Or, in this case, another night at the Open Bottle, prized establishment of one Maisilyn Madison. This spot had just opened up, and apparently some of the girls backstage had gotten part-time jobs here. More spending money never hurt, and the more she made, the more she had left to pay back her loved ones.
Leonie Bowen
Tonight's clientele, however, was a bit more rowdy than usual. Apparently, the bar had struck a deal recently with LAW to serve as a venue for matches and meetings, or at least a spot for official watch parties. What better way to celebrate than by throwing a fight night of their own -- and what better time for the time-honored tradition of raunchy barfights than St. Patrick's Day?
The stage along the far wall was usually used for live music. Tonight, though, it had a simple black mat with makeshift posts and ring ropes. Two women scrabbled around inside, tearing each others' clothes off and touching where only LAW would let you. Leonie sighed. These girls were clearly amateurs; they didn't know the first thing about fighting, much less sexfighting. It had been like this all night. The most exciting thing that happened was when a pair of fighters got a little too rough and spilled into the audience. They fought around the Open Bottle -- "don't touch the talent" still being the paramount rule -- until one woman had been inevitably fucked into submission over a giddy patron's table.
A hand raised in the corner of Leonie's eye, and she was suddenly reminded that this was work. She speedwalked over to the person who waved her down. "Sorry," she said with a sheepish laugh, "I'm usually better about seeing when folks don't have drinks in front of them. Guess the show has my mind wandering. What can I get ya?"