April 2: Dear Diary, I'll be fighting a woman to the death in a few days. Back to that mosquito infested wooded area in South Georgia. Payout, as you know, is twenty million dollars this time. If I live. Which, of course, I will. Actually things are pretty ho hum. Same old exercises, etc. Think I'll wait until I get back from South Georgia to write again, Nancy.
Nancy has increased her run from ten to fifteen miles a day. And her weight lifting and mannequin squeezing have gone from four to six hours a day. The rumor is that the mystery man behind the glass at the arena has found one hell of an opponent for her. He claims she's the strongest, most ruthless, most skillful woman in her weight class on the planet. A real killing machine with twelve fight-to-the-death matches behind her. But then she hasn't fought me. Yet.
And speaking of killing machines, it's hard to top Nancy. Since her to-the-death fight with a man six months ago, she's lured four more men into her web, made love to them, killed them with her scissors hold and buried their bodies in her garden. She's running out of grave site room. Maybe a much bigger house with a much bigger garden. I mean it's not like I can't afford it. I do have ten million dollars in the bank from that last fight. And gosh. It's almost April 15th. How should I report that on my income tax form?
Nancy has stopped wrestling at The Arena until this last fight-to-the-death match is over. She's afraid she might sustain an injury that would halt the twenty million dollar fight, or worse, have her weakened just enough to wind up buzzard bait. She's convinced if she's in top condition she can beat anyone in her height and weight class. Anyone! Male or female!
The Arena? It's still thriving. Thanks to Nancy and the Arena Manager Jim Cotton, the facility is attracting some of the strongest and most beautiful wrestlers in the country, even some of the top names from women's "pro" TV wrestling. This has totally infuriated the rich man behind the glass. He figured with Nancy dead, the facility would return to the "good old days". Wrong! Nancy's absence hasn't made a dent in the number of people attending the matches and the amount of money they're willing to pay. Dues went up twenty five per cent three months ago. Complaints? None. Zero. Zilch.
Now it's a matter of pure vengeance. The man realizes that the "good old days" are gone forever. And he blames it all on Nancy. Rumor has it that he has a life size poster of her in his office and he loves to throw darts at it. Rumor also has it that if Nancy wins the match in South Georgia she'd better spend the twenty million fast. The man has told his number one assassin to take her out within seventy two hours. And make it look like an accident. Another rumor has it the man and his assassin had better act fast. A special federal grand jury in Atlanta is just days, maybe hours, away from returning indictments against him for money laundering, drug trafficking, murder, embezzlement, racketeering, you name it. Seventy two indictments in all. The FBI wants him. The Federal Prosecutor wants him. The Fulton County District Attorney wants him. The Atlanta Police want him. And they are all about to get him. Maybe even before the fight-to-the-death takes place.
Nancy enters her private gym in the basement of her house. Rumors. Rumors. I've never heard so many rumors concerning so many people. Can't let this distract me. They've got their jobs to do. I've got mine. To kill a woman in a fight in South Georgia two days from now. She begins the workout with a ritual she thought up about four months ago. She goes to a corner of the gym. On the floor are small pieces of paper, a pen, a box of matches and an ash tray. She picks up the pen and writes the word "quit" on one of the pieces of paper. She tears it into little pieces and places it in the ash tray. Nancy strikes a match to it and stares intently until the last bit of smoke is gone. Until the ashes are cool. Now she is ready to begin her exercises.
She starts with the mannequin. The man who designed it for her is a genius, or at least extremely smart. In addition to the meter to test her leg scissors, he's added two other holds. The bear hug and the choke hold. When you grab the mannequin in a scissors hold the meter read out is on the chest. As in the scissors around the ribs, powerful padded springs are registering the pressure. In the bear hug, the meter is on the forehead. When the meter reaches 100, you have safely killed your opponent. Nancy has been practicing hard on this. Her reliance on the scissors six months ago almost got her killed. She needs more power in her arms and shoulders. In the choke hold from the rear, the meter is on the back of the mannequin's head. Again, a reading of 100 and your opponent is dead. All readings are now clocking at 100.
This time instead of adding a little body weight, Nancy has actually reduced it by ten pounds. She wants to be nothing but muscle. Not just in the legs, but everywhere. Totally shredded. Quick. Incredibly strong for her weight. Her opponent will have to respond accordingly. One of the conditions is that her opponent can not weigh more than two pounds more than her. It was Nancy's understating that her opponent, Ingrid Bergason from Norway, weighed 30 pounds more then her when selected four months ago. She's had to drop a lot of weight in a relatively short amount of time. Has this affected her timing? Her skills? Her Agility? Probably to a very small degree. And in this type of fight a very small thing can make all the difference in the world. Nancy Anderson is smart. Very Smart.
She and her good friend Jim Cotton, The Arena Manager, stay at the same motel they used six months ago, the night before the fight. Ingrid and her attendant stay at a motel one exit down I-75 south. Like six months ago, all four are blindfolded and taken deep into the rich man's plantation to a large clearing in the the woods. The setting is different. Six months ago the fight was in an enlarged seven foot deep grave. Very dramatic. One big problem. If you weren't in the grave with the fighters, all you could see was the top of their heads and their shoulders. The rich man was not amused. The guy who thought up this "brilliant" idea is now working on a logging detail in a swamp in another part of the plantation.
Now the clearing has been enlarged to the size of a football field and covered with canvas. The man wants to clearly see what's happening. To be able to move in close. To within a few feet if it excites him. And he expects this to be a very exciting match. He wants to be able to get in close enough to taunt Nancy if she's in trouble. To make her life miserable. To do every thing he can, verbally, to bring her life to an end.
Both fighters strip off their clothes. They are a contrast. Ingrid with her light skin, blond hair and blue eyes. Nancy with her darker, tanned skin, very deep brown eyes and hair. And the tits. Ingrid is not what you would call flat chested, but Nancy's breasts are definitely larger and more alluring. The man shouts "Go!" and the women approach each other, slowly, warily, looking for an opening, a possible weakness from their opponent.
Ingrid strikes rapidly, lunging forward and sinking her sharp fingernails into Nancy's tits. The nails go deep and she drags them down, tearing Nancy's skin and flesh. Nancy immediately jambs her thumbs into Ingrid's eyes, and the blond woman backs away. Nancy looks down. There is a very small trickle of blood running from her tits down across her rock hard stomach. Ingrid looks at her and grins. The man laughs. This was aimed to do not just physical, but psychological damage. Nancy has world class tits. Large and firm that jut straight out. Serious damage to her tits is sure to affect her mind. Or so Ingrid thinks. But other than pure, cold fury, there is only one other thing in Nancy's mind right now. The word "quit" going up in flames in an ash tray.
Nancy strikes now. She pins Ingrid's arms to her sides, and claps her wrist at Ingrid's spine in a painful bear hug. The pain in Ingrid's back and spine is quick and intense. Like Nancy, Ingrid is also smart. She buries her head in Nancy's chest, sinks her teeth into Nancy's tits and begins to shake her head back and forth like a bulldog. This time Nancy is stunned by the damage being done to her tits. She releases the bear hug, but immediately grabs Ingrid's head, pulls it up and sinks her teeth into the blond woman's neck. Ingrid releases Nancy's tits and grabs her by the by the throat, trying to break her vocal cords. Ingrid knows a bite to the tits can be damaging. But a bite to the neck, especially if it hits the jugular vein will be fatal. The grab to the throat doesn't work, so Ingrid borrows a tactic from Nancy and jambs her thumbs into Nancy's eyes. Nancy feel's she's been half blinded and lets go.
The women back off for a second to access the damage. They both have blood trickling down their bodies and forming small drops on the canvas. Suddenly Nancy leaps forward with her left arm out. Ingrid thinks she's trying for a choke hold and sends up an arm to block it. At the last split second, Nancy shifts slightly to the left and throws her shoulder into Ingrid, knocking her backward. She lands on her butt. Nancy's momentum has left her slightly behind Ingrid and she quickly turns and locks her powerful legs around Ingrid's ribs from the rear. From the rear. Nancy's ankles connect and she starts to squeeze the scissors hold. From the rear.
Nancy begins to lean back and apply the pressure to kill Ingrid. No one has ever escaped her deadly leg scissors. Not from the front. What happens next happens in a second. Less than a second. Nancy glances up and sees Ingrid's fists start down in a pile driver blow. And then in a split second she realizes her mistake. She is not facing Ingrid's face. She's facing her back. And where does that put Nancy's knees? Right in front of Ingrid. Right beneath the pile driver blow on the way down to shatter one of Nancy's kneecaps.
Nancy moves quicker than she's ever moved in her life. Her ankles unlock and she starts to move her knee. But she doesn't get it completely out of the way. The blow lands with tremendous force and catches her on the side of her knee. The pain is intense. Nancy doesn't think her kneecap has been shattered. But she knows she's hurt. From some of her fake wrestling days, she decides to make it look like she's hurt worse than she is. But she knows she's hurt. She gets up limping. Exaggerating, to hopefully fool her opponent into trying something really dumb.
Ingrid can smell victory. Taste it. She decides to humiliate Nancy.
"Truce for a moment, Nancy. OK?"
"Sure, Ingrid. But why?"
Ingrid doesn't notice, but Nancy is inching closer to her.
"Nancy, I propose a mutual leg scissors."
Nancy notices that Ingrid's legs are carelessly spread apart and inches a little closer.
"Ingrid, is that where we sort of lie on top of each other and clasp one another in leg scissors holds?"
Nancy moves closer.
"Yes, Nancy. That's it."
"I'm sure my shattered kneecap has nothing to do with your idea, Ingrid."
"Of course not, Nancy. I'm just trying to be fair with you," Ingrid says with a smile, barely suppressing a laugh.
Suddenly Nancy's leg, with the supposedly shattered kneecap, snaps forward. Her foot goes up between Ingrid's parted legs and lands squarely on target. Ingrid drops to her knees in pain. Nancy's foot sails again. And again lands on target.
"We're supposed to be under a truce," screams the rich man behind the mask.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you. I cheat. Just ask any of the gals back at The Arena," replies Nancy.
Ingrid is in such pain she can't move. Can't defend herself. Nancy calmly walks around behind her and grabs her in a choke hold. The meter hits 100 and Ingrid dies. But no one realizes she's dead. No one but Nancy. She walks around to the front. The front. She applies her famous leg scissors to the already dead woman. To her surprise she starts to have an orgasm. So, this works with women as well as with men. This opens up all kinds of new possibilities for my web. Nancy goes through the usual breaking of her opponent's ribs, crushing of her internal organs and final heart explosion, showering her with Ingrid's blood, while having orgasm after orgasm.
"I believe you owe me twenty million dollars, Mr. masked man."
"I'll be damned! You cheated!"
"What do you mean cheated? This was supposed to be anything goes, no holds bared."
"I'll give you one million. Not a dime more."
Nancy thinks for a moment.
"I'll take it."
She suddenly reaches up and rips his mask off. Nancy is stunned. It's a former Mayor of Atlanta from a long time ago.
"So you know who I am. So what? You'll be dead within 72 hours. And you and Jim can walk back to your motel."
Nancy and Jim have just started up the road when they spot a cloud of dust. They quickly dash into the trees and hit the ground. It's a caravan of five Atlanta Police cars, followed by six local sheriff's cars, followed by ten unmarked cars. The police and sheriff's deputies jump out and start reading everyone in sight (meaning the ex-mayor, his assassin and a very puzzled plantation worker) their Miranda rights. The men in the unmarked cars are right behind, most of them wearing shirts with the big initials FBI on them.
Nancy and Jim don't move a muscle until three hours after the crowd has left.
"Long walk back to the motel, Nancy. Wonder if we can make it before dark?"
"I doubt it. And you know what that means, Jim"
"Yeah. Mosquitoes."
Back at Atlanta Police Headquarters, the Homicide Division is not paying much attention to what's going on in South Georgia. They believe they have a serial killer on their hands. Homicide detective Gail Adams is talking to the head of the division, Steve Walker.
"What's driving me crazy, Steve is that we've got 14 disappearances in the last two years, but no bodies. All have been men between the ages of twenty five and sixty with no reason to "run away" like some teenager. No financial, marriage, mental, job or any other kind of problem. No reason to leave. None. And they've lived anywhere from Norcross, twenty miles to the north, to Riverdale, twenty miles to south, to Douglasville, twenty miles to the west, to Lithonia, twenty miles to the east."
"I know Gail. It's got me baffled also. And the news media is just about to break this wide open. And you know what that means. A feeding frenzy. The Chief's on my back. The Mayor's on her back. Keep digging. They must have something in common. They must have."
"I have Steve. But this thing can have more threads than a spider web."
"A spider web," says Steve, smiling. "Interesting analogy. Keep digging Gail."
# Tom Adams, 2001. All Rights Reserved. Comments to: blackwidowdiary@aol.com