Resist & Disorder Part One (US Title Defence vs Unknown

[CowgirlsFromHell]

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[CowgirlsFromHell]

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[CowgirlsFromHell]

OOC: So, I am locked out of the gmail I use for Google Docs. It didn't unlock (neither did my RP in UCI with Tamika FFS). Glad I write in Word before I pretty them up in Google Docs. this isn't colour coded or anything, it's just in plain text. I would appreciate it if this counted, I have so much going on in real life, this is my escape... if it's counted and I win, I will gladly give a rematch to whoever ends up facing her



DHS Facility
Unknown Location, NY State
May 5th, 2026

The sterile, windowless box of the DHS interrogation room smelled of stale fear. Meghan Strader sat perfectly still, her hands cuffed to the steel table, her cyan eyes tracking the flickering fluorescent light overhead. Across from her, an inquisitor—a man with eyes like polished chrome—leaned in, his shadow stretching across the table.

"You had a clear shot, Meghan," the inquisitor hissed, his voice raspy from hours of failed coercion. "Kim Mitchell was at the event. You were supposed to end him. We had a deal."

Meghan didn’t blink. She knew the game. They weren’t holding her because she had broken the law; they were holding her because she had disrupted their illicit expansion of power and didn’t take out an obstacle in New York They wanted her to confess to treason so they could bury her, but Meghan hadn’t spent twenty years in the world her father brought her into without learning how to play three moves ahead.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her voice steady. "I was just a bystander in Minnesota. If you have evidence of a crime, charge me. If not, open the door."

Deep in her mind, she felt a flicker of grim satisfaction. The evidence—the encrypted drive containing the decrypted financial ledgers of the DHS’s off-book operations and the incriminating communications between the agency’s leadership and the cartels (the ones that were granted asylum in the US)—was already in the hands of the only people who knew how to turn it into a weapon.







London International Airport
London, Ontario
Same Day

Meanwhile, 1000 kilometres away, Veronica Strader stepped off the private jet at London International Airport. The biting Ontario wind whipped her hair across her face, but she didn’t feel the cold. Her blood was burning with a singular, focused rage.

She rode her ‘45 Panhead through the familiar, sprawling suburbs of London, heading toward the monolith of London One Plave that was the Strader Inc. headquarters at the very top. As the daughter of Meghan Strader, Veronica came by her shrewdness honestly. She knew that when a Strader went missing, waiting for the authorities to act was a death sentence. The cost of being an Outlaw with a heart of gold.

The lobby of Strader Inc. was a cathedral of glass and steel, a testament to the empire her grandfather had built and her Aunt Tamika now commanded. Veronica bypassed the front desk, flashing her clearance badge to the security detail, who stood like statues in bespoke suits. She didn’t stop until she reached the penthouse floor.

Tamika Strader was standing by a floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the London skyline. She may be younger than Meghan, sharper in her corporate attire, and possessed an iron will that had made Strader Inc. a global titan in music, fashion, and, more quietly, avant-garde medical R&D. Not to mention Green Energy projects.

"They have her, Auntie Tee," Veronica said, skipping the pleasantries.

Tamika didn’t turn immediately. She tapped a glass display on her desk, bringing up a localized map of the DHS detention facility.

"I know. The moment the internal silent alarm triggered on Megz biometric tracker, the Panama lab went into full lockdown just in case."

It’s where Meghan spent a year in a cryogenic state as Dr Rolfe forced her cancers into full remission, and healed the stab wounds and gashes she suffered because of her cousin, Kristopholis Strader. It had technology that would be abused and used for greed.

"We need the lawyers," Veronica said, walking to the desk. "Not just the corporate team. The ones who specialize in constitutional overreach and international agency litigation. I need the sharks."

Tamika turned, her eyes narrowed, pointing at her head.

"More than a hat rack. But it’s not enough. DHS is operating outside the law. To get her out, we need leverage. Luckily, your mom knew this would happen."

Veronica reached into her kutte and pulled out a small, encrypted memory chip—the backup Meghan had entrusted to her before the meeting with the Deputy AG, a "break-glass-in-case-of-emergency" failsafe in case DHS had someone else do the job and frame him with corruption.

"She didn't just escape the facility out of Minot in North Dakota. She harvested the metadata with the help of Miguel. The Deputy AG, Kim Mitchell? He’s the key. They are trying to make him look dirty as he has been stopping their shit from coming to New York but he’s terrified. The crew on the plane was pathetic when they tried to stop DHS."

Tamika’s expression softened into a mask of cold strategy. She dialed a private line.

"Get the Deputy AG of New York on the encrypted line. Tell him if he wants to survive the next forty-eight hours, he’s going to do exactly what I tell him."






Meanwhile back in New York…

The interrogation room was growing cold. The inquisitor’s patience had long since evaporated. He pulled a folder from under the table and dropped it with a heavy thud.

"We have footage of you going to his office," he said, opening it to reveal grainy, high-contrast photos of Meghan walking in. "You didn’t do what you were told."

Meghan smiled, a cold, predatory expression that made the inquisitor step back.

"You’re reading from the wrong script. You’re looking for a killer. I was looking for witnesses."

“You think because you head an international outlaw motorcycle gang and are a professional wrestler that you are some badass.”

“I am a badass. And we are a club. Not a gang. That’s what you dicksmacks are.”

Before he could reply, the heavy steel door of the interrogation room groaned open. A junior officer entered, looking pale. He leaned over and whispered something in the inquisitor’s ear. The inquisitor’s face was drained of any and all colour.

"What do you mean, 'official inquiry'?"

"Deputy AG Mitchell," the officer stammered. "He’s in the briefing room. He’s demanding to review the case file. He brought… independent counsel along with an order from the New York Supreme Court."

Meghan leaned back in her chair, the metal rasping against the floor, and sneered at the both of them.

"I’ll have one of those Salted Caramel Monsters on release. Thanks."

The inquisitor turned to her, his voice trembling with suppressed rage.

"You think you’re cute, don't you?"

"I think," Meghan said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration, "that you’re about to find out exactly what happens when you try to cage a Strader."


An hour later


Kim Mitchell stood in the hallway outside the detention block. He was a man who had spent his career making it difficult for the Alt Right. He just did it again.

The doors opened, and Meghan Strader walked out, flanked by two of the most expensive attorneys in the country. Her hair was disheveled, and her clothes were rumpled, but she walked with the confidence of a woman who had just checked a king.

Mitchell approached her, his face a complex map of nerves and reluctant respect.

"Ms. Strader. You are free and clear, and are no longer officially on any wanted lists with the United States Government. I apologize for the disrupted communication that caused all of this."

“Disrupted communication, Mr. Mitchell?" Meghan asked, her tone icy. "You and your agents failed to let me know federal agents were coming but lucky for you, I knew they would jam the signals. I didn’t tell you in case of a leak somewhere in your office. We’ve played them. All that evidence they thought they seized off me that I gave you? Just got us both cleared."

"You are quite the woman, Ms Strader," Mitchell said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. "Oh, and all records of your involvement in the Minnesota incident have been redacted and classified. It’s as if you were never there. As well as the underground facility you imploded.”

Meghan stopped walking.

"And the people I saved? The ones they tried to move to the black sites?"

Mitchell smiled.

"They’ve been processed into the asylum system with your brother’s club and yours. They’re safe. For now. If they need to come back here for anything, we have a spot at the St Catherine's and Buffalo border they can cross."

"See that they stay that way, please. They have had enough bullshit," Meghan said flatly.

She walked past him, toward the entrance where Veronica was waiting by two blacked out Harley Davidson Road Kings, holding her mother’s helmet. Veronica nodded to the two NYC Brothers of Mayhem charter members that supplied the bikes, and they left in a black Savannah van. As she emerged into the night air, the relief of freedom hit her, but it brought no peace. The war wasn't over; it had simply shifted. One club dealing with one area at a time instead of everything was the play.

Veronica handed her mom the helmet. Meghan climbed onto the bike, and put in the earpiece they used to communicate while on two wheels. No sooner had she kicked over the bike, it rang.

"Thank Allah you’re out, Megz," Tamika said when Meghan answered.

"Thanks for getting it done," Meghan praised her baby sister. "But they know what we have."

"Let them know," Tamika replied, her voice echoing with the confidence of an empire. "They’re DHS, Megz. They’re a department. We’re Strader Inc. We have scientists in Panama who can rewrite reality, and lawyers who can rewrite laws. If they want to come after us again, they’ll find that they’re the ones who are out of their league. There’s no crying in baseball."

Meghan chuckled as looked out at the highway, flickering lights of the city in the background as she rode side by side with her oldest. Tamika had turned into a shrewd businesswoman, yet still maintained her humour.

"We are riding to Laguardia," Meghan said.

"Awesome," Tamika replied. "Your kids have been worried. Johnny has been pacing. Let’s not play this game again, please? See ya when you get home. There’s a birthday cake waiting. Way more candles than mine had."

Meghan hung up and exhaled, closing her eyes for a brief second. Beside her, Veronica looked over and unmuted her earpiece so Meghan could hear her.

"You have balls of steel, Ma," Veronica said proudly.

"We did good," Meghan corrected, looking over at her daughter. "But the game has changed. From now on, we play by our rules, not theirs."

“Like bosses. Oh, and Happy birthday, Ma.”

“Thanks, baby-girl. Let’s hit it.”

The screaming eagle pipes roared when the Cowgirl Presidents hit the throttle as they merged onto the highway heading towards NYC, disappearing into the darkness; the DHS facility behind them was already in a state of absolute chaos. Files were being shredded, hard drives were being wiped, and the inquisitors were watching their careers evaporate in the wake of the legal firestorm Tamika Strader and the family had just unleashed.

Meghan and the rest were clear, for now, and this time, they weren't just disrupting the enemy. They were dismantling the status quo, piece by piece, ledger by ledger. The sunset over the New York City skyline was blood red, signaling the end of one era and the violent, efficient beginning of another—an era where the Straders commanded, and the world was forced to listen. Or so they hoped.







Strader Resort-Estate
Muskoka, Ontario
May 24th, 2026

Meghan sat at the head of the nomad table, gavel in her right hand, sitting in silence. The church doors opened and Tiffany Lee walked in, eyes of concern for her cousin and President.

“Everything is a go for the shipment into Africa. Hopefully, the rebel fighters in Egypt, Lebanon and the like can defend themselves a bit,” she said, sitting in her seat. Tiffany leaned back, head tilted to the right. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah, just thinking about everything. We’ve done some real good for people, been a thorn in those bastards sides… and got my name cleared. Now I gotta focus on securing my legacy.”

“That’s right! You got a fan choice defence coming up don’t you? Who you think you are facing?”

Meghan sighed, putting the gavel down.

“Colleen and Striker… we have danced before. I know their tendencies and have a good idea what to expect. Dexter is the wild card. No matter who the SCW fanbase chooses, I’ll be ready.”

“That’s good…”

Meghan looked over at her with a quizzical expression that said spit it out. Tiffany sighed.

“Ugh…”

“Spit it out, Tiff…”

“Your sisters are missing… and your aunt. They never came back from the trip out west to pack and move onto the resort… and your mom is worried sick.”

“What?!” Meghan said angrily, slamming the gavel so hard it splintered. “Why am I just hearing this now?!”

Tiffany Lee took a second to find the words.

“You just got out of the DHS facility, setting up the compounds outside of Thunder Bay with those energy boxes to stay off the grid… and well, we had hoped that they were just forgetting to respond. But my little bird confirmed it before I walked in…”

Meghan thought for a second, and then the sneer overcame her facial expression of concern; the anger in her cyan eyes was abundant, turning them black.

“Carmichael Family.”

“Yeah… when they killed my brother for failing to bring us all down, I thought they move on especially since they had their heroin game running again…”

“I am sorry you and Eddy didn’t get closure… I had a small hope that would’ve satisfied their need for blood… but they want mine and Johnny’s.”

Meghan stood up, walked from her chair over to a gun safe in the other corner. The dial clicks with each rotation before it opens. The Matriarch pulled out a sterling silver Desert Eagle, the same one that Veronica (she was controlled by the Affliction people on her father’s side of the family suffer with i.e. Supreme Machine, Matt Knox, etc) used to kill Scott Nash Strader in 2021 that also belonged to him. Tiffany walked over and reached in the cabinet, pulling out her favourite combat shotgun. She looked at the gun in her cousin's hand and sneered.

“Uncle Scott’s?”

Meghan turned the gun to show the handle that had the Bandido Fat Mexican engraved on it with his initials. She matched sneer and cocked it.

“I want everyone at the table tomorrow night. Call Alejandra; I want her and her Sgt representing Tijuana. We are going to fucking war.”







Dear SCW roster,

Something is afoot in our company. Corruption in wrestling isn’t anything new. Us wrestling veterans of the sport have all dealt with shady management at one point or another in our careers. It’s why when Meeks became the PWA’s General Manager of the Chaos brand, or when I was President of it, we went out of our way not to make life harder for the roster, or help others be douche bags to their opponents by helping them cheat and what not.

Part of what drew me to SCW was the fact that there wasn’t an obvious shit-heel in the front office. Sure, there’s some I would rather not have to deal with. Now things seem to have changed. Not just corrupt, but manipulative. Am I happy that idiot Gavin is no longer champion? Of course. I am just disappointed to see our new World Champion fall for the bullshit. I can’t imagine how Luz must feel. I am sure she is proud of her partner achieving such a feat at a young age, but I know after our matches for the United States title, and the honour she has within the squared-circle… I can’t imagine she’ll stay quiet about it.

But that’s between them, and frankly, isn’t any of my fucking business.

What is MY business is defending the United States Championship. The first time I got thrown into a five-way where I didn’t even get pinned. Now I won’t know who I am facing until their music hits at Breakdown. Maybe it’ll be Colleen, whom I defeated when she was Underground Champion. Non-title of course. Another is Striker. I know how both of them think in the ring, how they use their skill set, and what they will and won't do. Dexter Grant, however, is a completely different story.

I have said it a million times, SCW doesn’t want me as a champion here. They are more than happy to use my face for a year to promote the upcoming Rise to Greatness, which I am proud of. They could have gone with SCW veterans, the former World Champion in Cid Turner, Valentine, Hudson, Asher, definitely not Polly Pocket, and others. Or maybe an up-and-coming future star. But they know the Strader name is widely known, respected, feared (and disrespected on a Rodney Dangerfield level) and we bring in the money.

But we don’t conform to what people want. We are who we are. That’s why my fans love me. I take what I want, and I do it without taking shortcuts or cheating. I have honour. I respect the business, and I respect the championships of this company.

It’s no secret anymore after my bullshit arrest preventing me from being at Hubris to help Syren overcome the deck stacked against her that I am fighting for the GOOD people of the United States. I am not just the US Champion of SCW; I am a real-life champion of the people being targeted by the corrupt wannabe dictator regime running the country. I was born in London, Ontario, Canada… that is my first citizenship… but I am also from a strong Texas-born family, and I have my US citizenship as well. I am not just Canadian or American; I am a proud North American woman. I won’t stand by and watch one country fall into darkness while trying to drag the other one down with it.

So when I put that belt around my waist, over my shoulder, or a fan's shoulder for a selfie after a show, it’s more than being one of the best this promotion has to offer. It’s about representing a country that right now on the world stage… isn’t looked well-upon. It’s being laughed at. People are being hurt, and as a red-blooded North American, I am not about to stand by and do nothing about it.

There are lots of inaccuracies out there about me when it comes to the trumped-up (pun not intended, but it certainly fits) charges I had against me. There are many among the SCW front office. But I won’t let that deter me from helping those that need it, and kicking the asses I need to in SCW to make my voice louder than it is. And I won’t lie, it’s for me as well. It makes me feel good, like I am giving back to the world, helping those who’re being persecuted (and let’s be honest, they are dealing with the hate of bigots and racists), and the SCW side of it is for my ego.

I spent most of my career tagging with Meeks, kicking ass and taking names, making it into the Hall of Fame companies have as the Cowgirls From Hell. Then, when it was time to have a single’s career, as Tamika had my nephew to raise and the family business to run, I was over-shadowed by my dad, Scott Nash Strader. He had so many enemies that when I shone brighter than him, I would have to step back and let him do his thing. I wish he were alive to see what he stifled, and so my children had their grandfather in their lives. So, for me, part of being the United States Champion is showing everyone that I am one of the most dangerous Strader’s stepping into the ring.

And so when the time comes that I become the World Champion, I have the resume to back it up. So whether it is Colleen, Striker, or Grant… They will learn a lesson I have taught before (two of them may just get a refresher course), and will continue to teach for as long as my snakeskin cowgirl boots are working in between the ropes. If one of them beats me, taking my gold away without cheating, a distraction or whatever, they will have earned it.

But I am not about to let this title go anywhere. It belongs around my waist. I will walk into Rise to Greatness as the United States Champion and leave as the United States Champion.

God Forgives.

I don’t.

Yours,
Meghan Marie Strader
SCW United States Champion
Cowgirls From Hell President