Post by Roxy Cotton on Jan 15, 2019 14:36:49 GMT -5
Malibu, California - January 24th
Roxy Cotton only swims on Wednesdays.
Overhead, from a bird's eye view, the large, enclosed pool housing glints and gleams in the Los Angeles morning light. Within the clear glass panes encapsulating the Olympic sized pool. The bright blue rectangle of water rests in the center of a wooden deck, strewn with pool chairs and various outdoor equipment. A grilling area is in one corner, a mini bar in the opposite. A dark, wet line of footprints dots the wooden floor between the pool and bar.
Down the length of a cerulean blue lane of water on the far side of the pool, the glowing blonde hair atop Cotton's head slowly moves from east to west like a time-lapse recording of the sun travelling across the sky. Her tan body undulates beneath the surface, her toned muscles propelling her at a steady, slow, intentional speed as ripples emanate out from her westward form. There is no stripe of color to indicate a top covering the bombshell's assets. Nothing to suggest any bottoms either. Roxy swims, rhythmically, hypnotically, without a stitch of fabric on her golden body. Just like every Wednesday.
At ground level, outside the western wall of Roxy's pool house, staring in through the clear glass, stands a young man with a weed whacker in his hand. The gas-powered machine chugs along, whipping its small cord around at root-ripping rates of RPM, but the man's arm does not swing back and forth. He does not hold his landscaping tool up to any errant strands of grass. He appears frozen, standing in front of one of the sculpted topiaries in the wide-open side yard of Cotton's Malibu home, the mansion-like compound she and her fiance, Vinnie Lane, shared and that they had christened the Pink Palisades upon its completion in 2016. The weed whacker buzzes in the landscaper's hand, hovering an inch away from a large bush carved to resemble an elephant. The landscaper stands completely still, staring through the glass. Watching Roxy swim. Just like every Wednesday.
Eventually, Roxy reaches the edge. She comes to a stop at the lip of the pool, stretching out her arms and then folding them into a rest for her head, which she lies down in between her bent elbows. Her feet gently kick below the surface, keeping the water rising and falling ever so slightly just below her armpits. She rests with her eyes closed and a bitten lip for what feels like hours but is in actuality only a second or two, and then she turns her head up onto her chin, still resting in her arms, with a smile on her face and her bright green eyes wide open, meeting the gaze of the yard worker. Then she plants her palms onto the wood and raises herself slow enough to be silent, pulling her nude body out of the water as the excess streams down her skin and back into the pool. Roxy hovers for a half second like Aphrodite from a seashell, then pulls herself the rest of the way up. She pulls a knee onto the wooden floor, then follows with the other before standing and staring out at the landscaper, allowing the cool breeze to dimple and harden the skin across her skyclad body. Roxy and her landscaper silently stare at one another. Just like every Wednesday.
The electricity in the air disperses a moment later when the nervous worker moves his machine too close to the topiary, lopping off the end of the elephant's trunk. He snaps out of the daze he'd been in and drops the weed whacker, which goes dead. He drops to a knee and gathers up the strewn about pieces of shrubbery that were seconds ago perhaps the most delicate and impressive part of the entire sculpture. He looks back and forth from the ruined bush to the naked body of Roxy Cotton, who now stands with her hand at her mouth, laughing at the man's clumsiness. She then turns deliberately and bends forward at the waist, dipping her upper body low enough that her wet hair paints curlicues of water onto the wooden floor reminiscent of Van Gogh's Starry Night, then she grabs her target, a slinky satin robe, and stands erect once more, slipping the garment over her body. Show's over. Same time next week.
Roxy walks to the bar on the other end of the pool house and leaves the landscaper to his work, disappearing from his line of sight as she reaches the countertop with its ice bucket sitting center, a green bottle of wine sticking straight up from it. Cotton pulls the bottle out of the ice and twists free the cork from its home. A sparkling deep lemon cascade of Grenache Blanc pours from the bottle into a crystal glass sitting beside the ice bucket, and Roxy fills it nearly to the brim. As she replaces the bottle back into the ice, she brings the glass to her newly-botoxed mouth. The wine within doesn't budge a millimeter. The level stays the same, as if it were somehow levitating on its own to rise to the eager, parted lips of the LAW Chaos Champion.
Roxy circumnavigates the borderline of the pool, still leaving darkened water marks with her bare feet as she walks slowly around toward the entrance of the house itself. Without looking back over, she raises her free hand and wiggles her fingers in a farewell wave toward the western wall once more. The sounds of the sliding glass door is drowned out by the resurgence of the lawn tool as it hums back to life, unseen.
By the time Roxy comes out of the small dressing room between the pool house and the kitchen, her hair now toweled dry, and walks to the marble island at the center of the spacious room, the glass in her hand is three quarters empty. She finishes the final fourth of wine and sets her glass down on the island, right next to her blinking cell phone. When she swipes open her screen and unlocks the device, she sees several text alerts from her friends.
"Oh my god, Angie... every day with this...
Roxy scrolls through the fifteen or so cat pictures Angelica Vaughn has already sent her that morning, then absently swipes in a reply while scrunching her nose in the direction of her empty glass.
While the phone is still in her hand, almost simultaneously with her reply to Angie, the phone chirps out a loud sound byte of Britney Spears' "Gimme More," and Roxy rolls her eyes. She moves from Angie's text to the new one that's just come in and her jaw drops open in shock.
She replies as fast as her expertly manicured fingernails will allow her to, and then she presses the icon next to Kenzi's contact info to call her. The phone only seems to ring for a heartbeat before Roxy pulls it away from her ear as if she'd been injured, and Kenzi's familiar voice can be heard over the speaker ranting at a mile a minute. Roxy puts the phone back to her ear.
"Baby... baby, okay... okay... I hear you... Okay... I will TOTALLY talk to you about that, like, right now. But first, I wanted to know about that last text? You said Treamon was running her sad little mouth? No... no I didn't see it. I told you, I've been really busy! You know how famous and important I am! So she uploaded a promo? And she said what? Really? Well, TBH, who cares what she or anyone else thinks about 4CW, they're trash, she shouldn't even mention them if she wants anyone to listen to her. Huh? No, no, baby my arm's fine now. I just swam, like twenty laps in my pool, it's not even sore today. Why? She said she was going to target it? Really? I mean, I guess that's to be expected, but, like, it won't work. That would be like me saying I was going to target her burnt up ass cheeks just because she got her fluffy butt roasted like a marshmallow in wherever the fuck she won her gold. Hey you're right! It really is like a marshmallow! All pale white and mushy!"
Roxy absentmindedly picks up the empty wine glass to take a sip, then clucks her tongue at its persistent lack of wine before setting it back down again.
"Huh? Oh, right, the Sarah stuff... um, hey, there's someone at the door, can I call you back? It's probably one of those Amazon drones or something. They knock, right? Okay. Okay, yes, I totally promise I'll call you back in like five minutes. Yes. Yes, I said I promise. Of course! Yes, I'll totally give you more awesome advice, like, of course I will. YES Kenzi, oh my god! Okay... okay... okay I have to go for real. Thanks baby."
Roxy plops the cell back onto the countertop and once again looks at her empty glass with a scowl. With no one actually at her front door, she is free to worry about herself instead. Her favorite pastime. She walks with it toward a cabinet, which she opens, revealing a large wine rack filled with various bottles. She pulls out a red, leaving the cabinet door open, and then slides open a utensil drawer from which she pulls a wine key. Heading back to the island, she sets her glass down as well as the bottle, then uses the corkscrew to open the bottle of Shiraz, pouring the wine into the same glass she used for her previous wine, seemingly indifferent to the drastic change of flavor.
Taking a small sip to start, Roxy then pulls up the LAW webpage and scrolls around until she finds the recent videos uploaded by her peers. Sure enough, she finds one from her opponent Megan Treamon, and fires it up. Leaning over the counter she watches the video and swirls her finger into the wine glass, sucking off the rich flavor while she listens to Treamon's diatribe, laughing intermittently. She takes a deep drink, draining half the glass, and then walks into a separate room which looks set up like some kind of home office. A laptop is open on a desk, which is where Roxy takes herself, sitting down in a small office chair. Luckily, this time she remembered to bring the bottle with her.
Upon waking up the laptop, the screen is lit up with the home screen of her webcam home site, and she logs in.
IDGAF
WELCOME TO ROXY COTTON'S LIVE CAM
"Hey there babies... no, no, no full show right now, sorry baby. Like... I just wanted to get something off my chest."
Roxy laughs as she reads a reply in the chat box, then types into the reply window, mostly smiley face emojis and links to requested videos.
"No, not my bra, BigBlackMambaDick813. I'm not even wearing one. Maybe later though. No, I just wanted to do, like, a sort of vlog thing... a video blog sort of, like my super good friend Sarah does all the time. Angie told me it's the only way to make the next leap in LAW, and I'm pretty sure she was sincerely trying to help. I don't know though, she's hard to read. But she's never sarcastic, so I believe her. So here we are! This is like the beta test for Roxy's Vlog. You guys are like my guinea pigs!"
Roxy takes another long sip from her glass, leaving very little near the bottom.
"Anyway. In a few days I'm going to be in the ring again, this time out in the middle of Hillbillyfuck USA, Greenville, South Carolina. It kind of makes sense considering my opponent, but still. Megan Treamon picked a fight with me, so I'm going to bring her what she wanted. And then her and her fans, which I expect quite a lot of honestly, can go home and cry into their poetry journals about it. All the other little boring basic redneck girls with too much eye shadow and not enough self-restraint in the bakery aisle will all line up and barely scratch their forearms and wrists with a dull razor blade so they can show all their friends how emotionally distraught they were when their Emo Queen got taken out. Do you think she'll watch this? Do you think she even bothers paying attention when her betters are talking to her or do you think she just reads a few tweets and thinks she can fully grasp what it is she's up against? Well, let's assume she watches. I'm going to talk directly to her for a sec."
Roxy finishes her wine and then pulls the cork out of the bottle again, pouring another full glass. Holding a finger up in a "one minute" gesture, she takes a long sip and then runs her tongue around her mouth to capture any drops she missed. Her phone lights up and she presses the silence button just as Britney's voice starts to sing.
"So... Megan... Otaki, whatever... wipe those greasy bangs out of your face and look at me with both eyes. Pay attention, you Prozac-riddled bitch. Look at me. Look closely. Look at my hair. My face. My body. Look at the shape I'm in. Look at what I've accomplished already in fairly little time. Look at my matches. Look at my centerfolds. Look at my merchandise sales. Have you looked? Are you soaking it all in, baby? I want you to stare at me... I don't think it's too much to ask, honestly, I'm sure you already have been. But really stare. Don't blink. Let this image of me at my physical peak burn itself into your retinas like a picture fading from a screen. Now look in the mirror. Hurry. Get therein time so that the image of me hasn't faded completely. Use it as an outline versus your own reflection. Do you see, baby? See me taller than you? See me in better shape? See how my silhouette puts yours to shame? The way my blonde hair brings in hundreds of DMs from hunks and hotties on the daily, versus the way your Hot Topic Hairdo just gets Twitch requests from horny pimplefags wanting to jerk off while they lose to you at some lame MMORPG? Do you see the way my sun kissed skin glows with vibrant energy and raw appeal? The way yours is like the skin of a raw chicken thrown into a grocery store's dumpster because it's three weeks past its sell-by date? Do you see the way my body shape matches up with perfect societal standards of beauty? The way my hips and my shoulders are nearly parallel? The curve of my neck? The angle of my waist? The light peeking through the world's cutest thigh gap? Can you compare that to the way your muffin top rolls out over your JNCOs like someone left a pie in the oven for too long? Can you compare your stretch marks with my flawless complexion? My fabulous smile to your yellow British bullshit?"
Roxy pauses, as if waiting for Treamon to do as she's been asked. She takes a sip of wine and smacks her lips together.
"No, of course you can't. You couldn't pass for me if we were in a home for the blind, because everyone would just hear how much heavier you waddle on your flat-footed size ten Doc Martens compared to my delicate, ladylike heels. I outclass you from the bottom of my Louboutins to the top of my expertly modeled hair. I look better than you, I make more money than you, I get more attention than you, and I WIN more than you... and yet you think somehow that you're going to walk into my front yard and take a shit on it like some stray dog? Honey... I'm from Malibu. And in SoCal you have to clean up after your own messes, so make sure you bring a baggie to pull over your head, breathe deep, and then throw yourself into the nearest dumpster you can find... probably whatever you end up using for a dressing room.
Honestly, Megan, if you think that just because you tried to blow smoke up my pussy that I'm going to underestimate you or be caught off guard... like, how dumb do you think I am? You uploaded that trash talking about how good I am, which is true, how much success I've had, which is true, and then talk about breaking my arm? Honey, no. First of all, thank you SO much for putting me over. I know I'm all of those nice things you said, and I know that you know it. I don't need to hear you say it because I can see it in your ugly brown eyes when you look at me. It's palpable. It's a smell in the air all around you. But you know what it isn't? It isn't new. No, bitch, I'm completely used to every basic walking around hiding her body in some man's hoodie looking at me with that same yearning. You either want to be with me, or you want to BE me... and sweetie pie, you aren't getting either. Sorry baby girl. All you get is... ugh... hold on."
Roxy's phone flashes to life again, and once again Britney Spears is cut off in mid-gimme. Roxy presses the volume down until the lyrics are completely unheard, then sets the phone down next to her wine where it continues to blink every few minutes.
"Sorry. Where was I? Right, right... Megan, I know you covet me. My life. My body. You don't have to admit it, you can blow it off in your next upload, I don't really give a fuck. Anyone who sees us standing side by side on Saturday night will know that there's no way you go to sleep later that evening without crying off your mascara onto your pillow, knowing that win, lose, or draw you'll still never be the woman that I am. You have the nerve to think you can come to MY ring, in MY home company, and hold your cheap knockoff title up in the air next to MY Chaos Championship? You think you can badmouth my victory over Kate Steele, who, unlike you was able to make it to the very top of LAW instead of fizzling out like the candles on your birthday cake that burnt down to the wick waiting for you to come up with a wish that could possibly come true? What... I wasn't HARDCORE enough for you, honey? I didn't draw enough blood? Pay attention, Pillsbury Goth Girl, I split her wig open inside of a cage not long ago. I walked around with her hair pulled by the roots in my pocket like a fucking rabbit's foot. I put her in the hospital. I've left real scars on people, Megan, not little hesitation marks for mommy and daddy to see so they start locking up the children's aspirin. You think I'm afraid of some pudgy little nobody who won her championship by accidentally falling on top of someone and catching fire? You think that impressed me? All it did was make me feel bad for the poor fire your fat ass snuffed out.
So... let's recap, okay? I want to make sure you get all of this, because I don't want you turning around and acting surprised when you wake up with a referee waving smelling salts under your nose in Greenville, okay baby? Let's start from the top.
You're some gothy, angsty nobody who called me out on Twitter for a fight? I don't give a fuck.
You have a Hardcore Championship from somewhere I've never heard of that you won by NOT beating Sam Tolson one on one? I don't give a fuck.
You want to put me over in one second, then bury me in the next? I don't give a fuck.
You think you can break my arm? I don't give a fuck.
You think anyone, anywhere, ever, listens to a word you have to say and nods their head along with you? I don't give a fuck.
You think I'm training my ass off, flying all the way to some redneck hellhole, putting on my gear, walking down to the ring... to lose? I. Don't. Give. A. Fuck.
In fact, nobody gives a fuck. Nobody cares what you think, what you say, or what you do. You're a ghost, little Casper girl, and when I'm done giving you the spanking you've been begging everyone with a pulse for since the day your daddy pulled his fingers out of you, no one will give a fuck as you walk out the door, right back into the shadows of obscurity.
Bye bitch.
Bye."
Roxy slams the lid of the laptop down and it makes an audible click. She lets out an annoyed sigh and picks up her glass of wine for another drink, then finally remembers the phone and its constant blinking.
"Oh, shit."
She swipes it open. Five missed calls. A dozen texts growing in frustration. And a little ghost in the corner.
Roxy picks the ghost first.
"Fuuuuuuuck."
She finishes her glass and then dials her cell, turning away from the laptop on her desk.
"Kanzi, OMG baby you won't believe what happened..."
The sounds of Roxy's voice, as well as the scene itself, fades away.
~THE END~
