Roxy stared hard at the scrap of paper in her hand for a long moment, before heading down the hallway of the apartment building. Getting in was easy...hell, Roxy'd never had any difficulties getting anywhere with the proper application of cleavage and a little elbow grease if necessary.

With each step, though, she was questioning herself. She came relatively unarmed, a small knife in her purse, but nothing else really useable as a weapon. She was so used to being able to charm and slut her way through any obstacles that sometimes she found herself regretting her confidence in those abilities. Particularly now. Right now, a gun would feel a whole lot more comfortable on her.

Passing a mirror in the hall, she paused for a moment. Even moreso, she knew nothing about the man she was coming after. Robert Sender. A first and a last name, and that was it. Apparently he had some connection to Casanova, though...and that was enough.

She found herself shaking her head slightly as she glanced at her reflection. Was that really enough? To wander into any sort of lion's den, to head off into the complete unknown...was that really good enough? Some unknown connection to Casanova?

It only took another glance into the mirror to convince her that it was so. Her family and her were on some unspeakably bad terms, but her and her sister were never too badly at odds. She could see her features in the mirror yet again.

The conversation was clear as day. She told Cas that she wanted to hurt her father, to hurt him like he'd never been hurt before.

We'll get into why he needed such pain later. For now...he just needed to hurt.

The statements weren't even completely true. Well, yes, Roxy wanted him to hurt, to hurt like hell, but they were the rantings of someone who'd been brutalized herself, the fiery statements one makes after some kind of ordeal, but really doesn't mean as they sound.

Apparently, vampires don't do rhetorical statements, though. Like the killing machine that he was, Casanova promptly took her words at face value, decided on the most logical course of action, and followed through.

She wiped the tear from her eye. If sultry was her weapon, she couldn't afford to blunt the edge by being a weepy whore. With that, she stepped away from the mirror, heading down the hallway to her destination.

Even in her head, she was tired of running over the details of what Casanova had done to her sister. Even the most basic of assumptions about the whole situation was simply...insane. It didn't matter; what was done was done. She'd debate the details once she'd finished off Casanova forever.

She stopped in front of the door and took a deep breath, before knocking on it. The unease came back full force. Should she have knocked? Maybe just kicked in the door? Maybe...broken in?

It was too late. She knocked, and she heard the sounds of someone coming for the door.

'Hey...where's the pizza? Whoa...' A near-homeless looking fellow opened the door, before his words trailed off as he stared at her lustily from head to toe.

'You...you wouldn't be Robert, would you...sweetie?' Roxy stammered out the line, somehow not expecting this fellow to be the start of her path to Casanova.

'Yeah, who's askin'?'

'I'm Roxy, baby. A friend of yours said you could use some company, to cheer you up.'

The man grinned and chuckled, exposing gapped teeth and near-toxic alcoholic breath. Roxy nearly threw up in her mouth, as the man wrapped an arm around her in a loose hug, while his other hand groped her ass.

'Musta been Tom...he's been watchin' out for me till I get some work out here...' His hand worked down her skirt, before starting to pull it up, exposing her up to her waist, in the middle of the apartment building hall. She grabbed his hand hard, yanking it to her side.

'Come on baby, I'll drive. You ready to go somewhere?' He seemed taken aback for a moment, before she grabbed the crotch of his pants.

'I'm ready to fuck like a horny coked up rabbit, asshole, but I'm not doing shit in your festering burrow. You either come for a ride, one long...dirty...ride, or you sit at home and wait for your pizza.' He nodded quickly, rubbing a hand over his stubbly features, before stumbling back into the filthy apartment. He ambled around for a long moment, blatantly mentally fried from too much of...well, whatever he'd been into. Roxy didn't suspect it was alcohol alone, and most people simply didn't have her tolerance for substances of every variety.

Finally he grabbed a jacket, hanging over the bathroom door, before smiling another gappy grin and heading toward Roxy.

'Where we goin', baby?'

'I was thinking of taking you for a long ride, maybe even a couple of days. You got any plans?' He winked at him, flashing a wicked smile.

'Hell no!' He followed her out, and down the hallway. As easy as that, she thought, as they stepped into the elevator. He was already pretty drunk at bare minimum, but she didn't want there to be any second-guessing until well after the fact. She slipped her skirt up again, grinding her bare bottom against his pants.

'What's old...Tom?...up to these days, anyway?'

'Still...with the company. Same...old...' His words stalled out slowly from his mouth as he breathed hard at the sight of her ass against him. It was obvious from his appearance that he likely hadn't had any female company in a long time, and if he had, it was likely from some equally gap-toothed street walker who could easily pass for a man.

Roxy nodded, mentally taking notes. She could multitask just fine, if anyone was wondering. She pulled the scrap of paper from her purse, and eyed the next address warily. It would definitely be a long drive, and perhaps for nothing, but at the same time...who knew, maybe something interesting would come up?

What was next? She tried to piece the route together in her head, but came up blank on specifics.

Montana next.

No, wait, Wyoming.

Yeah...Wyoming, then Montana. Then she'd be almost there.

Behind the desk, a man in a suit held the phone to his ear, nodding.

'No? Not a problem. You know who he is, though, right? He's a regular. Yes. Not a problem, thanks again. Goodbye.'

The man hung up the phone, shaking his head. 'No, not at the bar.'

On the other side of the desk, a taller man, also in a suit, turned slowly, his features unclear by the light from the desk lamp in the otherwise dark office.

'Interesting. What do you make of this?'

'Well, the sensor in his apartment hasn't shown motion in two days, now. He isn't at the bar. Could he have gone underground? Would he know to duck us like that?'

'One, no, he wouldn't. He's become a failure at life, a complete drunk spending his days staring down bottles and stuffing himself on delivery pizza. Two, he doesn't even know he's being monitored as such. And three, let me add a little bit of information you haven't been privy to: Just a few days ago, someone accessed his file.'

Behind the desk, the man looked stunned. 'You really think...someone's after him?'

'I do, oh, I do. The question is...who?'

Look at this, some kind of promotion! I went from teaming with that failcake Dashery to facing off the World Champion, in a main event!

Somehow, I just don't have a sense of accomplishment like I should. Does it have something to do with the passed out drunken trick in my passenger seat? Maybe. Does it have to do with what feels like an endless drive across the abyss that is the northeastern corner of Wyoming and then Montana? Maybe.

But ultimately, what it's all about is the fact that I'm Roxy Erikson. The hardcore queen, the goddess of destruction. I pride myself on being a tornado of carnage in the ring, with everything becoming a weapon, anything becoming an instrument of delivering pain.

The problem is, after too long, I got stereotyped. I'm seen as a mid-card competitor, a novelty act. I'm tougher, I'm nastier, I'm sicker than ninety percent of the goofballs around this business, yet you'll see moron after moron stacked up in the main event, put through the title ropes, while I get shuffled around as an attraction. Need a partner for Dashery so that someone gives two shits about him and his opponents last week? Throw Roxy in! That'll hold the ratings until the main event!

This is where you come in, Josh. I'm glad you seem to have some kind of respect in you for my style, it warms the hole in my chest where my heart was, before another wrestler ripped it out of me in the metaphorical sense. Normally, I'd see this as a challenge, but a long shot. You've got the credentials, you've got the experience. You have this match, in every way, shape, and form.

Except that just recently...Ethan fucking Dashery put one over on you. No bones about it, he stole it, absolutely, but he did it, bottom line. He put your shoulders on the mat for a three count. Now if that talentless shit-flinger can do it...maybe I can.

Maybe this is it. This is the break.

This is where Roxy Erikson goes from the midcard to the main event. You better bring your A-game, Josh. I've got endless waves of grain in my rear view mirror, a hobo to my right, and Idaho in my headlights. I've got nothing to lose. You already let Ethan think he's got World Title potential, don't let me get those ideas as well.

Because unlike Ethan, if I get to that level, I've got the talent, the toughness...the simple brutality-tested willpower to see myself right through to knock you off the top.