Jenna in Tonya Part 9 By Avida Dolor Fight Night: Two girls enter, one girl bleeds. 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) It's the next morning after breakfast and I'm sitting on the pot trying to shit. I'm looking forward to my 10 a.m. Feng Schwing session with Mrs. Roper, and I really don't want to crap myself in her office. It's undignified. But nothing's coming out. I know it's unrealistic to expect a plate of scrambled eggs, a stack of Belgian waffles and a double side of (low-fat) turkey sausage to come out that fast, but I thought my bowels might be running like Santa Anita in good weather, since Julie the Coolie had her hand up my ass. Yes, I neglected to mention this, out of sheer embarrassment. Before I left Brooke's yesterday, at Brooke's urging, Julie worked me like a sock puppet while Janet double- thumbed my cunt like it was a plum pudding. I came so hard while Julie had her fist up me, I thought I'd rip myself an asshole the size of a toilet seat hole, but I didn't bleed a drop, the girl's a fucking anal version of Senor Wences. But I'm sitting, not shitting, and it's almost time for my appointment. Then there's yelling in the hall, feet shuffling into the bathroom and there's a commotion. Someone's having an argument with Stef, and it's about Gonorrhea Pia, one of the second-tier Hards who got busted up during the rampage. A girl with a very deep voice is screaming at Stef, "I want her fucking ass, and I'm gonna get it! I'm going to Marlow!" Then she storms out. Ain't no one with a baritone like that except Fran the Man. "Stef?" I go from my perch on the pot. "What the hell was that all about? Was that Fran the Man?" "That was fucking Fran the Man, and she really had her dick in a sling," Stef sighs. "I should've figured we'd get shit from her. She's Gonorrhea Pia's roomie, after all, and Lee Ann broke Pia's leg--in *two* places. Fran wants a piece of her. She's going to Marlow to make a challenge for the ring of judgment. She wants to be on the Fight Night card against Lee Ann, bare fists. Can you believe it?" "Fran the Man? Lee Ann'll kill her. Won't she?" "I don't know. Fran has been on 'roids for, like, two years. She looks pretty big. I don't know if she has any fighting skills, though." "What does she weigh these days? Like, 200?" "At least. Hey, it's Marlow's call, and Lee Ann's. I've got enough to worry about. Jen, are you shitting, or what?" "No, I'm just sitting. Want to join me?" I lean forward and unlatch the door and Stef squeezes her big beautiful self into the stall and pulls her track shorts down around her knees. Her brownish-blonde bush is about on face level, and I can smell her sweet cunnysuckle rose scent even before I crane my head forward, fat tongue probing the air like a snake in the garden of eatin'. I start to lick Stef's hard belly, my hands going up high to cradle her big tits, and then Bon bellows from the doorway: "Stef, Marlow's on the phone, she wants to talk to you. Now." Stef groans in annoyance and backs out of the stall, pulling her shorts up as she gives me a quick peck on the forehead. No shit, no tit. Well, I'll get a lot more than a peck from Mrs. Roper . . . . "Mrs. Roper," I go, as I lean way forward in my sports bra, all my back muscles tensed up in anticipation, "I really want the same massage again, but I'm afraid I won't be able to control my, like, excretionary functions." "Evelyn. And I don't think `excretionary' is a word." "Well, it may not be a word, but what will be in my pants will definitely be a turd--Evelyn." "Jen, you won't soil yourself. Don't worry. You'll feel like you will, but you won't. Just relax. I'm licensed, I've done this many times. And if you shat your shorts, is that the end of the world?" Well, Mrs. Roper seems to have an easy come, easy let go attitude to pants browning, but I decide not to mention the recent fist up my ass. We only just met, really. She's in the usual tight white blouse with the sleeves rolled up, the forearms bulging, as she gets behind me and starts doing those magic finger things on my lower back. I made sure to take a big pee before coming in, but in no time at all my bladder feels like melted cheese, my loins are soaked in happy spray and I'm making this embarrassing "Uggggghhhhh" noise again as I start coming like someone stuck my clit in a light socket. "Evelyn," I say when I stop panting, wiping my dripping nose with the back of my hand, "I think I'm falling in love with you." "Me too, Jen," she says, bending down to kiss me lightly on my spittle-frothed lips. "You know, I have a copy of your wrestling tape. One of the most popular jerkoff tapes ever in Tonya. I confess I jerked off to it myself once or twice." "Gee, really? I'm honored. I had no idea." "And you're so much bigger and stronger now. You gonna go back to school and wrestle when you get out of here?" "I don't think I can, even if I wanted to. Drug testing, you know?" "They don't test for Largesse and they don't test for Titanic. At least not now." "Well, it's a thought. I haven't really figured out what I'm doing when I get out of here. I've kept in touch with my coach, but after all I've been through I'm not sure wrestling will really fulfill me anymore." "Well, I'll fulfill you any way I can, girl. We should really get together after hours. I can't wait till you're out of here. We can see each other sometimes, and you can teach me how to wrestle. Can't you? Is that OK?" "Of course it's OK. But what's that about getting together after hours?" "I thought maybe I'd come in one night and we could meet in your room or something. But you have a roomie. Anyway, Marlow would probably object." "Why does she have to know? And Flung can make herself scarce, no problem." "Well, we'll see. This is not a good time anyway. You have a big fight coming up, you should cut down on sex now and start to focus." "Yeah. Don't remind me." Don't remind me in-fucking-deed. Cut down on sex? What a shitty idea. I leave Mrs. Roper--fuck it, Evelyn--with a passionate embrace and a deep tongue kiss, and the rest of the day is fight arrangements. First we iron out the Fran the Man deal. Me, Stef and Bon, accompanied by Penny, go back to solly and visit Lee Ann. She's alone, now, of course, but at least she's stoned and she has a Walkman and weights and shit. There's no good word on the blood test, nothing's come up that the lab can identify, and Tiff and Lee Ann are staying in the frig brig till further notice. The word from Marlow is the commissioner initially liked the idea of the two of them getting sent to Wuornos--it's a good way to appease the guards--but then Marlow called him and suggested they fight on the big card instead, and he liked this more, of course, since he'll be attending. So that's the deal. Lee Ann is stoned and mellow about it, and why should she complain? It beats the absolute shit out of going to Wuornos. "So what's up with Fran the Man?" she says. "The girl got any fight in her?" "We have no idea," says Stef. "She's pissed as all hell about what you did to Pia, but that's just her 'roids talking. But she's six feet tall and she's gotta weigh at least 200. She's strong for sure, been on Glandex so long she's got a cock and balls in her pants. Don't take her lightly." "I'm not, she's bigger than me." "So's Maria the Muscle, and you punched her face in," I mention too enthusiastically. Maria the Muscle is good people. "Yeah, but that's when I was on the loco juice. It makes you stronger, and way, way focused, for sure. Too bad I can't fight Fran on it. Am I gonna get outta here so I can spar?" "No," says Penny regretfully. "That's part of your punishment. You'll go from solly to the gym for the fight. But compared to going to Wuornos, this will be a party." "And what about Tiff?" "We're gonna figure that out next," says Stef. "She's gotta fight *someone*." We leave Lee Ann with hugs and kisses, and Penny takes us next door to Tiff. In the hall I'm expecting to see Scuzzy Ethel outside the Nancies' weight room, but there's nothing going on. "They've been released," Penny explains. "Right after breakfast." "I thought solitary release was after lunch," I go. "Like checkout time in a hotel." "It usually is," says Penny, "and they were *in* a fucking hotel, but nothing about this deal is usual. Ethel let 'em out, they had something to take care of or something. They won't hassle you all, though, they've got an arrangement with Marlow. No contact till Fight Night. Well, no *physical* contact. I'm sure they'll try to run a psych on you in the cafeteria and whatnot." "Never mind running a psych," says Stef. "What about running a spike and dosing us like they did Lee Ann and Tiff?" "We don't even have a clue how they got dosed," I go. Lee Ann and Tiff ran over everything they ate and drank and couldn't find any way anything could have been spiked, unless it was a really slick job pulled by one of the Mexican cafeteria employees while they were being served breakfast. Which seems unlikely. "Well, watch what you eat and drink very closely," Penny advises. "Though I don't think they're going to try to interfere with you before Fight Night. Marlow would give them hell." So we go in and talk to Tiff. She's stoned too, sitting glumly in the corner of her bed, drinking a Corona with fresh lime. Penny's got her well taken care of. "Little early in the day for a brewskie, isn't it, Tiff?" I kid her. "You get thirsty when you're up shit's creek," she grumbles. "Well, we've got good news," says Stef. "You get to fight on Fight Night, and you don't go to Wuornos--ever." Tiff sits up and grins. "Fanfuckingtastic! Who do I fight?" "Uh, we have to figure that out. You see, Lee Ann got challenged by Fran the Man. But no one challenged you." "Right," says Tiff. "Because Lee busted up that Pia chick, who's Fran's steady. Right? So what about Lally Palooka? She's roomies with Not Very Merry, that fucking sourpuss. I stomped that girl's head on the asphalt real bad, she must be way fucked up." "Wasn't Palooka out there, too?" Bon asks. "She was," says Tiff. "She threw a punch at me, in fact, but I was handling someone else at the time. I don't think I hit her, then she must've ran." "So she hit you with a punch?" I go. "I don't know. There was a lot of activity going on all at once. Penny, isn't there a security cam tape of the whole slaughter?" "Yeah, but I don't know if I can get my hands on it. I think it might've been requisitioned by the commish for his personal jackoff pleasure. But it makes no difference if Lally hit you or not. The point is Not Very Merry's in the hospital. I don't know how bad she is, I'll have to check. But you're the one who stomped her, and Lally's the one who has a score to settle." "Oh, I'm the one who stomped her, for sure. The clarity I have about some aspects of the fight is incredible. I've even been dreaming about it." "So we'll go to Lally Palooka and explain to her that she's going to fight you," says Stef. "Lally's not gonna wanna do that," I go. "She's a great fighter, but she's not big enough to take on Tiff." We all look at Tiff, who is a fearsomely beautiful sight in her gray institutional Tonya tank top and shorts. Tiff, the quim-tessential blue-eyed, bleached blonde surf babe with a Venice Beach fantasy bod, her hair moussed straight back like she just slipped out of the curl, is a Sinfully Sinew centerfold if ever I saw one, just as cute as Stef, maybe cuter. The moment you lay eyes on Tiff you want to kiss her all over, but you'd have to be way Glandexed out of your mind to want to fight her. She's just too damn muscle gorged, she looks like she could rip you in half with her bare hands like you were a phone book. "Well, she has no choice in the matter," says Bon. "She fights Tiff, and she gives it her all, or she gets capped so bad she'll be on crutches for the rest of her life." "Let's go see her," says Stef. "We'll get back to you, Tiff. Hang tough." More kisses and hugs. Lally Palooka is on her bed naked with three fingers shoved up her cunt when we burst into her room with Penny's passkey. Like the Spanish Inquisition, our first weapon is surprise. "Lally!" bubbles Stef with mock camaraderie. "Good to see you! You holding a Boy Scout meeting in your clam?" "Oh, shit," goes Lally, who's got a Sinew spread open on her legs to an Amy Fisher layout. "What'd I do?" "It's what you're *going* to do," says Bon, who idly picks up the mag and studies a stunning color shot of Amy doing a rear lat spread that's so wide it's almost running off the page. "What am I *going* to do?" "You're going to fight Tiff the Spliff on the big Fight Night card," says Stef. "I am? Why?" " 'Cause I asked you to, and you're a loyal Hard." Lally looks enraged as she springs off the bed, her perky little nipplicious titties bouncing. This must be her fight face, which countless petite girls have seen before they had their petite blocks knocked off. Lally is a notorious scrapper, she got 18 months in here for her inability to keep her fists to herself at the exclusive Santa Grotona School for Girls. Not even her stinking rich lawyer parents could keep her out of Tonya after she worked over the principal's daughter so bad the girl has permanent memory loss. "That's right, I'm a loyal Hard," Lally flares with anger. "And so's Merry. And she got her face rubbed out like a cigarette butt by Tiff. That's what she got for her loyalty." "And here's your chance to fight on her behalf," I go. "That's exactly why we're tapping you to go against Tiff." "Against Tiff?! I weigh 135 pounds--" starts an exasperated Lally. "Hey, a couple months from now you can examine your salmon with Stef's Sinew layout on your legs," Bon, who's still perusing the magazine, interrupts. "It's gonna be an arm freak's freakout. I think they should call it Hardening of the Arteries. You an arm freak, Lal?" Lally tries to burn holes in Bon with her eyes. "Speaking of arms, I have *14-inch* arms. I'm not on Largesse. I'm don't even take fucking *creatine*, I can't afford it since my 'rents cut off my allowance. How do I fight Tiff and make it good? You're talking about the big bare-fists Fight Night in front of the commish, right? Does she have one hand tied behind her back?" We all pause, intrigued by this notion. "Actually, that's not a bad idea," Stef muses. "It would have to be approved by Marlow. But the point is, you're gonna be in the ring against Tiff on Fight Night, and you're gonna fight to win. So start psyching yourself up for this. OK? You've gotta do this, it means Tiff doesn't go to Wuornos, it's part of a deal we have. In other words, you're doing her such a solid, she and the rest of us will be in your deep debt. Cool?" "So I'll be on the first tier," Lally figures. "Oh, yeah, for sure," assures Stef. "We may even be able to let you in on some growth drugs. You're, what, only 15?" "Yeah. I'll be 16 in two months." "Awesome. You're in the window of maximum opportunity." "One condition," says Lally quietly. "What's that?" "I want a toss from Jenna Takedown," says the little pugger, defiantly staring me in the eye. "I got your jerkoff tape, and now I want the real thing. I think I'm entitled." Shit, this tape really gets around. I wonder if the commish has a copy. "You want *me* to toss *you*?" I ask in disbelief. "Shouldn't we be reversing that vice?" Lally shrugs. "It'll be my privilege to do your ass. Just as long as you get me off, too." I look Lally Palooka over. She's a cute brunette with long silky hair that's shaved on the sides skate punk style, and she's got so many little silver rings running up and down her ears, they look like miniature Slinkys. The gothic-lettered Fuck My Mother tattoo on her left ankle is a cute touch; I guess she'll be wearing socks a lot when she finally goes home. She's got the usual Tonya tan and Tonya tone, with really good washboard abs and especially nice calves on slim dancer's legs. And her rich girl's teeth are piano key-gorgeous, just like Brooke's. "I think that can be arranged, girl," I go. "Come to my room after dinner tonight, and make sure your ass is so clean, Intel could make microchips in it." We call Marlow and fill her in on the Tiff deal. She loves it. At lunch, we're all uneasy, waiting for the Nancies to strut in. But they don't. They must be getting room service. I go over to Brooke's table--it's just her and Janet, as usual--and sit down. "How's your ass, sweetie pie?" Brooke inquires. "Feels fine. Your Julie's got a candy-coated fist." Brooke giggles. "As long as it's not a chocolate-coated fist. So rumor has it the Fight Night card is getting bigger." "Yeah. Tiff and Lee Ann will be on the bill." "Against each other?" "Of course not. Against smaller Hards. How'd you hear the card was getting bigger so fast?" Brooke smiles slyly. "I've got my sources, girl. When you're as tall as I am, you can see all the things happening around you. So, you wanna party tonight?" "I can't, Brooke. We're in fight prep mode now. No more contact. I just wanted to know if you know anything about the Nancies, what they're up to. I'm sure you know they got out this morning." "Janet," Brooke goes, "you know anything about the Nancies?" Janet looks up from her plate, where she's been studiously eating a ton of some kind of noodles and meatballs mess, and stares at us, her eyes completely hash-blown. "The Nancies are *huge*," says Janet somberly. "I think they're gonna be in seclusion till Fight Night. Hey, Jen, I'm getting the tattoo. The snake and anchor. Someone from Eppy's Dermal Dungeon is coming in tomorrow." "What do you mean, huge? Where did you see them?" "They came over for a little morning party when they got out," says Brooke breezily. "Morning becomes electric, when you've got a well-manicured mini-mitt up your ass. They all got fisted by the Coolie. You see the way she's eating with her left hand?" Brooke points to Julie, who's at the next table with a bunch of other small girls. "She got her hand crushed up Nora's ass. I mean, the Noogie's got some kind of glute grip. You could stick a bat up her butt and she could hit a homer off Major League pitching." "Are you fucking shitting me, Brooke?" "Not in the least. Look, Glo, Ice and Nora are friends of mine. Why shouldn't I let Julie service them?" "Never mind that. What about the size of the Nancies? Are they bigger than they were two weeks ago?" Brooke looks deep into my eyes with something resembling deranged love. "Definitely. Whatever drug they're on, it's the shit." I hold my tongue. She can't know that I know. "But size alone does not a great bare-fists fighter make," she goes on. "If that were the case, Bon would be insane to tangle with me." "She outweighs you, Brooke. And she happens to be a *kickass* ring fighter. If you haven't watched her tapes, you damn well should. You know, she might very well punch your face in. Which would be a shame, you're so beautiful. Why are you fighting her?" Brooke rolls her big brown eyes dramatically. "I'm fighting her because Marlow is making the card of the century here. Duh. You have any idea what a tape of me against Bon is going to be worth?" "Are you getting a cut?" She lets loose a throaty laugh that makes her pecs tremble. "I can't divulge that kind of information, sweet Jenna. I'm sure you don't tell me everything you talk about with Marlow, either." Shit, what the fuck does that mean? Did Marlow tell her about our deal? "Well, Brooke, whatever. I'm not gonna talk to you anymore till after the fights. So, like, good luck, though of course I'll be pulling for my girl Bon." "Likewise, Jen. I'm rooting for my old friend Glo, but I sure hope she doesn't put you in County. I'm looking forward to watching Julie knuckle fuck you again real soon." I go back to the Hard table, where Bon, who's glaring across the cafeteria at Brooke, says, "Why did you, like, consort with that bitch?" Shit. She doesn't know the half of it. "I didn't *consort* with her, Bon. I pumped her for information." "She looks pretty pumped all right, but not with information," says Stef admiringly. Brooke is wearing a too-small Santa Chucho High School Fall Shakespeare Festival sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, and her arms are popping like she was the merchant of venous. "Fuck me with a house, has that girl got arm shape, or what? And look at how big her bustline is, and it's all muscle!" "Now *you*, Stef?" Bon scowls. "I'm fighting for my life against that rancid cunt!" "Bon, it's not a death match," I go. "You're not taking a pound of flesh. Marlow said she won't let anyone get badly hurt." "Marlow won't have time to do anything about it," Bon assures us, as she rubs her huge hands together hungrily. "I'm gonna be on that bitch so hard and so fast Marlow won't have time to scratch her fat ass before Brooke'll have more cracks in her face than a whorehouse mirror." "Where'd you get an odd expression like that, Bon?" Flung asks, putting on her quizzical Chinese professor face. "My father. He used to say it a lot to my mother before he punched her around." "Please, let's not get into our dysfunctional pasts," Stef goes, sighing heavily. "We've got our hands full with our dysfunctional presents." "Stef, you can't be *that* worried about Nora," says Bon. "She can't be anywhere as big as you. Lighten up, girlfriend." Stef shrugs, and raises an arm to scratch her neck, making her bicep blow up like an Insta-Flate puncture-proof emergency flotation device. "Never mind. When you're as short-timed as I am, you just get real edgy. I'll be fine." And so will I, I hope. I'm sitting on my bed in nothing but a bathrobe, pumped up and muscle-rubbed down, a dab of fresh pee behind each ear, all kinds of scented candles burning and Bjork playing low on the boombox, waiting for Lally Palooka to knock on my door. I sent Flung to Sara's to play nude chess. I feel like I'm in ninth grade waiting for my girlfriend to come over. I wish it were Mrs. Roper coming over, but I can always get a backjob from her in the morning. Actually, I can't. This is supposed to be my last come till after the fights. We got the word from Marlow: Saturday night's all right for fighting, which is to say the action starts promptly at 9 p.m. with a special videotaped weigh-in ceremony for all the fighters. That's four days from now; four days where we're all supposed to be training and sparring. No dope, no booze, no sex and plenty of rest. Totally bizarre. There's a knock on the door. "Lally?" "Yeah." "Come in, it's open." Lally's wearing a Tonya Forever tee, tight jeans and sandals. "Hi," she says, shyly. "You got a nice place here." "Well, Flung keeps things neat, she's the meticulous type." "I'm not. I'm a total slob. But I'm clean, real clean. I'm *so* clean, you could eat peas outta my asshole." "Funny you should mention peas," I go. "Why's that?" "I'll tell you later. Let's have some beers and blow a doob and get to know each other." I crack two Heinekens; I have a cold 12- pack in the fridge, thanks to Penny. "Cool. Hey, what's with the kiddie pool?" It's against the wall, partially obscured by this big tapestry type thing of Flung's with karate chicks and dragons on it, but since it's so big and so bright blue, you can't miss it. "You'll find out soon enough." I open my bathrobe, tightening my oiled abs and chest so everything pops, hard-muscled flesh glistening in the candle glow, and Lally sucks her breath in and smiles, wide-eyed. I almost feel like Brooke . . . . I wish I could say the same right now. It's the weigh-in. The Hards are sitting on one side of the ring, the Nancies and the opposing Hards on the other, so we can't really see each other. Not that it would matter; we're all in bathrobes, at Marlow's request. We're all warmed up and fight-ready in full gear, which is just crotch and chest protection. The unveiling and weigh-in is supposed to be a video event, something special to titillate our select audience. Besides the commish--that's Dr. Dexter, a leering pervert if ever I saw one--there are about 15 paying guys and girls, including a few couples, who are connoisseurs of this sort of thing, I guess. And Mrs. Roper is there--but not her husband--as well as Scuzzy Ethel, Penny and Nurse Church and her gauze girls, who are standing by in case of emergency. Tiff and Lee Ann are finally out of the brig, looking none the worse for it. "It's a fucking drag we didn't get to train for this," goes Tiff. "Lucky thing we've got easy opponents." "What's so easy about my opponent?" Lee Ann asks, craning her neck to try to see Fran the Man across the ring. "She's so revved on 'roids she stands up to pee." "Oh, please!" Tiff guffaws. "She can't fight for shit, Lee, I guarantee it. You're gonna destroy her. It'll be like the basketball court all over again." "Don't remind me," says Lee Ann. "We'll never get to the bottom of *that* shit." The situation is, the lab has done all the blood testing they can do, and they came up with nothing conclusive. We have no idea what Tiff and Lee Ann were dosed with, how they were dosed or who they were dosed by. It's turned into another unsolved mystery, like Mary and the tapes. We need fucking Leonard Nimoy on this. By the way, his book of poetry, Warmed by Love, makes me come whenever I read it, but that's neither here nor there. I just threw it in 'cause I'm so nervous. Then Marlow comes over and sits down next to Tiff. "How do you feel, Tiffany?" "Great. Why do you ask?" "You're first on the card, and we don't want you killing little Lally right off the bat." "So you're asking me to go easy on her?" "No, that would be unethical. I'm asking you to fight her with one hand tied behind your back." "You're kidding." "Not at all. It was originally suggested by Jen, and I just ran it by the commissioner, and he likes it. We'll put a weight belt on you and tape the hand of your choice to it. It'll be comfortable, and it'll even up the fight a bit." Tiff looks daggers at me. "She'll punch the shit out of me!" "Oh, she will not," Marlow tut-tuts. "You kick like Kathy Long on an adrenaline suppository, Tiff, you still have a huge advantage over her. She probably can't even hurt you with her punches, you're armor plated, for God's sake. Excuse me, for Tonya's sake." Tiff shakes her head dubiously. "I don't know, Warden. I've never fought with a hand behind me before. It'll throw my balance off, make kicking really difficult, I bet." Marlow frowns and puts on her stern schoolmarm face. "Look, Tiff, the commissioner wants to see a good fight. Put on a show for him. He could send you to Wuornos if he wants to, which he originally did. *I* talked him out of it. So placate him. And me. In the very unlikely event it's going bad for you, I'll step in and help you out. I promise." "Shit. OK." Then who walks in but Denise Massey of Sinfully Sinew. We make room for her, and she sits down between me and Stef. "How ya doin', super arms?" she asks Stef. "OK, so far. Ask me again after my fight. If I can talk." Denise slaps Stef on the shoulder. "Hey, what kind of 'tude is that? You gotta have confidence in yourself. And with your size, that shouldn't be a problem. You're not fighting Brooke, right? You're fighting one of the `regular-sized' girls." "Yeah, but I'm not really a fighter, Denise. I'm more a poser. How'd you find out about this anyway? Did Marlow invite you?" "Well, actually, yeah. I happened to be here on the coast, and I called Marlow to see about the possibilities of doing a shoot with Brooke. Not now, but soon. Marlow mentioned the big fight card, asked me if I'd like to drop by. In an unofficial capacity, of course." "So you're not writing about it?" I ask. "Nah. I don't know. Maybe it'll get a mention in my column, if it's OK with the commissioner. But I'm not writing it up as a story." "*I'm* fighting Brooke," says Bon, leaning over me to talk to Denise. "So that shoot will have to wait a few months till after her plastic surgery heals." "Well, you're big enough to fight her, girl. Don't beat her up too bad, please, if you can avoid it, though. She's gonna sell a lotta copies of Sinew one day." "I'm gonna kill her, if I can," Bon assures. "That bitch Brooke killed a good friend of mine. I hope you're gonna mention in your story that she's a murderer." Denise's ears prick up. "Oh, really? Who'd she kill? And when?" "She killed a girl named Mary in Santa Chucho a little less than a year ago. Mary was an old friend of mine. I got big payback to dish out." "Killed her how?" Bon pauses, since she doesn't know. "Knifed her in the belly in a jacuzzi, then got her with an arm around the throat and held her underwater. It wasn't easy, since back then Hairy Mary was much bigger than Brooke. Packed her up in a foot locker and buried her somewhere. Body's never been discovered." I'm about to interject something to bring this conversation back down to reality when Denise goes, "*Hairy* Mary?" "Yeah," says Bon. "She was very hairy. That was her nickname from way back. She was hairy as a kid, even." "That's funny you should say Hairy Mary," Denise casually remarks. "There's a girl named Mary Kaslewski who's the subject of a big police search up in Washington right now. She's suspected of killing a couple of girls who are missing in Santa Chucho, and she's supposed to have killed a bunch of guys up north too. It was a fucking slaughter. They just found all these guys dead in some remote hunting lodge yesterday, they've been rotting for weeks. She's supposed to be flipped out on some drug. She's real big and real hairy. Used to be known as Hairy Mary, she's from NoCal, I can't remember where. I just read all about it in the paper before I came over. Really fascinating stuff." "Bon?" I go. Bon has this look on her face like she just saw a ghost eating poodle shit. "Is that her? Is her name Kaslewski?" "Yeah, it is," Bon mumbles. "Oh, fucking Tara, she's alive. Did you say she was killing guys?" "Yeah," goes Denise. "They found like eight or nine bodies in this cabin, they were massacred, but not by any weapons. Like, they were killed by *hand*, skulls crushed and backs broken and what have you. She's on the run in the backwoods of rain country. Living off the land. They're comparing her to Sasquatch already. Apparently, she's huge. Like, almost seven feet tall, by some accounts. I'll get the paper, Bon, it's still in my car. In fact, I'm thinking about driving up there tomorrow and checking the scene out personally. It could be my next book. Sorry if I disturbed you, Bonnie." Bon just sits there with this glaze on, then Penny comes over and starts chatting up Denise, and she hands her a copy of her book, Lisboa Constrictors: The Inside Story of the DaCosta Rampage, which just came out in paperback. "I'd be honored if you'd sign this for me, Denise," Penny requests with a big sexy smile. "I love the book, it's awesome." "My pleasure," says Denise. "It's selling real well in paperback so far. I'm so glad we got that great cover blurb from Cosmo: `I felt like showering after I read it.' You can't *buy* a blurb that good. Shit, I felt like showering after I *wrote* it. Golden showering!" Denise giggles, and I crack a dumb smile, wondering if Denise really likes water sports and thinking about Lally in the pool with me a few days ago, pissing a six-pack of Heini all over my tits while I had my thumbs up her ass like I was hitching a ride on a dump truck. Now the poor girl is on the other side of the ring about to get her wits robbed by Tiff, the one-armed bandit. Bon's already had her wits robbed. She's still got that shitstruck expression on her face, staring off into nowhere. "Bon," I go, "Mary's alive, you should be happy. Sort of." "I am, I guess. But the reason I'm fighting Brooke is to avenge the death of Mary." "Well, according to what Denise just told us, Mary is a drugged out homicidal maniac. She turned into a fucking monster or something. That must be Brooke's doing. You're avenging *that*. It doesn't change anything, really." "You're right," Bon goes, nodding grimly. "I've got to see that article." It'll have to wait. The bell rings to start the weigh-in. We're called up in fighting pairs to disrobe, flex for the cameras-- Marlow has hired a professional team of local video dykes called the Santa Rauncho Bas Mitzvah Babes to shoot this--and get weighed and measured by Nurse Church, who has one of those very cool Everlast Digital Dimensions units in the ring, which does your height by laser beam. Under our robes, we're all greased and ready to kick ass in tank tops over sports bras and loose but short boxers, barefooted, barefisted and quite naked in the ring, in a sense. We don't get a cornergirl, since there's no rounds to corner for. Some of us are more naked than others. Brooke is just wearing a bra, no tank top, since she skipped the chest protector. "What do I want a chest protector for?" she goes. "I've already got all the chest protection I need," as she taps her granite wall of pec with her fingertips. Hard to argue with that, but I'd like to see what happens if Bon punches her in the tit. Anyway, the weigh-in: Tiff is 5-6-1/2, 167. Lally is 5-4, 134. Marlow announces that Tiff has graciously agreed to fight with her left hand tied behind her back, to even out this discrepancy. This gets polite applause. Lee Ann is next, and she's 5-4, 161. Fran the Man is 6-1, 220, but despite the tremendous weight advantage, Lee Ann could probably beat her with a hand tied behind her. Lee Ann is massively built and deadly with her fists, her feet, her elbows, everything. Not that Fran isn't big. She trains hard on Glandex, and when you do that you're guaranteed to put on size, and not only in your clit and larynx. She's just not as big as Lee Ann, and she's surely not as strong. Then at long last we get to see the Nancies and their matching tattoos. Flung is first up, however, and she's a gorgeous 5-10, 170, leaner than she's ever been. She looks good enough to walk onstage and win the Teen Everything just as she is. But then Ice takes her robe off, and Flung is instant chopped liver with no MSG. "How could she be so big?" Stef complains. "It's only been two weeks." We're all gawking like morons, including Flung, whose Confucian bearing has been balled. Ice is 5-10-1/2, 184. Thickly muscled, dense through the chest and shoulders, traps a-bulging, heavy arms hung wide in ape-flare, it's the kind of upper bod size that spells bone-breaking power with every punch. Big legs that erupt at the thigh like pillars of power. She's not ripped at all, but she's pumped up enough to have veins playing peak-a-blue across her swollen arms when she flexes. And I'm ashamed to say I can't help staring at her rack, which is somehow bulging through all her chestwear with the sauciest raunch, so pert it hurts. "Fuck my brain with a silver dildo," I go, "that girl is 15 years old and she's already got, like, a maturely developed physique. Can you imagine her at 18?" "You got a good look at her the day you got beat up, right Jen?" Bon asks. "Was she this big?" "No, I don't think so. Not *this* big. Hey, it's been two intensive weeks of training on Titanic. This is the result. Not to worry, Flung's a great fighter." Oh, I'm worried, all right. I weigh in with Glo, who's flashing those fabulous arms for the cameras, and they look more fabulous than ever. Her flexed bicep, seen from the outside, is bigger than most arms seen from the inside. I'm my usual 5-11, 190. Glo is my height now. Fucking 5- 11, 171, ripped to the bone, veins bulging on her thighs and calves, popping across her belly, as she pulls her tank top up and crunches her abs hard for the camera. She turns her back to the camera and stands up on her toes, making what must be 20-inch calves swell up monstrously, and she looks at me over her big striated shoulder and says, "Watch out for my kicks, Jen, you remember what I did to Missy with these legs." Figures she'd have to mention Missy. I'll make her wish she was fighting Missy again. Shit, I wish she was. Then it's Stef and Nora. Stef is her usual 6-2, 235, with the biggest arms in the building. Nora can't match her numbers, but she's not far off. The Noogie is up to 6-1 and 218, she's got what must be 20-inch arms and she's got this fight face on that could give a pit bull a heart attack. Her bleached buzz cut is shaved so short her head looks like a wrecking ball, and she wisely took her nose ring out for this. Bon is her usual 6-5, up to 280. Bon is so gigantic--her chest is bigger around than Julie the Coolie is tall, and her thighs are as big around as the Coolie's chest--she makes the rest of us look puny, but then Brooke stands close and Bon seems to shrink in her shadow. Brooke is 6-9, and a pared-down, skin-thin, vein- fat 260. "She gained another half inch?" I go incredulously. "She told me she was 6-8-1/2!" "Titanic," says Stef. "It's living up to its name. Don't worry, we'll all be on it tomorrow." We all go back to our seats, except for Tiff and Lally. While Tiff is getting a weight belt strapped on, and her left hand adhesive-taped to it, a little old guy, one of the paying guests, comes over and asks if he can take me aside for a minute, he's a fan. He's not really that old, I guess, but he's got gray hair and he's kind of bent, like he's got arthritis all over. But he's got this spunky twinkle in his eye that I find kind of cute, so I figure why not. So we sit a few rows back from the other girls, and he says to me, "My name's Mickey, I'm a connoisseur of muscle girls from way back--I used to live with one, in fact, and I was a father figure to another--and I just wanted to say hello and tell you how much I admire you. I have your wrestling tape, it's wonderful." That fucking tape again! "Oh, thanks," I go. "Too bad I can't wrestle tonight. It's all fists and feet. You can't pin to win." "No problem. You're fighting the one with the super split biceps, right? She's a poser, not a fighter. You'll punch the shit out of her." "I hope so. She's got great feet." "Yeah, her legs are killer. Speaking of legs, you're getting out very shortly, right? Out of jail, I mean." "Yeah, about two months. What's that got to do with legs? You mean, like, I'll be leggin' it outta here?" "Not exactly. I'd like to give you my card, if you don't mind. I hope you'll look me up when you get out, I live nearby in Santa Shorta now. I'm recently transplanted from back East." He hands me an elaborate business card, and since I don't have any place to put it I just study it stupidly. It's got a silhouette of a guy getting his head crushed between the thighs of a very well- built girl. Weird. "I'm editor at large for Mr. Wheezy's Squeezy," he explains. "The number one scissors magazine in the country." "Scissors magazine?" "For scissors aficionados. Head scissors, chest scissors . . . I don't have to tell you about scissors, you're a wrestler. I thought maybe you'd like to get involved in this particular activity when you're released. There's good money in it. Easy money." "Crushing guys' heads for cash? I don't know. Sounds like a good way to powder someone's skull." I look down at my bare legs and and tighten the thighs, which make the quads knot up big like they took deep breaths. Mickey takes one too. "God, you have brutal legs," he goes in this bedroom voice. "I haven't thought much about what I'm gonna do when I get out of here," I reply, politely ignoring his come-on. "Right now I just want to get through Fight Night. Then see where we stand versus the Nancies. Sorry if I can't focus too well right now. There's a big sort of gang war going on in this prison, Mickey, and it's very complicated. But I'll keep your card. I might want to do something like this, who knows? You have a copy of the magazine? I've never seen it." "Yeah, I have one right here you can keep." He rummages in his shoulder bag and hands me a modest desktop kind of publishing thing, not a slick mag like Sinew. I flip through it idly and come upon an update on some guy named Margulies who had his brain popped by a very big girl named Shanna. "Look at this," I go. "They mention some girl who got sent to the Amy Fisher House of Corrections for injuring a guy during a scissors. Just what I was talking about." "Yes, I know," he says wistfully. "It was criminal sending Shanna to Amy for just trying to give a man pleasure. She's not having that bad a time there, though." "Oh, you know her?" "Very well. I used to live with her mother. I'm sort of her godfather." "Really. Yeah, I heard good things about Amy. It's different than Tonya. Like, if you're big enough and cute enough you can get special treatment from Amy herself." "It's true. And Shanna is very big and very cute. But still, to be sent to jail simply because a man has, like, a circulatory problem, it just isn't fair." "I hear you, man. I'm in here myself on a total frameup. The biggest girl on the other side of the ring, Brooke? She came after me with a gun, and *I* ended up getting busted when I defended myself." "Brooke, yes, the absolutely gorgeous, incredibly gigantic one. I was talking to your warden, and she told me to stay away from Brooke, she's quite insane." "That's good advice, Mickey." "Too bad. Some of the greatest beauties turn out to be the sickest people. Well, it's been great chatting with you, Jenna. I'd better leave you alone to get your psych on. Best of luck on your fight. Best of luck to all you Tonya girls. You're called Hards?" "Yeah, Hards. After Tonya." Mickey gives my thigh an avuncular rub with one of his little hands, and it quickly turns into a lingering, blood-pulsing *feel*, and I instinctively tighten the quad up again so it swells. "And I can see why," he leers. "You're hard as rock." So is he. I don't push his hand away, I just smile. His khakis are tented in front like Big Top Wee Wee. I don't know what's come over me. Maybe it's prefight jitters. Guys generally repulse me, but this weathered old imp has the charming wisdom of the ages about him or something. "And I'd love to talk to your friend Stef, the one with the humongous arms, but she seems very edgy tonight." "She *is* very edgy. She's our leader. She's got a lot of weight on her shoulders. I mean, besides her delts. You'd better leave her alone. She really doesn't like guys anyway. She's had some bad experiences." "Haven't we all," he sighs. And then he goes back to his seat. It's time for Tiff and Lally Palooka to go at it. Lally looks loose and sharp, every bit the experienced boxer. But she's not fighting the principal's skinny daughter. I got a blow-by-blow on that one the night Lal and I got Oksana and played in the pool. She hit the stuck-up Santa Grotona girl so hard, so fast and so over-and-over the girl was stuck in the up position, literally unconscious on her feet when they finally pulled Palooka off her. The girl lost a bunch of very expensive capped teeth, and Lally was sent packing the next day. Now she's bouncing around the ring like a spark plug, and her hand speed is stunning as she air-boxes, her fists a wicked blur, but Tiff is no slow-knuckles despite her heavy arms. Tiff is standing sideways, keeping her bound left side behind her, snapping experimental right jabs that make her fist crack like a whip. The bell rings and Lally charges out trying to throw combinations, but Tiff kicks her back to the ropes and just misses with a slashing right. Lally gamely charges in again, bobbing and weaving, lands a jab, then gets kicked in the thigh hard enough to make her stumble. It's weird watching a fight in a nearly empty gym; you can hear every blow, since the only people making noise are the Hards and the Nancies. Our side is yelling it up for Tiff, of course, while the Nancies are cheering for Lally, even though she's a Hard, since she's fighting a harder Hard. The paying guests aren't making a sound, it's like they're at the opera. Lally moves in slow this time, lifting her lead leg as if she's threatening to kick, and Tiff steps inside her foot and slams a backfist into Lally's head that rings the little girl's chimes so bad the light in her eyes goes dim. She's in trouble as she backs away and tries to cover, and Tiff measures her with her one hand and then starts ripping uppercuts into Lally's fist-covered face, but you can't play peekaboo without gloves. Lally gets beaten up right through her own hands, taking head-snapping shot after shot, there's blood leaking through her fingers. Then Tiff puts her away with a side kick to the sternum that just paralyzes her whole chest. She falls on her face and Marlow counts her out. Time 3:49. Lally is tended to by Nurse Church as Tiff is untaped from the weight belt. She comes back to her seat and gets hugs and high fives from us. "Shit, that was weird fighting with one hand," she says, flexing her freed fingers. "I hope Lally's OK, she's got heart." "I think you stopped her heart with that kick," I go. "She's OK," yells Nurse Church from the ring, where she's toweling off Lally's bloody face. "I don't think anything's broken." "That'll make Not Very Merry happy," I go. "No it won't," says Bon, and we all laugh. So far, so good. Now it's Lee Ann's turn. This should be interesting, since Fran the Man is an unknown quantity. "Lee Ann, punch her in the balls!" Bon yells. Everyone jokes about Fran's Glandexed condition--rumor has it she has to depilate her nips--but it could make her a tough fighter. Still, with Lee Ann's martial arts skills, Fran should not be a problem. But she's behaving like one. Before the bell, she's standing at ring center, bellowing at Tiff, "I'm gonna tear you a new asshole for what you did to my girl, you motherfucking shitsucking cunt!" Marlow is trying to push Fran back to her corner, and the Man is carrying on like this was a hockey fight. "Wow," says Stef, "those 'roids really fuck with your head, don't they? Fran is practically foaming at the mouth." "Soon she'll be bleeding at the mouth," I predict. And I'm not wrong. Lee Ann works all kinds of technique on Fran, kicking her high, kicking her low, then ducking in close and pounding her to the body. Fran's jab is like a old, infirm grizzly bear trying to spear a fish. She can't slash block anything, even when Lee Ann telegraphs it. "Fran can't fight," says Stef with disgust. "She must've been out of her mind to challenge Lee Ann. So Pia got her leg broken. It's not worth getting your face broken over." "It was the Glandex talking," I go. "And now it's the Glandex keeping Fran up," says Bon. "Fuck, she's taking some beating." Fran is in the corner getting punched in the face with looping roundhouses alternated with sneaky hooks, and slammed in the gut with short front kicks. The Nancies are screaming, "Get out of the corner, Fran!" but she's too dazed to get her legs working, and she finally grabs onto Lee Ann and starts bleeding all over her. Somehow Fran got cut above her eye and it's a mess. Lee Ann tries to shake her off, can't, and Marlow separates them only to have Fran plop down on her ass and sit panting on the canvas, too groggy to move. Marlow counts her out while she's stuck there, blood running from her eye all down the side of her face, blood running from her nose, which has to be broken, into her smashed mouth, which in turn is bleeding down her chin. Time: 3:14. Lee Ann comes back to a round of hugs and high fives, while two of Church's gauze girls walk the staggered Fran to the infirmary, a bloody towel draped around her neck, a bloody compress on her gash. "Well, that was a total mismatch," says Lee Ann. "Janet should've fought her. That would've been a good fight." "Janet's a Nancy now," I go. "Well, so's Gonorrhea Pia," goes Lee Ann. "I assume she quit the Hards after what I did to her leg. So Fran has to go with her, right?" "Fran has to go to 'roid rehab," says Bon. "She bit off way more than she can chew." "I wouldn't even let her chew me," says Lee Ann. "She's just not cute." "I wonder what Pia sees in her," Stef muses. "An absence of gonorrhea," I go, which gets a laugh. The story on Pia is she got raped by her cousins when she was 10, and the way they got nailed was they gave her the clap, which they all had. She didn't get revenge on them, though, that's not why she's in Tonya. She poked some guy's eye out with a broken beer bottle during a party in someone's basement. She doesn't have a lot of luck. Right now I'm praying Flung does. She's in the ring with Ice, who looks downright intimidating. Tiff shakes her head in amazement. "Remember Ice when we first met her? She was 5-3, 122. She was all tit, no muscle. Her rack was out of all proportion to her shoulder width." "She seems to have taken care of that problem," I go, wincing as Ice flexes her thick lats and bulging delts and I think back to the day when she punched Wendy's face in like it was eggshells. "We know she can punch from the Janet fight," says Stef, who's as nervous as I am. "But she can't kick." "And Flung can," I add. We've been over this all before. We're just jawing. We spent the last four days working out our fight strategies. But now that she's in the ring with this vicious kid, we're worried about Flung. She's not big on fighting since Betty beat the crap out of her. Plus, she has a soft spot for Ice, who used to be her lover. The bell rings, and there's no more time for soft spots. Flung starts out well, jabbing, circling, probing with her lead leg, while Ice just keeps her guard up and reacts, not doing much of anything but looking for a chance to counter. She gets it after about a minute and a half, putting a perfect right on Flung's chin as our girl comes in off a short left to the body, looking to follow with the right upstairs. But Flung is now downstairs. The punch puts her on the canvas, and she looks up at Marlow in painful startlement, as Marlow starts a slow count. She gets up on six and starts circling and jabbing again, as Ice continues to play it cautious, though Ice is snapping more jabs now, and they really snap. The girl's a natural born pugger, she's like a hypertrophic Lally. "Chopper!" I yell at the ring. "Chopper!" This is designed in part to confuse Ice--she'll think I mean "chop her," like Flung is going to strike with the side of her hand--but it really means "helicopter," which is to say it's time for Flung to start rotating. The girl's a martial arts whirligig, really good at spinning back kicks, back fists and anything else that involves heavy Chinese body English. But before Flung can get anything in motion, Ice steps inside a jab with an expert slash block and whips her elbow up into Flung's eye. Fucking Tara. Ice follows this with a series of wicked roundhouses that batter Flung's head as she's bulled against the ropes, and as she grabs at Ice to hold on, Ice wrenches loose and fires a barrage of uppercuts, one of which lands so hard it straightens Flung up like she's been snapped to attention. Then she falls on all fours, blood dripping in a thick strand of gummy drool from her mouth, as Marlow starts counting again. I'm tempted to yell, "Stay down!" but I don't. Flung, panting on her hands and knees, looks like a loser at this point, but it's too dishonorable to quit, so she struggles to her feet on seven. Nurse Church wipes her face off and looks it over. Flung's right eye is closing from the elbow, and her lips are bleeding. Three minutes have elapsed. They go at it again, and after some spirited jabbing on both sides that doesn't get anywhere, Flung executes a spinning backfist that's a bit mistimed and catches Ice on the shoulder. It hits her so hard it makes her stumble, and Flung is there with a roundhouse kick to the chest to follow, but she's off balance and can't get anything going as Ice backs up to the ropes and hides behind her big arms. More circling and jabbing ensues, with Flung still the aggressor. "Go wide left!" yells Nora from the other side of the ring. I know just what she means. Flung can't see out of her right eye now. Ice circles to Flung's weak side, faking short rights, looking to slip a fast left in, and panicky Flung takes preventive measures, spinning suddenly into a back kick that would be devastating if Ice's arm wasn't in the way. Flung is off balance again, and Ice whizzes a left hook by her head that could have ripped it right off, then Ice kicks Flung in the knee--her first kick of the fight--to keep her off balance, but Flung darts in low ahead of her collapsing leg and hits Ice hard in the gut and ribs with a perfect combo, the kind of shots that could double someone over in agony. It has no effect. It would be like me punching Brooke. Does Titanic harden your midsection somehow? Toughen your whole torso? Add some kind of inhuman tensile strength to the muscles? No time to wonder. My girl is in dangerously low and close to her opponent, and Ice drops an elbow onto the top of Flung's head, then gently raises her knee into her pretty, plummeting face. The face comes up, the nose trickling blood, and Ice rips a left hook across the jaw that literally puts Flung in the air, then she lands heavily on her back with her head almost under the ropes. "That's it!" I yell. "Three knockdowns, that's enough." "There's no three-knockdown rule!" Glo shouts up at Marlow from the other side. Flung is flat on her back, staring up at the lights, her arms akimbo, her chest heaving, blood running from her nose down each cheek, a camera dyke standing right above her on the apron shooting down at her face, which must look pretty freaky in upside-down closeup. Marlow, who could already have counted her out, is just standing there with her hands on her hips, listening to Glo babble about the rules. Marlow walks over to the ropes and looks down at the commish, who is smoking a cigarette and drinking a martini. There's this waiter type guy who's actually been wheeling around a bar cart, like this was a catered affair. "Do you think this girl's had enough, Commissioner Dexter?" Marlow asks. "That's entirely up to her," says the commish. "She's been down long enough to be counted out, obviously, but if she wants to continue I think she should be allowed to, assuming her opponent agrees. These are special circumstances. Otherwise she's KO'd and it's over." Flung has gotten herself to a sitting position by now, and she's motioning to Nurse Church for assistance. Church enters the ring, towels off Flung's bloody face, and Flung gets up and tells Marlow she wants to keep fighting. Marlow checks with Ice, who of course agrees to continue. What does she have to lose? The clock stopped at 6:03 when Flung went down, and now Flung has another opportunity to have her clock stopped. We Hards don't offer much of a protest. We don't throw in a towel or anything, not that we have a towel. Flung's her own girl. If she's gonna lose--and she is--she wants to lose clean. It's not just an Asian thing now, it's a Tonya thing. So they go at it again, and we yell encouragement and tell Flung to protect her weak side, which Ice is clearly leaning toward, but about a minute later, as the two of them are doing a sweaty slow grope in the corner and Marlow is about to step in and break them, Ice muscles her big arms up and gets Flung in a grip behind the neck and it's all over. Neck grabs and knee drives are legal here just like they were in the old ring of judgment days, and Ice fires the knee now, hard and sure, and Flung just doesn't have the strength left to block it, though she's trying to web her hands. Ice whips the knee again and again, pounding Flung's face like a battering ram, and Marlow doesn't step in to stop it till at least half a dozen knee rockets have been launched, though we're all screaming like maniacs and I'm a second away from jumping into the ring myself. Marlow finally pulls Ice away as Flung crumples like a corpse, and Nurse Church and her assistants run in, already knowing they need to get this girl packed off to County ASAP. There's an ambulance standing by outside, thank Tonya. The fight ran 7:47, and it looks like Flung ran *into* a 747. They lift the inert Flung over the ropes and load her onto a gurney as Ice struts around the ring for the cameras, making big arms and pointing coyly at her right knee, which is smeared red, blood running in trickles down to her ankle. We run over to the gurney and I look into Flung's face, but there's not much face there, just blood everywhere, already repooled though Church just wiped her clean seconds ago. It looks like she's lost teeth, though it's hard to tell with the way her lips are blown up. Tonya only knows what happened to her mouthpiece. Maybe it was rammed down her throat. I try to make some kind of contact with her, but she doesn't seem to be conscious, though her mouth and hands are twitching. "You'll be OK, babe," I go, my voice cracking as I clutch her fingers. "Hang tough, we love you!" And as I turn from Flung's bloody, broken departure, there's Glo in the ring, her big split biceps dancing, waiting with an evil grin to do the same job on me.