The ring announcer’s attention was on the lewd and debauched first row.
“If you are wearing a bra, or not wearing a bra, scream as loud as you can.”
The projectionist was ushered to his corner to coughs and gulps opposite the ‘Pride of Tennessee’ Jacqueline Moore, who entered her corner to wolf whistles and god’s hand blowing her cleavage down another four inches.
Although staged, each moved designed to soften impact and heighten suspense, the projectionist saw rage in the eyes of Tennessee’s Pride, primal and real. Her persistent jabs and kicks to his groin left him wondering where theatre ended and full-on violence began, as both seemed to bleed into the other lit by the dusking sun. It ended with a swinging fisherman suplex.
The dust on the mat, made golden by the suns last seconds, was inhaled deeply by the unconscious projectionist, his face planted and softened. After playing the crowd, who cheered and spasmed in her honour, Jacqueline grabbed the projectionists arm and dragged his body from the ring as a show of superiority and presumably to use his skeleton as a trophy. She held him like how Bruce held Robin moving up the stairs, his arm hanging limply around her waist.