Model meets Midget
By The Masked Writer
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Naomi Ross’s name was once synonymous with glossy magazine covers and red-carpet glamour, but now it echoed with the hollow ring of fading relevance. At thirty-nine, her acting career was on a downward and increasingly slippery slope. The roles were getting scarce and increasingly uninteresting and exploitative, consisting mostly in running, scantily clad and in slow motion from some monster or screaming while being stabbed in a shower. The offers dwindled to a trickle, and the paparazzi had moved on to fresher faces. Her agent, Ziggy Bernstein, a man whose sartorial choices screamed desperation and whose morals whispered compromise, saw the panic in her eyes. He saw an opportunity.
“Darling,” Ziggy had crooned, flourishing a diamond-encrusted pinkie ring, “the public craves novelty. They want… spectacle!” He’d leaned in, his voice conspiratorial, “And I have something that will put you back in the spotlights. And it is for a Charity.”
Naomi, who still believed in her own, undiminished star power, had been intrigued. “Spotlight? Ziggy, Tell me more.”
The “more” turned out to be a professional wrestling match for raising funds for the Children’s Brain Diseases Society. Not against another woman, but against a man barely half her height. “Bill ‘Pitbull’ Dubois,” Ziggy had announced with a flourish, as if presenting a Nobel laureate. “A legend in the midget wrestling circuit… and, dare I say, a bit of a showman. And what can happen? You’re seventeen inches taller than he is. It will be like play wrestling with a child!”
Naomi, perched on the edge of her plush sofa, had initially scoffed. “A midget? You want me to wrestle a midget? Ziggy, is this some kind of joke?” But as Ziggy painted a picture of roaring crowds, sensational headlines, and a viral video that would thrust her back into the public consciousness, her initial amusement morphed into a misguided sense of confidence. She saw it as a quirky, daring stunt, a testament to what she thought was her toughness and her willingness to embrace the unconventional. It would be fun. A little bit of playful roughhousing, a few exaggerated moves, and then she’d be back on top. She said “yes.” She couldn’t wait to handle the little guy.
Bill “Pitbull” Dubois, on the other hand, saw no humor in the situation. For him, wrestling wasn't a stunt; it was his life. Standing a compact 4’4” and weighing a solid 100 pounds of pure, sculpted muscle, he was a powerhouse in his domain. Decades of navigating a world that often underestimated him had forged a steely resolve and a profound contempt for anyone who viewed him as a novelty act or, worse, a plaything. And no respect for those who would think they could abuse him because of his size. The whispers about this “ex-model” who thought wrestling him would be “fun” had reached his ears, and a dark anger began to brew under his shaved head. He knew Naomi’s type – the privileged, the show-offs, the ones who’d never known a day of real struggle and thought themselves the baddest. He intended to teach her a lesson. It would be “fun” but not the way she thought…
The Arena
The arena throbbed with a palpable energy, a chaotic symphony of anticipation. The air was thick with the scent of popcorn, cheap beer, and the electric hum of a thousand eager souls. The crowd, a diverse mosaic of all ages and backgrounds, was a living, breathing entity, ready to be entertained. They’d come for a spectacle, some for the wrestling, some to see a midget fighting a woman, some to look at a former model, some hoped for some sexy sight.
Backstage, Naomi adjusted the fitting, sequined wrestling attire Ziggy had procured. It was a shade of neon pink that clashed violently with her natural elegance, but she’d convinced herself it was “edgy.” She puffed out her chest, trying to project an aura of fierce determination, though a tiny tremor of apprehension ran through her. She’d done some light training, a few basic moves shown to her by a bewildered gym instructor, but the reality of a live, adversarial match was something else entirely. At 5ft9 and 124 pounds, she was “fit” for an ex-model but not muscular. By no way an athlete. But she was clinging to the illusion that this would be a cakewalk.
“Remember the plan, darling,” Ziggy whispered, his eyes glinting like a magpie’s. “It is a two out of three falls, no time limit. A little struggle, toy with him and then pin him, not too hard. You can even let him win the first fall, so the show lasts a little longer. The world will eat it up!” She flexed her biceps in front of the mirror. Or whatever muscle she had in her long, skinny arms. She took pleasure in posing, adopting fierce attitudes, imitating the wrestler she had seen on TV. She felt good but an outside observer would have find it comical at best.
Across the locker room, Bill Dubois stretched his powerful limbs. His movements were fluid, economical, radiating a coiled intensity. He wore a simple black singlet, his muscularity starkly evident. He’d heard Naomi’s confident pronouncements, seen the glint of amusement in her eyes when she thought no one was looking. It fueled his resolve. He wouldn’t just win; he would dismantle her illusions, piece by painful piece. He’d show her what it meant to be underestimated, to be dismissed. And if there was an opportunity to remind her of the power he held, both physically and… otherwise, he wouldn’t hesitate.
The ring announcer’s voice boomed, shattering the backstage quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, get ready for a match unlike any you’ve ever seen! In this corner, at 124 pounds, the glamorous, the resilient, the one and only… NAOMI ROSS!”
A mixture of cheers and curious murmurs greeted Naomi as she stepped onto the ramp, smiling triumphantly. She waved, trying to project an image of a fearless warrior.
Then came the roar for Bill. “And in this corner, the terrifying, the unstoppable, at 100 pounds, the one and only… BILL ‘PITBULL’ DUBOIS!”
The crowd erupted. A tidal wave of cheers, whistles, and guttural roars washed over the arena. Bill strode to the ring and climbed the ropes with astonishing agility, landing in the center of the ring with a thud that shouted “power.” Flexing his impressive muscles, he surveyed the cheering, jeering faces, his expression unreadable. For the first time, Naomi had some doubt, seeing this little mass of muscle. A cold wave moved in her stomach, but her showmanship soon took over.
The referee, a burly man named Stan with a perpetual look of weary resignation, entered the ring. He’d seen it all, or so he thought. This, however, was shaping up to be particularly… interesting. He motioned for the fighters to approach the center.
Naomi walked, her feet bouncing on the canvas, her smile feeling as arrogant as ever. She met Bill’s gaze, and for the first time, a flicker of genuine unease, cold and sharp, pierced through her carefully constructed bravado. He was smiling too but his eyes held no amusement, no playfulness. They were like chips of obsidian, hard and unwavering, and in their depths, she saw something more dangerous than anything she had imagined.
- “Now, both of you.” Said the referee. “You know the rules: no gouging, no hairpulling, if one of you touches the rope, the other must let go and the fight restart in the middle of the ring. Understood?”
Naomi nodded enthusiastically, “Pitbull” with a cool demeanor.
- “Now shake hands and be ready!”
Naomi extended her hand gracefully. Bill’s calloused palm met hers, his grip almost crushing. He held it for a beat longer than necessary, making her feel his power. When he finally released her hand, Naomi felt a strange, unsettling sensation, as if a small, electric current had passed between them.
The crowd’s energy reached a fever pitch. The air crackled. Stan stepped back, his gaze drifting towards the concession stand, a silent abdication of responsibility.
“Let’s get ready to rumble!” the announcer bellowed.
To be continued
