Bristol, Tennessee

The blacktop cries as Clutch tears it up, her muscle car bullying its way down the Tennessee highway with speed complementing its size. A cop spills his coffee in his lap and chokes his donut as she blows past him so fast that it breaks his radar gun. He peels out, cussing, chasing.

Clutch notices the faint speckle of blue and red lights in her rearview. She can easily lose him. Checking her watch, she realizes she has time to spare and slows enough that he almost catches up. She suddenly J-Turns, spinning her car in a reverse 180. The policeman’s eyes grow past their limits as Clutch is now driving in reverse right beside him, driver to driver, their windows down.

He barks orders. Clutch chugs a White Claw darlingly, then Nolan Ryan fastballs into his face. “ Better have a hemi in that thang, hun.” She J-Turns again and guns it down the highway. To the officer’s credit, he keeps within eyeing distance of her, hollering into his radio for assistance.

Clutch knows she might not completely shake them in time for her meeting with XXXVI shortly, so she’ll have to do a drive-by. A few miles away, XXXVI is oblivious to all of this as he steps out of his rental, collects his bags, and checks his cellphone. He fires a few texts, then steps across the hotel parking lot where he’s set to meet Clutch. 

Suddenly, a car barrels toward him, spinning. The passenger door opens, and he’s sucked in like dirt into a vacuum. 



“No time to explain, partner! I’m Clutch!” The wild-eyed woman yaks in her thick Tennessee accent.

XXXVI, having been through many unimaginable things, is still unprepared for the chaos. “A pleasure,” He coughs out, dropping his bags. “Call me Thirty-six.”

“Peep this, sugar,” Clutch boasts as she slaps paper across his chest. He’s still reeling from the clusterfuck that just happened, but what immediately catches his eyes is the tag-team strategy scribbled in misspelled words. It’s written in crayon, and there’s a drawing of the XWF ring, ABC-style strategy points, and four stick figures, hastily drawn, representing all the participants.

“Lady Clutch, this is all…Nice? Sweet? I know my way around a ring, and as it happens, I’ve acquired a championship recently.” He produces the Revolution title from a bag to show it to his new tag partner.

Without missing a beat, still driving at high speeds to lose the cop, she places a finger over his mouth. “Shh…no time for all that poppycock! We’ve got to make like 4-H and win a pig race!”

Soon they’re on the highway again. More cops are on her tail. She checks the sky. “They ain’t got the choppers out yet, we’re good, darlin’.” The remark is little comfort for XXXVI. “Hope ya wore your shittin’ britches today,” she adds before activating a NOS switch on the console. The car ROCKETS so fast down the highway that the frame shakes and the other vehicles become balls of color as they fly by.

“Jesus!” XXXVI’s butthole puckers, hand on the oh-shit bar. He notices the peaceful smile on her face as her chest is pressed against the vibrating steering wheel and marvels at the calm she has.

After shaking the cops off her, she takes an exit and cuts through backroads. “Aight, whatcha think bout my tag-strategy? I think I did some master fuckin’ tact-tish-anning. You’re the champ, experienced. I’m the rookie, so you knock Summer’s tits into the dirt, and I handle the transvestite Madison Dyson. I think if you use a new move like that Heart Punch on Summer’s tit, it will explode the silicone and she’ll have to bail. It’ll be two on one then.” She places a finger on the paper he’s holding, then taps her temple like she’s the smartest girl in the whole wide world.

“It’s certainly a strategy. Also, thanks for losing the police back there. I’m wanted at the moment.”

“Dafuq for?” A brow darts.

“Murder. Arson.” He continues listing off the charges as her eyes widen. Noticing this, he reassures her… “Ha! Gotcha.”

“Whew!” Clutch gulps, thankful he’s joking. Poor girl. “So, uh, our match.”

“If XWF’s taught me anything, it’s that you shouldn’t underestimate anyone. You’re new. Arroyo is new, but that makes you unpredictable. Summer’s already pinned me, so it’ll be tough.”

“Nuh-uh! Marisol pinned you.”

“They both did.”

“Ref gave it to Summer cause she’s spoiled. She’s gotten shitloads of title shots all the way back to Madness.”

“She earned them, and it’s worrisome that she’s earned a shot at my title.”

“GAH-HA!” She guffaws. “Shiiiiiiiit, she’s choked in title matches every fuckin’ time, sugar. Anarchy, Revolution, X-Division, Idl, U.S., Gemini, Tag, she even lost the Madness Walk of Fame match. She was Syn’s and Myra’s personal Latoya Hixx.”

“We’re not Syn and Myra, Clutch.”

“She’s the goshdamn Jim Kelley of the XWF, then, partner!”

“Who?”

“A Bills quarterback. Went to four straight Super Bowls and lost 'em all.”

“That also means she’s consistent. She was Trios champion, mind you.”

“Carried by Mosh and Privileged Elite. Did my homework, hun. They ain’t with her anymore, so if she does have a weakness now, it’s tags.” 

“Regardless, Summer’s skilled, and if Arroyo’s linked to Dyson, he’ll be more trouble than the average rookie. We’ll need to find the perfect balance to achieve victory.”

“Gotcha, sugarbooger.” She winks, drifts dirt, and pulls into the dump she was born in.



The Backwoods Bombshell gets out, gesturing to the ring that’ll aid their training.



XXXVI examines the ‘ring’ and considers the tetanus shot he may need afterward. “Lady Cassidy, what a wonderful makeshift ring you’ve created; magnificent doesn’t begin to describe it. But might I suggest we continue this training at my compound in Australia? Get the cops off you, too.”

She gasps happily. “Fuck yeah, dude! Ain’t never been outside the states, hell, barely been outside Ten-Uh-See!”

TBC in RP#2