Hollywood Stripping (America vs Alicia Soto)

[DSX93]

Couldn't block 'em both. But America took a note of Alicia's speed regardless. She was still faster. No question about that. But this heavyweight was one that would require more focus than others.

The crowd ooh'd when the shovel hook hit its mark. Hollywood was solid in the gut, but those abs could only hold up against so much. America made another note. When the time comes to really let her hands go, that was another target to aim for. And again, every step Alicia took back was one America took moving forward. A chase she was very comfortable with.

Lighter fighters always took more legwork when she employed swarm tactics. This was something she trained for, and she can hang, but it was still a pain in her perfect ass. But when she hit, it hurt them, and it felt damn good to do it. Those around her size? Could go either way or be some mixture of both sides of the fence. On the other side, though? Heavyweights made the perfect opponents to harass. She's never met one that took well to being beaten around by somebody smaller than them and backed up against the ropes.

She kept it pushing. Kept swinging, throwing punches in bunches, but not blindly. Never blindly. That's how you get gassed out and fucked up. She did it just like her pops and uncle taught her: Always mindful of the punches she threw and when she threw them. Those that required the least commitment made up the bulk of her offensive. Lots of jabs and straights. And there was the occasional hook, thrown more with her lead hand, but she would throw a rear one out every once in a while. Mainly to make this LA bitch respect her power, while the others were geared more towards harassment. All visiting both floors. Uppercuts? Those were riskier no matter which hand you used. She'd reserve those for plugging the larger holes Alicia left, if she left them.

What America was really punching away at was Alicia's mind. She wanted to bug the shit out of this woman. Suffocate her. Rattle her. That's what real swarming is all about: Doing everything you can to make your opponent want to make you go away, or at least back the hell off, whatever the cost. To be so overbearing, to keep piling on and on and on until they just can't take one more second of it and...

[HotWheels]

Plenty of up-and-coming wrestlers Siren had seen during her time with LAW had their heads filled with too much shit to do what Siren herself had been doing until these last few months. They waltzed in, they disregarded the people who did the job Siren had done her first couple of years here, and they strutted straight into the ring. And then they got their cocky fuckin' asses handed to them. The Hollywood hottie had known she had the body to compete with anyone. But to get her foot in the door, to avoid falling flat on her pretty face, to save herself from strolling back home to her family with failure in her wallet instead of anything to show for her big trip to Japan, she had done her dues. And she had gotten experience fighting every type of fighter LAW could throw at her.

Knowing what Miss America was doing didn't mean Siren endured it any better than anyone else. The meat on her bones made those repeated blows not cripple her, and she kept her face off-limits. With every hit, the hurt deepened, a new bruise formed, another bone rattled. She was growling after the fourth or fifth square hit - she lost fuckin' count. But she waited, knowing she could take a couple more hits with the knowledge that there was an out. She had found it before, and she could find it again. She waited for America to lean in. She even invited one square shot to her lower ribs.

And with a roar, she lashed out while America was mid-swing. The blow hit, yeah, but Siren had been through hell. She would let some pretty nurse fix her up later. She powered through, and she fished for America's neck with her arm. Her intention wasn't outright retaliation. That was what the idiots did - the idiots who were wrestlers and thought they should be boxers. No, she went for the sloppiest, ugliest thing a wrestler could do in the situation - she tried to grab the bitch's head and snatch both of them over the top rope together.

[DSX93]

America had also been taught one very important lesson: It doesn't matter how fast you are. And she was the fastest kid in her uncle's gym. Started out believing that she was like Ali and Roy Jones Jr.; that she couldn't

And she was proving it too, going through session after session without any leather doing as much as graze her skin. She didn't have the craft down yet. Didn't know how to follow up while she's dodging. She was more of an out-fighter back then, whittling the other kids down little by little. She had energy for days, so it was easy. When they ran out, she ate.

Pops was quick to disabuse her of that notion when he saw how swole her head was getting. Brought in an older kid from another gym that was owned by a friend of his. Ladonna Hendricks wasn't too much older than her: Just a couple years. And she was shaping up to be a contender too. The real difference was that she stayed cool and humble. The Ryu to her Ken.

Ladonna was content to fall back and play defense. Didn't throw her hands much. And she didn't have to. Little America's ego was running wild enough for her to abandon her usual strategy and go on the attack. Like her, Ladonna was a skinny kid. It wouldn't take long to break through and bring her down. She was helpless, she thought.

And it was that kind of thinking that got her knocked out for the first time in her life. Before the end of the first round, even. Ladonna saw a pattern, started timing her, and punched back every now and again. Always hooks, mainly the lead. Setting a pattern of her own to bait America into letting her guard down further. She dodged every one and fell for it hook, line, and sinker. When the time was right, Ladonna would slip a rear hook, and followed up with another two of her own. One to rattle her rib cage, then one to the head while her hands were down.

It doesn't matter how quick you are. Sooner or later, you're gonna get hit. And one of the most important things in boxing -- in any combat sport -- is what you do when you get hit. Rocky Balboa said it best: "It's about how hard you can get hit and keep movin' forward. How much you can take and keep movin' forward. That's how winnin' is done."

America was pissy for a while after that loss, but it humbled her. Enough for the lesson to get through and stick, anyway. It's what got her into fighting on the inside. She wanted to learn how to take the hits. No more of that two-hitter quitter shit.

Current day America wasn't an idiot. When Alicia exposed her side and told her to bring that shit, she knew that there'd be an immediate follow-up. But it was an opportunity, and what the hell, she likes to open herself up to punishment every so often anyway. For the love of the fight, and to keep herself humble, even if only internally.

And so she obliged her with a rear hook that had some extra meat in it, free of charge. Then down the hammer came. This one was gonna be a motherfucker. Good.

The padding outside the ring has been thin everywhere she went. In Vendetta Wrestling, in the Foundation Wrestling Society, and LAW is no difference. Only a few inches to separate them from the cement. So when her face smacked into said padding, it proved to be as hard a hit as that elbow would've been, probably. Made her ears ring. And she could feel that self-preservative weight starting to bear down on her before she could even move.

She was pushing herself back onto her feet before too much of it could add up, giving herself a couple slaps in the face when she was about upright to clear the fog, momentarily aware only of the crowd noise and the referee's count.

[HotWheels]

The blow hurt. The landing would hurt. But Siren took comfort in knowing she was getting what she wanted, in some way. Having that was half the battle.

The other half was landing hard on the ring apron while America slipped out the rest of the way, all the way down to the floor. The last punch had rattled her ribcage, the landing rattled her ribcage, and only holding onto the bottom rope with her leg kept the Hollywood hottie from falling all the way to the floor, too. After a short chorus of groans and moans to usher in the two-sided bashing, the Latina tensed up and hugged herself, glad to be rid of the shots of sharp pain but paying the price for her patience - and then her recklessness - at the same time.

Fuck. She would have taken another round of Dizzy after mama and this boxer with a fat ass.

But that fat ass was momentarily flattened, and Siren, even aching with various pains, wouldn't let the opportunity pass her by. Going to war with the Italian bane had managed to bring out another gear in what was already a hot rod of a woman who knew how to push through a beating, and she couldn't let America get up without her being put down again first. That was what the lazy or stupid assholes did that didn't drink from the winner's cup.

Pushing herself onto one elbow enough that she could see down past her cascade of black hair to aim, Siren stared up at the lights, took a deep breath, and flung herself off the side, aiming for the back of America's neck as the other woman began to rise. It didn't have the most momentum behind it, but a dropping elbow from a woman of Siren's weight? That would never feel good.

[DSX93]

Well, shit.

The shadows. Hers and Alicia's. By the time she noticed their movements, their distance from each other, and put two and two together on what was about to happen, it was too late to get out of the way. Elbow drops didn't have all of a wrestler's body weight coming down on the opponent, but try telling that to the one taking the motherfucker. Shit's bad enough.

There were only two saving graces there: That she just barely had enough time to get an arm between her head and Alicia's elbow and the one hundred and eighty-one pounds right behind it. And that she was able to grit her teeth and deny Alicia the satisfaction of hearing her cry out while she was being smooshed back into the floor that came springing right up into her face.

More of that unconsciously self-imposed weight bore right down on her. Another Alicia Soto's worth, like it jumped right after her. For the time being, it was keeping her from moving. And her arm was screaming up and down -- something was fucked up in it for sure. Her nose was leaking. She could taste copper.

This fight was already getting real.

[HotWheels]

Fucking ow. Again.

The devil-may-care attitude might have gotten Siren through all of her matches with wins so far, but it didn't mean she enjoyed it. She loved a good fight, but she also liked having everything that made her a looker intact. One of those things was her ass. As she blasted down on top of America, elbow-first, the woman's effort to block essentially made them fall awkwardly back-to-back, and it was the Hollywood hottie's ass that hit the rough floors on the outside. She hissed, bridged with an arched back when the pain crept up her already sore body. She needed to hire a fucking chiropractor. Or maybe she'd ask Dizzy to walk on her back. She wouldn't fucking complain.

But more importantly, Siren was on top. Back to back on top, yeah, but that gave her leverage, opportunities, and a small advantage. She sucked in one more breath to center her ailing body, listened to the ref above starting a fresh count with the two of them on the outside, and then went to work. Simple work it was - the first thing that popped into her head for a good option was the one she opted to try, and it was to grab at America's neck with one outstretched arm and pull it back into a simple, grounded chokehold. "Comm'ere, neck."