Winner decided by Pinfall, Submission, or KO
Most attacks focused on the midsection.
Fall can only count after an attack on the midsection.
Katsumi does gimmick matches from time to time. Though they tend to be more about long pins, in retrospect. Matches where the winner could only be determined by fully dominating their rival physically. This one, however, is one she's engaged with once before. Only once. A long time ago. It didn't end in her favor, but that was then. This is now.
Still, as Katsumi admires herself in the mirror and reflects upon where she was, and where she is now, she has to admit the idea of a belly match is just as appealing. She often targets her rival's stomach already - the logic being, if their core is too weakened, they can't muster the abdominal strength to push back, lift her up, or kick out of a pin. So much relies on the midsection, and pulverizing it is its own reward. But now, most attacks are expected to be aimed at the midriff - that tantalizing space between the trunks and bralet.
Katsumi Oshiro
A knock on the door alerts Katsumi to the time, and she hurriedly heads for the gorilla position.
Inside the arena, the lights dim low. Then the first heavy industrial strums of an electric guitar filter in. The massive screens come alive with Katsumi's logo, swelling into a crescendo of rock.
The intro video.
Tonight, Katsumi is foregoing the jacket and sunglasses for her entrance. It's as deliberate a choice here and now as is the way she walked in, with arms raised. Her body is drawn taut, emphasizing the smooth curvature of her body, and drawing focus to the bared waist. The gleaming lights highlight every contour of her sleek, feminine abdominal tone. No six-pack, for sure, but Katsumi's midsection is refined, toned; the result of obvious and heavy training.
"Tonight's contest is a belly match!," begins the announcer.
Katsumi begins down the ramp, turning her hands outwards while keeping the arms aloft, simultaneously acknowledging and dismissing the roaring fans reaching for high-fives and pats. A pleased, confident smirk plays on her face, her gaze centered firmly ahead.
"Making her way to the ring! Standing at a height of 5'7"! Weighing in at 124 lbs.!"
"From Osaka, Japan!"
"The Punk Princess!"
"KATSUUUMIIIII! OOOOSHIIROOOO!"
Upon reaching the ring's apron, she grabs the middle rope and sweeps herself up onto the edge in a single, smooth movement. She whirls around to face the audience, her gaze hooded coyly. Arms hook over the top rope behind her, her back arching against the cables and with a gliding roll of the hips, as if giving a three-second bellydance before tipping herself up and over the top rope to land on the mat.
No middle-finger to the crowd tonight. Not with this stipulation. She's having fun with it.
What follows is a brief parade around the edge of the ring, arms spread widely to either side, ushering in the praise with a slow, bobbing nod. She finally finds her corner and hunches forward, planting her rear against the padding and her hands over her kneepads.
"Alright. Let's get a look at you," she murmurs in anticipation.