L.A.W. - League of Anime Wrestling

Elvira Velour

Penthouse Roof

(Pretend it's nighttime in this picture.)

"Ist das alles, Frau Velour?"

"Ja, vorerst. Danke."

It's been quite a while since Elvira's last visited her motherland. Too long. She came here on business. Fun business, but business, nonetheless. But when this is done, she's going to take a walk. See what the years have done for Cologne.

For now, she sat back on a chaise longue and enjoyed the pleasant spring air, having a glass of Chateau Margaux to get through the wait for her opponent's arrival. She had the feeling that she was going to get to know quite a few of her opponents. After that first match with that horny little imp, there were several calls made for encores. Eventually, she was set up to face Miriam Molina -- she liked that name. Pretty, rolls off the tongue real easy. A world class beauty hailing from Spain, and a dominant force in the indies. New to the big time, though.

But she had heart. A lot of sass -- she knew what the bookers were looking for with this one: A classic battle of youth and enthusiasm and age and treachery. Except this lady still has enthusiasm to spare. Let's see if this firecat's pretty head has got the brains to match in it.

The bottle of Margaux sat atop the table in the midst of the roof's "living area" of sorts, which had been arranged prior to the women's arrival. Elvira was a woman who could hold her liquor, but she didn't plan on drinking the whole thing by herself. It was a regular part of her process with this match: They literally had all night, so it wouldn't hurt to talk to her.

German to English Translation

"Ist das alles, Frau Velour?" -- "Will that be all, Ms. Velour?"

"Ja, vorerst. Danke." -- "Yes, for now. Thank you."

Spoiler

The night air in Cologne was crisp, scented with the promise of fresh conquest. Miriam Molina adjusted the lace cuff of her robe as she stepped into the rooftop space, her emerald gaze sweeping over the carefully curated scene before her. A chaise, a table, a bottle of fine red standing at attention like a sentry between her and the woman she was about to spend the night with—metaphorically and literally. Elvira Velour. She said the name once in her head, then again under her breath, tasting the syllables, feeling the weight of reputation behind them. The old guard, experienced and wily. Dangerous in all the ways that a woman with time and talent should be. And yet, it was a name that did not frighten her. No, it thrilled her.

Miriam had stepped onto many canvases, had danced between the ropes with opponents of all stripes, and the Germans? They had fallen at her feet. Johanna Lenz, who folded when her ribs could take no more of Miriam’s relentless footwork. Vera Schumann, whom she had knocked out cold with a single toe. Emilia Först, who had begged through her tears as her beautiful face was crushed beneath Miriam’s sole. Seven in total, each one a different testament to her precision, her artistry, her destruction. And now? Now came number eight.

She walked toward the table, her heels tapping against the rooftop tiles, each step measured, deliberate. Her hips swayed, wrapped in black silk, a living embodiment of confidence. Miriam did not come to Cologne as a guest; she came as a conqueror, and she would leave as one. “You have good taste,” she said, eyes flicking from Elvira to the Margaux. “I wonder if that extends to your choice of company as well.”

A sly smile. A slow, deliberate movement as she pulled out a chair and sat opposite the veteran, one leg crossing over the other. The city stretched beyond them, but for the moment, Cologne was a mere backdrop to the story they were about to write together. A match that would last the night. A battle not just of bodies but of minds, wills, desires. Miriam could already feel the heat simmering beneath the surface. The anticipation. The certainty. By sunrise, she would know exactly how Elvira Velour tasted. And more importantly, Elvira would know what it meant to be undone by Miriam Molina.

"¿Sabes, Elvira? In my country, we say the devil is wise because he's old, not because he's the devil. But tonight, we'll see if the devil can still keep up."

Even after she first left the wrestling world as an active participant, Elvira still kept a hand in that particular bowl. Regularly caught up with the friends she'd made in United Full Contact Wrestling, some of the newer blood that caught her eye, and other wrestlers as her lifestyle took her around the globe. She'd had an eye on Miriam's run of dominance during her time in Germany, and she liked what she saw. This young lady had found her niche. That something that made her dangerous, and like a sword, she used it to cut a wide swathe.

Miriam was where Sonja Goldwasser used to be. Knowing that she had something that she could use get her that big slice of the pie that she knows she deserves. She's had a taste, and it's got her high. That youthful zeal has her convinced that she could take on the world. And maybe she could.

Maybe.

"Only the finest." Elvira sat up in her chair, then motioned to the bottle of wine that sat between them, accompanied by an empty glass. "Help yourself." The words were warm and welcoming, but there was a purpose behind them. The simple act of filling that glass for Miriam was an act of subservience. This wasn't her home, so etiquette did not demand that she do so. The youngster would have to earn her service. At least, if she wants it from her.

Elvira responded to her saying with a chuckle. She stuck to the three c's: Cool, calm, collected. Took a swallow of her wine before she responded. Taunts and digs were one of her tactics. She wasn't about to fall for it. "You must not follow me. If you did, you would know that this devil is in the greatest shape of her life." Her Ambrosia-Velour style had served her well in GFEMW (Global Frontier Erotic Martial-Arts Wrestling), a top promotion that boasted a combination of Mixed Martial Arts and professional wrestling.

She'd joined a few years after her last divorce, mainly as a means to prove to herself that her body was still as strong as it was beautiful. The result? LAW came calling.

Miriam didn’t reach for the glass immediately. She let her gaze linger on the bottle first, then on Elvira’s hand as it returned to her glass with elegance. An unspoken invitation hung in the air, polite on the surface, but Miriam knew better than to mistake hospitality for humility. The Andalusian smirked, leaned back slightly in her chair, and crossed one leg over the other. She made no move for the wine. Not yet. Let the bottle wait. Let Elvira wait.

“So,” she said, her voice soft, but with the iron edge of someone who didn’t mind drawing blood, “you have been watching.” She let it settle between them, not a question, but a quiet claim of territory. Miriam’s chin tilted slightly, her tone dry with amusement.

“Claro que sí. Of course you liked what you saw.” There was no arrogance in it. No need. Just truth, delivered with the poise of someone who knew exactly what kind of show she put on when she stepped between the ropes, and outside of them. Seven women in Germany had learned the hard way what it meant to face Miriam Molina. Her style wasn’t textbook. It was personal. Feet that danced like a flamenca and struck like a guillotine.

“El sabor de la sangre joven,” she said with a sigh, mock-philosophical. “Dulce, ¿no?” (“The taste of young blood. Sweet, isn’t it?”)

She finally uncrossed her legs, leaned forward, and ran a single fingertip down the side of the wine bottle, but didn’t pour. The sound of her nail against the label was a quiet rasp in the night air. “I know that look,” she said, not quite smiling now. “That cool, careful calm. You’ve seen everything, haven’t you? Wrestled in every corner of the world. Loved, lost, and made your peace with all of it. But there’s always that one thing left. That little voice that whispers, aún no has terminado.” (“You’re not finished yet.”) Her fingers dropped from the bottle. “I wonder what it’s whispering now.”

Miriam’s green eyes stayed locked on Elvira’s. Not confrontational, more curious. In that way a predator studies the subtle twitch of prey before the first pounce. “El diablo is in the best shape of her life?” she repeated with a slow nod. “Mejor. I don’t enjoy ruining things half-cooked.” Still no wine. Still not a single sip. She leaned back again, content to let the silence stretch. One hand toyed with the tie of her robe, lazily, like a woman half-listening to the end of a story she already knew. There would be plenty of time for wine. And plenty of time to break the legend, piece by elegant piece. "In that case, no excuses for saying you're past your prime."

It hasn't even been five minutes, but the air between the two women was already palpable with their established dynamic: The Veteran versus the Rising Star. Elvira took another sip of wine. If Miriam left the bottle be, so would she.

Elvira's Spanish was rusty. It's been quite some time since she's been in a land where it was the language of the majority. For any longer than a week, that is. But what was said there...Those words took her back. They'd been spoken to her by a lover whose mind had progressed beyond his body, twelve years and forty pounds ago.

Ricardo Ordonez Caballero. What's that man up to now, she wonders?

Just hearing the words were enough to get a chuckle out of her.

"Sí. Muy dulce. My favorite beverage." Elvira had the impression that it wasn't a serious question, but she answered honestly anyway. She wouldn't correct Miriam about wrestling around the world; while she's seen it, she hasn't been active throughout it. The UK when she was a valet, and for a few months after she took that first proper step through the ropes. Again in Atlantic City, New Jersey, then a few other towns in the States when she was particularly bored in her marriage. A local event here and there. And for the last few years now, Japan.

Now that she's in LAW? She really will be experiencing her eighty or so days around the world.

Miriam had actually stumbled upon that one thing she had left. "El Diablo is in the best shape of her life." She doesn't know how long she has before Father Time starts collecting, but she just wants to see how far she can go. What can she do when she's off her phat ass?

She didn't open her mouth about it. The Spaniard was too young to understand. Elvira finished her glass. Her opponent was getting antsy now.

"Indeed." She stood from her comfortable chair and turned her green eyes towards the inside. "Shall we, then?"

The silence between them had grown thick, almost ceremonial. Miriam could feel it wrapping around her, a cloak of anticipation. The situation was ready. Two archetypes locked together by inevitability.

She caught the chuckle from Elvira, low and familiar, carrying with it a weight of memory Miriam didn’t know and didn’t care to know. For Elvira, Spanish was nostalgia. For Miriam, it was blood in her veins, every syllable sharpened by youth, pride, and fire. She heard her opponent’s reply; the sweetness claimed as her own. Miriam’s lips curved in the faintest smile, but her eyes remained fixed and unyielding.

When Elvira stood, finishing her glass, Miriam straightened with her. The gesture, which was almost theatrical, invited them to follow and finally step into the reason they were there; they expected it. Elvira’s body moved with a grace that spoke of history, of years in and out of rings and cages and arenas across the globe. But Miriam didn’t bow under that weight. Not now, not ever.

She rose slowly, deliberately, letting the silk of her robe slide against her frame with every shift of her body. The Andalusian didn’t rush to answer, because predators never hurry. Her gaze followed Elvira’s glance toward the inside, then returned to her, green eyes alive with heat.

“Por fin.” She breathed the words like a promise.

With a pause, her smirk returned, sharper this time.

“Shall we? Sí, vamos. But don’t mistake my eagerness for impatience. I’ve been waiting my whole life for a woman like you. Legends. Icons. Relics.” She lingered on the last word, savoring it. “And I’ve broken every one of them the same way—by proving that their time has passed.”

Miriam closed the space with a few steps, her heels clicking against the tiles, her presence pressing in like heat from a fire. She stopped just near enough for her words to land like a whisper.

“You say you’re in the best shape of your life. Good. That means I won’t have to wonder if I beat you at your peak, Elvira. I’ll know it.”

She let the silence settle, let the city breathe around them, then turned slightly toward the door as though leading the way, her tone dropping low, intimate, final.

“Ven. Let’s see how sweet that wine tastes once it’s mixed with your defeet.”