Jenna in Tonya
By Avida Dolor
Jenna in the all-girl prison

Part 1

Copyright 1997 Avida Dolor


My first week in stir: We wake up at 7 a.m. to The Quadriceps: The Four-
Headed Monster, Volume 2 of the Tina Lockwood motivational tape series 
called How to Get Legs So Big You'll Need a Second Brain to Control Them. 
Bonnie, that's my roomie, has a fucking Bose cassette/clock/radio, in 
addition to a killer Panasonic Platinum Series CD boombox. Way cool. TV in 
the lounge only, I'm afraid, but we control the lounge. I leap out of bed 
ready for another day of, well, like, fun. I'm supposed to be in jail, but 
I can't help it, I'm enjoying myself. Breakfasts are great; pancakes, 
waffles, eggs, bacon, hot cereal, it's like a Carnival cruise, 'cept you 
stand on line with a tray and all the kitchen help is Mexican.
 It's the Tonya Harding Correctional Facility for Girls up the coast in 
Santa Rauncho, for those of you who haven't read of my unfortunate locker 
room liplock with a demented drama princess in Babbling Brooke, and I'm in 
for a year, there's no time off for good behavior. Assault and battery, 
possession of an unlicensed concealed weapon. The fact that it's concealed 
is crucial; if I had a rifle in my locker it wouldn't have been as bad. 
They say I got off easy, actually, considering the charges; my wrestling 
trophies worked in my favor, I could've gotten another year for the gun. 
Brooke's gun. Anyway, I'll be 18 well before I get out, but that's OK here; 
you can be sentenced to a year if you're under 18, and when you turn 
"adult" you don't have to transfer to the big house.
 Thank my lucky stars for that, whatever ones I have left. The big house is 
no fun. There are Mexicans and blacks in the big house, and they all carry 
improvised knives. Shivs, shanks. Shivs make me shiver. Shanks, but no 
shanks, I'm not into lacerations. Contusions, fine, I have no problem with 
contusions. There are plenty of contusions available, but no shivs or 
shanks in Tonya. No Mexicans or blacks either. There's some kind of racial 
segregation experiment underway in the interests of controlling gang 
violence, so everyone in Tonya is as white as Tonya herself, and most are 
as trashy, though we do have some girls here who obviously grew up with 
silver coke spoons up their noses.
 We live in dorm rooms, not cells, just like at a party school, and we have 
roomies, not cellmates, and there's a big TV lounge with a VCR and all 
kinds of sports and arts and crafts activities, a computer room and a great 
weight room, tons of equipment. Lifting is happening here bigtime, almost 
everyone works out, and the bigger your arms the bigger your rep. So I 
showed up with 16 inches of rep. Well, a lot more, really; I actually had 
fans the moment I arrived. There are chicks here who followed my high 
school wrestling career--goddamnit, it hurts to put that in the past tense-
-and they even have jerkoff tapes, as they call them, of all the matches 
that were shown on local cable. I'm sort of a celebrity.
 Get this: there was a bare fists tournament to be my roomie. No shit. 
Girls were willing to get beat up to sleep with me. Bonnie, bless her big 
beating heart, took out three very tough cookies to win the honor of 
bunking under me (literally, you might say). Now, is this devotion, or 
what? The first day I'm here, I'm unpacking in the room and Bonnie is 
hovering around me like a mother hen. A 6-foot, 190-pound gorgeous mother 
hen who ovulates like an elephant. Bonnie is a big, beautiful 16-year-old 
freckled redhead, a heavily muscled, voluptuously fleshed super-boobed 
sweetheart who when she gets mean will tear your head off and shit down 
your proverbial neck, as Brooke threatened to do to me before I broke her 
jaw. Bonnie is in for beating a girl so bad during an attempted rip-off at 
a drug deal that it was called malicious wounding. It was just her bad luck 
that the crooked pot seller happened to be the mayor of Santa Perva's 
wayward daughter. They threw the book at poor Bonnie, the unabridged 
version with the heavy-duty binding: two and a half years, she was only 15 
at the time. I turn to her, she's breathing all over me as I unpack, hot 
fragrant breath that's fogging my brain, and she says, "Do you think you'll 
like me, Jenna?"
"Do I think I'll like you? I like you already. What's not to like?"
"No, I mean, do you think you'll like being my lover? I so much wanted to 
be your roomie!"
"Bonnie, it'll be my privilege to be your lover. If you weren't so big I'd 
sleep in the same bed with you every night."
"Oh, Jenna, I'm so glad you like me," Bonnie coos. We embrace and kiss and 
Bonnie's tongue is filling my mouth like sweet sausage. "I had to hurt 
three good girls, girls I like, to get to be your roommate."
Come again? Yeah, that's the way disputes are settled at Tonya, I learned. 
No knives--fists. And feet, elbows and knees. Full contact tough gal-style 
fighting in the ring, no pads on the strike surfaces, and the warden, Mrs. 
Marlow, is the ref. A steel-jacketed dyke, but, just like fat Mrs. Becker 
at high school, she's married. These women must hang their husbands on a 
rack whey they're done playing with them.
 Anyway, no kidding about Bonnie's fights, I saw them, they were 
videotaped, as all the fights are. Fighting is prime entertainment at 
Tonya. We made popcorn, there's a microwave in the lounge. No one made it 
past the first round with her though, so the whole thing took about six 
minutes. Bonnie has the slowness of the huge, but she hits like a tank and 
her defense is pregnantly impregnable. No one could get to her without 
getting tagged really bad, none of her opponents was over 5-8. But they all 
fought her gamely just to room with me. I'm still flipped out by this, and 
I've been here over a week. I've met them all, and they all tossed my 
salad, even the ones with swollen lips. Salad tossing is the standard means 
of paying homage around here. For those not in the kneel-and-deal know, 
tossing a salad is eating someone's ass like it was half a waddymelon and 
you just finished a summerlong stretch on the chaingang. It's the lap of 
luxury, and you've gotta keep at it till the tossee is good and wet, at 
which time it's traditional to flit the clit till said tossee comes likes 
an emergency sprinkler system. Needless to say, it's really important to 
keep a clean ass around here, which is why there are boxes of baby wipes in 
all the bathrooms and every Saturday after lunch is enema hour. 
But let's get to the crutch-aided crux of this little story. The party 
abruptly turned sour when I got kneecapped on day eight. Kneecapping is 
popular at Tonya, as you'd expect. Making patella pancakes, the girls like 
to call it. Weighted plumbing is what you usually get hit with, there's a 
lot of spare pipe in the basement level, and I got nailed by two Nancies--a 
Nancy is what we call those who are not Tonyalicious--blindsided, of 
course, and spunky little Lee Ann saved me, or I would've got brained, not 
just 'capped. Nancies, to be more specific, are girls not officially 
affiliated with the gang that runs the place, the Hards, as they're known, 
sometimes affectionately referred to as the Ton Ton My How Cute. We love 
Charles Mingus' Haitian Fight Song, but our favorite piece of music is of 
course The Skater's Waltz. The head Hard is a big blonde named Stephanie, 
better known as Def Stef, but I haven't met her yet, she's in solitary 
behind locked corridor doors way down at the end of D Block. Seems she 
nearly strangled a Nancy to death about two weeks ago--the stranglee was 
throttled so bad she got whiplash, and she's still wearing a safety collar, 
she has some kind of pinched nerve problem, I saw her in the cafeteria (her 
name's Nora, and she used to be called Nora the Snorer, named by her 
roomie, but now she's known as Nora the Neck). Stef's not due to mingle 
with the general pop for another month. Too bad, 'cause she is a serious 
looker, built like a cinder block cathouse with arms as big as her head, 
Bonnie and some other high-echelon Hards have Polaroids of her taped up in 
their rooms. Who's in charge in the meantime is none other than bonny 
Bonnie, who is the Hard chief enforcer and now acting general. 
I am presently in the infirmary with a knee swollen about as big as my 
head, by the way, but initial x-rays indicate no serious damage has been 
sustained. But I'm getting way ahead of myself. I'm also getting way good 
head from Bonnie right now, she's been allowed to move into the infirmary 
with me for protection, there could be a second attack, she's suckling my 
nether heather like a hummingbird on 'roids. So Brooke got her revenge, 
kind of. It appears that she hired these skanks over the phone to cripple 
me--phone privileges are virtually unlimited here, you can pay to have a 
phone in your room and almost everyone does---for the whopping sum of 
$5,000, though we don't know who her original contact is inside. They 
wouldn't do it for less, it's kind of a suicide attack. Retaliation is 
unavoidable in this closed arena. Brooke's broken nose and jaw are not 
sitting well on her face, cracked kissers don't go over big with the drama 
set. She pulled the right strings and set up a kneejob in no time, little 
Miss Efficiency. I'm sure her rich parents or one of her wealthy college 
boyfriends put up the money. 
 But, as I said, I'm getting way ahead of myself. My knee is bothering me, 
or maybe it's the painkillers they gave me, I can't concentrate, but let's 
recap, so to speak. They got me late at night in the long, lonely basement 
corridor that leads from the laundry room to the ping pong palace. I 
shouldn't have walked it alone, that was dumb. One hailed me from the 
front, this was a tall, skinny pimply girl name of Joan, known as Joan the 
Bone, something about her strap-on, almost everyone's got a nickname here, 
some shit about, "Don't I know you from high school?" while the other--
Sarah the Shitass, as she's known, she doesn't favor the use of baby wipes-
-took out my right leg from the southeast with one wicked swipe that put me 
down like a string-snapped marionette. The only reason this psycho bitch 
didn't get to tee off on my head was at that moment lithe, little Lee Ann, 
a cute-as-a-button brunette, popped out of ping pong and ran at the pipe 
swiper in a mad sprint, screaming at the top of her lungs. A bold move, 
since Shitass is 5-9, 170, and has spent plenty of time with her shitty ass 
squeezed hard against a bench where she presses an easy 225 for reps.
 Shitass swung on Lee Ann and delivered only a glancing mistimed blow to 
her forearm. Lee Ann closed and grappled and ripped off Shitass' ski mask--
yeah, the girl was kneecapping incognito--but Shitass threw her down and 
took off, 'cause by now some other girls came running to check out the 
commotion. So Lee Ann, all 5-2 and 120 pounds of her, wailed into Joan the 
Bone and beat her so badly all her pimples popped. Joan, in fact, is not in 
the infirmary; she was remanded to Santa Rauncho County Hospital with a 
broken collarbone, cheekbone and a severe concussion. OK, she was in a coma 
for a few hours. Her Bone is probably leaking marrow. Lee Ann is a tough 
little girl, her 120 is all muscle, and it turns out she's got a brown belt 
in tae kwon do. When I get out of the infirmary, I have every intention of 
tossing her salad with her choice of undressing. So I sat there on the 
floor wailing "Why?! Why me!? Why, oh God, why!?" as I gripped my whipped 
stick in traditional Ton Ton fashion, and I thoroughly enjoyed watching Lee 
Ann kick Joan like she was a torture doll.
Now, of course, vengeance is mine, regarding Shitass. She was supposed to 
do this deed unID'd; Joan would claim she was just asking an innocent 
question when this masked assailant whisked by in a flash. As if we 
wouldn't figure it out in five minutes anyway. Shitass was simply willing 
to get wasted for her cut of the five grand, which I'm sure was at least 80 
percent of it. But all that went to hell thanks to Lee Ann, so Shitass 
repaired to her room and skulked there expecting the worst, like maybe a 
lynching party. 
Warden Marlow apologized to me personally on behalf of the Harding staff 
and suggested that when my leg heals I meet Shitass in the ring of judgment 
to settle this matter, or, if I preferred, I could name a stand-in to fight 
Shitass tomorrow. Bonnie instantly nominated herself for the task, which 
was fine with me, as long as they wheeled me into the gym to watch the 
slaughter. And they did. 
Cut to the fight: I'm in a wheelchair at ringside, my right knee in a 
gyroscopically weighted flexi-rack, which bazoomy Nurse Church calls the 
space brace, and I'm stoned out of my mind on really fine sinsemilla. Did I 
mention the great drugs they have in here? The entire population has turned 
out for this fight, that's about 160 girls at the moment, it's actually 
undercrowded in here, and I'm sitting in the aisle right next to my second 
best bud, Lee Ann, who just smoked some best buds herself and is all 
glassy-eyed and giggly with anticipation. Shitass has been in protective 
solitary since she was picked up in her room after the attack; her roomie, 
by the way, is Joan. These girls aren't too smart. But most of the Nancies 
aren't. That's why they're Nancies; they're dumb, ugly, practice poor 
personal hygiene or some combination of the three, or else they're in for 
something that's just too weird, like sodomizing their blind grandma with a 
24-inch black anodized aluminum riot baton. 
Bonnie ran down her plans to destroy Shitass a few minutes ago in the 
locker room, where she looked so good shadow boxing I think her shadow 
fucked her. Round 1: hurt her gradually, jab a lot, pound kidneys in the 
clinches, lay off the right. Round 2: hurt her some more gradually with the 
jab, pound kidneys in the clinches, lay off the right. Round 3: gradually 
hurt her with the jab, pound kidneys in the clinches, lay off the right. 
Round 4: kill her without making her fall down until just before the bell. 
Use the right, but not so hard as to lay her out. Then top it off with the 
knee, which will break anything in her face that isn't yet broken.
 These are four-round fights, three minutes a round. The girls get to wear 
headgear--it's some kind of ridiculous state law--but there are no gloves, 
no elbow or knee pads, you can strike with any part of your body except 
your head. No grabbing, pulling--except behind the head for knee delivery--
gouging or hitting when someone's down. The ref is supposed to keep 
clinches short and sweet, doling out discretionary standing eights, and the 
ref, as I mentioned, is Mrs. Marlow, she's a champ and a Hard-hearted 
woman, which is to say she's on our side. The girls are wearing shorts and 
tank tops, they're barefoot, and they get the usual mouthpieces and groin 
and breast protection.
 Shitass Sarah would normally be a formidable opponent; she's got size, 
strength, and the girls tell me she's a good fighter, she did this before 
against a pretty tough Hard and beat the girl silly. But against Bonnie 
she's toast. I'm kinda wistful about that, 'cause Shitass Sarah is sorta 
cute. She's a porcelain-skinned 17-year-old short-haired brunette with 
haughty patrician features--including a fine straight nose that has clearly 
never been broken--and her bod is mucho hard. Small superfirm breasts, big 
pecs that she jerks nervously a lot, the kind of body tic I like. She'd be 
a great Ton Ton if it weren't for the fact that she's got a shitty ass. And 
shortly she will have a very shitty ass, 'cause Bonnie is gonna beat the 
shit right out of it.
 My big Bon enters the ring looking geometrically slam glam: big rounded 
shoulders; big rounded masses of upper arm; big round fists with knuckles 
popping off them like concussion grenades; orbital thighs, cannonball 
calves, uber boobs, she's all rounded forms, some sort of spherical study 
in sensory stupefaction. Shitass is looking pretty good, too, though that 
thousand-yard stare of resignation on her face doesn't bode well for her 
going almost the full four. In Bon's corner is the Head first lieutenant, 
Tiffany, a drop-dead gorgeous surf bleachie with 15-inch arms who 
hospitalized two 12-year-old boys who were messing around with her kid 
sister. In Shitass' corner is old scuzzy Ethel, one of the guards, an 
overweight matron who, rumor has it, likes to be fucked by her pet dogs. 
Shitass is persona non gracias since she laid pipe on me, no Nancy'll touch 
her. 
The girls come out at the bell to a wild whooping din from the crowd, and 
Bonnie circles and jabs, feinting well for such a big bull. Shitass pushes 
some tentative kicks, ducks in low and tries an uppercut that bounces off a 
massive forearm, then goes for a clinch and punches Bonnie in her protected 
ears while Bonnie punches her in her unprotected kidneys. Marlow breaks the 
clinch and Shitass, fast of hand, snaps in a real nice right to Bonnie's 
mouth on the backoff, bloodying her lip. Shit, first blood for Ass. Bonnie 
is clearly enraged, wiping her lip with her hand, and flexing her fists 
like she was pumping up her knuckles, but she has to remain cool, we want 
this thing to last. 
They circle again, some more ineffective kicks from Shitass, then Bonnie 
traps her in a corner and lands a wicked left to the body that doubles Ass 
over, and, like a reflex, Bonnie's big knee comes up and catches Ass in the 
maw like a front-end collision. Bon, a knee-jerkin' jerk, lost her head, 
and Ass is now in danger of losing hers. She's now straightened back up, 
her arms too high, and Bonnie works a combination to the body that's hard 
enough to break ribs. Ass, in deep trouble, is now doubled over again, 
hands up in front of her face anticipating the knee, and Bonnie wisely 
backs off giving the girl room to move even before Marlow calls for a 
standing eight.
 Ass, holding onto the ropes, gets what amounts to a panting standing 32, 
but she's a little unsteady coming out of the corner, and there's blood 
smeared all over her mouth, like she was in a plasma pie eating contest, 
but she's got her hands up and she's ready to fight. She circles, jabs, 
catches a good jab from Bonnie, then lunges in low under a loping right and 
scores with a left hook to the tit that makes Bonnie grimace, but before 
she can counter, Ass has struck again with a right to the chin, then she 
quickly grabs the head looking to drive the knee, but Bonnie's Hard head 
isn't coming down, her back and traps swell, this big 170-pound girl can't 
pull Bon's bull neck low enough, and Bonnie slash blocks Ass' arms right 
off of her and puts a short right on the girl's nose that opens it up like 
a hot water tap, blood is running into Ass' mouth, and Marlow steps in fast 
for a standing eight, obviously looking to prolong the suffering, the wily 
wonder warden. The capacity crowd is hooting like hyenas, chanting "Bon-
knee, Bon-knee," but after a little more circling and jabbing, during which 
Ass gets her head snapped several times with lefts to the eyes--Bonnie 
really whips a wicked whistler for her size--the round ends. 
Well, Number 1 was a total success. I'm right below Bon, facing Ass' 
corner, and her face is a mess. Sore Ass has swelling around both eyes and 
a bloody nose and mouth with fattened lips. Her nose is probably broken and 
some ribs may be too, she's breathing kinda bent and wheezy, it's written 
all over her face like a paingram. Ethel is mopping her down with a big 
sponge like she was a nag heading for the glue factory. This is great.
 Ass comes out gamely for Round 2, but Bonnie catches her right away with a 
really smashing jab, then follows with a right uppercut that catches Ass on 
the jaw and lifts her in the air a few inches. Whoops. It's clear she's 
gonna go down from this punch, and Bonnie rushes in to bull her into the 
corner and bounce her off the turnbuckle, then she starts working over her 
body, keeping her standing with just the force of the blows, and after 
about a dozen thudding body punches, she pulls the head down and drives the 
knee three times, blood sheeting up like windshield washer, before letting 
Ass drop on her broken face. Well, so much for the four-round plan. Ass is 
probably in a coma now and she was no doubt unconscious after the second 
knee, maybe the first. Bonnie takes a victory walk around the ring to the 
wild cheers of the crowd, blood and mucus running down the front of her 
massive leg from the clot of gore that's clinging to the battering ram she 
was high steppin' with. She shoots me a sheepish look as Marlow makes the 
official announcement: a KO at 1:27 of the second round. 
Back in the infirmary, Bonnie is all apologies: "Jenna, I'm so sorry, I 
don't know my own strength, that right hand got away from me, I knew it was 
over as soon as it landed, so I had to wipe her out right then."
"Well, you really wiped her out. No problem, forget about it."
Ass was taken to Santa Rauncho County to rejoin her roomie. She was 
conscious when the ambulance left, so I guess she won't die or be a 
vegetable or something. In fact, now that I think about it, the not so 
total beating she got from Bonnie may have been worth four grand. Maybe 
I'll have to beat her up myself when we're both back on our feet to get my 
proper revenge. Then Lee Ann, who's wheeling around in my chair getting a 
good forearm pump, chirps up with, "Hey, Jenna, why don't you put out a hit 
on Brooke? I have friends on the outside who'd love to do her for you, no 
charge."
"Me too," says Bonnie with a hopeful smile. "I know a great hitter who'll 
break Brooke's legs for you, like, totally gratis, she's a fan."
"Who?" I ask.
"Her name's Hairy Mary, she's got, like, a lot of body hair, buy only in 
good places, and she's real tough, way tougher than me. She'll do Brooke no 
sweat. I can call her right now."
"Who do you know, Lee Ann?"
"Well, most of my friends from before I got busted would do this kind of a 
favor for me." (Lee Ann's in for drug dealing, by the way, she used to 
specialize in psychedelics, and her informed opinion of my Brooke 
experience is Brooke was doing PCP. But of course this can never be proven, 
Brooke wasn't blood tested, just blood spattered.) "But they're not, like, 
experienced hitters," Lee Ann adds. "This Hairy Mary sounds pretty good. 
How big is she, Bon?"
"Oh, shit, bigger than me. About 6-1, 210 maybe."
"Lemme think about it, Bon," I go. "Everything is cool for the moment. It's 
not like I've been crippled, I'll be up and around in a few days. We've got 
plenty of time to nail Brooke if we want to." 
I lie back and try to decide if I want to ask Lee Ann to get on the bed and 
straddle my face for a richly deserved toss, when she pops up with, "You 
should really put a hit on Brooke right now, Jen, it's the last thing she's 
expecting. You get somebody to break her legs in the next day or two, 
you'll really take her by surprise. She'll probably have a heart attack, 
she'll be so shocked."
"Assuming she hasn't got any spies in here, now that Sarah and Joan are 
gone, Brooke doesn't know how badly you've been hurt, anyway," muses Bon. 
"She may think you're out of action." 
"She could call Santa Rauncho County and find out I'm not there. That would 
give her a good idea I didn't suffer serious knee damage." We're assuming 
Shitass phoned Brooke right after the hit and told her the truth--she got 
in one good blow and that was all, injury to be determined at a later date. 
Which suggests the possibility that Brooke is planning another strike, or 
has already set one in motion. You never can tell around here. There are 
about 40 Nancies on campus right now, some of them very hard up for cash 
and very hard in the heart, though not Hard hearted, which is to say 
they'll risk certain retribution if the money's right, just like stinky 
Sarah. And most of them are as hard in body as in mind. Nancies have even 
more motivation to lift heavy than Tons do, since they don't run with a 
protective pack.
Anyway, the upshot is Lee Ann and Bon talked me into calling in a favor 
with this fearsome Hairy Mary character, and Bon jumped on the infirmary 
horn to set it all up. It would be nice to get Brooke in the Santa Chucho 
High locker room just like Brooke got me--the girl's gym is usually 
deserted in the late afternoon--but Brooke probably isn't working out, she 
has a wired jaw and cracked ribs. Hairy Mary will have to scope out the 
situation for a few days, and find the right time and place to strike. 
Don't worry, she's on the case.
"Why would anyone do something like this for you for free, Bon?" I demand. 
"This Mary doesn't even know Brooke." 
"This Mary loves me from way back," says Bon. "We grew up on the same 
block, she was the patient when all of us played gyno. The girl had a full 
thatch of pubic hair when she was 7. I was 5 at the time, and I was pretty 
impressed. I mean, I didn't have a bush till I was 9." 
"Oh. Cool. And she's really stronger than you?"
"She could outbench me before I got busted, and I'm sure she can outbench 
me now."
"Awesome." Bon can bench almost twice her weight when she's in the mood. 
So the next day I'm back in the room on crutches, and that night we do a 
salad shooter--I toss Lee Ann's salad while Bonnie tosses mine, then we eat 
each other in a triple dip on the floor. It was a little tough with my leg 
brace, but I made it work. Lee Ann's ass is so sweet it's like ordering the 
pineapple platter at the House of Luau. Lee Ann hasn't got a real nickname, 
though sometimes she's called Lil' Lee, but I've started calling her 
Sweetass, and she calls me Takedown, as in Jenna Takedown. Bon is just 
called Big Bon. We three got tight real fast, and Tiffany, who rooms with 
Lee Ann, known as Tiff the Spliff since she buys tons of dope, makes a very 
fine fourth wheel indeed.
 Anyway, nothing much happened the next couple days, 'cept I smoked a lot 
of dope, ate a lot of seafood and salad and did a lot of seated upper bod 
work in the gym. Mary was calling in every day with progress reports, and 
she said it looked like she would soon have a perfect setup, 'cause she had 
actually befriended Brooke, quite by accident. She was standing behind her 
in a card store while Brooke was flipping through the latest issue of 
Sinfully Sinew magazine, when Brooke looked over her shoulder, got a load 
of the busty amazon standing there in shorts and a micro tee, thick black 
tufts of armpit hair puffing out from the little sleevelets and a fine line 
of kinky black curls running from the pubic line up to the deep and 
inviting navel, and Brooke just started to come on to Mary like they were 
doing Ecstasy at Debbie's Diesel Dive on Shave Your Slave Night. Seems 
Brooke has taken a serious shine to muscle girls these days; witness her 
unprovoked sexual assault on me. Well, unprovoked in that all I did was 
take off my pungent workout sweats in front of her. OK, it was provoked.
 Anyway, Brooke took Mary out to dinner--Mary, Bon insists, is a major 
looker if you like the big, brutal cutoff jeans and hiking boots type, and 
who doesn't--and it seems Brooke is indeed working out in the gym and 
spending a lot of time in the whirlpool for her damaged ribs. And her jaw 
is not wired after all, the getup she was wearing at my hearing was mostly 
a phony. I didn't break her jaw, after all, I just bruised it. Mary 
personally testifies that Brooke can kiss like a fish. So, anyway, Mary has 
been invited to settle her big self in the whooshy water with her new bosom 
bud. They're working out and soaking together, how cozy. Two days pass, and 
that's the last we hear from Mary; she's incommunicado, doesn't answer the 
phone or e-mail. On the third day, Bon checks with some of Mary's friends; 
she's not at home, they haven't seen her, nothing. Bon is worried. So am I. 
I feel responsible for all this. A couple more days pass. Mary is missing. 
She's disappeared. No one's seen her. Friends of mine in town report Brooke 
is OK and going about her business, and no Hairy Mary is ever seen with 
her.
Then I get a letter in the mail from somebody signed Toosmart, no return 
address, of course. It's neatly typed on plain paper--Mrs. Marlow says it 
looks like your standard IBM Selectric--and this is what it says:
"Dear jailbait:
How's your knee? Heard you had an accident. Hope you're up and around soon, 
but be careful where you walk, you know? I have a very sad story to tell 
you about an acquaintance of yours. Seems this acquaintance of yours, a 
very big girl who looks like she really knows how to take care of herself, 
insinuated herself with a very fast-lane actress, a rather big and capable 
girl herself, and the two were cavorting naked in a jacuzzi when the very 
big girl who looks like she really knows how to take care of herself tried 
to break the actress' long beautiful legs. Unfortunately for the very big 
girl, she didn't know the actress had a 6-inch fillet knife sitting under 
her backpack within easy reach at the edge of the jacuzzi, and the very big 
girl had an incision made in her belly, right along the very sexy line of 
black hair that runs from her bellybutton to the top of her unbelievable 
pubic jungle. This incision, it seems, was very deep, and the water in the 
jacuzzi began turning red in a matter of seconds, and the very big girl 
went into a sort of panic and got out of the jacuzzi, her big strong chest 
was heaving wildly and all her gut muscles were writhing, and some of her 
intestine popped out of her belly the incision was so deep, and her amazing 
overgrowth of pubic hair was getting all red and sticky, and then she 
slipped on her own blood and fell back into the jacuzzi and the actress put 
down her knife and grabbed the very big girl with both hands around the 
neck and dunked her head under the water and held her there, but the very 
big girl thrashed around like a harpooned whale and got her head back out 
of the water and sucked down a big breath. But the actress, who hits very 
hard, punched her repeatedly with a phoenix eye fist in the neck and head 
and then applied a sleeper hold and forced the very big girl under the 
water again, and really put her broad back into it, and this time the very 
big girl didn't have the strength to find her way to the air, the water was 
swirling a deep red, her limbs were twitching pathetically, and she died 
like that, drowned while bleeding to death, while the actress came like a 
bitch, rubbing her swollen clit all over the very big girl's very hard-
muscled, hairy-cracked ass. The actress drained the jacuzzi, hosed it down 
and refilled it, and packed the very big girl up in a steamer trunk and 
disposed of her where she'll never be found. It's a great but sad story and 
I thought you'd want to hear it, jailbait. Do keep in touch."
Well, this threw us for a fucking loop. Bonnie was going nuts, she believed 
every word of it. She was talking about the necessity of breaking out of 
Tonya in order to exact a personal revenge. I tried to calm her down any 
way I could: "Bonnie, this story has got to be a crock. If Brooke killed 
Mary, she wouldn't admit to it, even anonymously. She's not that crazy."
"And she couldn't dispose of the body, it makes no sense," Lee Ann offers. 
"You couldn't even fit someone as big as Mary in a trunk. And how could 
Brooke move it? Mary weighs 210. Where'd she get the trunk from in the 
first place? It's insane."
"You told me Brooke was pretty damn strong," says Bonnie, trying to breathe 
deep and check her anger. "She almost beat you up, Jen. I don't see any 
reason why she couldn't drown Mary if she stabbed her first. The poor girl, 
her fucking guts were coming out . . ." Tears well up again in Bon's eyes, 
and she's smacking her fists against her sides like she's going nuts. I'm 
having trouble assimilating this grief, since I never met Mary and don't 
really know her from a hole in the wall. I'm trying to keep in mind that 
Bon used to play Put Your Feet in the Stirrups with the girl, and it wasn't 
horsie. We eventually agree to have Mrs. Marlow call Mrs. Becker at the 
school, the security dyke, and find out if something amiss was going on in 
the gym.
 The word back is no signs of foul play were reported, and none were 
discovered. No one has been found who saw Brooke or Mary enter or leave the 
school on the day in question, or on any day, since we're not even sure 
what the day in question is. Mrs. Becker mentions the letter to Brooke, and 
Brooke, of course, denies any knowledge of any of this, says it's just part 
of my ongoing vendetta against her. I probably had a friend on the outside 
type it, maybe Mary herself. I wish. In the meantime, a week passes and 
there's not hair nor hide of Mary. We all agree that another hit has to be 
made on Brooke, we're just arguing about how to go about it. Bonnie is 
negotiating with Mrs. Marlow for a "furlough" to go out and do the deed 
herself. And she intends to kill Brooke, dismember her and possibly eat 
her. Like, Bonnie is royally ticked. Mrs. Marlow, understandably, is 
reluctant to let someone loose to commit a deranged homicide.
 Then we look over the list of Hards who are due to be released in the next 
couple weeks, but no one with the makings of a hired killer is eligible. 
Then we look at the list of short-timer Nancies, and Lee Ann and Bon fix on 
one name right away: Pissy Paula. She's a water sports freak, who rooms, of 
course, with her soul mate, Pissy Missy, and Paula's the dom to Missy's 
femme, no doubt about that. Missy is a tiny 110-pound whippet, while Paula 
is a 5-9, 175-pound brute who's got the biggest guns of any Nancy in Tonya, 
they run about 17 inches hot. The thing is, Paula's time is up in a week, 
and Missy has six months to go. They're in love. They're so in love, Paula 
was trying to get her sentence extended for bad behavior, but they'd only 
send her to the big house. So our plan is to threaten Paula with what we 
can do to Missy during her six months without her bladder buddy. We can 
bust her up real bad, ruin her kidneys or something. We pay a visit to the 
tinkle twins to talk it over.
Paula is spread out on her bed in the stark fucking nude, looking so damn 
good I almost forget why we came in. She's deep-tanned and contest lean, 
all rippling abs and pec-projected titties, she's got a splendid thickly 
nippled rack that bulges high and hard like implants but they're real. 
Fuckin' wow. And if her sweet brown bush is a little damp, well, who cares? 
Missy is conveniently missing when we settle in; seems she's doing the 
laundry, and you can bet these girls have a lot of it. "So, Paula," says 
Bon. "You're out in a week."
"Yeah. What's it to you girls? You can't have eyes for Missy, she's not 
your type." 
"We want to protect Missy," says Lee Ann, "but you have to do us a favor in 
order to earn the maximum protection for her."
Paula scratches idly at one of her sinew-strung thighs. "What's the favor?"
"We want you do a hit on the outside. A fucking psycho chick who offed one 
of my best friends, who ordered the kneecapping on Jenna, and who's the 
chick who put Jenna in here in the first place."
Paula looks at me pointedly. I'm wearing a halter top and track shorts and 
I must say I'm looking awful sexy with my wooden old man cane that I got 
from Nurse Church--I'm past the crutches stage--and an Ace bandage on my 
knee. Sexy in that gimpy sort of strong but vulnerable way that says I 
can't squeeze you in a scissors but we sure can scissor together, girl. 
"You know," she says to me, "you and I haven't talked since you got in, but 
I've always been, like, a fan of yours. I like your style."
I smile and realize I have to pee. "Well, thanks, I appreciate it. I think 
I'm a fan of yours too. Your body's the shit, girl."
"Thanks," says Paula, making a point of scratching behind her ear, which 
causes her right bicep to swell like someone just inflated a football with 
an industrial tire pump, and her rack shifts on a muscle-taut hinge so her 
right nipple is practically poking her in the eye. "But what do you mean, a 
hit? What kind of hit?"
We discussed this before we came in, so we know what to say. "Preferably, a 
kill," Bonnie explains, trying to be real matter of fact about it. "For a 
kill, you not only get the royal treatment for Missy--she'd be under the 
personal care of the Hards' top command--but you'll get five thousand bucks 
cash. Half before, half after. How do you feel about a kill?"
Paula sits up on the bed, fingering herself absentmindedly, her spectacular 
forearms working like an overstrung mass of vein cable, as she shakes her 
head in the negative. "Come on, girls. I'm not a contract killer. I'm in 
here for auto theft, not even for fighting." Yeah, Paula had this thing 
about Camaros and Firebirds, it seems. Like, weird, for a girl.
"But you can fight, right?" asks Lee Ann. "Didn't you put that big Nance in 
the hospital a few months ago in the ring, what was her name? Rockin' 
Rhonda." Oh, she put Rockin' Rhonda in the hospital, all right. We got the 
tape out of the video library last night and watched it twice. Awesome. 
Kneed her in the chest so hard in round three she broke her sternum and 
partially collapsed both her lungs. Then KO'd her with a left hook that put 
the girl's mouthpiece in the bleachers and pinged some of her molars off 
the ceiling fans. Rhonda's new nickname was Rocked On Rhonda. No Hard even 
thought about challenging Paula after that, never mind a Nance, nor did 
anyone have any reason to challenge her. She keeps to herself. Doesn't even 
use the bathroom much.
"Yeah, I fought Rhonda in the ring, and yeah, I put her lights out 
something nasty. But I'm not a killer. You want me to hurt someone, let's 
talk."
"All right," says Bon. "You don't have to kill this girl, just cripple her. 
The royal carpet for Missy and $2,500. Double kneecaps. She can spend the 
rest of her life wheeling around on a fucking dolly, I can live with that." 
"Who's the girl?"
So Paula gets the lowdown on Brooke, and agrees to do the job. We'll be in 
phone contact from the moment she gets out. Missy comes in as we're getting 
ready to leave. She's a real cute natural blonde, the whipcord pixie type, 
wiry like a dancer, and the first thing she says is, "Baby, I gotta pee 
something wicked."
I want to ask if I can stay and join the party, since by now my bladder is 
bursting, but I'm afraid Bonnie might find this kind of frivolous. So I'm 
overjoyed the next morning when I get an intraTonya e-mail from Paula 
inviting me over for a beer party tonight in her room. Yes, imported cold 
beer is available by the case here, for a fee. I'm bringing extra panties 
and a bathing cap.

--30--