Chapter Twenty-Nine
Nom D. Guerre
This Side Of Nirvana 



    A bit of background is needed here.  Diana, of Diana The Valkyrie fame
wrote some articles on her site about the various Valkyrie codes, and
included one on swords.  Since I believed it was copyrighted, I wrote to
her and asked her permission if I could extract some of the ideas and
research she had done on swords and use it in a novel I was writing.  She
replied that it was fine with her.  As a courtesy I sent the portion of the
novel that related to swords to her and said that if she wanted to, she
could post it on her site. 
    In another one of her articles I ran across the word: 'Masculist'.
Well, I immediately went to my Oxford dictionary, and I mean THE OXFORD
dictionary, and couldn't find the word.  Since she would have the patent
rights to an invented word, I again had to send a sample of how I used her
new word.  I use it as the opposite of feminist.  As a novelist, I invent
words all the time.  Two included here are:  'Masculate' (Thanks to Diana)
and 'Rivalation'.  There are times when I inadvertently invent words in my
writing, but that usually happens when my spellchecker is on the fritz.
    Finally, where does this segment fit in the scheme of things?  For
reasons I will not go into, a year ago I wrote a singular piece called 'The
Other Side Of Nirvana' and sent it to Jackpin, the promoter who puts on the
San Diego Women's Wrestling conventions, which I attended last year.
Anyway, I haven't written anything to do with combative women for the last
ten years, and to prove a point knocked off "The Other Side' for a very
limited distribution.  Well, the response was so positive that I decided to
include it in my current novel.  However, since it was a story about the
aftermath of a very brutal female boxing match, I had to write a beginning.
 That became 'This Side Of Nirvana', of which a portion has been included
below.  Then there is "Nirvana' itself, which I am still writing.  Of
course this means re-arranging all sorts of chapters.  That is shear
drudgery.     
    Well, if Diana sees fit to post what I sent her, then enjoy.  Oh yes, I
know, I still overwrite.  So did Thomas Wolfe.  But that's another story.
      

				Nom D. Guerre


Chapter Twenty-Nine

This Side Of Nirvana 

Part E

Round Three

	'And I myself will fight against you with an outstretched hand and with
           a strong arm,
	Even in anger,
	And in fury,
	And in great wrath.'
							Jeremiah 21:5  KJV

	At the sound of the gong the Negress was off the stool and walked briskly
toward her opponent.  "Think I'll stick and move, see what kind of
condition she's in.  How much wind she's got.  But first head straight at
her, let her know she can't intimidate me.  Lord knows she's been trying.
Get right in her face, especially with my left jab."  It took as long for
Clarke to think the thoughts as to arrive in mid-ring.  This because the
Valkyrie had advanced from the opposite corner at the same rate, however
with different tactics.
	For swords were on her mind.  And there was a moment she wished one of
them in her hands.  However, that thought quickly passed, but not the
tactics of the sword.  Ziegler's gloved fists were to become as swords.
While sitting on her stool she had devoted almost the entire one minute
rest period to thinking about: Thrust, cut, parry, and feint.     
	If the two wordsmiths sitting at ringside had known what was going through
the German's mind, then by profession of one and inclination by the other,
they would conger up in metaphor, or simile, a succinct description.  Best
however, would be a metaphor of one word.  These two men were united by the
desire of putting to paper the written word, yet so unlike in the approach.  
	Chandler the journalist, a reporter of facts for the Los Angeles Times.  
	Hamilton the daytime writer of proposals for the sale of Lockheed
aircraft; as well the nighttime novelist - In both professions, a writer of
fiction he.  
	Both writers were published, both were seekers of the truth - As one saw
'It', while the other imagined 'It'.  So alike these two, yet so opposite
in their search for that elusive 'It'.  However, if pressed, each smithy of
words, one being the anvil, the other the hammer, would in unison forge a
unanimous description of these two fighters.  Warriors who were mighty
weapons onto themselves; and against each other.    
	Since both fighters were tall women and full figured, and because of their
height and weight, each would be classified by the writers as a:
'Broadsword'.  No tall slim agile rapiers these, nor could they be viewed
as short petite stilettos.  Close-in weapons of war they, were these hefty
two-handed, double-edged broadswords - A match for any man, and currently
an equal match to one another.          
	The Black and White of it was they.
	Them.  Their inseparable them.
	For in combination, their 'it' evolved to a sort of harsh truth.  Clarke
the black ink upon the white paper of Ziegler.  Without the pressing of one
upon the other there would be no words upon paper, the black ink would
remain in the bottle and the white paper would remain blank.  
	Together they wrote history.  Their joint creation, their 'It' lingering
in what would become the past, until the future caught up with their deed.  
	Eventually the future would arrive and an author would come forth to put
the history of their epic struggle to paper.  Because of their weights of
155 and 160 pounds, his first thought was to title the work: 'Requiem For A
Middleweight'; but realized it trite.  Since the match between the two
women could be considered as nothing less than total war, and as it happens
in some wars there is conclusive ending, he settled on calling it: 'Women's
War Requiem'.  
	He started it thus: 'The following is about war.  Both the waste and
nobility of warfare.  The poetry is the pity of the waste.  The prose is
the glory of the noble.'    
	He was an artist, and as such was blessed with the gift to make words sing
as he commenced to do with his 'Requiem'.  Artistic consciousness is the
unique characteristic which sets such men apart from the rest of humanity.
He had the vision and ability for revelation and it was put to paper.  Not
too long after were these sameself words transcribed into a word processor,
and in the doing converted into the pure energy of electrons.  Now
electronically accessible for migrating to the Internet, their story able
to travel anywhere in the world at the speed of light.  Their past epic be
given new life - Now made immortal.
	But that was to be, and that be was not now.  For to arrive at then, there
must be a return to now.  
	Now, discounting the contrast of their color, these two middleweight
boxers were of similar description; but corners apart in their tactics.
Concerning the sport of boxing, the Brunette was trained to consider it an
art, while the Blonde thought of it as a science.  One doesn't question art
much, for its meaning is in the eye of the beholder; conversely, to
question everything is fundamental in science, the proof lies in thinking
it through and putting the conclusion to the test.  
	Although both women were highly intelligent, the American did not put
nearly the thought into the sport, as did the German.  Then again, to be
fair, Ziegler had taken it up as a freshman at the university and now she
was a senior.  That was four years of boxing experience compared to
Clarke's one.
	However, the differences went deeper than experience.  Clarke had already
graduated from college and was working as a policewoman when she took up
the sport as a lark.  As a member of the Atlanta Police Department she was
given orders and expected to carry them out - Immediately and without
question.  By inclination she went 'By the book'.  Consequently, when she
became serious about boxing she did what her trainers told her to do.
Which she was doing tonight.  And in the third round the 'Book' written by
her trainer said 'Stick And Move'.
	Different too was the direction each woman would take in the match.
	Literally.
	For to stick and move meant that Clarke would advance forward, jab, then
retreat backward, or at least sideways.  A fluid forward and backward rhythm.
	By contrast, using her fists as swords, meant Ziegler would move forward
and get the first punch off first by a thrust to the face with a left jab.
Continuing the advance to move inside, the second punch would be a cut to
the body by a right hook; the cut being the power punch.  If the opponent
countered after the first or second punch landed, then her countering blow
would be parried.  To parry a counterpunch meant the advance would stop in
order to ward off the blow by slipping the punch, sidestepping it, blocking
it with your own gloves, or evading it by ducking under the blow.  This
could be followed by a feint to the face or body.  Then continue the
advance by lashing out with thrusts or cuts, stopping only long enough to
parry, and a feint.  Then again pushing forward, always crowding the other
woman, forcing her to stand and fight, or retreat.  
	Great would be the direction each woman would take.  For to stick and move
meant to advance forward and strike like a cobra, then retreat backward;
while thrust and cut meant to constantly move forward, stopping only to
parry and feint.  Then to go and stop, then go again; always forward. 
 	However, in this case things didn't work out exactly to plan, because the
momentum of the advance toward each other shoved them close together.  When
they came into range each boxer simultaneously let loose with a left jab,
designed to stop the other in her tracks.  However each one moved their
head to the side which slipped the punch.  Because neither blow connected,
their joint momentum continued until they whammed into each other.  For a
moment they tightly clinched their arms about the other; then backed away a
step and leaned into each other - Neither one of a mind to retreat.  Since
they were about equal in height at five-eight and five-nine, they mutually
decided to place their chin on the other's shoulder, insuring the face
would be free of attack; while absolutely insuring their bodies would be
subject to attack.  And attack they did and attacked they were.
	Leaning as they were, their large chests were mashed against each other,
negating their being hit.  As they moved for position to punch at the
other's torso, their nipples rubbed together.  As happened before during an
earlier round, they again became erect.  And as before each started to
whack away at the other's body.
    	However, this time Ziegler had a specific target…correction, make that
two targets, in mind.  She directed her fists in the search for Clarke's
female gonads.  Like a man, a woman has two gamete producing glands.
However, unlike a man's testicles which are contained within his fully
exposed scrotum, a woman's gonads are far apart and buried deep inside her
pelvis.  The German set about to probe the inner regions of that pelvis
with her fists and find the American's ovaries.           
	And destroy them.  	
	And in the doing, enact the final chapter of what differentiates male
boxing matches from the female ones.  Which has everything to do with sex.
Not the act itself, just the visible and internal plumbing.  Ziegler had
already plumbed that plumbing by first hitting Clarke's breasts, followed
later by punching at her uterus.  Now she was after her ovaries - Knowing
full well the low cut boxing trunks were designed to allow punching at a
woman's female nuts.  Half way between a hip and the navel, and buried deep
behind the waistband, resided an ovary.  Although they couldn't be hit
directly, a precise punch to the waistband, solidly landed would wham the
flesh backward, the force slamming against the delicate gonad.    
	The German had been at this for four years, and when she first saw the
custom made low riding Everlast boxing trunks, she knew their intended
sinister purpose.  She knew a lot of thought had gone into the design of
these specific trunks.  
	Due to her inexperience in this sport, the American had no idea of the
painful subtlety inherent in their design.  She saw the art in the cut of
the trunks, riding low as they did they showed off her flat stomach and
hard muscles she was so proud of.  The large V of material cut away from
the sides displayed her long powerful legs, of which she was equally proud.
 She found the trunks flattering, not malevolent.  The art of design in the
trunks was a continuation in the art of boxing itself, as far as she was
concerned.  Although Clarke thought them art, in actuality it was the
science of physiology, as such she was not aware of their intent, nor the
designer's motive.
	But Ziegler did, she knew her history; and the long tradition of women's
boxing these men had brought to this arena tonight.  Although these
specific trunks had been recently designed and manufactured, they
represented a historical tradition relating to fighting females that the
Viking was well versed in.  And she was about to put this advantage to full
use.  
	And abuse.     
	The Valkyrie knew such aficionados could be classified, then generalized
into two camps - The purists and the traditionalists. 
	Firstly - There are the purists who are splintered into two groups.  
	The most extreme are the ones who evoke the ancient Spartan tradition of
girls and young women fighting bare naked and bare fisted.  Today, within
this group, there is an element who advocate that punches to a woman's mons
veneris be allowed; which was forbidden in Spartan times.  Those ancients
felt that such a blow to a female's mons pubis was just as unwomanly as a
punch to a Spartan man's testicles was unmanly.  Now, as was then, the
group majority desires to view a lengthy hard fought contest, and argue
that a solid blow with a bare fist to either gender's pubes, would make a
quick end to any boxing match - Be it male or female.    
	Then there are the modernists who advocate the covering of the hands,
pelvis, feet, and teeth with: Leather gloves, boxing trunks, shoes and
mouthpieces.  Within this group there were those who have radically
differing definitions of boxing trunks.  Both advocate the covering of the
pelvis for the sake of modesty; however the degree of covering, or
exposure, insured that there were two camps of differing vision concerning
appropriate attire.  The covering, or lack thereof, ranged from the
briefest thongs, to full boxing trunks which rose high enough to enable the
waistband to cover over the navel.  However, both segments of the
modernists are united in that no tops covering the breasts are to be worn.
This dogma will always guarantee that such bouts will not be exposed to the
general public, and remain restricted to their various underground levels.  
	Secondly - There are the traditionalists, who wish to carry forward the
traditional manly art of self-defense into the present day.  With some
modifications, they have attempted to introduce the womanly art of
self-defense into the modern era.  Of course, and rightly so, the major
modification was to cover the chest and insert protective cups for the
breasts.  In most other aspects do these promoters of equality for women in
the amateur and professional boxing ranks bring forth the harsh reality of
what is essentially the most brutal of sports.
	Intending to or not, the net result is to masculate female boxing;
however, the reverse will not happen.  With the introduction of women
fighting each other will not emasculate men's boxing.  This masculation of
female boxing has nothing to do with trying to make women more like men -
In the main it refers to how they are clothed.  In the drive for respect
and acceptance, both the promoters and the woman have just about mandated
that the waistband of their boxing trunks reach above the navel, and the
legs drop down to the knees.  
	And yet appears this fundamental contradiction - They differentiate
between the sexes by changing a basic men's rule of the three minute round
and reducing it to two minutes for women.  Then there is the other basic
differential - That by necessity, the women boxers must wear chest
protectors; which most fight fans find quite reasonable. 
	Concerning clothing, the following is apropos: The long time joke in
boxing circles is the cowardly fighter entering the ring with oversize
boxing trunks.  He commences to pull them up to his chin and declares to
the opponent, 'Remember, no hitting below the belt'.  There is some truth
in this concerning women's professional boxing.  With chest protectors
covering the upper part of the torso, and the trunks pulled higher than the
navel, there is only a small band of exposed torso skin left for body
punching.  On the smaller women this exposure becomes almost miniscule.
Consequently, with such a small area left to attack, the trend will be that
the women fighters will concentrate more of their punches to the head, than
do the men boxers.  Needless to say this is a serious trend, both in short
term damage to the face and long term injury to the brain.  But no one in
authority will make a ruling to lower the trunks waistband below a woman's
navel; because to do so would start to feminize the sport of women's
boxing.  The great fear of the promoters is that the public will
re-consider the female aspect of the sport as a sideshow at best, and foxy
boxing at worst.
	All this Ziegler already knew, and none of it was coursing through her
brain at the moment.  What was on her mind, what she was fixated upon were
those two ovaries.  Consequently, because of the direction of the body
attack, this was a woman's boxing match, contrary to two women boxing.  As
such it was both diametrically and dramatically the opposite of a men's
boxing match.  From the Greek Olympics to the present day, neither a male
boxer's sexual parts, nor his ability for reproduction, was open to attack.
 Conversely in this particular match, a woman's sexual parts (breasts) and
reproductive organs (ovaries and uterus) were fair game.  
	In this would the German take full measure, and part of that measurement
was to pull away for a moment and peek down, and pinpoint that singular
place on the waistband which was the gateway that led directly to the
creation of a pain so unbearable it would become debilitating.  The Viking
would know when she had found her target, because the Georgian would tell
her so - In so many words.  Actually one word.  In fact it was a grunt, but
the answer was unmistakable.  
	In one fluid move the German moved her chin back atop her opponent's
shoulder, shifted her body to the left to make room for the punch, then
moved her arm beyond her own back, cocked her fist, then drove it both
forward and inward to slam into the American's waistband.  It landed
exactly equidistant from Clarke's left hip to her bellybutton. 
	"Damn," Ziegler thought, for all she heard was silence.  Then she shifted
her body to the right and let loose a from behind the back swinging left to
the opposite side, this time about two inches closer to the navel.
	"Umph," grunted the Negress.
	"Gotcha," thought the Viking.  To her ears It was the sweetest of sounds.
	While all this was going on, the Negress was equally busy by whacking away
at the German's ribs and tummy, with repeated and painful ferocity.
However, she had never fought in such low cut trunks before, and as such
was unaware of Ziegler's plans for her two ovaries.  Until that last blow
into her lower left side.  The pain was so sharp she almost fainted.          
	By now the German had again shifted to her left and drove another one of
those from behind the back right handed punches into the waistband area -
Which was the exact opposite of the other side.  And was greeted by another
resounding "Umph."  If anything, this was the sweeter sound.
	That second shot square into her gonad put Clarke wise to what Ziegler was
doing.  She responded in unkind by slamming lefts and rights into the
German's waistband.  She knew what to listen for, and after five punches
heard the confirming, "Aagh."  The problem was Ziegler had already found
the range and was lobbing bombs into both of her female nuts.  With a
parting shot to the Blonde's opposite ovary, followed by another "Aagh",
the Brunette pushed away and broke off close contact.
	To cover up how damaging the body shots had been to her ovaries, Clarke
first danced away, then advanced on her toes, lashing out with a jab at the
eye, then danced away again.  Then she started circling, still on her toes.
	The Blonde knew what the Brunette was up to, and she too took to the toes
and advanced toward the circling Negress.  And connected with a jab to the
cheek, but the follow-up right to the head missed as the American sprang
backward.
	"Can these women dance," quipped the novelist.
	Chandler chuckled, than replied, "Andy, reminds me of the time when I'd
just joined the Times.  I was interviewing this fundamentalist minister,
and my final question was, 'What about sex concerns you the most?'  
	He answered, 'Committing sex while standing up'.  	
	I thought about his choice of words: 'Committing sex'.  But pressed on by
asking, 'Why?'  	
	To which the preacher answered, 'Because committing sex while standing up
will eventually tempt both partners to partake in the greater evil of
dancing'.  
	There was no topping that, and the interview was over.  Was printed in the
Times the next day - As is."
	Hamilton rocked with laughter, then added, "That preacher should see this
dance."
	"Yeah, it would be something.  Which reminds me of a different form of
entertainment, and a point I want to make.  Not too long ago there used to
be a television show about women's wrestling called GLOW."
	"Oh yes.  I remember watching it, called 'Gorgeous Ladies Of Wrestling' or
something like that.  Christ, it was bad.  Worst than bad, it was ghastly.
I don't know which was worse, the acting outside of the ring or inside of
it.  Stopped watching it after a couple of segments."
	"Andrew, you are a purest snob.  It wasn't meant to be serious.  It was
entertainment, pure and simple."
	"Well, it wasn't that entertaining, and the women obviously weren't pure,
but they were damn well simple.  You can bet their limited athletic prowess
was fully explored on the casting couch."
	The newsman looked at the writer in astonishment, "You know, I believe you
are serious about what you just said."
	"I am," he snorted.
	Completely ignoring what was going on in the ring, Chandler gave his
friend his full attention.  "Andy, as you said, you are a bean-counter.  As
a pricer, don't fall into the trap of knowing the cost of everything, and
the value of nothing."
	That remark got Hamilton's attention.  "Umm, there's something in that,
know the cost of everything, and the value of nothing.  All right.  What's
going on right in front of us has value.  Immense value.  These two women
are putting everything on the line.  I compare it to the GLOW production,
and while the cost to put it on was more, the value was nothing."
	"Andrew, lighten up.  The whole GLOW thing was put together on a
shoestring budget.  It was farce.  Total invention.  Besides, you're being
unfair to the girls.  They were only as good as the lines given to them,
and I will say the writing was abysmal. But that was scripted female
wrestling, both outside and inside the ring.  Who wants Hemingway anyway."
	"Since it was supposed to be humorous, I would have settled for Woody Allen."
	"Andy, now we're talking about genius.  Hell, we'd all settle for the
likes of Allen.  So would the producers of GLOW.  They got what they paid
for, which wasn't much.  Besides, television is a visual medium, we didn't
tune in GLOW for the writing, it was for the visuals.  Oh lord, what
visuals."  
	"Hunter, I dig a T and A show as much as the next six-packer.  But they
could have mixed some real competitive female wrestling along with the
crappy acting they staged in the ring.  We was cheated."   
	"Look, in the field of combative women, the producers of GLOW were
throwing the public a bone.  At times no more than a mere wishbone, but a
bone nevertheless."
	"If that's the case, then what we have in front of us, inside that ring is
no wishbone but a femur."
	Chandler hooted with laughter, "You're right on that score.  The producers
of this epic event have indeed given us a thighbone size femur.  Ah, the
majesty of it all."  He slapped the writer on the back, "That crack was
great.  I was getting a little worried about if you'd checked your humor in
at the arena's entrance."        	
	"I didn't lose my sense of humor, Hunter.  But what's going on up there
isn't funny.  It's downright grim.  No more than a physical battle of
attrition.  When this war is over, there won't be much left of either
fighter."
	"Yeah, Andy.  Those in the audience won't be the only ones to remember
this battle long after it is over.  Those two up there will carry the
memory of this night for some time to come.  Every time they get out of the
shower and look at a full length mirror."  
	"Hunter, were you going to make some kind of point, when you brought up
the GLOW girls?"
	"Yes, as a matter of fact I was.  Before I went off on a tangent.  Well,
one of the wrestlers named 'Jungle Woman' led some barefoot guy dressed in
a loincloth around on a leash.  Nice looking young fellow, but didn't have
much of a speaking part."
	"Yep, I remember that.  No lines; hell, he didn't even get to growl."
	"Here's the point.  Reverse the situation - Instead have some man leading
a young woman around a wrestling arena with a leash attached to a dog
collar around her neck, she dressed only in a skimpy top and loincloth.
And barefoot at that, on national television."
	The writer's eyes bugged out by the thought.  "Oh Jesus, would the
feminazis go ballistic with that."  Then both men started to giggle as they
imagined the scene.  "Hunter, I remember seeing Jungle Woman, and I'd have
to admit, she was a babe.  What would you have said, if some half-clad
voluptuous bimbo threatened to lead you around by the neck on a leash;
carrying a whip to whack your naked body if you got out of line?"
	"Take me please.  Lead me to the local torture chamber and have your way
with me.  Whip me, but I beg you, let the lashing only be flesh wounds."
Chandler was now laughing uproariously, "And You?"
	"Elvira, you raven-haired mistress of my fate, any dungeon will do.  Even
if you have to drag me by the neck from San Diego to Portland, Maine,
whipping me all the way.  I submit to your absolute control.  I only ask
that I be permitted to lick your toes.  When you have a mind to."
	By now both men were doubled over in laughter, and getting angry glances
from the men seated on either side.  What was going on in the ring in front
of them was a contest of the most serious nature.  It was not supposed to
evoke levity from the spectators.  The writers sheepishly signaled that
they would calm down.  When they recovered, both whispered to each other
their expanded scenarios of leather, lust, whippings, and humiliation, each
fetish punctuated by giggles.  Again the dirty looks from the other men. 
	Finally, the newsman settled down.  "You know, women take themselves much
too seriously.  They would be appalled to be subjected to the level of
humiliation we both readily admitted to each other."
	"Right on Hunter.  Just about every man has this nasty little secret, to
meet Elvira (in the flesh so to speak) succumb to her feminine wiles,
ecstatic to accept the prowess of her cruel lash, and willingly permit her
to both hurt and humiliate our hapless male body."
	"Where do I sign on?  Evil mistress most cruel."  Regaining some semblance
of control, Chandler continued, "Most men have no problem with this.  If
such a display of a woman being lead around on a leash on T.V. were ever
aired, the feminists would raise a fire storm of protest. 
	"Would they ever," added Hamilton.     
	"Then I'd write about it.  Hell no, I'd put it on television.  I guess
that makes me a masculist.  The opposite of feminist."  	
   	"I never heard of the word masculist.  Did you just make it up?"
	"Yep."
	"Hunter, how can you make up a word like that?  You're supposed to be a
reporter of facts.  Not an inventor of words, for christsake.  
	"Listen my naive friend.  The word probably doesn't exist.  No matter, I
just created it.  Hell, I'm a newspaperman, I invent facts and report them
as the gospel truth all the time.  It comes with the territory."
	"Hunter, what in the hell do you mean that you invent facts.  You can't
create facts out of thin air."
	"Oh really.  Listen, Andrew, if the facts don't exist, I'll damn well
create them.  That's my job.  Christ, I bet you thought only novelists
wrote fiction."
	"As a matter of fact I did."
	"This is Southern California my man; where the prominent concern of women
who are as endowed as these two, and not much older, is to defy gravity."
With that parting remark the two men turned their attention to the boxing
ring where two women were intent on forcing the other to be pulled down by
the force of gravity, helped in great part by the force of their gloved
fists.  Which upon reflection could mean one fighter would 'in deed' be
felled by the force of arms, and their attached fists.     
	So far the exchanges had been essentially even between the two women for
this round.  Ziegler decided to alter the equation right fast.  After being
separated from a clinch by the referee, the Blonde closed swiftly and beat
Clarke to the punch by thrusting out with the left sword, which penetrated
into one breast; followed by a lightning fast right sword thrust, piercing
into the other breast.  Then she feinted with another left sword to the
chest, bringing up the Brunette's protective gloves.  She immediately
crouched down and slammed a hooking right into the waistband, the glove
sinking deep into the Georgian's femininity.  All her flesh gave way to the
fist's onslaught, her already throbbing ovary now pummeled with a
destructive power that seemed to have the force of a battering ram.  This
was the final blow needed to crack the nut.  
	It would take weeks for the cracked nut to fully heal, but right now the
horrific distress she felt in her gonad was likened to hand grenade, as it
exploded outward, shrapnel's of piercing pain paralyzing that side of her
body, its numbing fragments causing her leg to give way as she toppled
forward.          
	The Negress screeched in agony, falling against the Viking as she
desperately wrapped her arms around her tormentor's back.  Ziegler moved
backward a step and felt Clarke's slick arms slipping downward.  Her legs
were gone; all that was keeping her off her knees was the clinch of
desperation she had around Ziegler's sides and back. 
	"I'm not through with you yet," growled the German in English.  By now
Clarke's head had slipped down to where her face was buried in Ziegler's
battered bosom.  The Valkyrie leaned over sideways and whammed a roundhouse
right directly into the unprotected flesh just above the hipbone and below
the side ribs.  With a gasping "Oomph" the Brunette dropped to her knees,
knowing that when they touched the canvas the referee would stop the
punching.  However, she was determined to delay as long as she could her
falling onto her face.  Therefore she still clung tightly to the Blonde,
her arms wrapped around the hips, her gloves clutching the woman's firm
backside.  Ziegler moved back another step and Clarke slipped further
downward until her face came to rest against the V of red satin that
covered her mons veneris.  
	It was at that moment when the Blonde stopped moving backward.  Ziegler
was no lesbian, but she found it quite pleasurable to feel the panting hot
breath of her battered foe blubbering against her bulging mound of venus.
Although at first she was puzzled by feeling such heat, taking into
consideration the layers of insulation between her skin and the face
pressed tight against it.  There was the trunk's satin fabric, the thong's
cotton cloth, as well as her full bush of light brown pubic hair between
her and Clarke's face.  No matter, almost immediately she felt the heat
from the panting mouth and nose warming her sensitive epidermis.
	She looked straight down at the top of the Brunette's head and knew the
fight belonged to her.  The excitement of the win and the heated breath
from the heavy panting was starting to generate an altogether different
sort of heat in her pubic mound.  She could feel her vaginal lips starting
to swell and her clitoris getting stiff.  That is when the referee placed a
hand on her shoulder and ordered her to move over to a neutral corner.  
	With much reluctance, the Blonde did what she was told, and as she walked
away all of Clarke's means of support was removed.  She fell forward to
land flat on her face, only then did the referee start his count.  At 'Two'
she rolled onto her back, clutching her smashed gonad with an unfeeling
glove.  Tears of pain and defeat gushing from her eyes.  
	Then, much to her considerable consternation, the German watched the
American will herself to rise.  At 'Five' she stopped sobbing.  At 'Seven'
she was on her hands and knees; and regained her feet at 'Nine', albeit a
bit wobbly.  Then did the unthinkable.  As soon as the referee was out of
the way the Brunette headed straight toward the Blonde, who was still
standing in the neutral corner.   
	"What's she up to?" thought the perplexed German.  "She's supposed to be
retreating for the arena's exit door."  Then added, "This is a woman who
goes by the boxing book.  Now for all intents and purposes, she's throwing
the book at me by this advance.  My god, will this night ever end?"
	Mumbling to herself, "The best defense is a good offense," the Negress
tore into the stunned Valkyrie.  Not too many of the blows hit the mark,
but the Blonde was kept busy fending off a flurry of punches that seemed to
be coming from all directions.  However, some were getting through;
hurtfully through.  Finally Ziegler felt she had enough of such punishment
and slipped away from the enclosing corner.  
	Which is exactly what Clarke was literally praying that her Blonde nemesis
would do.  Now by meeting in the center of the ring she had achieved a
modicum of equality by taking away the German's planned charge after the
knockdown.  Her arms were also very weary, but she refused to let her
crafty foe know that they were just about punched out. 
	The impact of that last body blow would end Clarke's dancing days this
night.  Now there was no disguising the fact that she was hurting, and from
now would only move about in a flatfooted shuffle.  However she was
superbly conditioned and still had enough stamina in her legs to backtrack
for the half-minute left in the round.  Additionally, she now had to draw
down her dwindling reserves of energy to keep popping out her left jab in
order to maintain a semblance of distance that was safe from her ever
advancing protagonist turned antagonist.   
	Ziegler was tired too, and decided to take no chances for the rest of the
third.  Her face had repeatedly felt the sting of the straight lefts, and
her body the force of the American's hammering rights.  She knew full well
either hand had the power to put her on the canvas if she got careless.  A
minute of rest would clear her mind and also re-energize her body for new
fistic mischief.  Consequently her pursuit of the retreating Brunette was
measured, and punctuated by trading connecting jabs to each other's face.
	For the time being, Clarke too, decided to 'Let it be'.                
	With the clang of the bell both women knew that they had made it past
round three.  And were mutually grateful.
	Little did they know round four would be something else again.  
	A something most rare.
	A something that would be whispered about into the next generation of
female boxing aficionados. 
	For this night all present would be witness to the entry into Nirvana.
	A place that would exist for one round.  
	A universe newly discovered - Physically finite in its height, depth, and
length.  Tight bound by time in its beginning and end.  
	Yet dwelling at its very core would be that which is infinite.  Now newly
defined and given substance.    
	A full measure of equal parts heaven and hell.   

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Part F

Kill The Body And The Head Will Fall

	As she sat down on the stool, the Valkyrie's fatigued mind somehow became
abuzz in thought.  Her cornerman ministered to the needs of her battered
eyes with icepacks but otherwise kept silent.  He had no advice to offer
since he saw the momentum of the fight slowly shifting in her favor.  For
one minute she would be alone in her thoughts with no outside distractions.
 At first her thoughts turned to strategy and tactics.  
	As far as Ziegler was concerned this was total war, and to win a war a
series of battles would have to be fought.  In her case they were known as:
Rounds.  However, before the start of the first battle there had to be an
overall strategy.  To win a war there must be a strategy, for the battles
there has to be tactics.  Her strategy was set at the onset of the fight
and the Viking still held to it tenaciously.  As the match progressed, she
altered her tactics for each round, but the strategy held.  As well it
should, because it was working.
	Working too were her fists, their primary aim, their literal aim, was into
that Black body standing in front of her.  Although at the moment, the
Georgian too was sitting.  The German mused that perhaps in the next round
Clarke would be prone.  Then she turned her thoughts to the business at fist.
	Although the strategy was subtle, its execution was blunt.  And execution
was foremost on the German's mind.  She had taken as an act of faith the
golden rule of boxing: 'Kill the body and the head will fall.'  The rule
was golden because it had led so many fighters who followed its advice to
real gold.  To execute was to kill, and Ziegler was determined that
Clarke's body would hurt so bad that death would become a welcome release.
She knew it was a winning strategy, for she had been there.
	'There' was on the canvas, not so many years ago, writhing in a pain so
agonizing that the ten second count to end the match seemed like an
eternity in hades.  It had been her first serious loss in boxing and she
gained much from that defeat.  That was one of the Blonde's primary
strengths, she learned more from her losses than from her wins.
Consequently, she had been undefeated for several years now.  In her first
matches she had been occasionally knocked to the canvas, but always got up,
to go on and win.  For a time.  Eventually she would meet her 'however'.    
	However, Ziegler would always remember that first horrific loss, and the
lessons it taught.  After a year of being both a student and boxer, she had
progressed to sophomore status at the university; yet as a fighter she had
achieved senior ranking.  It had become time for graduation from the school
of hard knocks, and as fate would have it she and her trainer were invited
to Madrid, Spain for her first bare-chested boxing match.  This was for
serious money and as such would insure a serious battle.  It was a private
contest sponsored by several wealthy winegrowers, who wanted to pit their
dark-haired local champion against someone new.  And blonde.  
	That evening the boxing had been limited to only the two of them, and
turned out to be a most brutal fight.  It was held in a gym, rented by a
coterie of female boxing aficionados for that one night.  It had a small,
but well equipped boxing ring, and the one aficionada in the gym that night
was the Iberian standing inside that squared circle.  The other woman being
a North German of Viking heritage.  They wore regulation boxing shoes on
their feet and eight-ounce gloves on the hands.  What wasn't regulation
were the white cotton thongs, classic in their cut and briefness.  They
were cut thin in back to fully expose the firm rounded cheeks of both
women.  The front of the thong was cut low.  While fully covering each
woman's pubic hair area, it plunged well below their navel.  It was this
low cut that was the German's undoing.       
	Throughout the match Ziegler's entire torso had been relentlessly pounded,
the slaughter ending in the sixth round with a one-two series of punches to
the lower gut.  Both blows delivered with a cruel precision, just above the
thong's covering cotton, by her raven-haired Spanish opponent.  Their
combined impact to her exposed lower abdomen would bring Ziegler down to
her knees, unable to rise.  She remembered slowly falling downward, her
face now buried in the canvas, but still on her knees with her butt
sticking up.  That is when the Spaniard placed a boxing boot against her
hip and gave it a toppling shove.  Ziegler rolled onto her back, clutching
her lower belly with both of her unfeeling gloves; weeping tears in equal
parts from the throbbing pain in her smashed womb and the frustration of
her first great loss.  To be added the insult of having to look straight up
and see her better standing next to her.  In fact her better, and the
Spaniard was the better battler, was standing so close that she was looming
almost directly over the German's head, in a provocative wide legged stance.
	The Iberian's thong was thoroughly soaked with sweat and clung tight
against her prominent pubic bulge.  Ziegler could see the outline of the
shaft of the winner's erect clit, and in that instant of profound
revelation she realized what the woman standing above her was all about.
With the revelation did she understand rivalation; in its most brutal
sense.  The Blonde had considered the boxing match as sport and the
Brunette as an opponent, however she now knew the other woman considered
her as a sexual rival.  That expression 'Other Woman' took on a whole new
meaning now, and the German realized that from the very beginning of the
match the Spanish woman had set about to make her sexually impotent.  In
this she had fully succeeded by smashing her rival's womb.  
	Things had gone far beyond mere sport, it was down to the fundamentals of
human drives, in this bitter contest it was sex - And wasn't limited to the
Spanish victoress, it extended to the men in the audience.  Ziegler had
thought the men paid large chunks of money to see a hard fought contest
between two fit women.  She was proud of her figure and not shy about
displaying it, knowing full well the sexual titillation engendered by
briefly clad women engaged in a sweaty sport.  That aspect of boxing didn't
bother her, besides the money was starting to roll in - Special matches
like this paid well, even to the losing fighter.  But she now understood
that this was something else again; for when the Blonde stepped into that
gym's ring, she had entered an altogether deeper, and quite sinister realm
- Dark in intent and black in its ultimate purpose.    
	Now in wide-eyed wonder the German looked up at the face, and it confirmed
what had been revealed underneath the thong.  While the white cotton had
partially masked the black purpose of perverted sexual excitement, the face
in naked contrast fully unveiled the dark intent.  With her conquering
gloves resting on her ample hips, the Iberian had to bend forward a bit in
order to look downward between her cruelly bruised, yet still firm pointed
breasts with the erect dark nipples, and view the tear-filled face of her
defeated rival.  The victrix spat out her mouthpiece, and then a
contemptuous smirk stayed on her dusky face during the remainder of the 10
second count to victory.  That look gave new meaning to the expression: 'A
climacteric ending which climaxed a hard fought boxing match'. 
	 
	In their Madrid rematch about a year later, it only took the fraulein four
rounds to look down between her two highly bruised and heavily swollen
breasts, tipped with the flaccid pink nipples, and survey the senorita's
unconscious face as she was counted out.  To a knockout most total.  And
final - Since the Iberian would never agree to fight the German again.  At
the climax of the fight, Ziegler's nipples and clitoris were not turgid.
To her the rematch was not about sex, it was revenge - Which has its own
deep-seated drive.  
	To her, rivalation had an entirely different meaning.  That is when
Ziegler learned the full meaning of the cliché: 'Revenge is sweet'.  And
sweet 'In deed' was the win.  For this was one Valkyrie who learned her
lessons well.  And remembered.
	At the time she remarked to her trainer that if men's boxing was known as
the 'Sweet Science', then it would follow that female boxing could be known
as the 'Sweetest Science'.
	But things sweet were not on her current agenda.  It was the legacy of
Madrid, and beyond, as she now brought all of this accumulated knowledge
into this roped enclosure; to this night, to this very moment in time - In
order to pass on the hard wisdom of the soft six-ounce gloves.  Although
the boxing gloves were soft, the fist incased in each of them was hard with
purpose.  And direction.  Specifically into Clarke's lower torso.   
	The memory of Spain was on her mind - How in the first match her lower
body had been destroyed; a devastation of such magnitude that it didn't
take a punch to the jaw to finish her off.  Her body had already been
killed when her head had hit the mat.  Tonight, Ziegler was willing to take
the abuse to her face in order to equally abuse the Brunette's midsection.
She was fixated on turning their protective muscles into a different
consistency.
	Jelly came to mind.