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Old 12-25-2017, 08:55 PM   #1
Vongola27
 
Join Date: Jan 2013
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Default The Superheavyweight Champion (BBW, XWG, Stuffing)

((Hey, everyone! Turns out there was one more gift under the Christmas tree, and it's a new story from yours truly! Hope that you enjoy it!))

It was the night of the Showdown Supreme, when all the top names in the Global Wrestling Federation came together in a battle for the ages. Title belts were placed on the line, friendships were made and ended, and bitter rivalries came to blows. The losers were sent home packing, while the winners had their names etched into the halls of history. And on the night of the thirty-fifth showdown, there was no greater winner than Mickey Ramone.

Yet she was depressed.

The end of the evening, teetering on 1 AM, found her soaking her aching body in a tub of ice. In the last six hours, she had defended her Women’s Intercontinental Belt against the lithe but brutal Shinobu Misawa, reclaimed the Women’s Tag Team Belts from the Strong Baddies with the help of her partner, KC Sky, and won the Women’s World Championship from her eternal rival, the conniving Sadie Storme. On top of that, she had to face off against the Storme Troop, Sadie’s goons who regularly ran interference on their matches. This meant having to fight off four other women, one of whom was a head taller than her and fifty pounds heavier. It was a hard-fought match that sapped every ounce of strength left in her body, but it was worth it to walk away with the Triple Crown of the GWF.

Mickey rolled her head forward and glanced down at her battered frame wrapped in sapphire spandex. There were bruises all over, especially a nasty one near her ribs, which she swore had been broken by the hard-hitting Shinobu. Her toned stomach and powerful legs appeared warped by the water and ice, and a tired chuckle escaped her lips. She could almost make out her face, where a nice shiner rested on her right eye and tape had gone over her nose to keep it from busting much more. At the very least, she could count her blessings that Sadie had not broken her neck with one of her infamous piledrivers.

“Checking out your battle scars?” asked the man in the chair beside her.

Raymundo Valdez was her manager and boyfriend, and the two had worked together ever since meeting in a small Georgia promotion ten years ago. He was a modest man just a hair or two shorter than her and a doughy body that belied his behind-the-scenes activity. Unlike some managers, who were more in it for the act and often got into the ring themselves, Ray chose to focus on his promo skills and making sure Mickey got the best. For being a shorter man in a big man’s world, he had no problem butting heads with creative whenever he felt that his girlfriend was not getting the work she deserved. It was that tenacity that made him a valuable asset in her career; Mickey could not imagine getting to Showdown without his help.

“Just keeping track of the damage,” she grunted as she shifted around in the tub. “I want to make sure I pay back that punta, Sadie, in full tomorrow night.”

Ray shook his head at that. There was no stopping Mickey and Sadie whenever their never-ending feud sparked up; you had a better chance of breaking up a cobra and a mongoose. He glanced over the young woman’s tan, bruised body, and sighed, “Just promise me you won’t sucker punch her with a roll of nickels in your fist again, okay?”

“Only if you can make sure she doesn’t come to the ring with a scalpel again,” Mickey scowled, her fingers instinctively going to the gnarly scar on her forehead. Just thinking about that sneaky taint got her blood boiling, which her boyfriend helped cool by adding a fresh bag of ice to the tub.

Their privacy was interrupted by a knock on the door. Mickey lolled her head over and called out, “Come on in!”

In walked one of the backstage technicians, specifically the man who helped change out the plates on the title belts. He walked over to the duo and presented three large belts to the Latina wrestler, who gestured for him to hand them to Ray. Drew, always a polite man, glanced over to Mickey and smiled. “Great job out there, Mickey. Been a long time since I’ve had the privilege of setting up a Triple Crown of belts.”

“Thanks, Drew,” she replied with a tired smile.

As the man left the room, Ray flashed the golden beauties to his lovely lady. They were all roughly the same design, but they each had their own features: the Intercontinental featured two wrestlers grappling with each other, the Tag Team had those same two wrestlers back to back, and the World Championship had the company logo etched in the center. Framing the center of the belts were black discs that displayed the letter M in barbed wire, which was part of Mickey’s logo.

“Says it right there in big, bold letters,” her eager manager remarked as he looked over the belts. “’MICKEY RAMONE’ looks right at home on them, don’t you think?”

When he peeked over for an answer, Mickey was not even looking at the belts. Instead, her gaze was fixed on a mirror across the room. Ray shouldered the hefty belts and tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, Mick…you okay?”

This shook her from her daze, and her focus returned to the belts, albeit with much less interest than he had anticipated. “Oh, yeah, awesome. New belts, yay.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “Something wrong?”

The punk girl sighed and covered her eyes. “I’m sorry, Ray; I don’t mean to come off as a coño. I’m just really tired of this.”

“Hey, I get it. You’ve had a long night, and you just want to get to the hotel and rest up.”

“No, no, it’s not just tonight,” she groaned. “It’s every night. We’ve been doing this for so long and I’ve gotten so many titles in that time, and I don’t know why, but I’m so tired of it all.”

That was something he never expected to hear from Mickey. As long as Ray had known her, she always had this fantastic love for the business that simply could not be matched. Of course, she would not be the first person to lose interest in the game, but why now, so suddenly? She must have read his mind, because when she turned to meet his eyes, she shook her head.

“I’m not saying I’m retiring or anything; you couldn’t drag me away from the ring. No, I’m just tired of winning the same sorts of titles over and over again, with the same gimmick. I’m the punk who defies the authority and meets any challenge because she doesn’t care if she lives or dies.”

He nodded and remarked, “Yeah, and the crowd love it.”

“For now, but if I’m bored of it, how long will it take until they turn on it too?”

“So what were you thinking?”

Mickey’s gaze returned to the mirror and she let her hand fall to her chin. “I’ve been thinking about my grandfather.”

Her grandfather was ‘Hog Wild’ Lou Ramone, a legend in the industry for a few reasons. First, he had a timeless look, wearing wrestling trunks under overalls and nothing else; second, he was one of the toughest S.O.B.s back in the day; third and most remarkable, he was close to six hundred and fifty pounds in his peak. Lou had been a blimp of a man who made up for zero agility by focusing on powerful blows and drops that seemed to make the arenas shake. He was literally one of the biggest men in the history of the business, let alone the GWF, and when he passed away just a year after Mickey was born, everyone in the company poured out for the funeral.

“What about him?” asked Ray.

She turned back to face him, the ice shifting around her powerful body, and replied, “I have won so many variations of the same belts: world titles, tag titles, intercontinental, cruiserweight, hardcore, and so on. I’m proud of my accomplishments, but I need something new to aspire to; I need to be a groundbreaker like my grandfather.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“The Superheavyweight Championship,” she answered with a grin.

When she was met with a confused look, she sighed and reached for her phone. Once in hand, she dug through her photos until she pulled up a picture of an old belt encased in glass. It was nowhere near as big as the belts of today, looking more like a tool belt than anything else, and it featured an embossed eagle with arrows in one claw and holly in the other.

“My grandfather regularly competed for this belt back in the day,” Mickey explained. “It was a special belt for a special category of wrestler: only those who weighed upwards of four hundred pounds could qualify. Lou held this title three times in his life and was the last man to win it before it was discontinued; this here is the original, still sitting on a shelf in our home.”

“So what, you want to bring the Superheavyweight Division back?” he asked, still not getting the picture.

Mickey shook her head. “I don’t just want to bring back the Superheavyweight Division: I want to be their champion!”

If it were anyone suggesting this, Ray would have laughed at how ridiculous it was. This was Mickey Ramone talking though, the same woman who once demanded she take a bump through a flaming table covered in barbed wire; after the C4 match at Fright Night 12, he knew she was deathly serious about stuff like this.

The flustered manager clapped his hands together and took a deep breath. “Okay, voice of reason time, mi princesa violenta. You’re talking about reviving a division that’s been dead for over forty years. You want to be the champion of said division, despite there being no other women wrestlers that come close to that weight class, including yourself. Hog Wild was over six hundred pounds in his prime; you’re about a fifth of that. Even if you could get corporate to sign off on this, you’d be taking a huge risk on this.”

As she languished in the tub with closed eyes, she murmured, “Thirty-five.”

“Come again?” Ray asked.

“That’s how many times you’ve told me that, Raymundo. Thirty-five times, you’ve told me I’d be taking a huge risk. And how often does it work out for me?”

He could not do the math, but he knew that she was more often right than wrong. Mickey was a risk-taker, but she did everything in her power to make things turn out in her favor.

“Ray, look at me,” she told him. When he looked to her bruised face, he swore that she had never looked so determined in her life. “This is what I want to do. I don’t care what anyone says, but I am going to be the Superheavyweight Champion.”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. There was no talking her out of this, not when she got into one of her moods; arguing with the creative department was easier than getting Mickey to change her mind.

“Fine, fine,” he relented. “I’ll get us a meeting with the boss and see what we can do for you. But I’ll tell you right now, Mick: Dave is going to say…”

***

“Not a chance in hell!”

It was the day after the Showdown, a few hours before Monday Night War. Mickey, who now wore a white tank-top, leather jacket, and torn jeans, and Ray, who wore a casual suit, sat on the other side of a table in Dave Ericson’s hotel room. Mr. Ericson was the owner of the whole GWF and had been for the last forty years, and it showed. He was closing in on seventy-five years old, his eyes were often bloodshot from working twenty-hour days, and his face was wrinkling like a raisin. At the same time, Dave had been on the juice for a good few years back in the day and still regularly worked out, which meant that he was still a tough man. On this day, the day after his most successful event of the year, he wore a dark suit that fit him like a glove.

“Let me tell you both something right now,” he grumbled as he carved up his steak and eggs. “I have heard some crazy ideas come my way; hell, I’ve even made up a few myself. This has got to take the cake though.”

“Is this really any crazier than the time you tried to run an incest angle involving yourself and your daughter?” asked Mickey with a sarcastic smirk.

Dave scowled at her, but Ray intervened before words could be exchanged. “Dave, we’ve got this figured out in a way that will allow us to make this happen; we spent all night planning this.”

“Then pretend I’m a mark and sell me on it,” the boss said to the manager.

Ray brought out a notepad that he had been scribbling on since that conversation in the early dawn. “First, we write Mickey off TV tonight with some injury, like a broken tail bone or quad; after last night’s beating, people will buy it and we can forfeit the titles. Next, we’ll have Mickey on a rigorous schedule that will balance out her gaining with exercise so that she’s not just getting fat; she’ll be getting strong too, like John Henry. The way we’ve got her schedule planned out now, we should have her up to about three hundred pounds by next year’s Beach Brawl, where she can make her big comeback and start building up to the title belt at Showdown the following spring.”

Dave sighed and put on his readers so he could look over the notepad. He perused the scribbles, nodding here and shaking his head there, and when he finally put it down, his frown remained. “So what I’m getting is that you want to keep our top name in the Women’s Division on the bench for two years?”

“That’s about how long it would take us to get to the appropriate weight for the belt,” Ray explained.

“We’re not doing that,” the owner disapproved. “The only reason I’d let that happen is if you had a legit injury, but I’m not keeping you off TV for two years.”

Ray was about to make another attempt, but Mickey stepped in. “Dave, I totally get where you’re coming from: you don’t want to lose a hot commodity and all the merch that comes with it, especially for so long. But I am going to do this with or without the GWF. Believe you me, I am sure that there are a lot of promotions that would eat up something like this. Who knows? Maybe I’ll bring take it to the BCW in Osaka, the HCW in London, or, Heaven help you, TNW.”

If there was one thing Dave hated, it was losing talent to other promotions, particularly Total Nonstop Wrestling. He furrowed his brow at the pair across from him before sliding the notepad back to them. “All right, you can do the Superheavyweight angle, but you will follow my conditions.”

He raised his fingers one by one as he fired off the terms. “First, when you come back, I will be booking you against the men; they’re the only ones I’ve got over three-hundred pounds, and I’m not about to fatten up anyone else in your division. Second, you will legitimately win every match; submissions or pinfalls, but no interference. Lastly, you will gain the appropriate weight by next Showdown; you get that big in a year, or I will send you back down to developmental until you’re back to your billing weight now.”

Ray’s jaw dropped as he struggled to put together the numbers in his head. There was no way Mickey could gain that much weight so fast; it was physically impossible. Yet the punk princess only looked to Mr. Ericson with that same determination she had the night before. She was not going to run from such rigid challenges, not when she had her foot in the door.

“Deal,” she agreed as she reached out to shake her boss’s hand. Dave returned the favor with a smirk of his own, though whether it was cockiness or admiration, no one could say.

“Now, do we have any other business, or can I get back to my breakfast?” the owner asked the duo.

Mickey looked down at the decadent dish on the table. There was a hearty strip of steak, a small pile of scrambled eggs, a foot’s worth of sausage links, and what seemed like a whole potato in hash. She looked back up to her boss and grinned.

“Just one last question—how fast can room service get here?”
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Old 12-26-2017, 05:08 PM   #2
tomboy27
 
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Great start - can’t wait to see where this goes.
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Old 12-30-2017, 01:34 PM   #3
Greg The Vet
 
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Love it! As an ex-elite athlete myself this one stirs a few personal kink embers...
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Old 01-15-2018, 09:30 PM   #4
Vongola27
 
Join Date: Jan 2013
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Default Chapter 2

Mickey deserved an award for how she sold her injuries to the crowd that Monday night. When she came out, she struggled to make it to the ring; Raymundo had to carry her belts for her. She talked about how thankful she was for getting the chance to compete on the biggest stage of all, and how if she had to, she would wreck herself all over again. But the medical staff in the GWE had deemed her unable to compete and defend her championships; she would need to take time off for lengthy surgeries and physical therapy. Then, and only then, would she walk back out and reclaim her titles.

It was all scripted, of course, but only a few people backstage were privy to the truth; even the locker room was convinced. La Princesa Violenta was showered with well wishes, apologies, and praise for being so tough. The girls were especially compassionate, right down to the normally stoic Shinobu, who broke into tears when she thought she had gone overboard; Mickey almost let the truth out just so the poor girl would not feel so bad. Only one woman in the locker room brushed her off, and that was Sadie Storme.

This was to be expected: the two had been engaged in an on-off feud for years, ever since they were in developmental, and unlike most feuds, which were just an act, their heat was very real. It all stemmed from one of their earliest matches together, when the ever-stiff Sadie had broken two of Mickey’s ribs without so much as an apology; in return, when she came back, the punk returned the favor by legitimately breaking the brawler’s ankle in a folding chair. Ever since those fateful bouts, the two had constantly tried to beat the holy hell out of each other, as if they were living in a cat and mouse cartoon.

“Admit it, Sado,” Mickey called out to the blonde brute, “you’re going to miss me when I’m gone."

Sadie turned her nose up as she laced her sky blue boots. “I’ll only miss getting the chance to killing you on live TV. So, in that case, get well soon or whatever.”

“Love you too, bitch.”

As soon as she bid farewell to everyone, Mickey hobbled along as if going out to her car, but once Ray and she were far enough away, they made for an office in the stadium. Standing in the room were the Ericsons: Dave; his son, Lane; his daughter, Amanda; her husband, Triple Threat. The top physician on staff, Dr. Nancy du Pont, was at the head of the pack.

Nancy, an older woman in her fifties, waved to Mickey as the young athlete strode into the office. “Hey there, Mickey. Heck of a performance out there; I haven’t seen that many sad fans since Blade had to retire early.”

“That’s just what I do,” the former champion shrugged. “And I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t get the piss kicked out of me.”

“Well, not for a year now. We’ll get some base measurements so we have something to go off of, and then we’ll discuss some diet and exercise plans you can follow. Hop up on the scale and we’ll get started.”

Mickey shed her boots, leather jacket, and studded belt before stepping onto the digital scale. The numbers flickered for a moment before solidifying into a very visible ‘125 lbs’.

After plugging the numbers into a tablet, Nancy told the eager wrestler, “All righty, Mick, that’s good. Let’s get your height checked out now.”

The two walked over to a measuring stick by the wall while the onlookers conversed among themselves. Amanda Ericson turned to Ray and remarked in a stern voice, “I seriously can’t believe you two are going ahead with this plan. Do you have any idea what that’s going to do to my Women’s Division?”

“It’ll give some of your other ladies a chance to shine,” Ray answered with barely a passing glance to his boss. Amanda was the commissioner of War, the GWF’s Monday night program, and for all her talk of doing what was best for business, it was clear that she had her favorites. Sadie Storme was one of the biggest bullies behind the scenes and stiffest workers, but because she sucked up to management, she was a perennial golden girl. Were it not for Mickey’s ability to draw in a crowd, his girlfriend would likely never have made it.

“Yeah, well, let’s hope that your little experiment pays off,” Triple Threat grunted as he furrowed his brow. Once a major player in the company, Levi Hunter was now a part-time wrestler, full-time manager of the War brand, which meant he still got plenty of time on TV. The burly brute towered over almost everyone in the room and wore a suit that barely contained his hulking muscles. He cut the most imposing figure in meetings, considering that any other retired wrestler still with the company was older and out of shape.

The Latino manager narrowed his gaze at Triple Threat, knowing full well all the dirty tricks the man kept in his pocket. There was a reason why fans believed Levi had a golden shovel in his office, and it was not because he had used it to break ground. Ray turned his attention back to Mickey and replied, “So long as you don’t bury her right out of the gate, we’ll be aces.”

Nancy interrupted the conversation with her announcement of Mickey’s height. “Right now, Mickey is at a solid five feet, seven inches.”

“All bad-ass,” the punk girl quipped as she stepped away from the wall. “Now for the boring stuff, right?”

“It’ll only take a moment,” the physician reassured her. “I can’t do everything I need here, so for now, we’ll just check your blood pressure, draw some blood; all the stuff that doesn’t come up on your billing.”

Mickey walked over to a bench to get the technical work over with, and the conversing resumed. The only positive voice was Lane Ericson, Amanda’s older brother and commissioner of Tuesday Night Madhouse. He was just a couple years into his fifties and remained quite fit for someone who did not actively wrestle, but he already had a full head of gray hair. On top of that, outside of Mickey and Nancy, he was the only one not dressed up; he opted for a polo shirt, a pair of decent jeans, and some basketball shoes.

“Hey, I think it’s a great idea,” the fatherly man remarked. “I still remember one of the earliest shows I ever attended, where ‘Hog Wild’ Ramone went up against King Hank for the Superheavyweight title. It was amazing as a kid to see these behemoths go up against each other, like a rhino and a hippo having a stand-off.”

His father grunted as he crossed his arms. “It was a mockery of the sport, and the first thing to go when I took charge of the company.”

Lane rolled his eyes before continuing. “If you guys weren’t already signed to War, I’d have brought you over to Madhouse in a heartbeat.”

“You might just get her when this is over,” Amanda huffed. “When this experiment falls apart and she has to go back to developmental, I’ll be damned if I have her on my show again. Assuming she ever manages to lose all the weight she gains, that is.”

“Kind of a negative attitude you’ve got there, boss lady; you’re acting like I’ve already thrown in the towel. Not very inspirational,” Mickey remarked as she walked over to the group, a fresh bandage on her arm from where Nancy had drawn blood.

Ray clapped his hands to try and keep the two from going at it as they had done in the past. “All right, it’s been a long night, but we’re almost done. Now we just need to get some ‘before’ photos and we’ll officially start this whole crazy year!”

While Amanda gave the stink-eye to her least favorite employee, the group adjusted so they were facing the far wall of the room, where a make-shift photo shoot was set up. Ray went behind the camera and beckoned for Mickey to step out in front of the white sheet. The punk princess strut out in front of the group and composed herself.

For this last show before her break began, the all-star wrestler wore a pair of blue and black tights and a matching sports bra; she completed the look by lacing up her boots and strapping on her spiked belt. She threw her black hair back and shook it out into a wilder look rather than the tidied appearance she had for her announcement.

“All right, princesa, just do your thing,” the stout manager said as he started snapping pictures.

Mickey smirked as she knelt to one side and flexed, flaunting biceps that were tight and powerful. She chuckled as she remarked, “Can’t wait to see these pythons go to pot. I’m gonna have the biggest arms in wrestling, ‘cept for the fact they’ll be big ol’ bingo wings.”

The jokes earned at least one audible groan from Amanda, while the rest shook their heads in disgust and, in Lane’s part, mirth. And there were more to come, as every pose seemed to elicit some quip from Mickey about how her gain would impact it.

“When we bring back the belt, Dave, you’re going to want it extra-wide; something tells me the normal belts won’t fit around my hips by then.”

“I might have to work on my leg drops for my return, because I’m picturing them being big as my waist right about now. Can you imagine me coming down on someone with that much power?”

“Guess I’ll need to upgrade my wardrobe too, because I’m pretty sure this stuff will tear the second I try and slide it on.”

Dave coughed as he stepped up to Ray and grunted, “Are we about done with this farce? I’ve got to make plans for tomorrow, and they don’t include throwing away good talent.”

“Just need to get a couple more pictures, and we’ll be good to go,” the cameraman replied.

Mickey looked out to the group and said, “Hey, I’ve got an idea. How about we get the last couple with me and Amanda? Get a little comparison going on between the two of us.”

All eyes fell on the Little Rich Girl, who shrugged her shoulders and shucked off her jacket. “I’d love to, if only so I can make a point of how stupid this is.”

When she sauntered out in front of the white screen, arms bare and ample cleavage exposed, Ray returned to snapping pictures. Amanda was a few years past forty and not a wrestler, but she could have fooled anyone with her physique; she looked like she could easily go for a while in the squared circle. Her flexed biceps were even thicker than Mickey’s and, though her skirt hid them, she had powerful legs befitting one of the top women in the industry. She also had sizeable breasts that were not entirely natural, but no one was going to say that to her face.

As they posed for the camera with a flex-off and standing back to back, the boss whispered to Mickey, “I can’t emphasize how much I think this is worthless.”

“Pretty sure you’ve made that quite clear, but enlighten me,” the punk retorted with a roll of her eyes.

“We’ve set you on top of the world, and you’re going to throw that away just to be, what, a gimmick act? You must have hit your head harder than I thought, because you’re not that stupid.”

Mickey sneered as they turned to face each other, with the wrestler having to look up into her boss’s eyes, thanks to Amanda’s staggering heels. “The only thing that’s stupid is sitting on something that could net you a new audience and some increased exposure.”

“You know why we did away with the Superheavyweight Championship?” asked Amanda as she tried her best to assert her authority over the punk. “The same reason we did away with midget wrestling, mud wrestling, and sumo wrestling: no one wants to watch it; all the audience sees is a joke, a comedy act. We finally have a respectable business, and you trying to do this only jeopardizes everything we’ve worked for.”

The comment made Mickey’s eye twitch, as it was just like management to blame any faults in the company on the wrestlers. She stood up to her boss and furrowed her brow as she replied, “The only reason those were perceived as a joke is because you wrote them as such. You want people to take this stuff seriously? Give the same care and attention you do to the rest of your roster, and the audience will come.”

The two continued to have a stare-off until Ray announced he was finished, at which point both ladies donned their jackets and rejoined their significant others. An awkward silence hung between the group until Lane broke it by saying, “Well, it’s been a long night, and I think we should all break.”

“Agreed,” Dave nodded as he adjusted his suit. He looked to Mickey with a stern gaze and told her, “Remember, I want weekly updates and quarterly check-ins; the second you slip, we’re squashing this angle.”

“You got it, chief,” the punk girl replied with a mock salute.

As he left the room, Amanda and Triple Threat made their goodbyes. The Little Rich Girl fixed her eyes on Mickey and told her, “Remember what I said, Ramone. Think about what you’re going to do to this company.”

“I’ll reconsider this as soon as you stop feeding prospective talent to your husband,” was Mickey’s retort.

The power couple left with hateful glares, and right behind them was Nancy. She watched as they left and shook her head. “Some people just can’t be civil.”

“Eh, I’m used to it from them,” Mickey shrugged. She pat the physician on the shoulder and told her, “Thanks for everything tonight, Nance.”

Nancy smiled and said, “You’re welcome, Mickey. And just between you and me, I think this sounds like a cool angle. I’ll be looking forward to working with you on it.”

When she left the room with her tools, it left Lane with Team Ramone. The fatherly man cracked his neck from side to side before asking, “So, who wants to get something to eat? I know a great all-night diner not too far from here.”

Ray and Mickey shared a look before the wrestler nodded eagerly. “Lead the way, Lane.”

***

The end of the night found the duo sitting in a booth at a retro-styled diner with checker-pattern floors, shiny wood furnishings all over, and a refurbished jukebox spewing golden oldies. Lane had to leave almost as soon as they arrived; something about tomorrow night’s Madhouse. He apologized but promised to pay for their dinner, as well as visit them next time he were heading out to New Mexico.

As she listened to Nat King Cole croon, Mickey dipped a steak fry into the last of her chocolate milkshake and took a big bite out of it. She let out a warm sigh of content as she leaned back in her seat and rubbed her stomach. The punk girl looked to her boyfriend and told him, “I can’t think of the last time I was able to eat like this, especially after a show. And I get to eat like this for an entire year? God, I should have pitched them this idea ages ago!”

“It’s not all going to be meals on the boss’s dime, babe,” Ray reminded the girl. “We’re going to do a lot of cooking from home; don’t worry, I’ve been looking up some new recipes. On top of that, we’re going to have to follow a strict schedule so we’ll be able to meet your goal weight in time. Put simply, you won’t be eating for pleasure or sustenance; it’s going to be a challenge, just like exercising.”

She waved off the naysaying with another steak fry, this one doused in ketchup. “We can worry about that tomorrow; tonight, we’re going to celebrate the first night of our new routine.”

He looked down at his own meal, a modest chicken sandwich with coleslaw on the side, and chuckled, “Yeah, I guess we should just take it easy.”

“Exactly! So let’s worry about all the work it’s going to take some other time,” Mickey grinned as she reached her foot out under the table and rubbed Ray’s shin. “Because after we get back to the hotel, I am going to show you how grateful I am for making this happen…”
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