The lights dimmed for a moment before Belle's entrance music hit the speakers. A chorus of cowbells echoed as a moo played over the loudspeakers—then out stepped Belle B. Cowe, aka Moonique Bells, with a swagger in her step and a devilish grin on her face.
Draped in a never before seen schoolgirl-esque attire, the towering Southern belle sauntered out with a lasso in hand, spinning it skillfully above her head before tossing it toward the crowd with a wink. Her powerful frame was impossible to miss, and her bouncing chest practically stole the spotlight as she strutted down the ramp with the confidence of someone who owned the place—because in her mind, she did.
“Hooo boy, y’all ready for a real rodeo tonight?” she called out. She blew a kiss to a young fan holding a homemade “MILK ME, MOONIQUE!” sign, then tipped her wide-brimmed cowgirl hat in thanks.
Reaching the ring, Belle grabbed the middle rope and vaulted over the top with a burst of strength, landing square in the ring with a stomp that shook the canvas.
She took her time sauntering toward her corner, giving the audience a little shake of her hips and a playful slap to her own backside before hopping up onto the second rope. She raised both arms high, basking in the cheers.
Then, hopping down, she locked eyes with Amelia who was sitting down on the turnbuckle like a throne.
“Well now, ain’t you just the prettiest lil’ porcelain doll I ever did see?” she drawled, her voice dripping with Southern charm. “Real fancy how ya walked on down here all regal-like—reckon I shoulda curtseyed or somethin’ when ya climbed in?” Belle said.
