[------girl, you'll be a woman soon------]

"Before we go, can anyone remember who we are?" a flushed Adora panted into her microphone, beads of sweat forming on her brow. The crowd of about three hundred people before her didn't reply, but hooted wildly and drunkenly. "I said," she repeated breathily, "does anyone know who the fuck we are?!~" Her stage voice was worlds away from her regular speaking voice; in this fantasy stage world, sugary words dripped from her crimson lips like candy, and all who witnessed it ate it right up. She projected a certain ditzy innocence that often misled people into perceiving her incorrectly. Usually, mere moments after passing that judgement, Adora's tough guy attitude - created half in jest - would make itself apparent and confuse everyone thoroughly. Perhaps a large chunk of the band's fanbase was comprised of curious males who followed them from gig to gig out of pure infatuation with the bubbly blonde singer.

"Show me your tits!" yelled a faceless male. Adora glanced to side stage, where Charlie lay in wait, keeping a watchful eye over his young wife. Even in the dim lighting of The Reverb, a Toronto club that hosted as many legends as it did hacks, Adora could see the telling vein in Charlie's forehead balloon furiously forth at the remark. His arms bulged - not with the intention of being intimidating, Adora knew, it was simply his body's natural reaction to anger - but he only clenched his jaw and allowed her to deal with it herself. He likely wasn't sure if it was worth her scolding him for his intrusion later on.

"Why don't you come onstage and show the crowd yours?" Adora invited. "They're much bigger, rounder and fuller than mine could ever hope to be!" she grinned mischievously and winked at the mass of people before her. The audience of a few hundred people cheered enthusiastically at the prospect of manboobs.

"In Doubt, In Doubt, In Doubt!" they began to chant, responding to Adora's earlier question. Had the band been at a different level of success, this would have been the moment to feign leaving, before coming back out for a three-song encore a few minutes later. Alas, there was one more band after them, and if they took too long tearing down their gear and freeing the stage, the promoter would give them hell. They hardly wanted to earn a bad reputation before they earned a good one.

"Thanks guys!" Adora bellowed into her mic, bowing informally, hand-in-hand with her guitar player, Nick and bass player, Michael - the drummer, Phil, was always left out. The four bounced off stage, encouraged by the good response they received from people. Recently, they had be contacted by publicists who had been scouting local indie shows, and they claimed to be interested in marketing the band - all the band was expected to do on their own was establish a fanbase, which would have been a much more satisfying deal had they not already done everything else, too. One of the publicists from the interested company, Marci Mallit, was waiting backstage, having been sent out to see if In Doubt's live show was as good as their recorded EP.

"Love it, love it, love it!!" Marci gushed to Adora, as she wiped her face down with a cloth. "I'm really very impressed with you guys, you've accomplished so much independently; you've got a CD pressed, PR photos taken, website up, merch ready, and all without any managerial guidance," she marvelled, "you're like a label's dream! You've already done all the hard work, the stuff that costs the most money."

"You sort of have to these days," Adora said, handing the now wet cloth over to Charlie in exchange for a bottle of water, which she gulped down hungrily.

"Unfortunately, not enough young talent realizes that, and they just come off as unprofessional and lazy for it," she lamented, rather judgementally.

"I think what's worse is that the industry has gotten like this," Adora snapped backed. "I think it's ridiculous that musicians and bands are expected to essentially get their marketing together and recording done out of their own pockets, especially considering how many of them are so young, like us. It sort of defeats the purpose of a record deal, don't you think? We, as artists, get nothing out of it other than the rights to our publishing robbed from us and a huge debt. Just don't even get me started on that shit."

"I know, I know," Marci agreed, "but that's just how it is these days, so if you want to succeed, you play the game. And you're playing it well. I had a colleague here with me earlier, and he just loved the show. He loves your voice, he loves your style and he loves the male-dominated, chick-ruled dynamic of the band and how it plays out onstage. Now the reason that I'm so excited about this is that he's a booking agent and promoter, and one of the most prominent on the scene right now. He's willing to help you guys out as a personal favour to me. He owes me one," she winked.

"Where is he?" Charlie piped up, sounding skeptical.

"He had to leave early, someone paged him; some sort of emergency. Anyway, he could set you up with a cross-country tour, booking you in the better clubs that have an established regular clientele. That's going to be monumental in establishing a fanbase, because you won't be playing to four people in hole-in-the-wall type places."

"Oh my god, are you for real?!" Adora squealed, failing to hide her excitement. "That would be unbelievably cool, wouldn't that be amazing, baby?" she turned to Charlie and grinned, bouncing around goofily.

"Yeah," he shook his head, as if bewildered, "yeah, of course, that's great!" Adrenaline still coursed through Adora's body, and had she not been so thrilled by the opportunity bestowed upon her, she would have better noted the distinct lack os sincerity in her husband's voice.

"Listen hon, I have to run as well, but I'm thrilled with the show. I have to say, I was worried I'd be disappointed, but you really pulled through!" She brushed her cheek against Adora's as some sort of farewell and shook the band members' hands quickly before scurrying away. Probably try to appear busier than she was, Adora assumed.

"This is amazing!~" Adora exclaimed effusively, wrapping her arms around Charlie's neck, but his body remained limp and unaffected by her outpour of emotion.

"It's a great opportunity, I mean... yeah," he offered weakly. "But --"

"But what?" Adora pulled away and held him at arm's length as she studied his eyes.

"But you're going to be gone for how long? Months? Weeks?"

"I don't know, it depends where we're booked, how much money we have, how successful the shows are. It's impossible to guess," she said, flustered by his lack of support.

"And what am I supposed to do during that time?" he asked hotly.

"'Scuse me," a member of the closing band bellowed rudely as he ploughed through the shitty backstage area with an bass amp.

"You're kidding, right?" she asked angrily, stepping out of the way without removing her gaze from Charlie's face. "You know what? I don't even want to know right now, I have to go help load gear into the car. You can go home, I'll get a ride with the guys."

"But --"

"Just fucking go," she dismissed him with a wave of her hand as she turned her heel and stormed away.

[------she said, she'd take me anywhere, she'd take me anywhere as long as she stays with me------]

"Now, I don't mean to sound disappointed when I say this, but how anticlimactic is the outcome of this whole 'mysterious love note' thing?" Adora mused aloud. "Here we are, plotting who it could be - from a horny ex-boyfriend, to a vengeful, estranged husband coming back to finish what he started - and it all amounts to shit all."

"Don't count whoever it is out yet," Morgy advised, "could just be the eye of the storm."

"Well that's promising," Adora rolled her eyes.

"Oh just be glad your life remains relatively stable after returning to the spotlight. To be honest, I half expected him to make his big comeback the second you earned some recognition in XWW."

"Why?" Adora raised an eyebrow. The two played dumb to drag insights out of one another; usually, the thoughts had already passed through their overly analytical minds, but hearing it from another's trusted mouth, unprompted, helped to ease lingering uncertainty and paranoia.

"He was in law school then, and I would imagine that he knew he could waltz back into your life and take you for half of your earnings."

"He would have to divorce me first."

"Exactly."

"Huh... though, if it came down it a fight and he saw fit to get nasty in court --"

"Which he wouldn't."

"-- he'd lose simply because of what he did."

"Theoretically, though, he could still take you for half - if you were so appalled by him that, in the law's eyes, why didn't you just divorce him right off the bat? You can't really claim abuse."

"Well..."

"Physical, anyway," Morgy clarified.

"Weeeeell..."

"Eh, true," she agreed, retracting her previous comment. "Still, why didn't you just divorce him then?" Adora paused thoughtfully before replying.

"I don't know."

"Like I said though, he wouldn't," Morgy reiterated confidently, breaking the silence and nodding her head slowly, pensively.

"Come back for money?" Adora asked.

"No, divorce you." Adora exhaled deepy but said nothing.

"Remember how adamant I was about getting my freak on after freeing myself from that thirteen year relationship?" she said after a few minutes. "What ever happened to that?"

"...getting your freak on?"

"Oh shut up, you know what I mean; bang prettyboys. I barely banged any!"

"None if you ask me," Morgy chortled.

"Hey! Don't even get me started on the beaverish fellow, who mysteriously lost his beaverdom to general scrawny unattractiveness," Adora shot back defensively.

"Okay, okay, I acquiesce!~! Just stop!" Morgy cried theatrically. "Speaking of him, I think he's really hellbent on winning the title at Over The Top Rope, and probably only because he knows one of us is most likely to get it. I wish he'd simmer down and see that the title is still virtually useless until one of us returns some shred of dignity or respectability to it."

"Yeah, he's got a bad case of The Exactlies," Adora agreed.

"The Exactlies?"

"Yeah, he looks, acts and smells exactly like shit," she snickered.

"You're such a tard, Dorita," Morgy laughed, more at Adora than with her. "Sucks to be you, though; you have a potential three matches, whereas I only have two!"

"Well obviously, you're the mostly likely to be in the main event. I don't know why anyone is even trying. I barely know why I am!"

"That's not true," Morgy blushed, a rare occurrence that 99% of people were unlikely to ever witness. "It's going to be either you or me," she clarified. In her mind, there was no contest between the wifeys and the others.

"Regardless, it's about time that the title be held by someone who isn't a pig of a male who feels entitled, simply because his father drilled a Y-chromosome into his mother and 'blessed' him with a shlong and droopy sac," Adora said, repulsed by the thought of almost every male peer in SW. "And Nikita's no better; all she represents and stands for is the kind of angsty self-indulgence and weakness typical of a 13-year old wrist-slitter."

"Shawn Samson?" Morgy asked, certain she knew what inspired Adora's rant.

"Like that was hard to guess. It's like Corey Page has been booking my matches against people who he wants slapped in the face himself. He reminds me of a Weezer song, except where they intend humour, he's the a cocky ass."

"How so?" Morgy asked, shifting her eyes.

"When I look in the mirror," Adora began to sing retardedly, "I can't believe what I see!~! Tell me who's that funky dude, staring back at me!~!" she finished. "Only he'd be like, wriggling his eyebrows at his reflection, in total seriousness, while a tiny boner began to protrude from his man-panties."

"Yeah, he has somewhat of a sausage-fest attitude," Morgy nodded her agreement, "though with that morning routine description, it sounds more like a breakfast link attitude."

"Well, it does take a small, petty man to say the things he does, after all. I find it exhausting that these morons refuse to ever give us the benefit of the doubt. We have to face them in a match before they ever watch a promo and realize that pulling the whore card on us is as pointless as it is unintelligent. I can only assume he'll do the same with me, since he's had little else to say about his other female opponents. He actually said - and I quote exactly - 'Women these days, I'll tell you. They see Nikita holding world title and suddenly, women thing they can wrestle. Adora, Morgana, Nikita, Angel, the list goes on.'"

"Please tell me you're not serious," Morgy practically begged.

"I fucking wish. Who does this little twat think he is? In the one match more than him I've had in SW, I've managed to not only win a title, but to keep my record perfect. He couldn't even do that much."

"Ugh, seriously! I even won my title in my first match here. What has he done again?"

"A whole lot of nothing. Yet he thinks that makes us the ones destined to be porn stars - and when I say 'us,' I mean you and me, obviously - when so far he has no wrestling career in comparison. If anything, he's the one who should be modelling Calvin Klein underwear, sporting an elephant thong while old Jewish women shove pennies into his buttcrack, or banging some burger pussy for a camera. It's clearly what he's mentally and physically best suited to doing."

"Yeah, he's not a hobbit at least. I'll give him that much," Morgy admitted.

"No, he's pretty attractive, which makes it even more of a shame that his head is so far up his ass. And honestly now, who says 'one final advice?' When did advice become a countable word?"

"Two pieces of advice?" Morgy offered.

"The number two modifies pieces there, not advice; it's not like you could say 'two advices.'"

"True. Dumbass."

"I shouldn't even bother starting with that; there were at least four or five other things he said that don't make sense in this language."

"It seems like all any male in this place can do these days is gush endlessly over what is, in reality, Nikita's mediocrity."

"Samson actually went the other route and decided to paint her as a steroid user. Please. On what planet would Nikita look ANYTHING like someone who relies on that shit? What, just because she's got the top title in a fed full of men, she must be cheating? What a charmingly provincial conclusion," Adora fumed.

"Speaking of titles," Morgy interrupted to change the subject, "how are you enjoying yours?"

"I wish it had a pretty name like yours, or like the Purity Title. I need to rename it, because the Television Title just isn't doing it for me. Needs more sexy," she confirmed.

"What could we call it?"

"I don't know, but when we do figure it out, that's all we're going to call it. Brainstorm," Adora ordered, snapping her fingers as if to signal commencement.

"The... Sexy Title?" Morgy suggested half-assedly. "The Sin Title?"

"Sin Title is cool... but that should just technically be the World Title, no?"

"True."

"The Rock Lobster Title?!~" Adora squealed.

"Yeah, and I'll change the Lust Title to the Jazz Crab Title," Morgy rolled her eyes.

"That's cool too!" Adora agreed enthusiastically, ignoring the sarcasm in her friend's voice. "Seriously though, that's all I can think of right now. Until I think of something better, I now christen thee Television Title: the Rock Lobster Title!~! Snappy snappy!" Adora formed lobster claws out of her hands and began snapping them wildly, a proud expression on her face as she watched them go. "We shall no longer respond to the name Television Title!~!"

"That ceremony would have been a lot better if the title was actually in the room," Morgy said flatly, easily used to this sort of retardation from her best friend. Adora pouted.

"Snappy snappy!~!" she insisted.

[------you're so pretty in white, pretty when you're faithful------]

Charlie's apartment - their semi-official home as husband and wife - was dark and quiet, with filtered moonlight providing the only light to see by. Charlie sat ominously in an arm chair in their one bedroom, his hands fidgeting with agitation and his brow furrowed into his dark, hectic eyes. Adora was not home yet. Adora would not be home a lot from now on. He slammed his fists into the armrests as another minute passed and the door failed to produce his wife. His wife. Was she forgetting that little fact? That she was his? He had laid claim to her before anyone else, so why was the universe making things difficult for him now? If she went on tour and became a big star - how could she not? Anyone who looked at her would agree that she was destined for more than anonymity - she would forget about him, about their home, about their hopes and dreams and plans. She was still eighteen, her loyalties could be fickle, and it was his job to keep them in line. He feared she would change for the worse if placed on a pedestal that was not his; she would warm to the adulation and praise, and she wouldn't need him anymore. She'd have her pick of other lovers, an endless supply. She wouldn't need to put up with anything from anyone, because she would be able to toss those who bothered her aside and replace them with someone else, until they, too, fell out of favour.

A key slid into the lock and removed the bolt from its place, and moments later, the knob was turned carefully and the door opened. She obviously hoped he was asleep and, by not making noise, she could avoid any confrontation. Charlie swiftly raised himself to his feet and strode to the bedroom's doorway, where he crossed his arms over his chest, leaned against the door frame, and waited.

"Holy shit!" she gasped as she nearly collided with him, not immediately seeing his form as she walked and stared sadly at her feet. She wished he was happy for her, and that she could crawl into bed and be held tightly and warmly in his arms until one of them was forced to awake and face responsibility.

"You see?" He stared down at her. "This is how it's going to be all the time from now on," he explained, as if she were a small child who hadn't heeded a warning and was now learning a bitter lesson. "We might as well get our marriage fucking annulled," he said; his words were devoid of actual intention, but he did want to see her reaction.

"Oh fuck off, Charlie," she shot back, "don't be so god damned dramatic. Is this how you're going to react to ever obstacle we encounter? Throw a hissy fit and threaten separation? I thought I was the woman in this relationship. Why don't you save some of the drama for me?"

"Don't fucking talk to me like that," he snarled, raising a hand menacingly, as if to slap her, before letting it fall back to his side.

"If you ever so much as even joke about hitting me ever again... " she trailed off.

"What?" he sneered at her threat.

"Just think of another way of keeping me in my place," she said coldly, "because that's not going to work." She pushed past him and made her way towards the bathroom. So she wasn't putty in his hands to mold anymore; she was developing a backbone. But he would heed her advice. He would find another way.