Jenna in Tonya Part 2 
By Avida Dolor
Jenna's life in the all-woman prison continues

Warning: This work of fiction contains frank language and explicit sex and 
violence. No one under 18 permitted to read without the express consent of 
parent or guardian.

JENNA IN TONYA

Part 2 

Copyright 1997 Avida Dolor (avidadolor@aol.com)


My pee party with the Pissies Paula and Missy is a smash. I 
mentioned to Bon, Lee Ann and Tiff that I was invited, and I asked 
them if they wanted to join me, but they all declined. I don't 
know what their problem is, it's not like these girls are 
shiteaters or something. Anyway, I had to go alone. Knocking on 
the Pissies' door, I haven't been so nervous since the state 
heavyweight championships, when I had to pin a succession of foul-
smelling fatties. Will my pee smell OK? I had nothing to drink all 
day but fucking Evian, which is as pricey as vodka in here.
 But they're real sweet about the whole thing. They've got mood-
enhancing naked red and blue bulbs hanging from the corners, and 
strawberry incense burning, they're playing Bjork, one of my 
absolute faves--when the Martians finally invade us I guarantee 
they'll all look like and sound like Bjork and they'll love us to 
death. So I said to them, "Hey, girls, do you have Handel's Water 
Music?" I got this kind of blank stare. The Pissies are not a 
comedy team, but they do have a ton of Tecate on hand, a tasty Mex 
import, in a cooler on ice. It must've cost them a pretty penny. 
In fact, they got it from Pretty Penny, a tall, thin blonde looker 
of a guard who specializes in booze supply and tongue fucking 
musclegirls.
 So we start guzzling beers and we all get naked, talking about 
Paula getting out and poor Missy staying in, and we start this 
delicious three-way grope in the big plastic kiddie pool they have 
in the middle of the room--did I mention the kiddie pool? Since 
they haven't got their own bathroom, and it would be difficult to 
have their fun in the communal showers, and rubber sheets are too, 
like, juvenile, they had a Fisher-Price kiddie pool brought in, 
and that's where they do their peeing. Then when they're done they 
dump all the pee into a bucket, dispose of it in the bathroom, 
then take the pool into the showers and hose it down. It's cute. 
 Anyway, we're all in the kiddie pool, it's a tight fit, Paula and 
I being so big, and we're all embracing each other, and suddenly 
Paula lets go, she's sort of straddling my hip at the time while 
sucking on one of Missy's hard little tits, and she lets go with 
this stream of warm pee that's running all over my belly and it 
just feels divine, like total freedom, like we're undiapered 
babies, and I let a stream go all over Missy's thighs, and Paula 
is fingering me expertly, and then Missy is peeing on the both of 
us, standing up in the pool in a muscular squat, and I'm coming, 
I've got my hands on Paula's big pecs, they're jerking and 
swelling under my fingers, we're bathed in all this warm pee, and-
-. 
God, this is so fucking frivolous. Mary could be dead. Bon can't 
smile anymore. Brooke is probably planning to kill me. My Ace 
bandage is pee soaked.
 Never mind, cut to the following week when Paula is released. The 
plan is for the big bladder-busting beauty to live in town with a 
former girlfriend of mine, Karla (we had a very steamy affair in 
ninth grade and we're still good friends), and start working out 
at the Chucho girl's weight room--Warden Marlow has made special 
arrangements with Mrs. Becker of high school security to give 
Paula a pass, ostensibly to see if she can find out anything about 
the disappearance of Hairy Mary. We didn't tell Mrs. Becker that 
Paula intends to break Brooke's legs, it might rub up against her 
policing instincts. Anyway, we figure just having Paula working 
out at the school in skimpy gym duds will give her a great in with 
Brooke, who should be wowed out of her mind at the sight of this 
buffed babe and her trophy rack, just like I was.
 We're in daily phone contact with Paula, and things go exactly 
according to plan. Brooke shows up, eyes Paula, they get to 
talking, they make a date, they go out, they make out, they make 
another date. In the meantime, here on the inside, Pissy Missy is 
now under my personal protection--I've shed the cane and the Ace 
bandage and am ready to kick ass with either foot--and I pass 
plenty of time and water with her now that Big Bon has gone into 
some sort of emotional seclusion. She's quit sex and just about 
all other pleasures until she finds out what happened to her 
beloved Hairy Mary. And Def Stef is out of solitary, just in the 
nick of time now that Bon is too preoccupied with her personal 
grief to run the Hards.
 Stef, in fact, moves in with Bon and I move in with Missy. This 
is quite an irony in light of the three girls who were beaten up 
vying for the chance to room with me, but it's better all around 
'cause Bon needs Stef's firm guidance to get her through this 
emotional crisis. And firm guidance it must be, 'cause Stef is way 
firm. Her Polaroids didn't do her justice. She's 5-10, 180, with 
arms bigger than Paula's, she's a natural blonde, faintly 
freckled, country girl next door cute and strong enough to lift me 
off the ground (I'm running 165 these days) with her hands under 
my ass and hold me like that while she just about succeeds in 
sucking one of my whole tits into her mouth (yeah, Stef and I had 
a private session while Bon was in the gym. At least the sorry sad 
sack is still lifting). 
Then fuck it if we didn't lose contact with Paula. I call Karla. 
Paula goes on a date with Brooke, she doesn't come home. She's 
fucking disappeared just like Mary. Three days pass, we don't know 
what the hell to do, we've got Karla scouring the city for Paula, 
then the weirdest thing happens. I get a videotape in the mail, 
from Toosmart, with a typed note attached: "Hi, hon, knee all 
better? I bet you have plenty of time on your hands, so I thought 
you might like to see this really cool fight I shot. Do keep in 
touch."
 Fortunately, I go to the mail room alone to pick this up. I don't 
tell Bon about this, I don't tell Missy. I tell Stef, and she and 
Lee Ann and Tiff and I go to the lounge to watch it when Bon and 
Missy aren't around. We have to throw a couple Nancies out of the 
room, but that's standard. So we screen the tape behind a locked 
door and we cover the window in the door with newspaper. I'm 
expecting to see Brooke beating the shit out of Paula. She has her 
tied up or something, and she's punching the crap out of her. Of 
course, that would implicate Brooke, if she was recognizable on 
camera . . . then the tape starts. Holy shit! It's an amateur 
video of a fight, all right, seemingly shot in someone's finished 
basement, with a "ring" made out of mats, no ropes, and who are 
the fighters but Paula and this big hairy brunette! 
"Is that hairy Mary?" I go. 
"She sure is hairy," says Lee Ann. 
"And she sure is big," says Tiff.
"I had a feeling that knife in the jacuzzi story was so much 
shit," I say. 
"We have no way of knowing if that's Hairy Mary, only Bon can 
identify her," says the wise and stunning Stef. "But let's watch 
the whole tape before we think about calling Bon. We don't know 
what's gonna happen yet."
The girls are circling each other warily. They're stark naked, no 
gloves, no protection, nothing. The Hairy Mary suspect is hairy as 
all hell, in all the right places, as Bonnie said, and really 
sexy, big tits, built to the sixty-nines. She looks healthy, no 
knife wound up the belly, just a line of black hair, and she looks 
sort of crazed. The light on the tape isn't great, but she seems 
to have a funny cast to her eye like she's deranged. Paula looks 
saner and kind of scared but resigned to fight. Neither of them 
looks at the camera, which is sort of fixed, as if it might be 
behind a barrier. Maybe they don't know they're being taped.
 They come together with the smash of sumo wrestlers, there's some 
furious hand grappling for advantage, then the hairy girl goes low 
on Paula, locks onto her legs and, with a huge back-swelling 
effort takes her down, pounces on top of her and starts pummeling 
her face. Paula keeps her defensive wits about her; she has her 
hands up and she's blocking shots with her palms and her forearms, 
but the big girl suddenly leans on her throat with a meaty fist 
and hammers her in the kisser with a series of shattering rights. 
Paula is stunned and defenseless, there's blood bubbling on her 
lips. Then the hairy girl gets up, effortlessly lifts Paula up 
under the armpits, then bends under her back and hoists her onto 
her shoulders and goddamned if she doesn't slowly but surely press 
Paula's 175 pounds over her head with a long triumphant grunt, 
taking baby steps to keep the weight steady, holding her aloft 
with arms locked out for a few seconds. Then she drops Paula onto 
the mat on her back and the poor cutie pie lands so hard it seems 
like the whole room shakes.
She's not done yet. She pulls Paula back to her feet by her neck, 
grabs her in a side headlock and punches her face a half dozen 
times, slow, methodical carefully aimed, full force punches and I 
see things falling out of Paula's mouth--a replay shows they're 
teeth. I'm wincing like a motherfucker. She drops our girl on the 
mat again, and Paula seems unconscious, nothing's moving but her 
heaving chest. 
The hairy girl walks out of the frame, and the camera just lingers 
there on a medium shot of Paula's prostrate form. I'm starting to 
feel really like, fucking totally apprehensive, like a cow being 
herded through the slaughterhouse chute. Hairy comes back about 30 
seconds later, props Paula up in a sitting position, starts waving 
what I guess are smelling salts under her nose. Paula comes to, 
more or less, she's obviously grogged out, but she's conscious.
 "Oh, fuck," says Stef, "now she's gonna get another beating."
 But it's way worse than that. The big girl slips a thick, hairy 
forearm under her neck and starts to strangle her, standing up and 
pulling way back so Paula's feet are barely touching the mat. The 
hairy girl, who looks to be Mary's 6-1, 210, since I know Paula's 
numbers, must be stronger than a yak, 'cause Paula is doomed. We 
watch in a sort of horror-stricken fascination as the camera zooms 
in a little and Paula is seemingly strangled to death, eventually 
pounding futilely at the big forearm, her legs twitching, her 
chest and belly heaving, she's making all kinds of awful death 
rattle noises, while the big girl grunts like an animal, and 
finally Paula pees an arc across the mats, her body gone spastic, 
her etched stomach muscles fluttering, and then she shits, we see 
some things fall between the girls' legs, we had to rewind two 
times before we figured out what the hell was going on, and then 
she dies.
 No cuts, it's all one take, and we timed the strangle part, it 
lasted an agonizing three minutes, an eternity, enough time to 
really kill someone, not like those convenient 10-second strangles 
you see in the movies. The hairy girl drops the corpse at long 
last, the body falls on the shit, and she starts to flex out her 
arms, working the thick fingers and rubbing the massive forearms, 
still grunting like an animal, she's panting and heaving from all 
the effort, there's actually spittle running down her chin like 
she's getting rabid, then she *pees* on the fallen girl, as the 
camera zooms in a bit more and shakily cranes down a little, she 
douses the face-up body with what seems like a few gallons of hot 
urine, she works it up and down the motionless form like she was 
putting out a fire, then she turns her broad back to the camera, 
squats over Paula's chest, the heavy muscles in her big ass 
twitching, and fucking *shits* on her, a big steaming dark brown 
crap that had us all groaning in revulsion, it snakes out of her 
ass like stinking molten lava.
 In this closest shot yet, Paula looks authentically dead; her 
eyes are bugged, staring into some abyss, her swollen tongue is 
protruding from her smashed and fattened lips, her whole face 
seems puffy, she looks like a fucking total stiff. The tape 
abruptly ends on a shot of the hairy girl smiling, looking more or 
less at the camera and squeezing up a big double biceps, sweaty 
pits a poppin', while she bellows like a wild boar. We all stand 
there, gathered close around the TV, in a stunned silence.
"Well, I guess we can't show this to Missy," I finally go. I know 
that's a dumb remark, but hey, I live with the girl now, she's on 
my mind a lot, not to mention my face.
"That could have been faked," says Lee Ann. "The death part, at 
least. We have no guarantee Paula's dead unless her body shows up 
somewhere."
"It didn't look fake," says Tiff. "Shit, I need a joint."
"So we can figure that was Brooke behind the camera, I guess," I 
go.
"We've got to show this to Bon," says Stef. "We're all assuming 
that's Hairy Mary, but we need her verification. No one else here 
has ever seen her."
"Well, she'll be overjoyed to know that Mary is still alive. Even 
if Paula is dead." 
"But she won't be too thrilled to learn that Mary is a shitting 
and pissing homicidal lunatic," says Lee Ann. "Brooke must have 
drugged her or something. That could be PCP mixed with some other 
stuff, some kind of methlike aggro-enhancer."
"All right," says Stef, "I'm gonna get Bon and we'll show her the 
tape, get the confirmation. Then we'll have to plan our next step, 
see if Paula's body turns up. We'll have to keep Missy in the dark 
in the meantime, and we'll have to guard this tape real carefully, 
'cause if Paula's really dead, this tape will put this Mary 
character away for life."
So Bon watches the tape. We all watch it again in the same stunned 
silence, it's mesmerizing. Yeah, it's Mary, all right, and Bon is 
just thrilled to see her, but she's kinda disturbed by Mary's 
behavior. "I can't believe she crapped on that girl!" Bon 
exclaims. "She must be drugged out of her fucking mind. She sure 
looks it." Nevertheless, she's feeling much better than I am. I 
had a kind of a thing for Paula, and now I have to go back and 
share a room with Missy and not let on I just watched her 
girlfriend take her very last piss. 
That night we have a Hards war council in Stef's room. Stef has 
taken control of the situation, which is a real relief, because I 
don't really give a shit about all this anymore, unless Brooke is 
still trying to put a hit on me in here. It's Bonnie's battle, 
she's the one who wants to "free" Mary. That's what she calls it, 
she's convinced Mary is under the evil control of Brooke, probably 
imprisoned somewhere in that basement that's on the tape. Well, 
she could indeed be, but that's hardly the kind of thing we can 
deal with in here. But Bonnie has a plan. She's been in phone 
contact with some of Mary's friends and there are two girls who 
are prepared to kidnap Brooke and beat the truth out of her, break 
her legs or even kill her and liberate Mary.
 The girls are Wet Wilma and Picky Nicki, and Bon gives us the 
stories on their names. Wet Wilma lactates continuously--she's 20, 
she's been lactating since she was 13, and she hires herself out 
as a wet nurse when she can find a dumb mother who doesn't care 
about all the drugs in her milk. Picky Nicki is not a nose picker; 
she killed two girls three years ago with an ice pick when she was 
14, was never charged with the crime, carries an ice pick all the 
time now, it's part of her rep. Maybe she can put an ice pick in 
Brooke's spine while Brooke is suckling Wilma. Anyway, we arrange 
to have the girls come up for a face to face the following day. 
This is not a problem, visiting hours are all day, and we can all 
meet in a conference room with no barriers, we can talk freely as 
long as we keep our voices down.
My problem is Missy, who has to be kept in the dark about all 
this. I lied to her outright and said the reason she can't talk to 
Paula on the phone is Paula is "undercover" on this sensitive 
mission, but everything's going fine. And she can't sit in on the 
meeting with Wilma and Nicki since she's not an official Hard. She 
wanted to know what the meeting is for and I made up a story that 
Brooke has accomplices on the outside in another town and we were 
dispatching these girls to take them out. I don't think she 
believed a word I said, but what can I do. I can't show her the 
tape unless I know for sure that Paula is dead. I'm not even sure 
I can show it to her then; Missy is kind of the sentimental type. 
So we meet with Wilma and Nicki. It's Stef, Bon, Lee Ann, Tiff and 
me, we arrange with Warden Marlow to get a small conference room 
to ourselves, no guards present. Wilma and Nicki were thoroughly 
frisked, of course, and Nicki had to leave her ice pick at the 
front desk. "I feel naked without it," she giggles nervously. 
Nicki is a tall thin Hispanic looker, 6 feet and only 140 pounds, 
but wiry and strong. Wilma is a dark-skinned black girl, 5-7, 205, 
thickset and plumpish but with a big foundation of muscle, she was 
an all-state powerlifter in high school, and she swears she's got 
a black belt in jiu jitsu. In fact, she gets up and starts high 
kicking to show us she can do it, and I have to admit she gets her 
foot up pretty high for a stubby 205 pounder. She's big-boobed and 
braless and she's leaving milk stains all over her gray Property 
of Santa Cleena Women's Weightlifting Team t-shirt, and I'm trying 
to imagine what nursing at her tit would be like, when Stef 
launches into a grim explanation of just what's going on here. We 
can't show them the tape, but Stef gives a blow by blow 
description of it and the girls are horrified to learn that Mary 
has apparently become a loose-boweled Frankenstein's monster or 
something.
"Shit, I hope we don't have to fight her," says Nicki. 
"Don't fight her no matter what," says Bon. "You want to nab 
Brooke when Mary's not around."
"Yeah, but may still have to, like, pacify Mary when we find her," 
says Wilma. "I mean, if she's fuckin' out of her mind, she may 
just attack us. We'll take Mace and handcuffs."
"That's a good idea," says Stef, "but get Brooke first, then call 
us for further instructions. When you have Brooke under control we 
can figure out how to deal with Mary."
So the girls go off on their mission. They're gonna tail Brooke 
and take her right off the street and into their car at gunpoint--
Wanda's got a starter's pistol--take her to a safe house, some 
squat in a bad neighborhood in Santa Rocho, and torture her or 
whatever. Just like Paula, they're supposed to phone in twice a 
day. 
So life goes on in Tonya. Missy has pulled a Bon and curled into 
an emotional ball. She knows something's up with Paula and she 
hates me for not telling her what it is. I don't worry about this, 
since I spend all my time in Stef's or Lee Ann's room, and 
sometimes I don't even come back to Missy to sleep. Wilma and 
Nicki call in dutifully twice a day for three days, and though 
they do successfully tail Brooke a few times, they can't get her 
in the right setup for the grab. Then they call in to say they're 
going to try a push-in at Brooke's front door. The deal, according 
to Karla, is Brooke has her big house all to herself now, her 
parents are in Europe for a few months, so it's possible that was 
her basement on the tape, and she's got the perfect arrangement 
for holding someone captive. I'm picturing a foaming Mary in a big 
pit like that beefy girl was kept in in Silence of the Lambs. 
Shit, if Brooke made a bodysuit out of Mary it would be a fur 
coat. Anyway, damn fuck it all to hell if that's not the last we 
hear from Wet Wilma and Picky Nicky. Four days go by, I've got 
Karla scouring the streets again, we're working the phones, Wilma 
and Nicky are not in their usual haunts, no one's seen 'em, it's 
the same shit all over again.
 And then the tape comes in the mail. Uh-fucking-oh. The note from 
Toosmart: "Hi, queen of the mat. I've got a little mat action of 
my own I thought you might like to see. Make plenty of popcorn, 
this one's a real doozy. Actually, you need this tape like you 
need a hole in your head, but it's really quite a mind blower. And 
do keep in touch." 
I convene the Hard command council, Bon included, in the locked 
lounge, and when some scrawny whiner of a Nancy complains as she's 
thrown out, I personally punch her in the mouth. I'm in a bad 
mood. I'm dreading watching this tape, I think I know just what's 
gonna be on it, but at the same time I can't wait to see it 'cause 
I know it's gonna be riveting. All the girls feel the same way, we 
feel like a bunch of sick fucks but we can't help ourselves, we're 
standing in a crowd close around the TV as I hit Play. Same 
basement, same shot, same mats, brighter lighting, no one's in the 
frame. Then Wilma stumbles into the shot as if she was thrown. 
She's stark naked, big boobs a bouncin', and she looks insane. Her 
glassy yellowish eyes are bugged, she's panting, she's sweating, 
and then naked Nicki is seemingly hurled onto the mat. She 
stumbles to her knees, gets to her feet and is squaring off with 
Wilma. "Oh, fuck," says Bonnie, "Brooke pitted them against each 
other somehow." 
"I hope Nicki has her ice pick," I go, which is kind of a really 
fucking dumb remark, but I can't help rooting for Nicky, she's 
beautiful, long, strong, lean and tanned like a beach volleyball 
goddess, but she hasn't got her ice pick and I don't see how can 
she beat big, thick-limbed Wilma. I can't tell how fucked up Nicki 
is, she's not facing the camera as the two of them circle, then 
Wilma charges in and lissome Nicki foolishly locks horns with her. 
They struggle for no more than three seconds when Wilma grips 
Nicki by the right wrist, steps across her body, blocking her off 
with a big hip, gets Nicki in an arm bar and brings a series of 
vicious elbow smashes down on the arm where it doesn't bend, and 
Nicki's long, lean arm is cracking with really sick crunching 
sounds, like someone is stomping on a bundle of dry twigs. She 
howls like a broken siren and Wilma backs away, flexing her heavy 
torso as Nicki turns face-on to the camera, her arm hanging all 
funny and bleeding, she has some kind of a horrible compound 
fracture.
 The shot zooms in a bit, she's screaming and she sort of looks 
demented but it's hard to tell since she's now insane with pain, 
and as she stands there like that, panting and damaged, tears 
streaming down her face, she says to Wilma, quite unconvincingly, 
"I'm gonna kill you!" which seems real weird. Why not, "Stop, 
Wilma, no more!"? I don't get it. But there's no time to ponder 
the situation. Wilma moves back in and puts a wicked spinning back 
kick on Nicki's head that flattens her, and Wilma pounces on her, 
straddles her chest and starts punching her face. We can't see the 
blows, Wilma's back is to the camera, but after eight wicked 
shots, Wilma gets up, does some more flexing and grunting, then 
pulls Nicki up off the mat by her good arm. Nicki is not really 
unconscious, but she's out of it, her head bobbing around dimly, 
and she's bleeding bad from her nose and mouth. A big hairy 
forearm pops into the frame--it's gotta belong to Mary--and hands 
Wilma an ice pick. Nicki's fucking ice pick. Then handle looks to 
be wrapped in adhesive tape, it's hard to tell.
 "Oh, fuck a duck," says Bon. "She's not really gonna kill her, is 
she?" We all remain silent, our eyes locked on the screen, we're 
on some sort of death clock that runs till Nicki punches out. 
Wilma takes the pick, faces Nicki to the camera, she's got her in 
a forearm choke with her left arm, her right hand is gripping the 
pick, she lowers Nicki down to about her chest level, Nicki's legs 
are floppy, she's making faint moaning noises, the only other 
sound is the machine hum of what must be an air conditioner, it's 
always on the tape, and Wilma drives the ice pick down into the 
top of Nicki's skull, right in the middle like she was ramming a 
carving knife into a jack o' lantern, and she leaves it in there. 
She takes her hand away and just holds Nicki like that, grinning 
idiotically at the camera, just the white handle of the pick is 
sticking out of the top of Nicki's head, I don't see any blood. 
Then she lets Nicki slump to the mat, Nicki's not dead, her 
fingers are moving, clenching and unclenching the air, but the 
light in her eyes seems to be fading. 
"Oh, my fucking God," says an appalled Tiff, "it's a fucking brain 
salad surgery."
"Now she's gonna shit and piss on her," sighs Stef.
But she doesn't. Mary walks into the frame, she's naked, looking 
bigger and stronger than ever, she must be all pumped up, she's 
glistening all over with sweat, or maybe she's been oiled, her 
lats are flared wide and her pecs are jumping. She bends over and 
cleans and jerks Nicki with ease, locks her out overhead and holds 
her like that like she's waiting for three green lights from the 
judges, and now there's a trickle of blood coming off Nicki's 
head, she looks absolutely grotesque with the ice pick handle 
sticking out like some kind of antenna. Wilma stands there and 
looks on, still grinning, as Mary drops Nicki onto her raised 
knee, driving it into the small of her back, then grabs Nicki 
around the neck before she hits the mat and starts throttling her 
with both hands. Mary is standing behind Nicki strangling her with 
those vicious meathooks, her back is to the camera, this 
incredible fucking back is wider than a van door, thick humps of 
trap stand up on her shoulders and the erectors run down her spine 
like titanium inlay.
 Then she turns around so Nicki faces the camera, and the poor 
honey's face is about to explode, her tongue is sticking straight 
out of her mouth like it had a hardon, her eyes look like those 
kids from the velvet paintings, her fingers are still wriggling 
wildly. She doesn't make a sound. Mary's big hands have her throat 
shut tight like a sealed airlock, and Nicki eventually starts to 
jerk her limbs like a spastic, she's in her death throes, and she 
starts pissing, as Wilma, who's been watching all this with a 
couple of fingers working up her pussy, runs around to the front, 
positions herself to the side of the shot so her back is not 
blocking the view, and starts punching Nicki's face, hitting it 
again and again until it's just a big red pulp. Mary is still 
strangling Nicki, her arms rigid, the triceps bulging, the 
forearms taut as spun steel, but Nicki has stopped struggling, she 
must be a goner. 
"She's dead!" Tiff yells at the screen, "Let her go!"
Mary finally does, and Nicki crumples to the mat in a motionless 
heap. Her long neck looks constricted, too thin like a Modigliani, 
it's turned a sort of bluish black with deep hand prints like they 
were pressed in wet cement. Mary squats over the body and we all 
think she's going to piss or shit on Nicki now, but she suddenly 
reaches for Wilma, who's standing there looking down at Nicki's 
corpse and playing with herself. She grabs Wilma by an arm and 
spins her around, quickly locks her in a full nelson, trips her up 
and falls atop her on the mat, right next to Nicki's body. A pair 
of handcuffs are thrown onto the mat from out of the frame. Didn't 
the girls say they were taking handcuffs with them?
 Mary expertly cuffs Wilma while crushing a knee into the small of 
her back, then jerks her painfully to her feet by her wrists. 
Wilma groans in pain, then starts yelling, "I'm gonna fucking kill 
you! I'm gonna fucking kill you!" which seems kind of pathetic 
since she's so helpless with her hands bound perp style. Mary 
stands behind her laughing, kissing her shoulders and playing with 
her big tits, working the thick chocolate nipples with her fingers 
until Wilma, moaning now with pleasure, starts squirting thin 
streamers of milk in surprisingly long arcs. I've never seen this 
before, endless milk fountains, it's really flippy, then Mary 
spins Wilma around, still pulling on her teats and squeezing them 
like she was popping giant pimples, and she lets the milk spray 
her face and chest, then she latches onto a swollen nipple with 
her mouth and starts sucking like a baby, first one tit then the 
other. 
"She's gonna get high from that," says Lee Ann, but no one laughs, 
we're all just gaping like dim-witted children. I'm sure we're all 
thinking the same thing: when is she gonna start killing Wilma, as 
some kind of metal object is thrown into the frame and lands with 
a thud on the mat. Mary pulls her puckered face off Wilma's chest, 
bends and picks it up while keeping Wilma steady with one hand. 
It's a canister, and as Wilma says, "Don't you spray that shit at 
me," Mary lets her have it in the eyes, and Wilma is screaming, 
"I'm gonna kill you, you motherfuckin' bitch!" when the tape 
suddenly ends. Just like that. We watch about ten seconds of 
noise, then Stef shuttles forward, thinking maybe there's a gap 
like on the Watergate tape, but that's it, there's no more. 
"I think we can assume Wilma's dead," says Stef. "For some reason, 
Brooke didn't want to show it to us."
"Then we can't assume she's dead," says Tiff. "Why would Brooke be 
bashful about showing it to us?"
"Maybe she's saving it for later," I suggest. "One snuff a tape."
"So the spray must've been their Mace?" asks Lee Ann.
"I guess so," says Bon. "They had Mace and handcuffs and an ice 
pick, and they're all in the tape. Everything but the starter's 
pistol." 
We go back to Stef's for an emergency command council meeting. 
Tiff lights a giant doob and we pass it around, sitting in a 
sullen silence. I finally say, "I think we'd better stop 
dispatching people to dispatch Brooke. Unless we wanna keep 
getting these tapes. In which case we'd better dispatch people we 
don't like to dispatch Brooke." 
"Well, now it's not just a matter of rescuing Mary," says Bon. "I 
want revenge for Nicki and Wilma, assuming Wilma's dead."
"Who's getting the revenge?" asks Stef. "Did Nicki have a tight 
girlfriend?"
"No, not at the moment, but she has an older sister," says Bon.
"Are you suggesting we send the older sister a copy of the tape, 
assuming we can make one?" I wonder.
"No way anyone else can know about the tapes without us 
implicating Mary," says Lee Ann, "and the point of all this was 
for us to *save* Mary. And, anyway, Bon, why wouldn't Nicki's 
sister want revenge on *Mary*? She's the one who strangled Nicki 
to death. And it's Wilma who jammed the ice pick into her head." 
"God," says Tiff, "that was the fucking grossest thing I've ever 
seen. I wonder what part of her brain the pick was affecting."
"I think the part that feels pain, Tiff," I go. 
"I suggest we just sit tight for the moment," says Stef. "Finding 
some other people to go after Brooke right now probably won't get 
us anything but more tapes. It's possible that Wilma is on 
Brooke's team now, just like Mary. I think we should wait a few 
days and see if we get another tape."
"Do you realize what these tapes are worth?" I say. "Assuming all 
this stuff is real, and it sure as hell seems to be, these are 
authentic snuff tapes. Weirdos would pay hundreds of dollars for 
these, maybe thousands."
"You suggesting we copy them and sell them mail order?" snarls 
Bonnie. Oh, shit, I don't want to get *her* mad. 
"Of course not, Bon, but I do think we should make at least one 
backup copy of them. We may need them for evidence against Brooke 
somewhere down the road, and you never want just one copy of 
crucial evidence like this. We could screen the fucking tape again 
and the VCR'll chew it up." 
"Jenna's right," says Stef, "we need safety copies. We can borrow 
a camcorder from the staff, and make them off the VCR in the 
lounge. I'll tell Marlow we want to make workout tapes, she'll go 
for that as long as we let her watch 'em."
 We're not allowed to have cameras or video equipment, just like 
we're not allowed to have TVs in our rooms, but top Hards are 
allowed to borrow camcorders and Polaroids sometimes. That's why 
everyone has dirty Polaroids tacked on their walls. So we sit 
tight, get the camcorder and make the copies. Stef and Bon keep 
one set, Lee Ann and Tiff keep the other. I can't keep a set since 
I room with Missy the outsider. Missy, by the way, has gotten 
really weird. We had a scene in the room yesterday where she 
demanded phone contact with Paula, and I had to lie again and tell 
her Paula was out of reach doing top secret work on the outside 
for the Hards, and that's all there was to it.
 So I discover that this morning Missy goes to a Nancy she's 
friendly with, a big Nancy who's getting out in four days, and 
makes arrangements for this Nancy to track down Paula for a sum of 
money, and mentions Brooke in Santa Chucho would be a good place 
to start, since Paula had a contract to bust up Brooke. Missy 
tells me this like I'm going to just smile and take it, and she's 
got a suspicious fresh shiner on her face, a nasty fucking 
purplish black swollen horror movie eye, and she says she got it 
from Go Blow Glo when they had a tussle over a toilet stall. Go 
Blow Glo is a wee Nancy, about Missy's size, a real sourpuss who 
says "Go blow" to everyone, even her mother when she comes to 
visit, and I don't really care if she hit Missy, I'm about ready 
to hit Missy myself. Of course, I can't imagine why Missy wouldn't 
have put her directly in the infirmary; Go Blow is a friggin' 
stick figure, she doesn't lift at all as far as I know, and Missy 
is way wiry and strong for her size, but never mind, I don't have 
time for this shit.
I call a Hard command council, and the word is this Nancy will 
have to be dissuaded from her mission, and she'll have to be 
dissuaded immediately before she gets sprung. Unfortunately, this 
Nancy is one of the biggest and strongest Nancies in Tonya at the 
moment--a 6-foot, 185-pound brute known as Michelle From Hell, a 
sociopath who is reputedly in for torturing and hospitalizing her 
abusive and alcoholic parents. The story goes her father is now 
permanently on crutches and deaf in one ear and her mother needs a 
kidney machine and can only talk with one of those throat buzzers 
since her larynx was partially crushed. We would've considered 
Michelle for the initial Brooke action, but she was in solitary at 
the time. Seems her big brother came to visit her a while back, 
said the wrong thing, and she broke his nose and cheekbone and 
gave him a herniated disk before the guards could pry her off. 
So we're sitting in Stef's room smoking a giant doob again, and 
Bon, of course, immediately volunteers to take on Michelle in the 
ring if she refuses to back off on Missy's mission. But Lee Ann 
has a better idea: "Why don't we brief Michelle, like, 
selectively--tell her just what she needs to know--and send her 
out after Brooke? She's got the kind of physical power we need for 
a job like this."
"You mean she'll make a great snuffee for Mary, don't you?" I say. 
I'm imagining the fight between Hairy Mary and Michelle From Hell, 
and I have to admit, it sounds like a peach, they're very well 
matched. 
"She might kill Mary, Michelle is some piece of work," says Tiff. 
"The object here is still to save Mary, let's not forget."
"Michelle could never beat Mary," says the ever loyal Bon. "She's 
not in the same league."
"Look," says Stef, "she's big, she's strong and she's already 
agreed to work on this case in a way. We just have to reorient her 
mission. Or we can have her look for Paula and tell her we have 
evidence Brooke is holding Paula, so she'll have to take out 
Brooke. I think we should use her, I think Missy did us a favor." 
So Stef and I go talk to Michelle. Bon doesn't go, she's too 
belligerent, and we don't want to bring too many Hards, Michelle 
doesn't like crowds, so Lee Ann and Tiff hang out with Bon in the 
weight room. This hellish Nancy doesn't like anyone, actually, 
except maybe Missy, who we were thinking about bringing along, but 
that would be too complicated since Missy hasn't got a clue about 
what's really going on. Michelle rooms alone; she had a roomie 
once, but she broke the girl's leg somehow--they were "play 
fighting" she claimed--and when she's not in solitary, which isn't 
too often, she gets a room to herself. She's 18 now, been in three 
years, she's an old pro. We can't call ahead to tell her we're 
coming, she hasn't even got a phone. 
Her room is almost unfurnished, like she just moved in. Well, she 
sort of did, she's usually in solitary. She doesn't use the weight 
room, she's got her own setup complete with bench and leg and 
cable attachments right there in the middle of the floor, which 
travels with her to solitary. Warden Marlow cuts her slack about 
this, 'cause the Warden likes to see girls get big and Michelle 
has gotten huge in here. It's like she spent three years at 
bodybuilding camp. Marlow keeps her supplied with Met-Rx and every 
supplement in the book, all out of the Warden's pocket, or the 
prison budget, actually. So, according to the story as told by 
Stef, a font of Tonya history who has long bull sessions with the 
Warden, Michelle came in at the tender age of 15, about 5-6, 140. 
Well muscled and strong for her age--strong enough to kill her 
parents with her bare hands if she wanted to--and now she's a 
diamond hard, limestone chiseled 6-0, 185, with 18-inch arms and a 
50-inch chest. Marlow would not admit to supplying Michelle with 
steroids, since even Marlow will stop short of admitting to 
illegal drug trafficking, but they'd go a long way to explaining 
Michelle's size and aggressiveness. Stef tells me Michelle fought 
in the ring about a half dozen times in her first year at Tonya, 
when she wasn't so big and fearsome yet that girls wouldn't take 
her on. She won every fight on a KO, and Stef recommends I get the 
tapes from the library and watch them sometime, they're very 
entertaining. Yeah, as long as no one gets killed.
 Stef wasn't here herself back then, of course, she's 17, in the 
second year of a two-year stretch. Did I ever mention what she's 
in for? Arson. She wasn't so smart back then. She was dating some 
college football guy who lived at a frat house, and he and some 
buddies raped her--they each took several turns apparently--after 
she passed out from booze at one of their parties. She woke up 
with so much come in her she felt like a herd of elephants fucked 
her, as she put it. And she got knocked up and had to get an 
abortion. So she burned down their house, but they all got out 
alive--fucking smoke alarms. She would have taken them out one at 
a time after that, but the guys suspected it was Stef, they 
anonymously tipped the cops and things went downhill from there. 
Stef still plans to kill them all when she gets out, and she'll do 
it personally with her hands this time. 
 Anyway, there we are in Michelle's room. "I was just warming up," 
she says casually. She's sitting on her bench and she's got a bar 
racked with 165 pounds on it. I count the plates while Stef makes 
some introductory remarks. Just warming up, indeed. With my 
fucking bodyweight! I wonder if Stef feels funny talking to a girl 
who has bigger arms than she does. Michelle is wearing a men's 
undershirt, way too tight, and baggy yellow Calvin Klein boxer 
shorts. This is the first time I've had a chance to see her close 
up, and I study her with mounting awe. She's really rather cute. A 
ghost-white, blue-eyed brunette, her porcelain skin looks weird in 
here, almost everyone is tanned, everyone is out in the sun all 
the time, but of course Michelle is usually in solitary, she has 
no yard privileges, and I doubt she goes out when she's in general 
pop anyway. So she's white, bright white, or rather pale blue. Her 
vascularity is ridiculous, she's got veins popping all over her, 
even her upper chest, it's unreal. I'm looking for steroid signs 
like stubble, but Michelle's brutally pretty mug is baby smooth, 
even her pits and legs are freshly shaven girlie style. She does 
have kind of a deep voice, though, and her jaw and nose are on the 
broad side. "Just the girl I wanted to see," is what she's saying 
as I come out of my erotic reverie, and she's looking right at me. 
"Uh, what? Why?"
"So I could get a good look at you before I beat your face into a 
pound of chopmeat."
"Huh? Excuse me?" I look nervously to Stef. 
"What the fuck are you talking about, Michelle?" Stef asks, 
folding her big arms across her chest.
Michelle From Hell pauses, takes a deep breath, which makes the 
thick blue veins on her pec armor swell, her little stiff nipples 
popping through the tight undershirt like steel jacketed bullets. 
"Don't tell me you haven't heard about the challenge. I figured 
you came by to maybe try to talk me out of it, but no way."
"No, we haven't heard about the challenge," says Stef. "What 
challenge?" A challenge means a challenge to fight in the ring of 
judgment around here, but why would Michelle issue a challenge to 
me?
"I've filed an official challenge with the Warden to fight you"--
she looks calmly at me--"in the ring of judgment, no later than 
the day after tomorrow. I thought the Warden informed you." 
"She didn't," I complain. "Why the hell would you challenge me? 
We've never even met."
Michelle pauses again, curls her left arm to scratch her chin, 
which causes her bicep to inflate to about grapefruit size. She 
sees me staring at her arm, she cocks it to give me the good 
inside view, then squeezes her fist down hard and the muscle 
actually gets bigger, it seems to swell up near honeydew melon 
size. She holds it like that for a few seconds, her whole arm 
quivering, and I can see various brachial and cephalic venous 
phenomena actually *beating* just under the flesh like they were 
extruded hearts. She smiles--she's got a sexy crooked front tooth-
-and says, "I want a big fight before I get out of here, one that 
won't put me in solitary, so I need to be in the ring. Who better 
to fight than you, you stuck up bitch? You and your fucking 
wrestling trophies." She sneers at me with a kind of disdain I've 
never run up against before. It's quite unnerving. I mean, most 
girls, except for dramarama mamas, really like me. I'm fit, I'm 
cute, I'm smart, I'm funny and I'm a killer on the mats. Even 
girls who don't work out at all but just jump around a lot--pink 
knee socks cheerleader types--take a shine to me, I've got a 
magnetic personality. "But that's not a reason to get a challenge 
fight," I sputter. "Marlow would never accept a challenge for that 
reason. What reason did you give *her*?"
"Oh, I told her I was fighting for the honor of Missy. You punched 
the poor little dear out, and she came to me, the big Nancy, for 
protection. That's a legitimate challenge." 
"What?! I didn't hit Missy? Did *you* hit Missy? She told me she 
had a run-in with Go Blow Glo in the girl's room, but it sounded 
like bullshit."
"No, I didn't hit her, when she came to me she already had a black 
eye. She said *you* gave it to her."
"No way. And she asked you to fight me on her behalf?"
"No, that was my idea. She asked me to do something on the 
outside."
"Listen," Stef butts in, "that's what we want to talk to you 
about. Forget about this challenge for a minute, and forget about 
Missy and her friggin' black eye, there's some really heavy shit 
going down on the outside that you're about to get involved in and 
we want you to work for us on it."
"Work for you? I've got a deal with Missy."
"So who the fuck really gave Missy a black eye?" I ask Stef.
"Never mind that right now, let's iron out the Brooke business. 
Michelle, you are in some kind of awesome physical condition. 
You're exactly the kind of girl we need on the outside to take out 
someone who's been giving us big problems. Now, Missy hired you to 
find Paula, right?"
"How'd you know that?"
"She told us. She can't be trusted. We're not even sure where she 
got her shiner from. But *we* can be trusted. We're the Hards. 
You've been here a long time, Michelle. Do the Hards have a rep 
for honesty, or what?"
"Well, yeah, but--"
"But check this out: Paula already went up against our adversary 
on the outside, this Brooke chick, and *lost.* Missy doesn't know 
this 'cause Missy doesn't know shit. Paula got beaten so bad she 
couldn't talk, her fucking jaw was wired shut. Paula instructed us 
not to tell Missy, she thought she'd have like, a nervous 
breakdown or something. Missy's like, really emotional and 
vulnerable and a flake besides. So here's the thing: we sent 
someone else up against Brooke after Paula got her ass kicked, two 
girls, actually, and they both got their asses kicked too."
"How big is this fucking Brooke?"
"That's the other thing: Brooke doesn't do the fighting, she's got 
a girl under her power, a real big girl, as big as you, more or 
less, and this girl does all the fighting. The girl is, like, 
drugged or hypnotized or something, she fights for Brooke now even 
though she used to be one of Bonnie's best friends and she 
originally went after Brooke to break her legs. Brooke, like, 
*converted* her. We need someone really skilled with really big 
balls to take out Brooke and bring this big girl, Mary her name 
is, back safely. No fucking easy job, and we'll pay plenty for 
it." 
"More than Missy is paying me?"
"What's she paying you? She didn't tell us and we didn't ask."
Michelle pauses, obviously thinking how much to inflate the figure 
by, and the mind flex causes veins to swell at her temples. "Three 
grand."
"We'll double it. We'll also keep you, if you like, as a regular 
Hards connection on the outside, there'll be other high-paying 
jobs to do. We need a big strong girl like you out there." 
Well, this is why Stef is Def and the head of the Hards. She's got 
the brains to match her brawn and her beauty, and the smooth 
tongue to make it all work. She tosses a killer salad, too--she 
did me the other night and she put me in a weightless orbit around 
my anus. If you stuck a rectal thermometer in me, the top would've 
popped like an overheated radiator.
I can see in Michelle's softening face that she wants to kill 
Brooke and rescue Mary, after beating her up good first, no doubt, 
just to show her who's boss, she's bought the whole deal. "Sounds 
good," she says, "but I want half the money in advance, before I 
get out, as a measure of your trust." 
"You'll have it the day after tomorrow," says Stef. "You'll get it 
instead of having this ridiculous challenge with Jenna. There's 
nothing stuck up about Jenna. She deserves all her trophies, and 
maybe a few more. To know her is to love her." Stef playfully 
slaps me on the back. "You know, this whole Brooke thing starts 
with Jenna. Jenna's in here for beating up Brooke after Brooke 
attacked her out of the blue, pulled a gun on her and then planted 
the gun in her locker. Then Brooke ordered a kneecapping on Jenna 
in here. Brooke is a sick fuck, a totally stuck-up bitch, she's a 
drama queen, for chrissake, played Maggie in the Santa Chucho High 
production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Played Kate in The Taming of 
the Shrew at last year's Chucho Shakespeare festival. Well, we'll 
tame that fucking shrew. Now I want you two girls to make up, and 
let's focus on the mission."
Whew, Stef is good! She invented that bit about Kate the Shrew--
Brooke didn't make the Shakespeare festival, she hasn't got the 
talent, she was dumb fucking Lola in Damn Yankees in the summer 
musical instead--but what the hell, it was a nice touch. Not that 
Michelle knows Shakespeare from her asshole, but still . . .
Speaking of Michelle's asshole, no sooner does Stef tell us to 
make up than Michelle is up off the bench, sticking her haunches 
in my face and pouting sexily over her massive shoulder as she 
says, "Let's toss each other as a sign of our real friendship."
She pulls her boxers down, she's got proverbial buns of steel, her 
cheeks are clenched as big and hard as bear traps, and I find 
myself poking them experimentally with a couple of fingers. 
They're as tautly resilient as overinflated volleyballs. Then she 
flexes them--they were relaxed!--and they explode in thick bands 
of striations like hairline fractures are running across slabs of 
sculpted granite during an earthquake. "OK," I say, "great idea, 
but let's shower together first and get all squeaky clean, I feel 
grungy." For all I know this girl is as dirty as Shitass Sarah.

-30-