seat, in so doing, pulling their opponents up to a sitting position between them, all four women in a circle. The crowd reflexively pops despite their allegiances. These women know every trick in the book, new-school and old, and the FAWNiacs appreciate without reserve. Shea and Juliet, however, realize their situation and are less pleased, shaking their heads as they gaze pleadingly into the Kanes' eyes, their arms outstretched, hands in supplication.

"No, no, NOOOOAWWWWW," implores Juliet, as the first stroke of the rowboat sends each woman flat to the canvas and pulls the legs of both Bloodwind and London wide, stretching their groins violently. All four pop back up, Shea and Juliet looking much the worse for wear, as their hands trail down to their inner thighs, the Kanes very pleased with themselves. Apparently unconvinced their pleading will not carry any weight, they shake their heads again, this time Shea offering a 'PLEEEEASE' before the second stroke spreads the four slender, luscious limbs, the strings on Juliet's faux deerskin bottoms beginning to loosen. A third, fourth, and fifth stroke bring cries of anguish from the victims, domineering laughter from the Kanes. The blondes look ready to row back to Ireland if need be, but the ref finally decides that the match should return to being a tag affair and starts his count. The Kanes get in one more enormous pull before the break. Shea and Juliet roll on the mat in anguish, hands burying between their legs as they vainly try to soothe the elongated muscles.

The ref guides Moira to her corner, Maeve following behind. He then gathers Shea up and escorts her out, London wincing as she shuffles bowlegged to her corner, then eases out of the ring.

Meanwhile, Maeve legally tags her fresh sister in and the black-clad beauty races back to Juliet, snaking her arms around the Native American/French grappler from behind. Grabbing an arm of Juliet's as her own arms slither around Bloodwind's head and neck, Moira quickly has the reeling Tempe Temptress trapped in a Cobra Clutch. Juliet's 'danger light' switches on and she desperately flails for release. After ten seconds of fruitless labor, her sight becomes slightly blurry, her fingers tingling, legs weighted. This was it IF she didn't. Suddenly, Juliet can feel herself being lifted. Unsure if it's her own clouded imaginings, Moira does some substantial convincing when she nearly drives Juliet through the canvas with her CobraClutch Bomb. The Arizonan shudders and lies still, the crowd going silent as they prepare for a Kane victory celebration.

ONE

TWO

SHOULDER UP.

Moira is incredulous.

"TREE. DAT WAS TREE."
The ref replies with two raised fingers, so Moira replies with some emotion, her hands encircling Juliet's neck. Kane chokes away at what little life remains in Bloodwind, Juliet coughing and gagging back to life as her face takes on a rosy hue.

Hearing the seemingly ever-present pissing and moaning of the ref, Moira releases her choke at four. She extends her index and middle fingers and thrusts them down the throat of the gasping Juliet, clamping them on in a mandible claw that instantly has the Television Champion writhing violently for escape. But Kane has leverage and a gritty look of determination to finish things. Juliet's futile thrashing slows to squirms and Moira allows herself a mischievous smile. Unfortunately for her, the grin is interrupted with a crunching dropkick that sends her out of Juliet's gullet and nearly out of the ring. Shea, apparently feeling her team's chances slipping away, bends the rules and saves Juliet from a forced slumber.

As the ref physically escorts Shea back to her corner, an irate Moira screams and points at the Brit.

"YOU DID TIS TO HER, N'ME."

Moira picks a rising Juliet up from behind, slipping an arm between her legs and hoisting the dazed champion across her shoulders. Twirling, the slender blonde beauty has Juliet in a dizzying Airplane Spin. Shifting her arms as she slows, Kane prepares to launch her cargo, but it is Juliet who forces her way out of Moira's grasp and counters into a horrific spinning DDT that draws an 'OOOOOH' from the assembled masses and leaves the Irishwoman spreadeagled on her back, motionless. Juliet is little better, struggling up to hands and knees before falling back to the mat. The crowd urges her to try again, particularly when Moira flinches back to life and rolls to her side. It's a race now. Who wants it more? Both women fight to their feet and Moira throws a wild haymaker that Juliet ducks. Nestling into the side of Moira, Juliet wraps an arm around the opposite trapezius, lifts the startled blonde and deposits her harshly to the mat with a Rock Bottom. Bloodwind can feel the wind leave Moira's sails and presses her chest against blonde's cross-body style.

ONE

TWO

Maeve grabs an ankle and peels Juliet off her sister. The Arizonan slaps the mat in frustration knowing she had a win in her grasp. But as Maeve is sent packing back to her corner, Juliet collects the weakly stirring Moira and drags her to within range of Shea. Standing on the mat, above Kane's fanned golden mane, Juliet pulls the blonde's legs wide then pushes at her cheek with a boot.

"Wake up, Irish. You don't want to miss this," Juliet hisses, Moira staring to comprehend the peril of her situation, her beautiful features unable to hide the fear. "You use a rowboat, we use a jetski."

Shea, perched on the top rope, dives between the open thighs, her forehead butting the blonde's mound with incredible velocity. Moira howls as Shea rolls away and Juliet releases her legs, the younger Kane collapsing into a ball, her hands burying in her crotch, massaging her battered cunny. From her corner, still in the arms of the ref, Maeve watches in silent disbelief. These bitches would do anything... just like them. Juliet feigns a legal tag with a slap of Shea's open hand and exits. The ref turns to the noise and accepts the results without a second thought, despite Maeve's loud protestations.

Shea pulls Moira to her feet with a yank on her wrist, Kane knock-kneed and lips pursed. She whips the Irishwoman to the far ropes and Moira, in her debilitated condition, is in no position to counter a spinning leg lariat that sweeps like a scythe into her neck, splattering her on the canvas at Shea's feet. London eschews the pin attempt and again vaults Moira up to her boot leather with a wrench. She throws the fading blonde in black to the corner where Juliet awaits. Securing Moira's slumping remains, Juliet waits with a smile as Shea tumbles toward her like a gymnast. Perhaps, the run wasn't of Dominique Daly's quality, but the handspring elbow into the cleft of Moira's bosom has a lot more 'ooomph' than little Domi would be able to provide.

Moira starts to melt to the canvas, overcome by the heat created by Shea and Juliet, but the duo keep her upright. In fact, Shea lifts her to a seat on the top buckle, something dubiously hardcore in mind for the Irish lass. Maeve understands this as well and she races into the ring to thwart the Brit's idea, whatever it may be. Unfortunately for her sister, Maeve is cut off mid-ring by a responding Juliet. Bloodwind's tackle steers Maeve away and, as they reach the ropes, Juliet vaults into the air, her luscious legs coil into the top rope then uncoil, pushing both women in the direction they came, but with a violent ending, Juliet implanting Maeve's head in the lightly-covered plywood with a springboard bulldog. Maeve's left leg idly kicks at the mat, but the rest of her body is stilled in a face-first spreadeagle.

Meanwhile, Shea has positioned a pliant and now standing Moira atop the highest buckle. London stands with her, a boot on the top ropes to either side. With her balanced gathered, she drops from the height, pulling Moira with her and nearly driving her head THROUGH the mat with a top-rope DDT. Shea momentarily shakes away some cobwebs from her own impact and lethargically drapes her body across that of her beaten foe.

ONE

TWO

SHOULDER UP!!!

From somewhere, Shea could not fathom where, Moira had found the strength and will to stay alive. As a Kane, she would fight till the end, and, as a Kane, she had to think help was a tick away. But it was not! A limp Maeve is kicked under the bottom rope by Juliet, the elder Kane landing with a meaty 'THWAP' against the cold cement.

Rolling her flaccid foe onto her belly, Shea digs in both knees perpendicular to Moira's backbone, she then reaches around and grabs the blonde under the chin and at the knees. The Bayou Bengal crowd pops loud and enthusiastically as they know what's next. Shea does not disappoint, as she rolls to her back, making sure not to place her shoulders on the canvas. Moira's body curls painfully around the bended knees, Shea's London Bridge finisher locked tight and already drawing pained squeals from the awakening blonde. Moira's arms flail wildly as her twisted vertebrae elicit shrieks and jerks from her body that provide no escape, but only more grief. Moira had scoffed at Portia VanBuren when she had submitted to the Bridge, but this was EXCUCIATING. Where was Maeve?

It was the last question Moira had pass through her mind, for even as Shea held her tight, head and legs curled toward the stands, midriff pointing to the lights above, Juliet had taken off in her Bloodhawk Drive, leaping onto the middle rope, then hopping to the top turnbuckle before propelling herself backward in a moonsault across the inviting tummy, blasting the air from her lungs, punishing Moira's ribs and forcing her spine farther into the bony joints below. The brutal combination of finishers is all too much for the beleaguered blonde, the pain and shock driving her from consciousness. Shea, realizing she would get no submission, lets Moira fall from her pose, the lifeless blonde liquefying into the canvas next to her. The rest is a formality, Shea dominantly placing one hand within the cleft of Moira's heaving B-cups.

ONE

TWO

THREE

Shea rises and the winners share an embrace. The win was a huge one. They had announced themselves as a threat to the tag titles, if not the foremost. And Chrissy. Dear Chrissy would have to start thinking about her again, Shea thought. But first... celebreation. The ref raises the hands of both women and presents them to the crowd as the PA kicks in.
"YOUR WINNERS... SHEA LONDON AND JULIET BLOODWIND."

But just as the announcement crackles through the arena, Juliet's hand rips away from the refs. Maeve, having reentered the ring, spins Juliet to her and sends a boot deep into the pit of the Native beauty's belly. Working quickly and calling upon surprising reserves, she hauls a squirming Juliet into tombstone piledriver position, but before she can deal the devastating blow, Shea reacts. Instinctively, she dropkicks the overturned Juliet in the back, forcing both women off the mat, Juliet landing atop Maeve in a crude, but at this point, effective and draining squash.

Shea helps a winded Juliet to her feet and they stare down at an exhausted Maeve, the Irishwoman sucking oxygen, her desperate ploy having been foiled. Looking more than a bit pissed, Juliet yanks a staggered Maeve to her feet. Facing in the opposite direction, she entwines her right leg with that of Maeve, wraps an arm around Kane's back, and flops backward with lightning velocity, bringing Maeve forward in a head-jarring, face-crunching downward spiral Juliet called the Bloodhawk Slam. Juliet rises from the unconscious remains of Maeve and rolls the blonde to her back with a nudge of her boot, both Kanes stretched out next to each other, like the Catch of the Day.

Shea and Juliet raise each other's hand and respectively plant boots atop the heaving bosoms of both regals. Today, amidst the bayou, is apparently a day for commoners with uncommon ability. Shea and Juliet upend the seemingly certain #1 contender status of the Kanes and throw the tag scene wide open once more. Who would Bethany choose to throw at Chrissy and Megan? If nothing else, Shea and Juliet had shown themselves to be a more than worthy choice.

WINNERS: Shea London & Juliet Bloodwind