Jenna in Tonya Part 8
By Avida Dolor
Fistings and frenzied fisticuffs pave the way to Fight Night.
 

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.

Copyright 1998 Avida Dolor (avidadolor@aol.com)




So we're gearing up for war. The Nancies will be out of solly in 
a couple days, and we have the nasty feeling they've been gearing 
up better than we have. Strange things have been going on behind 
the locked doors of Corridor E, just a little past Brooke's lair 
in room 4, where Janet From Another Planet now resides. Yeah, 
Brooke took Janet for her roomie. Janet came out of the brig 
after her week doing penance for shitting in the dining room, and 
Brooke just pulled her right in the door and tossed her on the 
bed. Janet was thrilled, especially when Brooke fired up the hash 
bong. But she was thrilled anyway. Brooke, after all, is 
thrilling.

But never mind that right now. Word from Penny is the Nancies 
might as well be at a private weight training resort in what is 
supposed to be the misery of solitary confinement. She says 
they're actually training *together*, they've got *gym 
equipment*, a bench, cables, preacher shit, leg press shit, the 
whole deal. How is this possible? Scuzzy Ethel is arranging 
everything, with Warden Marlow's collusion. No two ways about it. 
The fact is, Marlow has a vested interest in seeing the Nancies 
as big and as strong as they can be.
Which brings me to the fight situation. We talked it out with 
Marlow, and she came clean. Not only will she be selling tapes of 
all the matches, she is inviting a select audience in to see the 
private event in the flesh. It's a paying crowd, with the 
exception of the commissioner of state corrections, who is 
getting a freebie. Yeah, the guy who has the final say on what 
goes on in Tonya is a connoisseur of girl fights. Like, what a 
surprise. So Marlow is getting cut major slack on the whole deal. 
If a bunch of girls get rushed to Rauncho County on fight night, 
it'll go unnoticed, at least officially.

"So what's in it for us?" Stef demands, as we're negotiating in 
Marlow's office.

"Brook's drug," Marlow beams. "I've been in touch with the She 
Roids who busted her. I got the lowdown on the drug and, better 
yet, I *got* the drug. A goddamn ton of it, enough for all of you 
for a year."

This fucking news is so awesome, for a moment we all just stand 
there and stare at Marlow like she had four tits. "What's it 
called?" Stef finally asks suspiciously.

"On the black market it's known as Titanic. It's synthesized from 
some kind of snake venom combined with kelp or plankton or 
something. What whales feed on. I don't get how it works, but it 
works. As long as you're in or near your natural growth stage. It 
won't do shit for me."

"The snake and anchor tattoos!" shouts Lee Ann.

"Yeah, exactly," says Marlow. "They're all on it."

"Brooke swore she wasn't supplying the Nancies," I whine.

Marlow gives me a patronizing smile. "Brooke's an actress, Jen," 
she goes, "and all actresses are liars. And Brooke's a sociopath 
to boot. All sociopaths are liars, too. Jen, as you girls like to 
say, get a clue."


"So if Brooke got busted for this, why does she still have a 
supply?" Tiff wants to know.

"She wasn't busted for this, she was busted for possessing a 
special PCP/LSD derivative called X-Sponge--it's actually 
inserted into the vagina like a tampon and it gets absorbed into 
the bloodstream through the cervical lining--that makes you 
violently psychotic. Well, she was busted for this too, but the 
She Roids are leaving her supply lines open. The She Roids are 
into seeing certain girls get real big, just like I am."

"The drug that Mary was on!" Bon thunders. "That's what made her 
crazy!"

"Calm down, Bon," commands Stef. "We've gotta keep clear heads 
about this."

The clear-headed reality is this: the stuff is a clear serum 
taken orally. The Nancies probably keep it in water bottles. 
Marlow claims to have wangled a few hundred gallons of it in 
return for a deal whereby she'll be "growing" huge girls in 
Tonya--girls who will be recruited into the She Roids upon their 
release. The Roids, who are more like a gang than a special 
police unit, consider Tonya prime breeding ground for future drug 
enforcers. But this story is so incredible we're having a hard 
time buying it. We're not sure Marlow's in our corner anymore. 
The balance of power has shifted in Tonya, and Marlow could just 
be stringing us along like squeaking pulltoys.

"I can't believe the She Roids would let Brooke stay on this drug 
and distribute it in prison," says Flung, Confucianly confused.

"Why not?" asks Marlow, shaking her head pitifully. She never 
much liked Flung, though I have no idea why. "The She Roids are 
interested in hypertrophy, not prohibition. And they've got 
power. *Real* power, coast to coast. They can do pretty much 
anything they want. Who do you think killed Wendy O. Williams the 
other week?"

"That was a suicide," I go.

Marlow cackles derisively. "Suicide, my ass. If Wendy O. wanted 
to off herself, she'd bisect her beautiful bod with a chainsaw. 
The girl had style and class, for Chrissakes. I heard a rumor, 
from a source I consider trustworthy, that she was dealing growth 
drugs behind the Roids' backs, and they popped her for it. They 
don't fuck around. God, what a waste. Did I ever tell you I was 
in the front row when Wendy, wearing nothing but a few strips of 
electrical tape, sledge hammered half a dozen TVs at the Pig & 
Gristle in Boston in 1978? Shit, that was a show!"

"We had no idea you were into punk rock, Warden," I go.

"I'm not. Wendy's not punk rock. She's performance art."

"Well, we wouldn't know. The Plasmatics are a little before our 
time."

"Yeah, what a shame. You've got soft, cuddly shitbirds like the 
Spice Girls. They just don't make 'em like Wendy anymore. Too bad 
she was too old for Titanic."

"Titanic!" Tiff scoffs. "I'm surprised you don't take it in 
Leonardo DiCapsules."

"Very funny, Tiffany," says an unamused Marlow, standing up 
behind her desk and rising to her full stout 5-10. "If you were 
on Titanic instead of Largesse, you might be towering over me now 
instead of the reverse."

"Warden, chill," Lee Ann pleads. "Tiff and I are sensitive about 
our heights. You've got the drug that made Brooke a giant, we 
want it."

"And you'll get it. All you top Hards, even Lee Ann and Tiff, who 
aren't fighting, get a year's supply after fight night, 
guaranteed, win or lose. Plus personal protection for the rest of 
your stays in Tonya. You need protective solitary, you got it, 
longterm, no problem. And you may need it if you can't sweet talk 
a deal with your enemies. Let's face it: Stef is out in no time 
at all. After that it's Bon and Jenna and you other three, who, 
let's be honest, just aren't measuring up to today's growth 
standards, against Brooke, Glo, Nora and Ice. And now Janet, 
who's sure to go on Titanic too, and who's already a friggin' 
horse. Jenna's out in under two months, thank heavens. The odds 
are stacked against you bigtime, especially you, Bonnie. You've 
still got about five months."

"Unless we bust 'em up so bad in the fights they need a few 
months in County," Bon grumbles.

"Well, I'm figuring no one gets hurt real bad in the fights," 
says Marlow. "I mean, I'll step in and see to that, if I can. 
Even with the commish on my side, I don't need the bad press, and 
it's sure to leak out. So do we have a deal, girls?"

We make the deal. We make Marlow sign a contract in triplicate, 
and we take a copy with us for safekeeping, and we also have 
Penny come in and witness it. We're also all sworn to secrecy on 
this; the Nancies will not know about our drug arrangements, now 
or ever. Anyway, it's gonna be some night of fights. No ring of 
judgment, more like a ring of doom. They're modified street-style 
fights, the only protection being chest, mouth and groin guards. 
Bare fists, bare feet, no booties, no tape, no nothing, and you 
can strike with knee or elbow. Head butts are OK too. No grabbing 
except behind the neck, no choking, no eye poking. And no rounds. 
No time limit, no bell. You fight till one girl can't get up. But 
fights like this are not expected to last long, three or four 
minutes at most. At least that's the theory.

But enough theory. I need flesh, not theory. I need something to 
take my mind off all this, and it's Sara. She's back from the 
hospital, the stitches are out of her neck, she just has a big 
band-aid on her incision. I invite her into my room when Flung is 
at the gym, and I have one thing on my mind. A pool party. Flung 
is not into pee, she's too, like, clean for that sort of thing. I 
get no regular pool activity anymore, and I miss it.

"Sara, it's so good to have you back. I missed you."

"It's good to be back, Jen. At least until Glo gets out of the 
brig."

"Don't worry about Glo, babe. I'm gonna take care of her in the 
ring, beat her fucking face in."

Sara gives me a dubious smile. "I owe you so much, Jen. You and 
Penny. She saved my life. I'm gonna toss her salad every day for 
the rest of my stay in here, if she wants."

"Who wouldn't want that? And how's Wendy?"

"She'll be OK. She's getting plastic surgery. I think they're 
gonna work out a deal where she gets the rest of her sentence 
suspended. That fucking Ice! Now I have no roomie."

"I guess we're not gonna hear any Dean Martin anymore."

Well, that was the wrong thing to say. Sara's beautiful face 
crinkles up and tears streak her cheeks as her deep chest heaves 
with a series of wrenching sobs that makes her pertly braless 
rack nipple-shimmy under her tank top in drool-inducing tremors. 
I sit close to her on the bed, put my arm around her big 
shoulders and lick the salty tears off her face and murmur sweet 
something-or-others into her ear.

"I feel like shit," she gripes, tears dripping onto her bulging 
thighs. "I feel weak and useless. I haven't touched a weight 
since the day I got chopped. They had this neck brace-cold pack 
thing on me in the hospital, to reduce the swelling, it was 
horrible. I feel like I'm getting payback for what I did to you 
and Joan the Bone."

"Oh, come on, Sara. You got plenty of payback for me from Bon."

"But what about Joan? I beat her up so bad, I never shoulda done 
that. The girl had all kinds of internal things removed."

"Don't be ridiculous. Forget Joan, she was a skank. And she's OK 
now, anyway. And you're OK now too, babe, relax, I'll make you 
feel good." I pull Sara's top off over her head, careful not to 
get it caught on her neck, sit behind her on the bed and rub her 
shoulders and arms, then start kissing her broad beautiful back. 
She may not have worked out in a week, but she still feels like a 
fucking hunk of marble sculpture.

"Jen, before we get into this, I gotta pee," she goes.

Music to my ears. "Do me a favor, babe, hold it in. I want you to 
wet me down in the pool. Is that OK with you?"

"Of course, Jen. Anything you want."

I love this girl. So we skin down and get in the pool and hug and 
kiss each other, then she pees all over my tits and face while 
eating me so hard I'm afraid her neck wound will reopen. I come 
like a bitch right after this, while the hot pee is still 
streaming down my sides as she fucks my ass with two slick 
fingers. Then I pee on her belly and crotch while scissoring her 
real hard on my knees, working my pussy like a pelvic piston, and 
she bellows like a moose in heat as she comes, her fists pounding 
the sides of the pool, and that's when Flung walks in.

She stands there looking at us like she's never seen a pee party 
before. Well, actually she hasn't. "Flung, you gotta pee?" I ask 
hopefully.

"Actually, I do," she goes. "And since I'm all sweaty already 
from the gym, I don't mind getting dirty with you."

Flung must be feeling nostalgic 'cause I'm short-timed. Or maybe 
she thinks Glo is gonna beat me so bad my kidneys won't work 
right anymore and this is one of my last pee parties. She strips 
her shorts and sports bra off and steps gingerly into the pool. 
She's slick with sweat all over, her pumped muscles glowing with 
a deep-tanned sheen. "I warn you," she says to us, "my urine will 
have a very sharp odor. I've been drinking ginseng iced tea all 
morning."

Hey, this is turning out to be a great day. Flung hoses us down 
with a bucketful of pungent yellow pudenda punch, and just the 
heady smell of it makes me come as we do a three-way scissors, 
the pool a churning mass of slick-friction cunts and thighs. Call 
it a pee-king fuck.

The day gets even better after lunch, when Brooke calls me up to 
ask if I'd like to join her and Janet for a hash hoedown. I 
accept. I haven't had any contact with Brooke since our scene in 
her room--she eats at a table with just Janet, they have it all 
to themselves, to represent her role as an "independent" 
enforcer--and I want her so bad it's making my gums ache. This is 
technically a violation of Hard policy, but I can always claim I 
was really scoping Brooke out for useful intelligence in our war 
with the Nancies. I just needed half a dozen tokes of fine hash 
and Brooke's pecs in my face to get it, that's all.

Speaking of Brooke's pecs in my face, that's just what I get when 
the door to 4 opens.  She's stripped to the waist, got nothing on 
but a thong bikini bottom.  Her legs are so long they seem to run 
from the floor to the roof, but I can't concentrate on her legs 
'cause this incredible muscle rack is popping and flexing in my 
eyes like it's alive. Brooke, just like Sara, never keeps her 
chest still, it's always jerking and pumping like she's got 
nervous tics, or nervous tits. But it's not nerves at all, it 
just feels good to flex when you've got that much muscle on your 
chest. I'm the one with the nerves.

 "Jen, finally!" Brooke gushes. "We can pick up where we left off 
what seems like an eternity ago."As she pulls me into the room, I 
think for a confused second she's talking about our battle in the 
Chucho locker room, which landed me in here in the first place, 
but she's talking about our grope when we first met in Tonya. And 
there's Janet sitting on the bed, also stark fucking nude but for 
a G-string, looking burstingly beautiful, her long hippie hair 
tied back to reveal all of her big tanned tits and shoulders.

"Hi, Jen," she smiles, her eyes happy and hash bleary.

"Well, you look none the worse for wear after a week in the brig, 
Janet," I go. "You look better than ever, as a matter of fact."

Janet shrugs, and it makes her traps bulge. "There's nothing to 
do in solitary but work out."

"I thought no weights were allowed in the brig."

"Not anymore. It's just like a Gold's gym back there. I trained 
with the Nancies, that's why I'm looking so good. They work out 
like bitches. I just spent the whole fucking week pumped to the 
gills."

"Janet was in prep to be my girlfriend," says Brooke. "She needs 
to be hard and strong to be my steady, I like rough sex and tough 
love."

"Yeah," says Janet. "Lucky we got that cream. Could you put some 
on my back, Jen?" Janet stands up and turns around. Her broad 
back has a thick line of purple bruises running all the way 
across it, more pronounced in the middle, tapering off to the 
sides.

"What the fuck is that?" I go.

"Brooke gave me a hug. A big hug. My feet were off the floor and 
I couldn't breathe. The girl is so strong, she coulda killed me 
just like that, crushed all my ribs. I mean, she's pressing me 
against her chest, which is like she's pressing me against 
*iron*. It was painful, lemme tell ya." Janet grins. She's 
completely mellow about this, for some reason.

"Yeah," says Brooke. "You gotta be real sturdy to hang with me. 
That's why Janet is so perfect. A big girl, can take a kicking 
and keep on licking. And she's so cute, too." Brooke goes over to 
Janet and kisses her on the mouth, and it must be a French kiss, 
like so fucking French it's wearing a beret, 'cause Janet's face 
starts to swell with that stuffed-full-of-tongue look. I'm 
staring at Brooke's bare back for the first time, and I'm 
astounded at how wide it is, the lats are spreading like an acre 
of  lean beef on the bone, her rhomboids of paradise have taken 
wing and  her spinals have erected so big they look like mag-lev 
train tracks. There's so much definition etched up her back and 
across her hulking shoulders, it's making me dizzy trying to 
follow it with my eyes. Then she lifts Janet up under the armpits 
and holds her in the air like she did to me, but she holds Janet 
higher in the air and starts tongue flicking her nipples so they 
stiff up big and hard like oversized acorns. And when she lifts 
Janet off the floor, Brooke's back explodes into a whole new 
level of bulk and striation, the lats popping out of her sides so 
big they're banging into the immense wedges of her triceps, and 
there's so much ripped muscle in front of me now I can't help 
myself, I have to reach out and touch it, tracing my fingertips 
over it all, and then Brooke puts Janet down, turns around and 
bangs me in the face with one of her tits, which is like getting 
bitch slapped, her pec is so big and hard.

"Oooh, I'm getting twosies today," says Brooke in a coy baby 
voice, her tits jerking excitedly. "But first let's blow some 
more hash."

"First do my back," says Janet, handing me a jar of the mystery 
cream, pulling her long frizzy pony tail over her shoulder and 
presenting her delectable rear view to me expectantly, her big 
round asscheeks twitching.

"What is this cream, anyway?" I go, as I work it into Janet's 
creamy brown flesh.

"It's Zmeskaline-based," says Brooke, who's sitting in front of 
the desk--her knees don't fit under it--cutting little bits of 
hash off a chocolate bar-sized chunk with a pen knife.

"Huh?"

"The active ingredient is Zmeskaline, which is synthesized from 
the DNA of Kim Zmeskal. The gymnast? With the humongous fucking 
legs?"

"Yeah, I've seen her on TV. Got like 22-inch calves. Didn't know 
she was selling products."

"She's not. It's strictly black market. She gave a blood sample 
once that fell into the wrong hands. Anyway, there's something 
about her DNA that has amazing healing properties. That's why 
your bruises are gone, Jen."

I look myself over appreciatively. I'm wearing a non-Ton tank top 
and the usual tiny cutoffs. Yeah, the ointment has eliminated all 
traces of my stomping. From my body, not my mind.

"And that's why Stef's face is all better from her unfortunate 
bathroom incident. And why Janet's back will be all better in a 
couple days," Brooke continues. "And that's why Julie the 
Coolie's belly is all better, too."

"What? Who?"

"Julie the Coolie," says Brooke matter-of-factly. "My personal 
attendant. I'll call her. Maybe we can use her for something. She 
makes a good back scratcher." Brooke picks up the phone, punches 
in an extension and says, "Julie, I want you." She's barely put 
the phone down when in rushes the little girl that Brooke beat 
the stomach lining out of the day we met. She's naked, with a 
towel around her tiny shoulders, her hair all wet.

"I just got out of the shower, Master, I didn't have time to 
dress."

Huh? Master? The girl's badly beaten belly *is* all better, at 
least. The skin is smooth and white, but she's got some nasty 
purple bruises on her thighs, they look like maybe big hand 
imprints.

"That's OK," says Brooke, "we're bumpin' pretties here anyway." 
She takes a big toke of hash and passes me the pipe. I'm done 
with Janet's back, and I hand her the jar of cream and take the 
pipe, praying that getting good and stoned will put my head on 
straight around here. What's with the fucking Master?

"So is this your female eunuch, Brooke?" I ask after a brain-
massaging toke.

Brooke smiles and stands next to Julie the Coolie with her hand 
on the little girl's mousy wet mop. Brooke could probably crush 
that mini dome like a soft melon just by closing her fist. Julie 
comes up to her hip, she looks like a preschooler standing next 
to this gorgeous monster. "The Coolie is no eunuch, Jen. She's 
got a fully functional fur vault. It just happens to be so small 
I can barely fit a finger in it. But Julie's a great servant."

"How come she doesn't eat at your table?"

"Who eats with their servants, Jen? Haven't you ever seen 
Upstairs/Downstairs?"

So typically dramarama. "Well, how come she doesn't serve you in 
the dining room, then? Bring the tray, that kind of thing."

"I eat a lot, as you may have noticed. I'm not sure she's strong 
enough to *lift* the tray. But she can hold my undies like a 
champ." Brooke peels her mile-long, muscle-wrapped legs out of 
her thong and hands it to Julie, who stands there holding it out 
on her palms like it was a ceremonial shroud. It's big enough for 
her to wear as a t-shirt.

Janet and I pass the pipe back and forth, while Brooke bends way 
over and spreads her cheeks so the Coolie can inspect her ass. 
"I'm gonna have Jenna toss my salad, and I want to be clean 
enough to eat off of," she announces.

Julie is leaning in real close and personal with a baby wipe, 
after draping the holy thong carefully over a chair, about to do 
a little touch-up job, when Brooke farts in her face, a 
thunderous rip, then proclaims that she has to shit. "Come on, 
Julie." And off they go to the bathroom.

I'm left standing there with Janet, who is holding in a massive 
toke. I can see her heart beating in her big expanded chest and 
I'd like to lift her up under the armpits and tongue lash her 
fabulous nipples, but she weighs about 200 pounds, I might get a 
hernia.

"What the fuck is this business with Julie the Coolie?" I ask 
when she finally exhales, as I sniff the air, wondering if 
Brooke's fart stinks, but all I can smell is hash.

"She's Brooke's slave."

"Brooke needs a slave?"

"Sure, why not?"

"What does she need a slave for? What does Julie do?"

"Like right now. She's cleaning Brooke's ass."

"Does she clean yours?"

"Yeah. If she's around when I shit. Don't remind me of shitting. 
I still don't believe I pinched that loaf on the dining room 
table. Those Nancies are to blame. Glo and Nora really egged me 
on."

"You're *one* of those Nancies now, aren't you, Janet?"

"Me? Shit, no. I'm Brooke's roomie now. That puts me in a whole 
different category. She's outside this Tonya-Nancy crap. She's 
from another planet, for real. Enough talk, Jen. Take your 
clothes off and I'll sit on your face. I'm clean, Julie wiped me 
before real good."

"What about the drug Brooke's on that makes her so big? You going 
on it?"

"I *am* on it. Been on it for a week, ever since I went into 
solly with the Nancies. But I can't talk about the drug, it's a 
secret."

Janet leans close and unsnaps my cutoffs. So much for 
intelligence gathering. I take one of her tits in both hands and 
pop the still stiff nip into my mouth and start sucking like a 
bloodthirsty leech. We slow dance in this embrace, her fingers 
snaking inside my pants and up my wet pussy, my hands kneading 
fistfuls of voluptuous but muscle rich butt, for I don't know how 
long, then Brooke bursts back in with Julie, bellowing, "Shit, 
what a fucking huge dump I just took! Did it stink, Julie?"

"Smelled like perfume, Master," Julie peeps.

"And here's another thing Julie's good for," Brooke says, nodding 
at me earnestly. "Her hands are so small, she makes fist fucking 
fun. Julie, lube your hand up."

Julie coats her right hand in baby oil as Brooke lies face down 
on the bed and spreads her cheeks with her hands. "Are you fully 
relaxed, Master?"

"Wait a second," Brooke commands. "Now, as big as my rectum is in 
relation to this little girl's fist," she announces for my 
benefit, "I've still gotta concentrate and make sure my muscles 
are properly relaxed, otherwise this will feel more like an 
invasive procedure than a love fuck." So Brooke lies there, 
breathing deeply, trying to make her ass go soft and pliant, 
which seems impossible to me since her butt is so hard with steel 
bands of striated
glute. But it must be working, 'cause on Brooke's word Julie 
starts to insinuate her oil-dripping hand into that gorgeous ass, 
working it in one knuckle at a time with the gapingly methodical 
engorgement of a python eating a rabbit. After a couple of 
minutes, the hand is up there to the wrist, and Brooke is asking 
for more, as Julie works herself up Brooke's butt to mid-forearm.

"Oh, shit, that feels so good," Brooke sighs. "Come over here and 
kiss me, Jenna."

I kneel down by the bed and suck tongue with Brooke, while Janet 
starts to pump some fingers in and out of Julie's little wet 
pussy. After a minute or two of Brooke fucking my face with her 
huge tongue--you don't just kiss this girl, you get orally 
violated by her--she withdraws from my mouth and says, "Julie, 
slip it out slow and easy now."

"Yes, Master."

Julie begins to get her arm back in minute increments as Brooke 
arches her hips up so she can frig herself. "Suck my tit, Jen," 
she groans.

I slip my head under her chest and take a stiff nip into my mouth 
and pull on it like I was desperately trying to get a toke out of 
a clogged water pipe. By the time Julie's knuckles are emerging 
from the cave of Brooke's stretched asshole, the drama queen is 
coming like Godzilla, breathing fire out her cunt, then Julie's 
coming too, still getting fingered wildly by Janet. Shit, 
simultaneous orgasms, not bad. Brooke collapses back down on the 
bed, and I manage to get my head out from her under her just in 
time to avoid having it crushed under that concrete rack.

"Oh, sweet Jesus, that was good," she purrs. "Your hand and my 
ass make a fabulous couple, Julie, my darling."

"Yes, Master," says the Coolie, panting from her own spend and 
flexing the fingers of her fist hand, which are shiny with baby 
oil and butt honey.

"You better wash that hand off, Julie," I go. "You don't know 
where it's been."

"That hand is clean enough to eat off of," Brooke snorts.

I just know they're gonna end up shitting on this girl, 
literally, before too long. I'm about to laugh out loud thinking 
about all this on a headful of hash, when Brooke springs off the 
bed, bends over, legs spread, gripping her ankles and says, "Jen, 
stick your nose up my ass and tell me if I'm not so clean you can 
see yourself."

Maybe I *will* see myself. As fight day approaches, I'm beginning 
to feel more and more like an asshole.

But the next day, I feel a lot worse than an asshole. More like a 
fucking colostomy bag. Something happens that is so awful, so 
fucked up, the Hards are thrown into a panic. Or what's left of 
the Hards. Lee Ann and Tiff go mad.

They're fine at breakfast. After breakfast, they go back to their 
room and hang a little, digesting, then they hit the gym along 
with the rest of us. They're fine at the gym. After the gym, they 
don't want to rest until lunch, they want to play basketball, so 
they go to the yard. We top Hards don't go to the yard much, 
that's where all the rabble get their exercise, where all the 
rickety benches are, all the rusty plates that the general pop 
uses. We've got a big piece of the weight room roped off for 
ourselves. We only go outside, really, to take sun or play 
Frisbee. When we do want to play basketball or volleyball, we 
generally use the gym, which we get to ourselves. But Lee Ann and 
Tiff want to play basketball today, outside. So they're out there 
in the hot sun, while Stef, Bon, me and Flung are in Stef's room 
smoking a doob. I can see the court from the window, and I'm 
watching just 'cause it's so weird to see Tiff and Lee Ann 
playing b-ball. They're so heavily muscled, and so compactly 
built by Largesse standards, they look kind of weird running 
around in shorts and sports bras. They're in some kind of pickup 
game, it's a rough game, real streetball, and a fight breaks out 
and the next thing I know there's a rampage going on out there.

"Holy mother of Tonya, girls get a load of this." They all rush 
to the window and we watch stunned as Lee Ann and Tiff rip 
through a clot of girls on the court, pummeling the shit out of 
them and methodically breaking some arms and legs. Lee Ann and 
Tiff are very martial arts proficient, they spend like an hour a 
day working moves on each other. Lee Ann had a brown belt in tae 
kwon do before she got in here, and she taught Tiff everything 
she knows. Well, it looks like one of those crowd scenes from a 
kung fu movie, everyone flailing wildly and shrieking. There's a 
mass stampede of girls fleeing inside, trying to escape the 
slaughter. Our normally placid bosom buddies seem intent on 
destroying as many girls as they can get their hands on, and 
they're not distinguishing between Tons and Nancies, they're 
wasting everyone they get in their big-muscled clutches.

"The girls have flipped," says Stef hopelessly. "I guess they 
can't take the pressure."

"Maybe they think they're doing us all a favor, bringing the 
Hards back to power with a reign of terror?" I wonder aloud. I 
guess I should explain just how strong Lee Ann and Tiff are. 
Largesse didn't make them tall, but they're built really big for 
average-height girls. They've got 18-inch arms, they each weigh 
around 165 ripped, and they can bench almost double their 
bodyweight when they get a raging chest session going.

"There are Hards down there! What the fuck are they doing?" Bon 
mutters in painful stupefaction. "What set them off?"

Tiff has a girl on the ground, she's holding her by one arm and 
stomping on her head. Lee Ann has a girl in a headlock and she's 
punching her face over and over, we can see the blood leaking out 
of this girl's nose and mouth from way up here. There are already 
eight or nine carcasses littered around of girls who were either 
punched unconscious, punched semi-conscious or who had their legs 
broken and have fallen and can't get up. Then the emergency 
sirens are sounding and a trio of guards descend with clubs on 
Lee Ann and Tiff, and to our utter amazement the girls expertly 
disarm the guards and start beating them up, really ripping into 
them just like they did to the inmates.

"Oh, fucking Tara," Stef wails. "They're gonna get brigged 
forever. Or they'll go to Wuornos. Then they'll get big-housed. 
We've gotta get out there." We can't open the window to yell even 
if we wanted to, they don't open in Tonya, so we all run out of 
the room and make a dash downstairs for the doors to the yard. By 
the time we get out there, the first three guards are down and 
another three guards are getting beaten up by Lee Ann and Tiff, 
and a fresh contingent of guards is storming outside, led by 
Penny,  and these have trank guns. On Penny's order, Lee Ann and 
Tiff, whose faces are insane masks of rage, and who are 
screaming, "I'm gonna kill you!" at everybody, get tranked from 
close range and go down within seconds. The tranquilizer darts 
they've got nowadays are really something, they could drop a 
rhino in a snap.

The carnage is incredible. Nurse Church  and her assistants are 
running around tending to the wounded as Lee Ann and Tiff, 
unconscious, are cuffed behind their backs and carried by a troop 
of guards to solitary. And there's Marlow looking shitblown and 
thunderstruck. "Jenna, what in the holy name of Jesus happened to 
your two girls?"

"They were crazed, just like on the tapes. Brooke's tapes. They 
weren't themselves. You heard the way they were bellowing about 
killing everybody. They had to have been dosed." Marlow sort of 
knows about the tapes, by the way. She knows we have tapes, which 
we insist were sent by Brooke, in which Bon's friend Hairy Mary 
and a few other girls we know fight it out quite brutally, under 
the influence of some drug that makes them crazy. We didn't tell 
her anything about snuff footage, and we refused to show them to 
her, of course.

"So Brooke drugged them?" Marlow asks, wincing. "With some liquid 
version of X-Sponge?"

"She had to. Or the Nancies had someone do it for them, maybe 
Brooke's not involved. But the girls were dosed with something 
really powerful. I can't think of any other explanation."

Penny comes over, looking horrified. "That was fucking insane. I 
don't get it. Sorry I had to trank them."

"Don't be sorry, Pen," I go. "It's a good thing you did. They had 
to be stopped. They were out of control, they had to be dosed."

"We'll take them to County and run blood tests on them," says 
Marlow. "We've got to know what they were drugged with."

"Please don't take them to County, Warden," Stef requests. "Can't 
Nurse Church take the blood here?"

Marlow frowns. "I know what you're thinking, Stef. Once they 
leave here, they're never coming back. And you could be right. 
They could end up in Wuornos in a blink. I've got five guards 
down, some of them are busted up real good. What am I supposed to 
do?"

"If it turns out they were drugged, though, won't that exonerate 
them?"

Marlow bites her lip, her eyes playing over Stef's huge arms. I 
bet she's wondering if she could arrange to get a piece of Stef 
in return for leniency for Lee Ann and Tiff.  "All right, I'll 
hold them here pending the results of the blood tests."

A few minutes later, the decimated Hard Command holds a meeting 
of the Hard first tier in the lounge.  These are the top 25 or so 
girls in the Hards after the command core, and they've got a 
right to know what the fuck is going on. Thank Tonya none of them 
were hurt by Lee Ann and Tiff. But we do have three second tier 
Hards in the hospital, as well as four Nancies and three guards. 
That's ten fucking people the spunky pair sent to County in the 
space of about three minutes, and there's another five who got 
minor injuries. Largesse and X-Sponge or whatever it is make 
quite a combo. Anyway, Stef makes a speech about Brooke, the 
PCP/LSD angle, the increasing tensions between us and the Nancies 
and the fights that are coming up, which will settle the rivalry 
once and for all.

"And what happens if you girls lose all or most of the fights?" 
asks Lola the Lowlife, whose unsympathetic mother testified at 
her juvie hearing and swore she was nothing but a useless 
lowlife. Well, Lola did sell all her mother's jewelry to buy 
crack and beer.

"If I lose my fight to Nora, then I'm stepping down immediately 
as head Hard," says Stef, "and going into protective solitary, 
most likely. It depends on what shape I'm in. Not that any of 
that matters; I've only got a week left here after the fight 
anyway. It's Bon who will be running the Hards from here on out, 
whether she loses to Brooke or not. If she loses, she'll demand a 
rematch, that's all."

"But let's say Bon loses bad and gets hospitalized," posits Windy 
Mindy, a cute brunette who can fart on command. "Is Jenna 
Takedown leading the Hards?"

"Yes, Jenna will be leading the Hards in the unlikely event that 
Bon is incapacitated," says Stef. I don't say anything. I can't 
deal right now with the notion of me winning and Stef and Bon 
losing, which would leave me to face Brook after I beat up Glo. 
I'm still freaked over what happened to Lee Ann and Tiff.

"And what if Jenna loses and ends up in County?" Lola wants to 
know. "If only Flung wins, then Flung leads the Hards?"

"I cannot lead the Hards," says Flung with a touch of sadness. 
"If I lose under those circumstances, I will challenge Ice to a 
rematch, but I cannot lead the Hards. I am not worthy."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," says Stef. "Maybe 
you'll end up as Head Hard, Lola, who knows."

The top tier doesn't look happy. In fact, they look as frazzled 
as we do. They're also totally ticked that they can't watch the 
fights, that they'll be taking place in a sealed-off gym. We 
promised they could watch the tapes later in the lounge. It's 
Tara, but it's the best we can do. Maybe we should show them the 
snuff tapes. That'll take their mind off the day's events. 
Instead, we break out the booze and try to turn the meeting into 
a party, but all we can think about is Lee Ann and Tiff shackled 
in solitary, raving like lunatics, or, even worse, coming down 
from the bad trip to find they busted up Ton Tons and guards and 
paddled themselves about 100 miles up shit's creek.  Marlow will 
not let us visit them or even tell us if the drug that fucked 
them up is wearing off.

The next day, after breakfast, I'm feeling so bad I go to see 
Mrs. Roper, the part-time crisis counselor. I'm hoping she can 
throw me some Valium or Prozac or something that's not readily 
available through our regular channels. I saw her once after 
Missy died, and she gave me the impression she had some cool 
drugs to dispense if I asked nice enough.

I'm sitting there in front of her desk in a Kerrigan Must Die t-
shirt and cutoffs feeling underdressed. Mrs. Roper is, as usual, 
wearing one of those navy blue power suits with the tight white 
blouse under the manly jacket and the tight skirt cut well above 
the knee with sheer stockings, jacked up on massive corporate 
kick-ass heels. On her it really *is* a power suit, 'cause Mrs. 
Roper must work out like a bitch. She's got that thick and wide 
look in her clothes, and I'm telling myself this is not the 
reason I came to see her, as I sit up real straight in my chair 
so I can study her big calf and thigh as she leans back in her 
executive recliner with her legs crossed.

"It's good to see you again, Jenna," she says warmly. "What can I 
do for you?"

"I'm really bummed about what happened to Lee Ann and Tiff. I was 
hoping you had something that might, like, calm me down."

"I couldn't believe it myself," Mrs. Roper sighs, her chest 
heaving so big I think the buttons might pop off her blouse. 
"They put ten people in the hospital. They're going to be in big 
trouble, that's for sure."

"But they were dosed. None of this is their fault."

"Well, even if it can be proven they were under the influence of 
some drug, that doesn't mean they're not guilty of *taking* the 
drug. What I mean, Jenna, is they can't *prove* they were dosed. 
Unless someone confesses to drugging them, or rats on someone 
else, they're gonna get the book thrown at them. They hurt 
several *guards.* That can't be overlooked. Those guards have a 
strong union."

"Mrs. Roper, you're bringing me down. Now I need a mood elevator 
more than ever. Can you help me?"

"Jenna, I know you're having a very big fight in a few days. The 
last thing you want is to get on a drug that's gonna make you 
mellow, take your edge off. You've gotta be sharp and hard for 
your fight. So forget getting on some kind of anti-depressant. 
What I can do for you is give you a massage that'll make you feel 
so good you'll cry. It'll open up all your glands and flood your 
system with happy hormones. I'm a licensed Feng Schwing 
masseuse."

"Feng who?"

"Hey, you room with Flung so I know you're receptive to the 
ancient Asian ways, though Feng Schwing was invented by a 
Buddhist monk who spoke only Yiddish. Take your shirt off and 
I'll show you."

Mrs. Roper stands up, takes her jacket off and starts rolling up 
the sleeves of her tight white shirt. I'm starting to say, "Mrs. 
Roper, I only have a sports bra on under my--" when she gets a 
sleeve up to her elbow and I realize I'm looking at a forearm 
that resembles a thick clump of coaxial cable wrapped around the 
fat end of a baseball bat. She rolls up the other sleeve, and 
there's another forearm just like it. I thought maybe it was a 
freak one-arm thing, like she used to be a handjob specialist at 
a Filipino massage parlor. She sees me staring, and she smiles 
and curls her fists, making the forearms swell and the veins 
bulge so big my mouth drops open and my tongue hangs out like I'm 
a dog in heat. I can feel my sphincter loosen with that itchy 
tingle that says "toss me," as Mrs. Roper takes a pair of 
Michelle Ivers autograph industrial squeezeballs out of her 
drawer and starts working her forearms out, curling the fists in 
a slow, methodical pump action, and the heavy-duty pipes are 
actually getting bigger, the veins are throbbing, and my clit is 
standing up in my pants pulsing in the same blood-wet rhythm. 
She's Popeye's big fucking sister, for the sake of Tonya. "Mrs. 
Roper," I manage to husk as I suck my tongue back into my mouth, 
"I had no idea you had 14-inch forearms. They're totally 
incredible."

"Gee, Jenna, you've got a good eye."

"You mean they really *are* 14 inches? I thought I was, like, 
exaggerating."

"Well, they may not be there yet, but if I pumped 'em up real 
good with bells they'd make 14 in no time. Take a guess at my 
calves, why dontcha?"

Mrs. Roper kicks her shoes off, steps out from behind her desk, 
turns her back to me and stands up high on her toes, her hands on 
her hips. Her calves are popping in thick diamond wedges that 
ride high and hard on her leg, which tapers to a sturdy but 
slender ankle. She can't be more than 5-6 in her bare feet, and 
it's tough to get the right symmetry in such a big leg when 
you're not tall, but she's pulling it off. "Those are really 
great legs, Mrs. Roper," I go. "You're stretching your stockings 
all out of shape, they're so big. Eighteen inches."

She pivots on the toe of one vein-big beautiful foot and beams at 
me. "Shit, Jenna, you're psychic or something. You wanna go for 
my biceps?"

"Sure," I go, but Mrs. Roper is already undoing the buttons of 
her tight white blouse. She's got a bra on, a real girlie bra, 
not a sports bra, and it's got big underwire cups, and I'm trying 
to figure out how big the bra is, but Mrs. Roper is already 
squeezed into a hard double bi, fists tightly curled, and her 
arms are big, as big as Lee Ann's and Tiff's, maybe bigger, with 
really good shape, the heads melded nice into a deep-bellied 
rounded mass, and the heavy veins in her forearms are running 
right past her elbows and over all the bloated muscle right up 
into her wicked wide shoulders.

"Well? What's your guess?"

I haven't said anything yet, 'cause I'm drinking this scene in 
with a sort of awe, and I wish I had some of Brooke's hash in me 
to fully appreciate this. Mrs. Roper is in battle skirt and bra, 
her gut sucked in hard, the abs thickly chiseled, her chest boob-
lush and pec-heavy, her arms massive, the shoulders dense with 
muscle, and she's so goddamn cute I wanna die. The woman's gotta 
be 45 years old--there's touches of gray in her black hair and 
she' got crow's feet around her eyes--and I want her so bad I can 
taste it way back in my throat. "Maybe 18 now, cold; 19 pumped, I 
bet."

"You're right again, give or take a half inch. I'm probably a 
touch over 18 cold, and I can push it over 19 on a good pump. My 
best ever is 19.4 on the Weider meter, each arm. How's that for 
symmetry?"

"It's fabulous. You've got bigger arms than me, Mrs. Roper, on a 
proportional basis. What do you weigh?"

"About 185."

"How long you been training?"

"For about ten years, but it's only in the last two that I 
exploded. I'll tell you my secret, Jen. Largesse. Just like you."

"You're on Largesse?"

"Yeah, for a year. It didn't make me taller--it's almost unheard 
of for someone well out of their growth window to gain height on 
the drug--but it sure made me bigger. Largesse is real friendly 
to my metabolism. I also did a six-month training regimen with 
Tijuana Ass, a Largesse dealer who once won the Baja Blowup. She 
can crack walnuts with her butt cheeks. I think your friends 
Cindy and Courtney know her."

"They sure do. How do you know all these people, Mrs. Roper?"

"I know pretty much everyone, Jen. I'm pretty well connected in 
the drug scene. Actually, I work part-time for the She Roids."

"No. You?"

"Yeah. I'm hip to all the shit that's going down in here."

"So you know what drug Brooke and the Nancies are on?"

"I do. And so do you. I know about the deal with Marlow. I'm her 
She Roids contact in here. This is between you and me, Jen, don't 
spread it around. I hope you win your fight, is all I can say, or 
at least don't get hurt. You go on Titanic, a year from now you 
could be as big as Brooke."

"How come you're not on Titanic?"

"It doesn't do fully mature women like Largesse can. You've gotta 
be growing for Titanic to work. So. You ready for your massage? 
Take your top off."

"I feel better already from just looking at you."

"You're a sweet girl, Jenna. I'm gonna do you good, you deserve 
it."

"Mrs. Roper, are you sure it's OK for you to do this? I mean, 
what if the Warden walks in?"

"I'll lock the door. And stop calling me Mrs. Roper. Call me 
Evelyn."

"But you *are* married, aren't you?"

"Technically, yes. My husband's in the hospital right now, 
actually. We had a little spat. We're separated. He's more 
separated than I am, though. I separated his shoulder. He's not 
as strong as me, but he insists on mixing it up when he's had one 
too many. He always loses."

Mrs. Roper locks the door and flexes her wrists and fingers out 
as I take my top off. I sit forward in my chair, and she starts 
to work my neck, shoulders and back with her strong hands, and I 
don't know what she's doing, but my clit is so stiff it feels 
like it's gonna pop through my shorts. "Mrs. Roper, you've got a 
magic touch. That feels unbelievable."

"Evelyn. Call me Evelyn."

I'm leaning way forward, my palms pressed against the desk for 
support, as Mrs. Roper--Evelyn--does some exotic shit to my 
spinal column, digging deep but gentle into my lower back with 
her powerful thumbs. She's sending hot beams of ecstasy down into 
my fun zone, where they're bouncing right back to my brain and 
then back to my hips like pelvic ping pong. My pussy is leaking 
so bad the front of my cutoffs are turning moistly dark and my 
nips are so stiff they're punching through my sports bra like 
pinkies.

"Doesn't this feel good, Jen?" 

"Uggggghhh," is all I can manage, as I start coming, my legs 
stuck out rigid, my stomach fluttering so hard I can see the abs 
tremble, waves of pure orgasmic bliss washing over me like a sun 
shower, and then I'm pissing myself, my cutoffs are soaked, my 
bladder has just opened up and I can't control it, and my 
sphincter has turned to jelly too--if I had to shit, it would 
just come out, I wouldn't be able to stop it. Finally, after what 
seems like five minutes, the spend subsides, and I'm sitting 
there panting with my nose running snot into my mouth and a long 
strand of drool hanging off my lower lip, dripping onto my belly.

"How was that, Jen? Feel good?"

"Feel *good*?! Mrs. Roper, I just came so hard I peed my pants. 
I'm sopping wet!"

"Evelyn."

Cut to after lunch, as I'm trying to digest my guilt along with 
three turkey and cheese sandwiches. I'm in love with a married 
woman old enough to be my mother, and this is causing me some 
concern. Whatever Feng Schwing is, I want more of it.  I didn't 
get to go any further with Mrs. Roper--uh, yeah, Evelyn--she had 
another appointment, but I'm going back for another session 
tomorrow morning, and you can damn well  bet I'm gonna make sure 
I crap right after breakfast. The deal now is we're gonna get to 
visit Lee Ann and Tiff. Marlow says they're completely down from 
whatever drug they were on, but the lab tests haven't turned 
anything up yet, so they're still on hold.

So the four of us--me, Stef, Bon and Flung--accompanied by Penny, 
go through the locked doors at the end of Corridor E into 
solitary. As we pass by number 4, Brooke's room, I wince with the 
expectation that she'll suddenly pull it open and bend over so I 
can eat her ass, but nothing happens. Lee Ann and Tiff have been 
moved into the same cell so we can all have a meeting together, 
but as Penny is unlocking their door, we hear grunting down the 
hall, and there's Scuzzy Ethel emerging from a cell, the sweet 
music of a heavy-duty workout behind her. "Oh, look, the mighty 
Hards," laughs Ethel. "You pumping up good, mighty Hards? You 
don't look too pumped." We hear laughter from inside the cell, 
where the Nancies must be training together.

"Ethel, shut your fucking mouth before I shut it for you," snarls 
Penny. Old Ethel just cackles and stands there trying to look 
tough, her fat arms folded on her fat chest. "That's the fucking 
gym room," says Penny in an angry whisper. "All they do is train 
all day. Quick, let's get in and get the door closed."

So we all pile into the cell that's holding Lee Ann and Tiff, who 
are sitting next to each other on the bed looking forlorn in 
matching gray institutional Tonya t-shirts and sweatpants--there 
are no chairs in here--and we run over and kiss them and exchange 
various sweet nothings, then we get down to business. The drug 
wore off about dinner time, so they were high on it about five 
hours or so. Since then, they've been stone cold sober and 
miserable.

"What was it like?" Stef asks.

"Just pure rage," says Tiff, shuddering. "Just an uncontrollable 
desire to smash every girl in sight. A speedy, surge of energy 
kind of feeling. Some psychedelic effects, too. Things didn't 
look quite right. There was some spatial distortion and 
heightened colors."

"It was like there was no compulsion to try to control it," adds 
Lee Ann. "You just went with the flow and freaked. I felt like I 
could've kept on beating girls up until I was too tired to lift 
my arms."

"You think it was like what Mary was on?" Stef asks, cocking an 
eye toward Penny, who, as far as we know, doesn't know the whole 
story about the tapes.

"Hard to say," Lee Ann goes. "This was a completely random, total 
kind of rage. If Mary was on this drug, wouldn't she have 
attacked everyone in the room? Like, the camera operator too?"

"But you didn't attack each other," says Bon. "So you must have 
felt some bond under the drug. It was like you were working as a 
team. Anyway, the lab already tested for X-Sponge and didn't find 
any in your blood. And we're assuming what Mary was on was X-
Sponge. So you could have been dosed with anything."

"But we're only assuming that 'cause Marlow said Brooke was 
busted for X-Sponge possession," says Flung solemnly. "Brooke 
could have another crazy drug we don't even know about. Or Brooke 
could have nothing to do with this, and the Nancies could have 
ordered the dosing and gotten the drug through Scuzzy Ethel."

There's a moment of silence, as it sinks in that, as usual, we 
don't know what the fuck is going on. "What about us?" Tiff 
whines. "We didn't bust anybody that bad, did we? Can't we just 
go back to general pop?"

"You broke some legs and arms on some girls," says Penny. "As far 
as the guards go, Maria the Muscle got it the worst. She's got a 
broken nose and jaw."

"Fucking Tara," spits Tiff. "The strongest, most heavily muscled 
guard, and I have to punch her goddamn face in. I *like* Maria."

"She knows that," consoles Penny. "She understands you were 
fucked up. But still, there's no way you can go back to general 
pop right now. The union has already put in a request you be 
transferred to Wuornos. That's standard, though, it's regular 
procedure when a guard gets attacked. I'm sure Marlow won't let 
that happen."

"*Wuornos*?" Lee Ann moans. "They can't put us in there, that's 
insane!"

"Don't worry," says Stef, "it won't happen. It's just a 
formality. Marlow won't ever go for that."

Stef is trying to sound convincing, but she's not doing that 
great a job of it. Fuck, this is so totally Tara. The Aileen 
Wuornos Maximum Security Facility for Recalcitrant Female 
Juveniles, which just opened a month ago, is where you go now if 
you're too fucked up for Tonya. They really opened it for all the 
girls who are using guns lately--there are teen trigger chicks 
all over Cali now, doing drive-bys and school shootings, almost 
all black and Hispanic, so the place instantly became a minority 
hellhole, as I'm sure the commission intended it to be. But the 
guards' union got a rule on the books where if you attack a guard 
at Tonya you can get sent there. The guards are worried because 
there are so many lethally huge girls in Tonya now, and I can see 
their point. I just never expected Lee Ann and Tiff to be the 
first test cases.

"Don't even think about Wuornos now," I counsel. "Just sit tight 
and we'll see what we can do with Marlow about making sure you 
stay in this building. Maybe we can work out a solly arrangement 
for a few weeks or something. In the meantime, Penny will make 
sure you get your Largesse and your supplements and you have 
enough food and bells and stuff. Right, Penny?"

"Of course," says sweet Pen. "I'll do everything for you girls 
that I can."

"What about dope and booze, Penny?" pleads Lee Ann. "Can you get 
us some?"

"No prob. You'll be fucked up--the good way--in no time."

Well, now that they're fucked, they might as well be fucked up. 
Lee Ann and Tiff have tears in their eyes as we kiss them 
goodbye, and so do the rest of us, though we're all trying to be 
Tonya cool. Stef lingers long and loving, getting extra hugs in 
with both of them. Stef is out of here in a matter of days, and 
the odds are she won't be partying with these two babes in the 
lounge ever again. I just pray *I* get to see them back in pop.

But speaking of general pop, we've got other shit to deal with 
right now. Tomorrow the Nancies are back.

--30--