She entered the ring like a war-drum wrapped in bubblegum—Laura Dennis, known to the world as Allie, or The Bunny, or Cherry Bomb depending on the mood, the lighting, and whether the ropes smelled like glory or burnt-out dreams.
Born September 3, 1987, in Toronto—a city known more for maple-syrup manners than blood-slicked canvases—Dennis was a storm bottled up in five-foot-ten of restless fury and pageant charm. Don’t let the 119 pounds fool you. That wasn’t a number, it was a trigger.
She trained at Squared Circle Training with Rob Etcheverria, the kind of place where your dreams get thrown into a headlock and your illusions tapped out before the second bell. They gave her the name Cherry Bomb, which fit—sweet, red, and likely to blow up in your face.
Candy Coated and Combat Ready
At seventeen, while most kids were fumbling through teenage angst and bad eyeliner, she was lacing boots in dingy Canadian rec centers, scrapping it out with names like 21st Century Fox and Danyah Rivietz. No pyro, no titantron, just the sound of sneakers squeaking on wood floors and fists pounding out an ambition that didn’t know how to quit.
In the early days, it was Ottawa here, Oshawa there. Victories, losses, and enough neck cranks to make a chiropractor cringe. She won the Classic Championship Wrestling Women’s Title somewhere in the middle of all that mess. Defended it, too—against women named Evilyn and Alexxis and Jaime D. It wasn’t WrestleMania, but it was war just the same.
This wasn’t a fairy tale. This was pro wrestling in Canada in the late 2000s—cold, thankless, and carried out under flickering gymnasium lights. Cherry Bomb suffered a neck injury in 2007. Spinal stuff. The kind of thing that sends sane people running to college applications and accounting careers. She took nine months off. Then came back swinging.
Blood Sisters and Tag Belts
The Shimmer days were like a lucid fever dream. She formed The Kimber Bombs with Kimber Lee—a duo that kicked teeth and sparkled doing it. Their chemistry was tight, their timing tighter. They were the kind of pair that could make you believe in tag team wrestling again, at least for twelve minutes and a finish.
In 2015, they beat 3G and took the Shimmer Tag Titles. They held Shine’s tag belts too. For a moment, they were the crown jewels of indie women’s wrestling—twirling like ballerinas on a landmine. Until Cherry Bomb blew out her knee and the music stopped.
She kept climbing—WSU, ROH, Japan, Ice Ribbon, Reina X World—like some punk-rock gypsy queen whose passport stamps read pain, sweat, repeat. She had a cup of coffee with WWE, too. A tryout here. A segment there. Long enough to get a taste, not long enough to choke on the politics.
From Cherry to Allie: Smile Through the Bruises
In 2013, the metamorphosis began. TNA—Total Nonstop Action—called her up for a squash match against Gail Kim. She lost. Two years later, same opponent, same result. But by 2016, the gears shifted.
They gave her a new coat of paint—Allie—and she leaned into it. Sweet, clueless, peppy. A cartoon character lost in a world of monsters and Machiavellis. It shouldn’t have worked.
But it did.
She became the underdog darling. The girl with the helium voice and the heart of granite. She wasn’t wrestling matches—she was wrestling emotion. You rooted for her because she bled innocence in a company that rarely handed out happy endings.
In one twist of fate, Allie won the Knockouts Title in a fluke. She didn’t even realize she’d pinned someone. It was dumb luck dressed in destiny. The crowd exploded. The locker room rolled their eyes. And Allie—real name Laura Dennis—just kept grinning.
She’d lose that belt to Maria in a “lie down and take it” angle that made fans throw things at their televisions. But she gained something better: sympathy. Allie was never supposed to be champion, but she made you want her to be. And that’s harder than it sounds.
The Wedding, the Kendo Stick, and the Shadow Self
The whole soap opera hit overdrive with Braxton Sutter—her real-life husband, playing the kayfabe groom to Laurel Van Ness. A wedding gone to hell. A slap. A kendo stick. A redemption arc thick enough to slather on a sandwich.
Then the dark clouds came.
Su Yung arrived with her army of undead bridesmaids and dragged Allie to the Undead Realm. If it sounds insane, that’s because it was. TNA had become a gothic comic book. But Allie adapted. She grew fangs. She painted her face. She summoned the spirit of Rosemary and walked the fine line between sweetness and shadow.
“Dark Allie” was a different beast—haunted, ruthless, beautifully broken. It was Dennis at her most experimental. She played it with such eerie commitment that even the cynical fans—numb to storylines and heel turns—paused to watch.
Then, in 2019, Allie “died” in the arms of Rosemary on Impact. Like some gothic Shakespearean swan song, complete with drama, tears, and maybe a few backstage contract disputes. Impact didn’t renew her deal. She vanished in a puff of kayfabe smoke.
The Bunny Hops into AEW
But death in wrestling is a suggestion, not a certainty. In 2019, Allie re-emerged in AEW, fresh-faced and full of fire. She took a superkick into the big leagues and started clawing her way into relevancy again. First, as the bubbly underdog. Then, as The Bunny.
The Bunny wasn’t Allie. Not really. The Bunny was vengeance in fishnets. A switchblade in lipstick. Inspired by Baby Firefly from Rob Zombie’s bloodbath films and dripping with dead-eyed sarcasm. She didn’t smile anymore—she sneered.
She flanked The Butcher and The Blade—her husband, Jesse Guilmette, among them—and cracked Cody Rhodes in the face like she was knocking over a bar stool. It was heel work done with theatrical flair and old-school panache. AEW never gave her the spotlight, but she made sure they couldn’t look away.
She flipped back to babyface. Then back to heel again. Teamed with QT Marshall, formed The Nightmare Sisters with Brandi Rhodes, lost a street fight with thumbtacks and blood and table shards. Fought Jade Cargill. Lost. Fought Toni Storm. Lost.
But hell—she kept fighting. That’s what mattered.
Broken Bones and Fade-Outs
On February 8, 2023, The Bunny fought Jamie Hayter and wound up with a broken orbital bone for her troubles. That was the last time most fans saw her on AEW TV. Quiet exit. Mutual release. Four years of blood, sweat, and unholy eyeliner wiped off the company website.
Most wrestlers would vanish at that point. Fade into obscurity. Show up on the occasional Twitch stream or pop up in an indie bingo hall six years later with stories and scars. But not Allie.
In May 2025, she returned to TNA—not as a wrestler, but as a coach for Team Canada. Back to the trenches, but now holding the clipboard instead of taking the shots. The same heart, just a little wiser. Just a little more healed.
Glitter, Grit, and the Ghosts of Personas Past
Laura Dennis is a lot of things. She’s a vegan. She’s a Twitch gamer. She’s a calendar model. She’s a former tag team champion. A two-time Knockouts Champion. A walking contradiction in bunny ears and blood-streaked tights.
She’s also proof that in wrestling—like life—reinvention is survival. You get knocked down. You get written off. You disappear. Then you claw your way back with fake lashes and a kendo stick.
She’s wrestled in Japan, fought in CZW with a kettlebell, died in the arms of a demon, and came back wearing black eyeliner and a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Cherry Bomb. Allie. The Bunny.
Doesn’t matter what name she goes by.
She’s still here.
Still swinging.
And the ring, cruel and unforgiving as it is, always makes room for one more fighter with something to prove.