David Striker vs. Kimberly Williams

[The Matt]

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June 17th, 2026
Boston, Massachusetts
Off Camera
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The real estate office of Kimberly Lambert sat high above the polished streets of Boston’s Financial District, a sanctuary of glass, brushed steel, and deep, charcoal gray carpets that seemed to swallow the sound of the city below. The air inside smelled of expensive espresso beans and the clean, chemical sharpness of high end furniture polish. Floor to ceiling windows offered a sweeping, panoramic view of the harbor, where tiny container ships moved sluggishly across the blue water. Everything about the space screamed institutional wealth and meticulous organization, from the minimalist abstract art on the walls to the perfectly aligned rows of glossy luxury property brochures resting on a low marble coffee table. Behind a massive desk crafted from a single, flawless slab of dark walnut sat Kimberly Lambert. Known affectionately and playfully by her most eccentric client as The Other Kim, the real estate agent was the absolute embodiment of corporate professionalism. She was dressed in an impeccable, sharply tailored navy blue pantsuit that featured crisp, structural lines and sat perfectly across her shoulders. An ivory silk blouse peeked out from beneath her blazer, fastened at the throat with a subtle, geometric gold brooch. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek, low bun without a single stray flyaway, and her manicure was a flawless, neutral shellac that tapped quietly against the glass screen of her tablet as she pulled up the latest high end market listings. She looked like a woman who could negotiate a multi million dollar commercial lease before breakfast and never break a sweat.

Sitting in the plush, cream colored leather armchair directly across from the walnut desk was “The Queen of the Death Match” Kimberly Williams, presenting a contrast so jarring it threatened to disrupt the room’s entire aesthetic. Kimberly had bypassed every conceivable rule of office etiquette with her choice of attire for the afternoon. She was currently wearing a vibrant, oversized turquoise silk bathrobe that she was apparently utilizing as a lightweight spring trench coat. Beneath the unbelted robe, she wore a black mesh athletic tank top over a neon orange sports bra, paired with bright yellow bicycle shorts that ended just above her knees. Her legs were bare, leading down to her signature, heavily scuffed black combat boots, which still carried dried remnants of the gray mortar and mud from her recent backyard structural repairs. To complete the ensemble, she had secured a thick, rhinestone encrusted pink headband across her forehead, holding back a wild, slightly untamed mane of hair. She looked less like a wealthy real estate investor and more like an eccentric character who had mistakenly wandered out of a thrift store explosion.

Resting precisely on the pristine surface of the walnut desk, right between a designer pen holder and a stack of pending closing documents, was Wasley the penguin. The oversized plush toy sat upright, his yellow felt beak pointing straight toward the real estate agent. Kimberly had placed him down with a distinct, heavy thud that had caused Kimberly Lambert’s expensive ceramic coffee mug to rattle slightly on its coaster, betraying the dense, solid core of lead fishing weights packed inside the bird’s soft exterior. Today Wasley wore a clip on black bow tie that Kimberly had carefully fastened around the penguin’s plush neck. Wasley’s black plastic bead eyes stared unblinkingly at the real estate agent, his immense weight causing the leather blotter beneath him to indent deeply.

Kimberly Williams shifted in her leather chair, the silk of her turquoise robe rustling loudly against the expensive hide. She leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees and adjusting the rhinestone headband on her forehead, her eyes locking onto her agent with an expression of intense, erratic focus. Across the desk, Kimberly Lambert closed her tablet, took a slow, measured breath, and looked from the lead filled penguin in the bow tie up to the neon clad woman sitting before her.

“Ms. Williams, I am so glad you came to see me…”

“Oh I love spending time with you, The Other Kim!” Williams remarks joyfully. “Besides, it was either this or spend time trying to capture that raccoon in my attic. The one Tim from the city wants removed?”

“Raccoon?”

“Yeah, the raccoon really doesn’t want to be removed.” Kim shakes her head. “He bites really hard. Is foaming at the mouth a sign of rabies, The Other Kim? I may or may not have foamed at the mouth on the way here.” Kimmy smirks devilishly as she watches the real estate agent get very nervous at the mere thought that Williams might actually be serious about her interaction with the raccoon.

“Yes, well, the raccoon is certainly a problem, but the larger problem you have, Ms. Williams, is the fact that the city is prepared to condemn your house.”

“And I’m sure you’d love that.” Williams rolls her eyes. “But me and Wasley won’t let that happen! We’ve already arranged a battle plan! The city won’t know what hit it! And by battle plan I mean a several point list of items we need to fix in order to keep our unique home from being demolished by those fools in the city.” She points at Lambert. “You’re just like them, y’know? None of you appreciate personality!”

“That house certainly has something, I’m just not sure personality is the right word.” She sighs. “But you are my client, you pay me and you pay me well, and you do not pay me to have opinions about your…lifestyle…”

“Damn right!” Kim exclaims triumphantly.

“However, you do not have long to get the repairs finished. Am I correct?”

“Thirty days.” Kim shrugs. “So?”

“What if you do not get it complete in time? Besides, even if the city granted you an extension, these repairs will take time. Now I know you hate the place, but would you at least consider moving back into The Floreschu Estate?”

The mere mention of the mansion once occupied by the sociopath who raised her, Emma Floreschu, and Emma’s brother Lucian Floreschu, it brings painful memories back to Kimberly Williams. The most recent memory is of how Lucian tried to blackmail Kimberly and then Kimberly’s mother, Angelica Jones, put a bullet through his head, murdering him in order to protect Kim. Mother and daughter have kept that murder a secret. Still, Kimberly wants to stay as far away from the ghosts of that place and of her past. She instantly shakes her head.

“No way, Jose…wait, you’re not Jose? Sorry! Now way, Other Kim! Not moving in back there!”

“But Ms. Williams…”

“The hamster and penguin sanctuaries are already set up there, or have you already forgotten?”

“Yes, I recall your…projects.” She sighs. “But still so very much of the sprawling beautiful estate is left vacant. If you still refuse to move back in, can’t you figure out some other way to use the magnificent estate?”

“Torture chamber?” Kim suggests. Lambert shakes her head.

“Be serious.”

“Who says I’m not being serious?” Kimmy snickers.

“Ok, well how about this…you have me buy up nice homes for people who are homeless or just down on their luck. It is a noble cause but what if you used the Floreschu Estate to go another step further?”

“What are you getting at?” Kim asks, clearly intrigued.

“Use portions of the estate as a renovation training site; teach people down on their luck and in need of skills or a job, teach them how to renovate dilapidated homes.”

“Renovate homes? You mean, like, doing repairs on my home?”

“Precisely.” Lambert answers with a nod of her head. “It could even become a school to train people in other vocations. Housing people who are down on their luck is one thing, Ms. Williams, but giving them the skills necessary to be able to improve their own lives without needing your constant handouts, that is a totally different thing.”

The Woman Scorned grins from ear to ear.

“Soooo what I’m h earring is chaos with permits?”

“Supervised chaos is more like it.” Lambert corrects.

“As long as its chaos I’m in!” Kim smirks. “But I do have ONE condition!” She holds up one finger. Lambert sighs but nods her head.

“Sure, what is it?”

“I get to design one room. Completely unsupervised!”

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June 18th, 2026
Boston, Massachusetts
Off Camera
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The morning sun struggled to pierce the thick layer of grime coating the living room windows, casting a weak, dusty light over the four figures huddled on the floor. The sunken tweed sofa had been pushed completely against the peeling wallpaper to make room, leaving a wide expanse of bare, warped hardwood that creaked every time someone shifted their weight. The air in the room was a familiar blend of damp plaster, stale coffee, and the faint, unmistakable scent of ghost pepper oil that still clung to the fabric of the curtains from the previous week’s alleyway encounter. Sitting cross legged in the center of the floor was Kimberly, wearing torn denim jeans, her feet were bare, and she was wearing an olive green tank top. Spread out on the floor before her was a massive sheet of brown butcher paper, weighted down at the corners by four heavily tarnished brass candlesticks to keep it from curling back up. Using a thick black marker and what appeared to be red grease pencils, Kimberly had transformed a basic layout of the house into a chaotic, highly detailed tactical map labeled in bold, aggressive lettering: Operation: Fix The Fortress. The blueprint looked less like a residential renovation plan and more like a top-secret military assault strategy for breaching a hostile compound.

Her boyfriend, Tommy, sat to her right, his massive, burly frame taking up a significant portion of the floorboards. He was wearing his usual faded pocket tee, his dark beard still dusty from a quick inspection of the cellar beams he had performed before breakfast. He held a lukewarm mug of black coffee in his calloused hands, his eyes tracking the various red arrows and perimeter markers Kimberly had furiously scribbled across the paper. Next to him, acting as a silent adjutant, was Wasley the penguin. The lead-weighted plushie sat perfectly upright inside a shallow wooden tray, his black plastic eyes staring down at the map while a small, hand-drawn paper general's star was pinned precariously to his felt wing. On the other side of the butcher paper sat Marie and Sean. Marie looked exhausted, her sensible denim jacket pulled tight around her shoulders against the morning chill that always leaked up through the floorboards. She was staring at the map with a mixture of confusion and deep seated maternal resignation, her hand resting protectively on the knee of her son. Sean, dressed in his favorite gray hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, looked surprisingly engaged. The lingering adrenaline from his close call in the neighborhood weeks prior had seemingly morphed into a genuine curiosity about his aunt’s eccentric methods. He leaned forward on his elbows, his eyes wide as he tried to decipher the military shorthand.

The map itself was a masterpiece of paranoia and structural engineering. The sagging back wall they had jacked up the previous afternoon was designated as Sector Delta: The Breach, surrounded by a series of jagged red lines indicating structural failure points. The crumbling front porch was labeled Objective: Outpost Alpha, with detailed notes on reinforcing the steps to prevent "insurgent collapse." Kimberly had even drawn a perimeter around the entire property line, marking the neighboring chain-link fences as Defensive Boundaries and sketching a tiny, angry skull and crossbones over the corner where the city code enforcement officer usually parked his sedan. In the far corner of the room, completely ignoring the strategic briefing, Caligula the hamster was already awake and furious. The rhythmic, high-pitched squeak of his plastic exercise wheel provided a frantic, driving soundtrack to the meeting, the vibration of his cage echoing softly off the metal filing cabinet. Kimberly tapped the tip of her red grease pencil against the center of the butcher paper, the sharp snap of the lead drawing everyone’s immediate attention to the structural integrity of the main support beams. She looked around the circle, her face set in an expression of absolute, unyielding command as she prepared to assign their respective tactical roles for the day’s labor.

“Listen up, maggots! The enemy is trying to drive us from our native land! But will fortify our fortress and keep the enemy at the gate! We will drive the enemy into the bowels of hell! Do you understand me, maggots?!”

“Sir, yes sir!” Sean exclaims. Marie rolls her eyes.

“Don’t encourage her.”

“What?” Sean chuckles. “It’s fun!”

“This is war, private Jones!” Kim exclaims. “It is not fun! Unless you are disemboweling the enemy or stapling their ass cheeks together! Then yes, it is very much FUN!”

“Kimmy,” Tommy raises his hand “uh, I mean, General, what are we doing today?”

“Good, question, maggot!” Kim answers. “Step one, stabilize the foundation! You and the two penguins will have that job!”

“Two penguins?” Tommy asks. Kim nods and points to Marie.

“If Taking Hold of the Flame was any indication, we now have TWO penguins in this household.”

“Sorry about that.” Marie says sheepishly. “But speaking of Taking Hold of the Flame, now that we are officially into Rise To Greatness season, shouldn’t you be focusing on Breakdown? Underground Rules against David Striker. You clearly want and Underground Title shot against Asher Hayes.”

“Private David Striker will get destroyed! Do you hear me, Private Prude? DESTROYED! I will show him that I am the one true queen of the Underground! He will be obliterated! Do you understand?”

“Sure.” Marie shrugs her shoulders.

“I didn’t hear you! Sound off like you got a pair!”

“I don’t have a pair.” Marie frowns.

“Sure ya do!” Kim smirks as she pats her own chest. Marie sighs.

“Fine…Sir, yes sir…”

“Better.” Kim nods her head. “Now step two, eliminate the raccoon insurgency…”

“That better not be left up to Sean.” Marie states. Kim shakes her head.

“Don’t worry, Private Prude. I’ll handle the raccoon insurgency. I will make him wish for pain and beg for death. Just like I will do to Private David Striker on Breakdown! And after I am done, both the raccoon and Striker will get rabies shots!”

“Is that really necessary?” Tommy asks curiously.

“Of course. Who knows where David Striker has been?”

“Well what about the other things the city wants you to do, Aunt Kim?” Sean asks curiously. Kim sighs and nods her head.

“Alas, we will adhere to the enemy’s wishes and remove the illegal booby traps…” she smirks “...but they said NOTHING about the legal ones…”

“There is such a thing as a legal booby trap?” Marie asks.

“Silence, Private Prude!” Kim exclaims. “Then last, but certainly not least, we shall reinforce personality! The enemy wants us to conform to THEIR idea of normal! But WE WILL NOT BEND THE KNEE TO THEIR WILL! We will maintain our own unique culture and personality! We will not be a damn melting pot!”

“I still have concerns, Kim…” Marie states. Kim ignores her. Finally Marie sighs out of frustration. “...I have concerns…General…”

“You may speak, Private Prude!”

“First of all, this is going to be an incredibly long undertaking. It will take up a lot of your time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kim scoffs “The Other Kim said the same thing. But trust me, the city will grant us an extension.”

“I’m not even talking about that because I’m sure they’ll grant you an extension if you show some progress being made.” Marie states. “I’m just saying if you insist on doing this yourself, or even with all of us, you are going to be distracted. What about your career? What about SCW?”

“Oh, that again.” Kim sighs. “Look, I get it, I’m fighting Davey Boy Striker and I look forward to it. Me and Davey Boy love to maim one another. It’s always good for a few laughs. And I will maim him again if it means earning a shot at the Underground Title. Don’t worry about that.”

“What about CEO Frank?” Marie asks. Kim’s eyes grow cold.

“I already gave him and his children the warning. Leave me alone and I’ll leave them alone. I have no desire to involve myself in some stupid power struggle. All I want is the Underground Championship.”

“Well, if you really do care about getting the title back, and if you care about defeating Striker, you need to focus on that, not this; meaning you should probably hire someone to do this work for you. God knows you have the money, Kim, even if you choose not to live like it.”

“Your sister’s right.” Tommy chimes in. “I already told you, hire some contractors to do the work for you.”

“Fine.” Kim sighs, feeling as if she has been outvoted. “But the labor won’t be some fancy contractors who obviously don’t need the work or the money. The labor will be community driven. People who need the money and need the work.”