Author's Note: "Divas in Dubai" picks up from a sequence of stories that all have titles beginning with "No Holds Barred in . . ." but has been written as a self-contained story in itself. There should be no need for anyone to read previous submissions in order to enjoy this one. Although "anyone" is of course free to read them if she/he likes!
*****
Chapter One
Trish had had nightmares about losing her title in Sacramento, but none as bad as the reality. No, the reality was something else. There she was, on her ass on the canvas, medics fussing around her while Victoria was up on the ropes, waving the belt in the air and conducting the audience.
'Vic-tor-i-a,' they roared, 'Vic-tor-i-a!'
Even heartbroken Trish still listened for her own name but this time she heard zip. When she had entered the arena the chants of "Trish" had been much louder than her rival's reception. Now she was getting the odd subdued boo.
Or maybe she was getting loud boos subdued by all the applause for Victoria. The cacophony of noise made it difficult to be sure.
Boos, for goodness' sake!
How unfair was that! This was supposed to the biggest night of her life: two women headlining the whole show for the first time and her name up there in the largest letters by far. She'd battled to win her title back to triumph on nights such as this, not to almost immediately lose it again.
And where had the "TRISH IS A DISH" banners all gone?
Talk about fame being fleeting and fragile!
The circumstances made losing even harder to take. She hadn't had a dead leg since in her early teens. Getting one now, and getting it so innocuously . . .
Victoria was still up on the ropes conducting. She was dressed as usual in skimpy black leather and looked quite magnificent.
'Vic-tor-i-a,' the audience roared, 'Vic-tor-i-a!'
The medics were urging Trish to stand. Doubting she could do it but eager to be out of there, she let them assist her to her feet. And then she swore bitterly. Five minutes ago her left leg wouldn't work at all. Now, although it was hurting like blazes, it was functional again. Another five and it'd probably be as good as new.
But five minutes was a long time in WWE. It had taken Victoria less than one minute to overpower her weakened body and only three seconds to pin it down.
'Hold onto us and we'll get you to the dressing room,' said one of the medics. 'We'll get ice and a compress on and you'll be right as rain.'
Before Trish could start limping off, the overhead lights were dimmed. Music suddenly blared over the din of the victory celebrations. Instinctively, she looked to the top of the walkway. As expected a woman was standing there, posing in front of glaring lights which turned her into a silhouette.
The Commissioner's surprise ending, Trish supposed. The actual title fight had been unscripted, unrehearsed and totally for real; now it was time for the WWE Universe to take over again.
And neither she nor her rival knew exactly what was coming.
'That's my belt,' a familiar voice yelled. 'Treasure it while you can, Victoria. Your first defence is against me . . . and I'm taking it back.'
Trish's heart dropped as Molly stepped into clearer view. Molly had been untypically quiet these last few months but now she was back with a bang. And she was looking good with it; must have been putting extra time in at the gym. The strong, shapely body on her . . .
Oh no, thought Trish. If she gets her hands on the title it'll get complicated. I'll be waiting forever for another shot.
Victoria snarled something defiant at Molly but the woman on the walkway had the microphone; her amplified response was the one everybody heard and remembered.
'Dubai, Victoria. Four weeks from tonight. Bring my belt with you; I'll be taking it home with me.'
As WWE confrontations go it was mild but it certainly grabbed attention. Molly turned and strutted off and, after a moment's hesitation Victoria vaulted out of the ring and went after her. So too did a whole crowd of assorted hangers-on, leaving Trish and her medics to hobble in their wake.
The word "disaster" resounded in Trish's head with every limping step. How could she get such a trivial injury at so inconvenient a time! And how could it have disabled her so completely!!
The area outside the changing rooms was crammed with sweaty people: intrusive cameramen or mouthy reporters, mostly. If anything the torrent of questions was noisier and less controlled than the uproar back in the arena.
Molly was over to the left, holding court. Despite the crush elsewhere she was miraculously being allowed breathing room; she had a comfort zone of maybe two feet around her, as if interrogators were being held back by an invisible force field.
Victoria didn't seem to have caught up with her new challenger. She was over to the right, deep in agitated conversation with the Commissioner.
'Let's press on,' said the first medic. 'This is a zoo. The sooner we get you out of it the better.'
But Victoria had spotted the three of them. Pushing away the nearest medic she pulled Trish into her agitated confab.
'Here she is,' she said aggressively, 'tell her what you've just told me.'
Ever-diplomatic, the Commissioner waved away a few lenses and mics. He didn't do that quite as effectively as Molly but did get them a tiny pool of privacy.
'Good match,' he said to Trish. 'Are you badly hurt?'
'I'll live,' she replied. 'What's this business with Molly? I want a rematch.'
'So do I,' said Victoria, surprising everybody.
Suddenly the crush was closer than ever around them. Trish clung on to the remaining medic as tightly as she could. He was, she noticed, grinning in spite of everything. There again he did have her right tit pressing into his arm and both of Victoria's as good as in his face.
'Back off,' the Commissioner shouted, for once losing his cool. 'Back off or I'll have the building cleared.'
'This rematch,' a persistent reporter yelled, 'is it . . .'
'Get him outta here,' the Commissioner bellowed, pointing.
An enormous black hand appeared out of nowhere. It belonged to Fred, the main man in the field for WWE's security team. Suddenly the persistent reporter was nowhere to be seen; it was as if Scotty had beamed him up.
'The three of us will talk on Monday,' the Commissioner said into the resultant silence, addressing Trish and Victoria. 'Rest up and recover in the meantime, both of you.'
Then he was swept away on a tide of (marginally) politer media folk.
Trish's relationship with Victoria had always been, to say the least, rocky. Just then she wanted to hate her for stealing her title. But the dead leg had been an accident, not intentional. And Victoria had been demanding a rematch on her behalf. . .
Causing all manner of oohs and ahhs, Trish embraced her greatest rival.
'Thank you,' she said into Victoria's ear.
'We'll go on strike,' Victoria replied. 'If he messes us about on Monday, we'll go on strike.'
Overwhelmed, Trish kissed her amidst a thousand camera flashes.
