Michelle Trachtenberg vs. Heidi Montag by Jackflash
"Honestly, are you kidding me?" the brunette inquires incredulously.
"Do I sound like I'm kidding?" the dapper gentleman replied.
Craning her neck left and right, eyes scanning the room, the young woman warily asks, "Am I being Punk'd again?"
The man sitting across the desk gives a small chuckle. Anticipating this response, he made a special point of presenting the offer in person, rather than over the phone. Moments like this are just too priceless to pass up. "I assure you, the challenge is entirely legitimate. I suspect the boyfriend...husband...whatever he is this week, is the driving force behind all of this. He's quite a fan of the, ahem, sport, and I'm sure he's salivating at the prospect of having his own catfighter at hand. I suspect they may even be entertaining some notions of trying to develop a new reality television series out of it...which, they will swiftly discover, would violate the understood rules here in Hollywood, and would never get beyond the pitch meeting."
"Yeah," the brunette mused, "the high 'n mighty around town aren't about to let their favorite private hobby go public, just for the sake of another flavor of the month MTV show." She, like her fellow combatants in the elite underground catfight circle, fully appreciated the code of silence that spared the general public from knowing of their 'extracurricular activities'. Finding out their favorite starlets dressed in bikinis and pummeled one another would certainly titillate more than a few, but it also wouldn't play well with a lot of Middle America, which could mean box office death for any of them. Besides, there was something delicious about the fact that she and so many other of Hollywood's most beautiful females battled one another privately, and that it was never known by the public at large.
"So," the man probed, "you're interested?"
A pause, and then, with a chuckle: "Sure, what the hell...ought to be good for some laughs anyway, right?"
And that was how Michelle Trachtenberg came to accept Heidi Montag's challenge to battle.
"Finished yet, babe?" Spencer absent-mindedly asked. He had trained himself to ask the same question every ten minutes or so, without really thinking about it. Instead, the locus of his attention was trained on his Blackberry, as it had been for much of the day.
The object of his inquiry had spent much of the day preparing for the evening's event. That entailed getting a massage and spa treatment...with manicure and pedicure, of course...having her makeup applied, and having her hair done. All that was left now was to decide from among the several designer bikinis she had spread across the bed. She finally, after great consideration, opted for a powder blue one-piece that criss-crossed across her chest.
Donning the garb, she emerged from the bedroom to show herself off to her paramour. "Well," Heidi cooed, "hot or not?" She twirled herself around in order to give him a 360 degree view.
"Definitely smokin', babe!" Spencer said, eyes narrowing appreciatively. "And that 'ki really shows off your butt fantastically."
"Everybody always talks about Trachtenberg's ass like it's all that," the blond sneers with a roll of her eyes. "I can't wait until they all get a load of this Chunky Brewster," she says with a coy smile as she places her hands on her posterior. Then, features twisting into a scowl of uncertainty, she plaintively asks, "Spence, her ass isn't better than mine, is it?"
He knows he needs to respond with words of assurance immediately, before she even gets the last syllable out. But still, the young man's mind carries him back to the memory of the match he was privileged to witness between Michelle Trachtenberg and Kristen Kreuk, and of how he personally saw the truth in the Hollywood adage that Michelle's derriere was like 'twin pears from a tree in Heaven'. The recollection if fleeting, only the space of a heartbeat or two...but that's enough of a delay for Heidi's voice to suddenly turn surly.
"Spencer?" she snaps, less a question than a statement of threat.
"Wha-? Oh, uh, no way, babe...your ass is the finest anywhere! Hers doesn't even compare." He's pretty sure he sounds convincing, although his mind is still lingering on the memory of what some aficionados call the "MT Train Caboose".
Relatively mollified by the affirmation, the blond regains her cheerful composure and continues. "Anyway, her little boy-boobs don't compare with my girls, now do they?" She cups each breast and proudly holds them up for viewing. "Best tits money can buy," Spencer mutters under his breath. Not that he was complaining...especially since he wasn't the one who had to pay for them.
Heidi was most definitely looking forward to tonight. When Spencer had told her what a career boost this could be, she jumped at the chance to wrestle. There would be some real movers and shakers in the audience tonight, and a win over Trachtenberg, she was assured, would catapult her up the ranks. And winners in the exclusive catfight league were known to benefit from the largesse of appreciative producers and directors who enjoyed the elite spectacle.
To prepare, she studied a bit with a trainer, but essentially she figured she could just rely on her natural instincts and talents. Plus, Spencer told her that Trachtenberg was bound to underestimate her, and that would give the blond an edge.
Looking herself over in the mirror yet again, Heidi pursed her lips and then gave a small, indulgent smile. She was going to win tonight, alright...and she was gonna look damned fine doing it, too.
Michelle sat in front of the vanity mirror, applying her lip gloss. Garbed in the lavender bikini she had picked for tonight, she considered wearing her hair up, holding it back for a few moments with one hand, then decided to let it fall free.
She was in a relaxed mood...which should have disturbed her. Going into a match with such an attitude could prove dangerous. Still, she couldn't help but laugh at the thought of Heidi Montag challenging her. Seriously...Heidi frickin' Montag. Anticipating a quick fight, Trachtenberg was considering which club she would hit later in the evening for some post-victory revelry.
Then, a soft knock on the door is heard, and her agent's voice asks, "You decent in there, Mish?"
"As decent as I ever could be," she playfully rejoins. She was a notorious flirt, and she knew how to be devilish, but it was known by those closest to her that the brunette was, at heart, a very good girl, and her flirtations were little more than coquettish chimera.
The door opens, and the same gentleman she had met with earlier steps in. "They're ready for you, whenever you are. Pratt demanded that his girl come in after you, so I figure we can make 'em wait a few more minutes. It'll give the little prick a chance to learn about protocol around here. Imagine, throwing a hissy fit because he wants his fluffy little bunny to make the grand entrance!"
"Earn that 15%, my gallant knight," Michelle replies with a mock British accent, accentuating it with a curtsey and an imaginary holding of a skirt, pinkies up.
"Keep working on that accent," he says, "and we'll land that Bond Girl role yet. Speaking of which, when you're done, let me introduce you to a screenwriter here who's got a very interesting story idea that I think would make a great film for you."
"Okay, let me check my list," the chestnut-haired girl says, ticking off each item on a finger of her left hand. "Master upper crust English accent, kick Heidi's tush, and schmooze with scribe. Got it! Now, you ready for the fireworks?"
"It's the only reason I put up with you, smart ass," he replies with a smirk. "Give her hell, kiddo."
It's impossible to determine just how much of a factor blind (or make that dumb) luck is in a match. Sometimes it accounts for little, sometimes it tilts the advantage so completely, victory is assured for one fortunate battler.
Occasionally, it happens in equal measure on both sides, thus canceling out whatever advantages may be had by either.
The only thing that is certain is, you cannot predict just when or how such a lucky break will occur...as Michelle can now attest to her regret.
The match had opened pretty much as everyone...with the exception of Heidi and, possibly, Spencer...had expected, with the much more experience brunette easily dominating her hapless neophyte of an opponent. Trachtenberg wasn't even using her A Game, but rather pressed her advantage in an almost laid-back manner. No sense ending this too quickly and denying these people some entertainment, she reckoned.
And then it happened...that odd conversion of fate and happenstance: Michelle had muscled her adversary back against a wall, and wrapped her arms around Heidi to hoist her up into the air, so as to flip her up and back and slam her to the floor. However, Montag's body was so slick with perspiration, the brunette did not have a tight enough hold on her, so she opened her arms to let the blond drop back down, with the intent of attempting the move again. To her surprise, Montag did not remain upright, but her knees buckled and she fell to the floor. Yet, even as Heidi collapsed to the carpet, she blindly reached out and managed to grab Trachtenberg's long hair, and her momentum jerked Michelle forward with enough force that, as her head slammed into the wall, she was left badly dazed.
Although she did not fall, it was obvious as Michelle stumbled backward on wobbly legs, eyes vacant and glassy, that she remained upright mostly out of instinct. Meanwhile, Heidi lay on the floor panting and confused, not at all certain what she should do next.
It was Spencer who finally prompted the action by calling out, "Get her, babe...take her down!"
Jumping to her feet, but still a bit hesitant about getting too close to the grasp of her opponent, Montag lashed out with her right leg, her foot landing in the pit of Michelle's belly, causing her to double over with a groan. That gave Heidi the encouragement she needed, and with an ominous smile on her lips, she went after her vaunted foe with reckless abandon.
It would be a severe stretch of the imagination to consider Montag's offensive to be coordinated, or even to make much sense. Still, in some ways it was brilliant; some might even call the blond an idiot savant in the ways of catfighting. Its very uncertainty was its genius, for in Trachtenberg's stunned condition, she might still have had the knowledge and the instincts to ward off a more harmonized attack.
But Heidi was a flurry of wild arms and legs, nails scratching and gouging flesh, fingers tearing at hair. Just when Michelle would push through the fog in her head and figure out what was coming next, the blond would flummox her with something entirely unpredictable.
Although clearly not finished off yet, the brunette was in severe trouble. The expected walk in the park for Trachtenberg had turned into a rout...and not in her preference whatsoever. If she still clung to any hope at all of turning the match around, luck had better strike again, and in her favor this time.
Of course, a fighter as experienced as Michelle knows that you really make your own luck. All you need is an opening. And sometimes, your opponent gives you one in the most unlikely of ways.
Knowing she had her much-vaunted adversary on the ropes, as it were, Heidi recalled the advice given to her by Spencer before the match: "Give 'em a show. You don't just wanna win, babe...you wanna entertain!" Heeding that advice, she gave it a moment's thought, and then knew precisely what she wanted to do to "give 'em a show." Her eyes lit up and a gleeful smile indicated it was not going to be pleasant for Trachtenberg.
Wanting to bring her bewildered foe to the center of the room where all could clearly see the brunette's humiliating destruction, Montag first thought of simply grabbing Michelle by her hair and dragging her. But then, in another flash of inspiration, she instead took her thumb and forefinger and pinched them hard to Trachtenberg's lower lip, pulling it out almost comically as the blond led her on stumbling legs. The unusual discomfort caused Michelle to whine in a decidedly girlish squeal, which pleased Heidi to no end.
"Awww, little baby gonna cry now?" Montag taunted.
Her heavily-lidded eyes still glazed and far from fully comprehending, Trachtenberg gave no verbal response. She simply stood on uncertain legs, swaying precariously...until her opponent grabbed her around those legs and flipped her to the floor, that is. The brunette hit the carpet with a grunt, as Montag held her ankles in her hands. To the spectators, the assumption was that she would take the obvious route, spreading her victim's gams wide and landing a heel or three into her vulnerable groin.
But that wouldn't have been much of a show, Heidi knew. So instead, she spun herself 180 degrees, then stepped back and sat down on the floor. Michelle's head was bracketed between her thighs as the blond pulled her adversary's legs back, then used her own to hook over Trachtenberg's limbs behind the knees. The end result was a matchbook pin, with the brunette's rear end raised up, like an offering to the gods...and Heidi's hands free, as her legs were pinning Trachtenberg in place.
If pinfalls counted for anything in this match, Michelle would be helpless to prevent losing. As luck would have it, only a submission or knock out would decide the battle. But to the onlookers, there remained the question as to whether the luck for Trachtenberg at this moment was good or bad.
The opinion seemed to tilt strongly to the latter, as Heidi proceeded to give the crowd their show. With great relish, she began to slap her open palms upon Michelle's upturned derriere, rhythmically striking them almost as a drummer plays the bongos. With this rather inventive spanking maneuver, the blond had turned her adversary's celebrated body part into an Achilles' Heel.
And the spanks came fast and furious, each one cracking against Michelle's skin, eliciting a yelp of pain as the flesh reddened and very nearly glowed from the smacking. It was only a matter of moments, Heidi was certain, before this bltch cried out her tearful surrender. The blond beauty glanced over her shoulder and gave a smile of smug triumph to her paramour...who from the look on his face was more than a little stirred by the spectacle before him.
"I thought you were supposed to be tough, bltch," Montag scoffed. "Everybody was sayin' how Michelle Trachtenberg was the big leagues. Well, I guess this just proves who the better woman is, huh?"
But here was where opportunity had shown itself, and the canny veteran managed to create her own good luck. Despite the beating she was enduring, the spanks, while painful, were more of a nuisance than debilitating. What's more, the sharp blows served to shock Michelle from her stupor. All she had to do now was wait for her would-be dominator to grow impatient and release the brunette in order to try something else.
Playing perfectly into Trachtenberg's script, Heidi indeed found herself bored with waiting for the brunette to finally give up, and she decided it was time to move on to another hold to wring a submission from her. "You're no fun," the blond grumbled. Rolling backward, Montag released her adversary's legs, then she climbed up to her feet. Bending over, she grabbed the still-seemingly hapless brunette by her tousled tresses so as to haul her back up to her feet.
A more experienced fighter would not have left herself so unprotected, but that is the sort of knowledge that is only gleaned after many hard lessons in combat. As it was, the supremely self-confident Montag left herself wide open, so that even as Trachtenberg was being yanked up by the hair, she threw a Knife Hand Thrust straight into Heidi's solar plexus.
Eyes going wide as saucers and mouth falling agape, the blond at first made no sound beyond a faint squeak. But then, hands rushing to cover her now-aching abdomen, she spun around with a yowl, tears bursting forth as she staggered away, gasping.
Shaking off the remnants of her own aches, Trachtenberg swiftly went back on the attack. First, she deftly hip rolled the blond to the carpet, which Heidi...who didn't know the first thing about how to roll with a throw...hit with a heavy thump.
And before Montag could gather her wits, a handful of golden hair jerked her back up to her feet again. Now she stood facing her attacker, whose face was a mask of fierce intensity.
Michelle had underestimated her opponent earlier, and had paid a price for it. Now, she was going to pay the blond back with interest.
Michelle wrapped her arms around Heidi's waist (this time securing a firm grip, despite her adversary's slick body), and lifted her up off of her feet. "Ever hear the phrase, 'Kill the head and the body will follow'?" she asked Montag matter-of-factly. "I like to be more specific: Kill the brains and the body is useless. And I figure your brains are right...about...here." She punctuated her statement by dropping Heidi down for a Front Atomic Drop, the beleaguered blonde's crotch slamming hard into Trachtenberg's outstretched knee.
With a howl of agony, Heidi crumpled to the floor, moaning as her hands desperately massaged her throbbing womanhood. She managed to roll over onto her hands and knees, but Michelle simply sat upon her back, and fishhooked her fingers into her opponent's mouth, stretching the orifice back painfully. "Damn," the brunette mocked. "I figured you'd be able to stretch your mouth wider than this. I mean, that is the only thing you're good at, isn't it?" The onlookers couldn't recall ever hearing Michelle so dismissive of an opponent. But then, Michelle was used to facing adversaries who had earned their place on the battlefield the hard way...not claimed it merely by virtue of being a 'personality'. So it was small wonder that the brunette was so discourteous to the blond.
Finally letting Heidi go and standing up, Michelle smirked in bemusement as the utterly flustered blond started to frantically scamper on all fours toward Spencer, as if he could protect her. Following her retreating rival, Trachtenberg grabbed her by the ankles and dragged her back to the center of the room, Montag's belly burned by the carpeting and adding to her catalogue of woes.
Wrapping the blonde's left leg around her own, Michelle sat down hard on the floor, applying a leglock to the limb. Trachtenberg then began to mischievously grab each toe on Heidi's foot, giving it a sharp twist and saying, "This little piggy came to Hollywood...this little piggy is rude...this little piggy had loads of plastic surgery...this little piggy is a whore...and this little piggy's fifteen minutes of fame are up!"
It was all far more than Montag was capable of withstanding. Bawling, she yells out, "No more...PLEASE...I GIVE UUUUUUUPPPPPP!!!"
Freed, hands covering her face in shame, Heidi swiftly scurried back to her bedroom, Spencer close behind. Michelle stood and basked in the heartfelt applause of the audience. Although it had cost her some pain and bruises, she took satisfaction in the fact that she had indeed given them a show they would remember.
Walking over to her agent, she took a proffered glass of champagne from him, sipped it, and gave that Girl Next Door grin that he could never say no to. "Next time, don't scare me like that," he admonished her.
With an upward curl of her lips, she replied, "Don't you know the heroine always has to be in danger in the middle act? That way, it's more dramatic when she wins in the last reel."
"Just once," he says with a sign and a smile, "I'd like you to surprise me and dominate from first act to last, okay?"
"No wonder you're such a lousy agent," she teased. "You don't know what makes for good drama." She gave him a hug, thankful that he can't help caring about her safety so strongly. Try as he might to keep their relationship strictly professional, he was useless at hiding the fact that he cared for her as if she were his daughter, and she looked at him as a father figure.
"Really...a hug?" he replied with mock indignation. "And you being all sweaty? The dry cleaning for this suit is so coming out of your purse."