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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » High Stakes II RP Board
Roxy Cotton ~ Pacific Coast Highway
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#1
06-07-2017, 07:11 PM





On a private strip of beach running behind the compound dubbed the 'Pink Palisades' by the owners, "Loverboy" Vinnie Lane and Roxy Cotton, Roxy herself walks barefoot through the sand. Pensive, she dangles her white platforms by one finger and absently twirly them over her sun-kissed shoulder.

The trail of sight footprints leads a meandering line, drawing its own waves in the beach to rival the vibrant cerulean ocean swelling in to fill them each with a few ounces of frothing water in the evening's final tide.


The setting sun bathes her skin, warming her, bronzing her like the trophy you've yearned for. Nothing to be owned, only to be sought after. Like a goddess from a seashell, or a queen in her throne. Ancient oceans were crossed by warships full of men intent to win the hearts of women like her, and here she stands, watching the orange orb of sun dip into the Pacific like a sinking fire throwing its majesty across the sea in fervent golden ribbons of light.

She stands and she walks and she stands again, thinking back on the scene in her beautiful house. The man she loves, leaned over a bathroom sink. Stubble on his face, growing in black as the roots he's neglected in his platinum mane. The paleness of his skin contrasting the red lines growing across the insides of his forearms. "Get out of here for a while," he'd told her. And when she'd stayed standing there, looking at him, he'd continued. "Go for a walk, get your nails done, something. Anything. I need a few." Needing a few, of course, being their way of asking for alone time when they needed it, asking for space. Like any couple they occasionally came up for air just to decompress and remember their individuality, but seeing Vinnie this way reminded her of a bright colored shirt that had been faded by too many washes. He was there, for sure, just not as much.

Roxy left, and she walked, and she followed the sun to the West until the warm ocean lapped at her toes. She remembered her love's suggestion after the dome of the sun melted down to a single horizon of bright orange, when the first few stars poked through the blue cloth of the sky like pinholes.










Elsewhere, on another day, Roxy Cotton sits in a reclining chair with her toes separated by sponges and a small Asian woman working away at her cuticles. The bombshell doesn't open her eyes, instead turning her head away as she begins to speak.

“Goodness gracious, Jenny Myst, bless your little heart.

It looks like something’s… changed… about you recently. I wonder what caused that? I mean, I thought we were going to be BFFs after we got our matching friendship tattoos, but you had to go and get yours scraped off with a pressure washer. I have to say, at last the one I gave you was spelled right. I couldn’t walk around with that illiterate bullshit on my forehead, you know? Had to get it taken care of the next day… luckily you’re as shitty at giving tats as you are at bleaching your roots – all it took was a little chemical peel and that kindergarten scrawl was gone from my skin like it was never there. In a lot of ways, it’s really similar to you. Temporary. You might as well have gotten a rub-on out of a truck stop vending machine the next time you there pounding on big wheeler trailers trying to find some lonely diabetic to put a load in you for cigarette money.

But golly, you went a whole lot further than I did, didn’t you? I only got one crappy tattoo taken off, I didn’t get a whole new face. Then again, with what you were working with before I don’t blame you. What happened, sweetie, did Chris get tired of thinking he was looking in a mirror when he was on top? Here’s a tip – you still have the same five o’clock shadow he does. You just look slightly less than a three pack a day Marlboro queen now. Oh, and honey, those tits! Congratulations! It must have cost you a fortune to have the doc siphon out the fifteen pounds of discount quick-crete that was in there before. Good job on not looking like you have two burlap sacks of potatoes stapled to your chest anymore. Though, again, and I say this as a girl who’s been in the same shower room as you, you should have sprung for the platinum package and gotten the surgeon to straighten those nipples out. Bad enough that they’re wide and fat enough to be named Oscar and Mayer, but it’s a real shame that they’re about as symmetrical as Forest Whitaker’s eyes, don’t you think? Pretty sure in Vegas they call that rolling a snake eyes.

Honestly, you should have gotten that three for one Groupon I linked you to, babe. The labial tuck would have only sprung you another thousand or so, and then you wouldn’t keep hearing that whistle every time Chaos stuck Mommy’s Little Disappointment inside of you. Was it the money? Do you need me to lend it to you? I own a club, you know, I have some to spare. You remember it, right? You worked there in the nineties, I think. What, are you surprised that not every blonde has to try and turn tricks at the off-strip casinos in Vegas? Didn’t they teach you that at the bar you were raised in? Maybe that’s just the advantage I have from growing up in a home with a loving family and going to a good school, then. My daddy wouldn’t have dreamed of letting me hang out in a bar when I was a kid, but then again, my daddy isn’t the one who committed the biggest sin in the history of Sin City by not getting all of you in the condom.

Now, Jenny, before you get those dollar store panties in a bunch and end up soaking them in the sink to get the smell out, just remember who started this whole thing, okay? You’ve been running around here, drawing flies, while I’ve been trying to do my job and help my man run this company. You’re sticking your nose into everything except a book that doesn’t have pop up pictures in it, making life miserable for the booking committee because you and your not-so-main-event-anymore boyfriend demand to be the center of attention.

Sweetie.

Pay attention. Learn a thing or two. Celebrity isn’t something you can just go out and buy, like your abortion… it’s just thrust upon you like the redneck uncle that knocked you up in the first place. People like me, people like Vinnie, the spotlight finds us the same way the early morning sun finds the horizon – it’s inevitable. We don’t chase it. We were born for it. Do you see me every day, demanding that everyone in the room look at me? No. Instead, you see a dozen fan letters a day. YouTube testimonials from little girls who want to be me. A thousand hearts on every Insta post I make. Last time I looked, there were at least a hundred fan accounts for me on Twitter. Every one of them calling me the #queen.

Vinnie Lane can’t leave the house without a line forming. Neither one of us even knows what it’s LIKE to go through a day without being noticed. So please… Jenny… tell me what it feels like?

Actually, scratch that. If I wanted to be depressed I’d look at the sales totals for Jenny Myst and Chris Chaos merch. Or maybe I’d rewatch the golden boy himself losing the most prestigious title in the business to a whiny brat who thought wearing a 12 year old boy’s skater ‘do from 1993 was RADICAL. Or better yet, maybe I’d watch all the CHAOS that ran rampant over your man’s once promising career when he got pinned by a teenager with Duke DNA. I’m sur you let him cry into your sarlacc pit after that one, didn’t you honey? But hey, that’s what the naturally occurring caste system shows us… class levels. Some of us have men that beat up an accomplished, championship-level Duke practically on his first week in the company, others have men that lose to an emo duke going through puberty after allegedly being the best there is."


Roxy's eyes open then. Her feet have been dipped into a warm, bathing solution. It wouldn't be more allegorical of her station in life compared to the pedicurist's if the woman decided to dry them with her own hair.

"Anyway babe, I really need to run. My toes are dry and Quan Li here did another excellent job. I got some extra glue on them so I don’t lose any when I stuff my foot so far up your ass that you taste my Jimmy Choos.

Kisses."



[Image: pdAMRjn.png]
Hey there daddy...

Roxy's Backstage Pass?
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