Violet stared up at the figure above her. Warren was obviously playing it up for the audience, leaning over the top rope and waving for everyone to cheer him on. Violet found herself staring as the muscles in his taut calves led up to the might thews of his thighs to the deliciously short shorts to a defined six-pack, to... Warren leapt backwards off of the ropes, depriving Violet of her ogle, and began to walk a small circle in the ring, arms still extended towards the ceiling, the crowd in his hand. Violet suddenly realized that her throat was dry and she was feeling really warm.
“He's pretty awesome, huh?” Kiera said beside her, on her feet and clapping enthusiastically, “Why don't you get up and cheer him on? It's all good fun, right?”. Violet weakly smiled and rose to her feet, her hands numb as she replayed that encounter with him in the hallway over and over again. I must have looked like such a dork... The announcer jumped up to grab the ropes of the opposite side of the ring and spoke into his microphone in his other hand.
“Aaaand his opponent, weighing 275 pounds, the Mad Musician, the Crude Composer, Gustav, the Brawler, Mauler!” the announcer trilled, then leaned back form the ropes, holding the microphone out to the curtain, where a man who had to be over halfway to seven foot stomped out from between the curtains, clad in long black slacks, and an absurd short tail-coat. In one hand, he had a conductor's baton, tiny in his mitt, and he strode toward the ring, gesticulating wildly with it as the loudspeakers played something vaguely classical-sounding. Kiera cackled and pointed.
“He used to be Man Mountain Marko but according to the dirtsheets, Marvel served with a C&D, so they made a gimmick up for him real quick.” She said. She didn't have a chance to add to it before Mauler, or maybe Marko, snatched the microphone from the announcer.
“I,” he boomed, and paused, drinking in the jeers of the crowd, “have prepared a symphony. Of pain!” The last made the jeers even louder and someone off in the cheap seats yelled, “buy a better gimmick,” provoking a glare from the large wrestler toward that direction before continuing. “Warren Peace, your days have been measured and I am prepared for the downbeat with your beat down!” He paused again, and Kiera took the moment to sit down and add a comment.
“He might be at this for a while. I think he's been sitting on those puns.” But Mauler seemed to have finished, or maybe run out of steam. He slapped the microphone back into the announcer's hand and jumped the three feet to the edge of the apron, grabbing the ropes to steady himself before stepping  through them between the second and third rope.
“Huh. That's was a pretty impressive leap for this size. Maybe he's been doing Crossfit?” In the ring, Mauler and Warren had started circling each other, the circle getting smaller and smaller until they were suddenly adjacent and locked into an overhead grapple, struggling back and forth, jockeying for position.

All too quickly, Mauler's greater size seemed to be carrying the day and he drove Warren down to his knees, but Warren struggled back up to a standing position, muscles quivering with the effort, and then he suddenly dropped back down to one way, turning his shoulders in a circle, causing Mauler to fall forward, losing his grip, but catching himself in a forward roll, and coming back up to his feet. Opposite him, Warren stood slowly, and slapped his pectoral muscles with the alternate hands, first his left, then his right, the meaty smacks echoing over the arena. Violet found herself entranced, watching every moment, as Warren sank down into what looked like a fighting stance, arms spread , as he waited for Mauler's next move. He didn't have to wait long, as the larger wrestler charged forward, bearing down on Warren, only for Warren to hook one arm around Mauler's shoulder and seemingly effortlessly throw him to the ground, only to have him roll back up again.
“Vintage arm drag there,” Kiera said as the men glared at each other again. This time, Warren darted forward, taking one step and then jumping up, seemingly floating in the air as he oriented for a two-footed drop-kick which took Mauler in the chest, driving him back into the turnbuckle as Warren landed and rolled back to his feet.
“Is he really hitting him that hard?” Violet said.
“Nah. Mauler just over-sells those hits,” Violet said as Mauler pushed himself off of the ropes and swung a vicious clothesline at Warren, bowling him over to land on his head on the map, almost flipping over with the impact.
“He's gonna kill him!” Violet squealed. Kiera gave her a funny look and half chuckled.
“It's fake, right?” Kiera's smile was practically sardonic as Violet glared at her and punched her co-worked in the shoulder lightly. She look back up to see that Mauler had grabbed Warren's legs and was viciously yanking them up and over Warren's head, compressing the smaller man. In the ring, the referee, heretofore unnoticed by Violet in light of the spectacle, darted in and slapped the mat twice before Warren apparently worked his legs loose and kipped-up, slamming his skull into the bowed face of Mauler, causing the larger man to recoil toward the ropes. Warren was back on his feet and shoved Mauler into the ropes, and kept pace with the recoil, one arm snaking between Mauler's legs as he lifted  the larger wrestler up and over his back to slam him into the mat, bearing his full weight down on Mauler. The referee only managed one count before Mauler twisted his legs to yank Warren down. The two men rolled on the canvas, landing with Warren in what looked like a painful arm-bar. The referee leaned down and yelled something at Warren.
“What's happening?” Violet asked loudly, her voice excited.
“He's asking Warren if he's submitting. They never do this soon, though,” Kiera said, and rocketed up to her feet, slapping the fence in front of them. “C'mon, Warren! You can do this!” Somewhere off to their right, a slow clap started and slowly gained in intensity and speed as the two men strained against each other. As the clap started to devolve into scattered applause as people lost the rhythm, Warren began arching his back to relieve pressure on his arm, then planted one foot and did some sort of a sideways flip over Mauler, slamming his forearm into Mauler's face as he landed, then striking more blows, leading to his arm being released. He staggered to his feet, holding his arm close to him, doubled-over in pain. Then, suddenly, he reared back and raised the arm skyward, provoking a sudden cheer from the crowd. He ran forward toward Mauler, braced arms raise to grapple the man, when suddenly Mauler straightened and preemptively shoulder-slammed into Warren, driving him back to the ground, motionless. Silence held in the arena for several seconds and Violet realized she was holding her breath as Mauler waded in, lifted Warren's head, and delivered several measured blows, punctuated by a pause each time to let the crowd react.
“If he were a face, they'd probably be counting the hits,” Kiera proffered as Mauler ceased his pummeling and stood, arms outreached and twitching as if conducting an orchestra, “But he's going to get his.” Violet looking at her quizzically before a roar from the crowd had her looking back in the ring, where Warren was again standing, albeit shakily, and put his hand on Mauler's shoulder.
“Wait for it,” Kiera breathed. Mauler spun around  Warren pasted him with one, two, three jabs. Violet noted absently that the crowd was counting the hits. The fourth hit stunned Mauler and spun him around, and Warren quickly grabbed his middle and leaned back into a neat suplex. The referee counted one, two, but then Mauler slid out.

She peered around the hall and again goggled at the sheer number of people. “Are there really that many people in Ashland coming to watch wrestling?” she asked. Kiera laughed and waved around the room.
“They're not all from Ashland,” she said, “Like I said before, Tri-State area. Some of these people follow the promotion. Some of them probably just crossed the bridge because it's nearby wrestling. Beats the heck out out of hitting Rupp Arena and spending fifty, sixty bucks for a seat in the nosebleed section.” She pointed at the metal fence. “Odds are good that some of the wrestlers are going to crash right up against that fence during the match. Anyhow, Jeremy can hold our seats again while we get food, right Jeremy?”
“Right,” Jeremy said, none too enthusiastically, “Tote that barge and lift that bale, right?” Kiera reached over and ruffled his greasy hair.
“Whatever makes you feel special, kid,” she said, “C'mon, Vi!” As they walked off, Kiera discreetly wiped her hand off on her jeans. “Nice kid but he could use some shampoo.”

The concession stand was running a brisk business. It was standard local sporting event fare, boxes of candy, rotisserie hot dogs, paper cartons of nachos. Above the stand was a list of prices and a note saying that Paul G. Blazer High School students were serving and a portion of the proceeds would go to the school.
“So, how do you know Jeremy? And does Richard know about him?” Violet ventured. Kiera laughed and waved her hand dismissively.
“I met him through Richard. Rich's littlest brother went to school with him and then Rich runs into him at one of these events, NWA Appalachia, I think. Anyhow, Rich and Jeremy realize they know each other, start swapping stories of going to Blazer and some of the teachers, and before I know it, we're sitting beside him at every show. He's not that bad of a kid. A bit of a perv, but he'll get it out of his system eventually. He's like one of those puppies that humps everything, you know? Anyhow, what are you in the mood for? Buying here.”
“Oh. Um... diet Coke if they have it. Hot dog and nachoes with cheese on the side... that OK?”
“Sure. We'll come back at intermission and get some more if you're still hungry. Kind of a shame they don't sell beer, but the last event I went to where they sold bottles, someone got drunk and started throwing them at one of the heels. Wrestler needed ten stitches. The guy throwing the bottles got laid up in the hospital. Not the wrestlers, funnily enough, but the guys around him, picked him up and threw him through some of the seats. It was a mess, kind of killed the buzz of the event.”
“Does... do things like that happen often?” Images of riotous sports crowds ran through Violet's head. Kiera chuckled and held up one finger as she moved up the counter and ordered their food.
“Almost never. I've seen more fights at Putnam Stadium during the high school soccer games. Nah, the spectacle here is practically cathartic, so no one gets really physical.” When Violet narrowed her eyes at her, Kiera threw up her hands. “What? I can't use the occasional five dollar word?” Violet shook her head at her friend.
“I just never expected it from you. What other mysteries are you hiding under that uncultured facade?” she said. Kiera just chuckled and grabbed a tray with their food order. She then swore under her breath.

“Damn it... now we're stuck with this. Better head back to the seats... I was going to walk you around the wrestlers' tables, introduce you to the ones I know by name.” She nodded her head toward the perimeter, where Violet noticed tables stacked with T-shirts and manned by men in a variety of costumes.
“Those are the ones who'll be wrestling tonight?”
“Some of them. Some of them just show up to sell merch or to swap tales. Bobby Blaze is out there. Rich had him as a substitute teacher a few times. He lives in Ashland now, works as some sort of fitness consultant. He wrote a book, just like just about every other wrestler out there... it's OK stuff. Not real riveting and he rambles, but hey, he's about as close as Ashland gets to a local celebrity. Anyhow, a lot of the wrestlers are back there,” She nodded to one side of the room, where a curtain screened things off. “Like I was saying before, they can't really script out matches, so they're probably discussing spots and doing a little bit of light sparring to figure out their styles.” They'd made their way back to their seats and Kiera handed a hotdog to Jeremy, which forestalled further conversation on his part as he wolfed it down.
“It sounds complicated,” Violet ventured, “Are you sure you aren't overselling what they do?”
“Nope,” Kiera said, “If anything else, I'm probably underselling it. I'm a mark through and through. I just like to watch these guys wrassle, but I pick some stuff up when Jeremy and Rich gab, y'know?” Violet just shook her head at her friend and started in on her food. Kiera continued to babble on about works and shoots and kayfabe, and Violet just let it wash over her. Her friend was enjoying herself and that was what was important. As she finished her nachos, and a man in a tuxedo started approaching the ring, something occurred to her.
“Oh hell... I forgot to put the shirt on.” Kiera looked at her quizzically for a moment, her brain and mouth still in the middle of discussing some storyline involving a dispute over a chicken between two hillbilly characters, then comprehension dawned.
“Oh honey, you don't have to worry about it. You fit in just fine with what you're wearing.”
“That's kind of what I was worried about,” Violet muttered, then stood. “We have, what, ten minutes until the bell rings? I'll hurry. Be right back.” Waving off Kiera's protests, she excused herself down the line of people in the front row and hit the aisle.

The lady's room was serviceable. It smelled a bit, but it seemed clean. Violet found herself a stall and quickly stripped out of her current T-shirt, tossing it over the door and unfolding the shirt that Kiera had given her. It was then that she realized that it was a size smaller than what Kiera had said.
“Damn you, Kiera,” she muttered, certain that her friend was having fun at her expense, and she turned toward the stall door, only to see her recently doffed country shirt slide off the hook to land in a plop in a suspicious puddle. “Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!” she snarled, then looked back at the shirt in her hands. “Shit.” She quickly gauged the possibility of washing out her original T-shirt, but judged it unlikely, no time to dry properly and the idea of sitting in front of a crowd, let alone that scuzzball Jeremy, in a damp white T-shirt... she sighed and offered up a prayer for the ability to hold her stomach in for the duration of the show, then skinned it on, exiting the stall, leaving the other shirt fallen where it lay. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and did a double-take. The shirt definitely fit snuggly against her, and whatever they made the bottom half from, it was actually acting almost like a support garment, binding her stomach in and pushing her breasts up and out.
“Wow...” Her reverie was broken by the realization that the first fight of the evening was being introduced. She broke from the mirror, ran for the door, and planted herself face-first into a perfect set of pectorals.

Her initial embarrassment was overshadowed by the sharp pain as nose hit breastbone. She recoiled backwards, reaching up to clutch her injury, when she realized a bigger problem, namely that she could barely see. Oh God... I've gone blind. Did I hit I my head? Did I... wait. She reached up and pulled off her glasses and the world assumed the blurriness of myopia instead of the smeary mess the world had been.
“Damn,” a masculine voice with a hint of local twang said from a blurry mass in front of her. “Here ma'am, let me...” his hand reached forward and plucked the glasses from her hands, did something to them, then handed them back. “My fault... Buddy got a little overenthusiastic with the oil, and when you ran into me...” As she slid the glasses on, the world came back into focus, and she found herself staring at a hairless and very muscular chest. Her gaze slid up to reveal the face of a young man with shaggy midlength blond hair and a very concerned look on his face.
“Oh,” she said, and immediately glanced down, noted toned abs, followed by some very brief black trunks, muscular legs... her eyes shot back up to his face again, her cheeks blushing. “Oh...” He smiled sheepishly and then his head darted toward the ring.
“Hell, they're playing my music... sorry!” And then he was jogging toward the ring. Violet found her eyes following him, absently noting that the trunks fit him quite nicely. She started and started walking toward Kiera and Jeremy. Down girl... he's probably half your age, and he's one of those lunkheads who's getting paid to get hit by metal chairs. With a rueful chuckle, she started down the aisle again, the roar of the crowd nearly drowning out her internal monologue. At the front, she ran the gauntlet of the front row again.
“Where've you been?” Kiera said over the crowd, “You missed out on the pre-match announcements and Warren's entrance. Shirt looks good on you, though.” She cocked her head off to the side and chuckled. “Your shirt now. It never look that good on me. Oh, Warren's coming to our side!” She immediately broke away and joined the cheers of the crowd as the wrestler in the ring bounced off of the opposite ropes and ran up to land on the second rope on their side, raising his arms in greeting at the crowd. Violet looked up at the form silhouetted by the spotlights above her and her breath caught. Of course... of all the people to run into...

“You know it's all fake, right?” Even as she finished her sentence, before her co-worker could give her the stink-eye, Violet knew that that was the wrong thing to say. She held up her hand and continued. “Sorry. That was... that was insensitive and makes it sound like I think you're an idiot. I mean... what's the excitement in it? They pick who's going to win the wrestling matches beforehand, right? And all of the moves are staged?” Kiera, her co-worker gave her a look and then sighed quietly, a smile dancing around her lips.
“Sure, they're working together up there,” she said, “And the winner is picked before the match, but what they're doing up there... it's stuntwork. There's no way to fake slamming into that ring floor, or into a crowd barrier. And it's not like they can stage and rehearse the entire fight, or do multiple takes. It's like improv and stage combat and... well, not to mince words, but hot sweaty muscular guys grappling!” She squealed the last bit in a bit of a stage whisper, albeit one loud enough that a few people turned their heads.
“Shush,” Violet said, waving her hand to lower the volume, “First off, you're assuming I'm that shallow.” She ignored Kiera's answering snort and continued. “Second, I watched wrestling on the TV as a kid and they're not all hot. There's a lot of fat guys, and old guys, and this is a bunch of local wrestlers, right? These are the guys who couldn't make it in the big leagues, so now they go to county fairs and high school gyms, and, well, the Ashland Armory building, right?”
“You know,” said Kiera, “You're right. This isn't your thing. I'll ask someone else.” She stood up from the desk. “I just... Richard isn't going to be able to make it so I had the ticket and I thought we could have a girl's night togther.” Violet's chest twinged with guilt. “But it's OK. I'll find someone else to do it. Maybe Sarah?” Violet's chest twinged with a rather more jealous emotion. Sarah was an OK worker, but she was one of those girls who thought Sex and the City was a thoughtful biopic.

“Wait,” Violet said, “Just let me finish transcribing these physician reports and I'll think about it, K? It's just... I do want to hang out with you and I'm probably not giving these guys a chance, right? What do you wear to one of things anyhow?”
“Whatever you'd normally wear to a sport event. Someone people wear T-shirts for their favorite wrestler — they sell them at the shows — and some people just show up in whatever is comfortable. I'd suggest jeans, though. The Armory gets drafty and it's all folding chairs. That is, if you're coming, right?” Kiera flashed Violet a triumphant smile, certain she'd hooked her.
“Right. I said I'd think about it...” Violet cocked her head off to the side, trying to frame the question, then deciding she'd might as well just come out with it. “Are you cheering someone in particular on tonight?” Kiera's smile spread into a Cheshire grin.
“Oh girlfriend, you're in for a surprise. Just wait 'til I show you my man, Warren. He's... well, let's just say that it makes it worth the fact that some of the wrestlers are past their prime.” She assumed a thoughtful look and stared up at the ceiling. “You know, if you're coming tonight...” Violet laughed and waved Kiera away.
“I'll think about. I'll think about it. Now let me get back to my transcriptions. You know they're never satisfied with our work rate. Go, go, shoo!” As Kiera strode away toward her own work, manning the counter at the medicine dispensary, Violet slipped a set of headphones on and lost herself in the droning voices of doctors dictating their patient encounters.

In the middle of typing out a lengthy description of a Mrs. Theodora Coraghessan's boils, a loud bang startled Violet out of her desk chair. She tumbled  backwards, the headphones yanking themselves off of her head to see Kiera looking very chagrined, hands poised over a set of dropped medical texts.
“Oh, I'm so sorry, Violet. I didn't... I just wanted to get your attention and you didn't seem to be hearing me...” She leaned down and gave Violet a hand.up.
“Just for that, you're buying the hotdogs and drinks tonight,” Violet said, brushing herself off. She quickly pecked the key to stop the recording that was sounding tinnily over her headphones and hit another key to blank the screen. “My own fault for letting you sneak up on me... Fred would have my ass up on HIPAA violations if he knew I let someone potentially read it.” Keira nodded in sympathy, well aware of Violet's issues with her boss, then her eyes narrowed.

“Wait a sec... so you're going to go?”
“Wouldn't miss it. You're right. I need to get outside of my comfort zones, get over-” Kiera interrupted her, her mouth crooking in a slightly sardonic grin.
“Reggie?”
“Well, I was going to say getting over doing what's comfortable but yeah, I need to get over him.” Violet absently squared up her keyboard and desk as her brain ran a quick retrospect of the relationship. “He was... well, he was an OK guy, but it just didn't click, you know?”
“Bad in bed?” Kiera quipped, provoking a blush from Violet.
“No, no... sort of. We were just looking for different things,” she finished diplomatically, picking up a paperclip.
“Right. Like he was looking for a subservient little housewife to cook his food and fetch his slippers. Which, of course, you're not.”
“Well, I haven't entirely ruled out the housewife bit. But it's not who I am now and he... he just couldn't accept that.” Violet forced herself to put down the paperclip she'd just twisted into a tangled mess. “Anyhow, yeah, I'll be there. But I'm driving separate just in case this turns out to not be my scene, alright?” Kiera held up her hands in mock surrender.
“Sure thing, Vi. Bell rings at 7, but there isn't assigned seats, so try to get there by 6:30. Are you stopping home?”
“I probably should. This,” Violet said as she indicated her purple silk blouse and black slacks, “probably isn't going to fit in. But I really need to finish this transcription... you think I can get by with it?”
“Don't worry. You and I wear about the same size, right? And you probably still have those jeans in your backseat from the picnic? And sneakers?” To Violet's nod, she added, “And I've got some spare T-shirts at home. What do you think, are you more a Canadian Destroyer kind of gal, or a Haught Mess?” Violet gave her a puzzled look.
“I assume those are wrestling things? No one's going to shiv me or spit on me for supporting the wrong guy?”
“Nah. This isn't Puerto Rico. You'll fit right in. Promise you'll show?” Violet took a deep breath and answered with a sharp nod. “Great! I'll leave you to Dr. Whassisname and his no doubt riveting narrative.” She shook her head, “Never understand how you don't just fall asleep to that stuff, but hey, whatever works for a living right?”
“Right. Now go, please. I'm already falling behind.”

* * *

A few hours later, Violet slipped the headphones off and arched her back, feeling the vertabrae pop as Dr. Finch's dry description of ichthyosis vulgaris played out in her head. A quick click of the button showed that she'd hit her word count for the day, only needing to work an hour outside of those she clocked in. The clock showed that she had about an hour before the wrestling event started, a half hour before meeting up with Kiera.
“Oh dear lord, what have I gotten myself into?” she asked the ceiling, then quickly glanced around the room to be sure no one other than God was there to answer her. The room was deserted. King's Daughters' Medical Center was, as befitted the only hospital in a small town (in the back of her head, the oft-repeated ad copy chimed in Ashland's largest employer at over 4000 people, providing quality health and wellness in a Christian environment), was always active in one way or another, but the transcription department was silent and still, everyone else having gone home. Violet double-checked her most recent transcription and then saved and submitted it before filing out her official timesheet. Pushing herself away from her desk, she got up and jogged down the halls, waving to the occasional nurse or patient, and out to her car, where she fetched her more casual clothing. She found a T-shirt, but wrinkled her nose at the skull emblazoned over a Confederate flag. Outdoors with the Outlaws, featuring some big names like David Allen Coe and Johnny Cash, may he rest in peace, wasn't a concert she'd attended, but the Blazer choir teacher gave them out one day and she'd grabbed it, free being free and all that. Still, it would get her down to the Armory.

She jogged back to one of the changing rooms on the hospital's campus, noting with some distaste that that quick jog had raised a sweat despite the coolth of the September evening. Obviously, she needed more exercise in her life. She slipped the t-shirt on and smoothed it down in front, irritatedly poking at that hard-to-eliminate bit of pudge around her middle.
“Yup,” she said to her reflection, “There's crunches in your future. And fewer snacks at the desk. And maybe some salads. At least I'm not going anywhere important, right?” With those words of confidence, she took a deep breath in, tried a few positions to de-emphasize her stomach, and finally just untucked the shirt to make it more blousy, and looked herself over. For being in her 30s, she wasn't too badly off, she supposed. Pale skin, largely untouched by the sun, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. Mousy brown curls framing a heart-shaped face. The glasses were utilitarian with steel frames and ultrathin lenses. And, while she didn't have the body she had in high school, or even in college, she tried to eat healthily and she walked wherever she could. Her jeans hugged her form without bulging and bloused, the T-shirt didn't draw particular attention to her modest bosom, but it didn't hide it either. She shook her head and gathered her stuff together. Enough mooning, on to what was no doubt going to be one more event to chalk off on things not to do again.

It was 6:25 when she arrived, a quick jaunt down Lexington Avenue from the hospital to the armory. Much to her surprise, the parking lot was already half-full. She parked as close as she could, and stepped out of her car, metaphorically girding her loins before entering.
“I have been a stranger in a strange land,” she muttered to herself as she set out toward the entrance. She passed by a variety of characters. Some fit the stereotypes she'd held like the shirtless guy who had three replica belts slung over his shoulder — or maybe real belts; she couldn't tell — or the overweight woman who looked ready to sling her panties at the ring, but she also passed families, office workers, just perfectly normal people out for an evening's entertainment. Near the entrance, Keira waved her over and tossed her a t-shirt. Violet shook it out and saw Suplex Tacos emblazoned above a stylized mask.
“I've heard about that place... gas station taco joint on Thirteenth?”
“Yeah. Good tacos. The owners don't have any real luchadore ties, just thought it was a different theme for a Mexican restaurant, something other than sombreros and mariachi bands. It's a small, should fit you just fine. But come on! I have your ticket and my buddy Jeremy is holding some prime front-row seats for us. We'll be close enough to have the sweat splash on us!”
“Oh joy,” Violet said flatly, but with a faint smile, “Just what I wanted to do with my night.”
“Don't worry. I'm teasing you. Mostly. It's a sport and they work hard out there. They sweat, right?” Kiera handed two tickets to an oversized man at the front door and they walked in.

Inside, the scene was controlled chaos, a few hundred people milling around the folding chairs that were layered in four sections of four rows, surrounding a low metal fence that itself surrounded the ring. Violet hadn't been sure what to expect of it, but found herself mildly disappointed that the ring was rather plain, a black plastic skirt emblazoned with red letters that spelled out IAW, capped off by four square ringposts, painted red, supporting three parallel red cables on each side.
“IAW?” she asked Kiera.
“International Action Wrestling. Dunno who they think they're fooling about it being 'international'. Most of the wrestlers come from the Tristate area and they have maybe four or five venues in Ohio, Kentucky, and West Virginia. What can I say, they're an Indy fed.”
“Indy fed?”
“Independent federation. Basically, they're not WWE, TNA, ROH... small fish. Back in the day, they probably would have been part of one of the territories, but these days, it's all independent with the groups barely recognizing that the others exist. Oh, there's Jeremy!” Kiera waved at a scruffy looking guy who was sitting in one of the chairs and had his arms draped over two more. He glanced up from an argument he was having with two men dressed in overalls and carrying cardboard signs and caught Kiera's eye, jerking his head at the men. Kiera hustled through the crowd and leaned over one of the chairs, obviously showing off her décolletage to distract them. Violet, moving through the crowd more gingerly, missed most of the conversation to the roar of the crowd, but evidently Kiera got her way and the two men moved on.

“Thanks, Kiera,” Jeremy said, “I was starting to think that I was going to have to throw down.” Violet noted Jeremy's rather pronounced Kentucky twang and his raggedy ACTC shirt and decided he must be one of the longtime natives, probably had roots in the area. He looked up to Violet.

“Oh hey, you must be Violet. Kiera's told me 'bout you. Nice shirt!” He stared at the writing a little longer than he ought to have needed to and Violet realized a little too late that he was probably ogling her. His leer was interrupted by Kiera's dope slap.

“Jeremy, be nice. Remember, I know your Mom...” Mentally, Violet subtracted a few years off of her first estimate of Jeremy's age, and placed him as being somewhere in his early 20s, an ACTC graduate, probably lived with his parents... she shook her head and scolded herself for assuming so much.