L.A. at night. It's a toddlin' town.

"Do you know what time it is?" Poppy asks, just to break the ice: she's uncomfortable with the extended silence, and the brunette seems like she's in a trance. The woman shrugs, half-smiling, lifting her wrist as if to say: I'm sitting here in my underwear too, idiot. Poppy chuckles. Ask a stupid question...

Poppy steals glances, measuring the woman in the chair. Older, definitely, but holding her own against father time. Red cotton two piece, but that's a house thing: neither woman dressed herself tonight. Long, full bodied coffee colored locks, light on the cream. Arresting cheek bones and a little button nose that must've been heartbreaking in the woman's prime. Killer, killer curves - the woman's all hips and breasts, shoulders and thighs and ass. Poppy lingers too long: the woman catches her watching, smiles. Awkward, but friendly enough.

"I've seen your show," the woman offers. "You're really good, Poppy."

"We got renewed," Poppy shrugs, she's losing her Aussie accent, but it's there, a soft drawl at the edge of her voice.

"Let me guess: this is 'your year'?" There's that half smile again, like the woman can read Poppy's mind. Montgomery's agent had used that very phrase just last week.

Poppy grins at the recollection. "So they say. It's exciting."

"I remember. From what I can see, you deserve it. Enjoy it." The way the woman says it, Poppy can hear the unspoken "...while it lasts".

"You look..." Poppy pauses, then rushes on, "you look amazing. I'm sorry, but they didn't tell me..."

"Paula," the woman smiles again: dark eyes, arching brows. "Paula Trickey. Go easy on me, okay?"

There's a knock on the door - like a doctor tapping before entering an examination room - and a turtlenecked dork with big black-rimmed glasses pokes his close-cropped head in. "They're ready for you," he says. Poppy swallows hard as her heart rate picks up...

* * * *

Poppy punches Paula in the stomach: a plugging right hand, flat to paunch, Poppy leaning in close, back straight. Trickey grimaces like she's disappointed, grunting forward - Poppy rides her left arm across the woman's upper back and drives another right hand into her firm paunch. Another. Another. Trickey finally goes to one knee, hugging her battered midsection, huffing and puffing, wet-dark hair clammy in her eyes. It's been back and forth, but Paula's tiring, slowing. Poppy likes a slower pace anyway, likes to take her time and do things right. She reaches into Paula's long espresso locks, feeling the damp cool in her fists, and tugs the woman back to her feet, slides her into a side headlock, gives her a long, muscular pump. Poppy licks her lips, braces her feet wide - she's breaking Paula down and looking good: just like everyone wanted. "When you get her hurt, show her off," her agent's always saying. Poppy steps Paula around, feeling Trickey's left arm across her lower back, the right hand probing firm blonde midsection.

It's not the first time Paula's been in a headlock. Squirming suddenly, she pushes Poppy forward, sending the blonde staggering into the crowd. Montgomery pushes blonde hair out of her face as she turns, eyes flashing - she rushes back in with an overhand right: Paula blocks it with a high left, answers back a short-clouting right on the chin. Poppy's jerked a quarter turn to her right, staggering away wobbly-butt, right hand on her outraged jaw: Paula snarling, walks her down from behind. They've done a fair amount of this tonight - pounding away standing up, taking turns - it's getting downright mindless at this point. Paula's left hand takes a hold of black waistband at the back, tugging Poppy in reverse - Paula catches Poppy a blunt right hand in the lower back: hard fist/forearm sounding out bright against tight back meat. High sobbing cry from the blonde: she drops to her knees, face cramped with pain, left hand clutching at her kidney. Paula moves in quickly, straddling the downed blonde and sitting into her back.

Camel Clutch: expertly propping Poppy's arms over either brunette thigh, Trickey clasps her hands under blonde chin and hauls back. Blonde hair is trapped in the grip, bowing out either side of Poppy's head. Montgomery's breath comes in equine huffs and snorts, her lips quivering and snivelling. Paula's face is hard with concentration, eyes squinting. She's patient, Paula is, content to let her weight do it's slow, grinding work on Poppy. After about a minute for Paula - a day for Poppy - Trickey's able to shift Poppy belly-down to the canvas. Now brunette reaches in to choke with her left arm, pulling up on Poppy's throat. Blonde gurgling, propped up on her elbows - she reaches up with her left hand to claw at Paula's shoulder, feeling the strength of it. This is a bad fix, no mistake. Trickey nibbles her lower lip as she works, throttling her foe, bending her, grinding away on her.

Early on, Poppy'd pretty much had her own way. Faster than Paula, more lithe. She'd been able to trap Trickey in a series of standing arm bars, tugging on the shoulder joint, pulling Paula around the room by one or the other limb. They'd both punched hard and effectively to the ribs and tummy, temporarily stunning the opponent, but Poppy had gotten the better of it; her ax-handle smashes - big overhand blows, both hands clasped together over her head - delivered beefy to Trickey's back, hadn't done Paula any good at all. Paula's eyes had taken on a glazed, hollow sheen in those moments, reeling around the room, getting roughed up. With Paula hugging her midsection and stumble-bumming around, Poppy felt like the queen of the world. It had been hard work, harder than expected, harder than they'd said it would be, but Poppy had felt like the boss. Afterall, Trickey was just there to make Montgomery look good. It was Poppy's year, not Paula's. Everyone said so.

Poppy's tired, shuddering beneath Paula and Trickey eases off. Releasing her choke, Paula gets up off Poppy, shaking out her arms, pushing her hair back behind her ears. Poppy's hurt, trembling on her stomach, pushing up on her elbows, trying to rally. Paula stalks around, hands on hips, catching her breath, biding her time as wheezing Poppy gets to all fours, then brunette steps in, catching blonde ribs a thudding boot. Poppy cries out, rolls onto her back, knees up, arms hugging her body, face clenched tight in agony.

Paula licks her lips, glaring down with hardhearted eyes that have seen so much, and she knows something Poppy doesn't. Paula knows that at some point on L.A. carpet, a wrestling bout turns into a beating. Always. Because that's what this business is all about. If it were just about winning, Paula could get a three count right now.

"Get her Paula!" Someone shouts.

They're starting to remember her name. She owes it to them to make this as vivid as possible. She starts with Poppy's legs - those curvy, fleshy thighs - grabbing the blonde by an ankle, extending the limb, then sitting down heavily inside the quad. Again. Again. And again. Big booming thuds shake the room, rousing hoots and applause from the audience. Poppy's groaning, reaching to push at Paula's shoulder - it's all "go-away" body language now from the blonde, no more "come here."

Paula stands, surveys her work hands on hips, pursing her lips as poor Poppy clutches at the throbbing left thigh, head sadly back on the carpet. Paula knows something else Poppy doesn't, or at least didn't before this evening: you can get so hurt on apartment carpet that you literally forget to quit. Paula's been there. She's not particularly sympathetic.

Trickey kneels down beside Poppy's right hip. Workmanlike, she reaches across to Monty's left hip, tugging and muscling the girl onto her right side. Groans from Poppy - throaty and moist - whatever Paula's got in mind, Poppy doesn't want any. Trickey leans in, her legs out behind her, her chest heavy atop Poppy's left hip, her left hand taking snug purchase of the seat of Poppy's trunks. SHUMP! Paula buries her right fist in the quivering mound of Poppy's paunch, feeling the cringe shake through the blonde's body, hearing that breathy moan. Paula shifts her weight, spreading her legs a little wider for balance, cuddling in on that hip to keep the tummy up off the carpet. Poppy tries to draw her knee in: Paula just eases the legs away with the back of her right hand, then drives in another short, abrupt pump. Again. Again. Again. Again. Thick, pulsing blows, each one sending tired little tremors through Poppy's used-up frame. Blonde's upperbody is twisted into the carpet, her left palm flat against shag, her mouth open, eyes shut in astonished agony. Paula keeps pumping 'em in because the crowd's still cheering. Still calling her name.

Paula gets up off Poppy, sits back on her haunches as Poppy curls up fetal on her side. Trickey's breathing hard, shiny with sweat, but it's a good sweat - an ass-kicking sweat, not a getting-tuned-up sweat like Poppy's. Poppy moans, rocking gently on her side and Paula leans in, pushing blonde gently to her back, then going for the breast smother. Incredibly, Poppy's still got signs of life - lights are still on as she gets her hands on Paula's shoulders and fights off impending doom. Fumbling and straining to lock in the snuggle, Paula finally rolls away, cheeks ruddy with frustration.

Afterwards, Paula knows they'll criticize the leg drops - they'll call them "overkill" and they'll say Poppy was out of it, helpless. But as Paula lifts her rounded right leg and sits heavily down across Poppy's heaving chest, brunette knows she has to soften blonde up. Some chick in the audience hoots "WOOO!" as Paula's perfect backside crushes down onto blubbering Montgomery with a room-rattling crash - blonde lying straight out, arms at her side, face tear-stained and slack from punishment. Poppy's head lolls piteously side to side - her lips part, mumbling dazed protestations, but Paula doesn't hear a submission. Trickey rolls to kneel on her left knee, pushing heavily up off her right thigh to stand, snapping her trunks into position as she prepares to give Poppy the next leg drop. It's good work if you can get it, and Paula's got all she can handle.

Mumbling incoherently, moaning and whimpering, Poppy nevertheless wriggles and squirms away from Paula's jug-smother yet again. Trickey's lips clamp in an irritated line across her beautiful face. She has no choice: she's got to pull Poppy to her feet by her hair and her trunks and she's got to throw the ragdoll blonde onto the bed for a series of brawny hugs. There's just no other way. So be it.

Now, some voices in the crowd start calling for the fight to be stopped, but they're few and far between. Most are crowding in for a better look, because they'd forgotten how good Paula is with the hugging. She takes Poppy from behind, lying on her left side with the blonde spooned into her lap, suffering and panting from the rugged grip at her belly. Poppy pushes down on Paula's wrists while turning her face into the cream-colored sheets to smother her cries.

Trickey takes Poppy from behind, sitting the blonde between her legs at the edge of the bed. She's clinching up high on the torso, smudging up Montgomery's healthy jugs into twin bulging loaves of crushed breast meat. Poppy sobs, drops her head back onto Paula's right shoulder, blonde throat bared in supplication, her fists pulling at the bedspread.

Trickey attacks from either side, moving in on her knees to bear Poppy down onto the bed again and again. Blonde's wailing and moaning is feeble, warbling - she's too exhausted to scream. Paula just keeps at it - wrapping up that belly, cinching up those ribs, getting on top of Poppy and making her take the weight. This time, when Paula moves her chest into position across Poppy's face - the blonde is receptive: her eyes closed, eyebrows arched high, mouth open. Paula reaches in behind the damp blonde head to snuggle it up proper, crouching on her haunches as she straddles Montgomery, pinning the blonde to bed. There's some pushing at Paula's ribs, some plaintive pulling at the back of her bra-top and shoulders, but it's all too weak to stop the inevitable. Paula just stays in there snug, riding out the last of Poppy's struggles until the blonde lies still beneath her. Sitting back at last, her buttocks heavy against Poppy's tummy, Paula wipes her mouth with the back of her right hand, staring into Poppy's breast-dampened face.