Jenna 2
By Avida Dolor (avidadolor@aol.com)
Chapter 1, Jenna Takedown: NADS Buster


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 1999 Avida Dolor 

Chapter 1 

The crowd is getting big, filling up the whole gym floor, and I'm 
nervous. I've never seen so many girl gangbangers in one place before, 
not even at Tonya, and these chicks are passing pints of Jack Daniels 
around and openly smoking joints. Shit, these NRA Rimfire Girls sure 
aren't like your typical fucking Brownie troop. I mean, they have a 
merit badge in pistol-whipping! And they don't sell cookies door-to-
door, they sell hand-loaded shotgun shells. They're not packing tonight, 
though. Thank the Goddess for the metal detectors. Still, there are so 
many of them, and some of them are so big, they could trample Stef and 
me like a herd of elephants. The Rimfire equivalent of den mothers--
brawny, thick-wristed chicks with permanent target squints, who are from 
the Lock 'n' Load Ladies, the NRA's paramilitary women's division--c 
ordon off the stage with their bodies and bellow to their girls to "keep 
it holstered." 

Then she comes out in this sequined and spangled red, white and blue 
bikini and hits a double bi, giving the crowd a big toothy grin, the 
gorgeous gray eyes flashing with defiance, her bleach-streaked mall 'do 
pulled back tight in a power pony, the veins pulsing in her temples. The 
mob not only has it out of the holster now, they're waving it around and 
firing it in the air like this was Chuck Heston's birthday. Some girls 
are throwing their bras and panties with their phone numbers written on 
them, while others are Frisbeeing nude Polaroids with their vital stats 
and email addresses scrawled on the edges. What is it about Tonya that 
drives women wild? Well, lately it's her fucking incredible *size*. We 
finally learned why Tonya never visited her namesake institution while 
we were there. And we now know why she wore a baggy long-sleeve white 
shirt on the Fox "reconciliation" show with the odious Nancy. She was in 
seclusion, doing Largesse and training with Chili Rodriguez, the former 
Miss Baja Blowup Doll and one of the leading butt-featists in Cali, by 
the way--a woman who can crack enough nuts with her ass to make 
squirrels stand up on their little hind legs and ejaculate. Anyway, 
Tonya wisely took a cue from her East Coast counterpart, Amy Fisher, and 
realized she needed to get huge to have a decent-size career. She got 
tired of helping old ladies across the street up in rain country while 
she blathered on and on about how she didn't have a clue about the 
Kerrigan capping--like anyone would buy that for a *nanosecond*--and 
when the Reckless Wrestling Federation beckoned, she heeded the call. 

And her body heeded the call of Largesse. She even put on three inches 
heightwise, which is totally amazing considering she was 27 when she 
started. As a rule, Largesse won't lengthen you when you're out of your 
natural growth window. No 'troph will. But she put on a full three 
vertically, and way more than that everywhere else on her bod. 
Unfortunately, she's only 5-4 now, having started out as a veritable 
endomorphic pixie. Stef and I are a foot taller than she is, which 
doesn't seem to bug her too much. I mean, she *chose* us as bodyguards. 
She wears big heels a lot, and we always wear sneakers, but still, she's 
always looking *up* at us, like she was a kid. But no kid has a body 
like this. She's carrying 200 pounds now on that 5-4, and she's carrying 
it real well. I mean, yeah, her thighs rub together worse than a fat 
girl's when she walks, and her calves actually hit each other if she 
strides with her feet too close; her lats are in permanent apelike flare 
and her arms and shoulders are so thick she can't scratch her back with 
her own hand anymore, but what the hell, she always had the big bones 
for this kind of body, and it suits her to a tee--a hot pink baby tee, 
like the one she's wearing in the $19.95 autographed poster that's in 
every teen musclegirl's room from Seattle to San Diego. Tonya's big in 
the West these days. She has yet to catch on in the East, but she hasn't 
toured there yet, and they don't air the RWF out there, it's still on, 
like, regional cable. 

Anyway, the crowd. It's pressing closer to the stage like it wants to 
give Tonya a big life-crushing hug, but Ton is cool, running daintily in 
her four-inch red, white and blue spangly spike heels from one end of 
the stage to the other, making sit-down motions with her arms, husking, 
"OK, everybody, let's get out on the ice and chiiiillll" into her mic--
she's wearing a headset like Madonna and Janet use. 

As always, someone in the audience yells, "Let's get out on the ice and 
break Nancy's fuckin' legs!" but that's just part of the show. 

Then Tonya says, "If everyone sits down and stays real quiet, I'll hit 
all my best shots. It'll make your knees weak." 

There's a general agreement with this concept, and the place goes pretty 
silent, save for the odd "Take your top off!" and "Show us your ass!" 

So Tonya starts working it out. She came up with a pretty good idea to 
enhance her posing--she moans ecstatically while she pumps herself up, 
her groans of pleasure amped by the super sound system so it's like 
we're inside her skin. She puts her hands behind her head, exhales hard 
and makes her abs explode,  letting loose with this long "Uuugggghhhhh," 
the bulging rows of gut muscle glinting under the lights like freshly 
sharpened skate blades. Jesus, Ton's got some kinda midsection. She's 
won every drunken gut punch contest we've ever had. Stef and I have 
pounded her belly many times, and it's like hitting a brick wall. We 
always go to our knees before she does. Now she's got the crowd on *its* 
knees, just like she said she would. She shakes out one immense thigh, 
then freeze-flexes it, toes pointing at the audience like a taunt, the 
nails painted Transfusion Red. Oooohs and Aaaahs are rippling across the 
assemblage and girls are shifting in their seats trying to contain their 
pent-up sex energy. She does the same with the other thigh, then pivots 
on one foot and stands up high on the toes of her leg-show shoes so the 
calves inflate even bigger, the veins bulging across them, arcing up 
into the massed mesas of hamstring as she slowly pulls one leg up and 
back, then switches to the other, alternating now, teasing up the thigh 
bi's that tie into the giant ball peens of her glutes like machined meat 
parts. "Uuunnnnnnhhhh." She's working her fists into her hips now and 
pulling the elbows forward so her back starts to enlarge like someone's 
pouring concrete into a shell. "Gaaaaaahhhhh," she groans, the deep blue 
vasc starting to swell across her st riated traps, her huge melons of 
glute dimpled deep in the sides, all the muscle hunched into handgrips 
that are so big I can barely get my mitts around them. "Ooooohhhhh," Ton 
coos, breathing hard into the mic like she's making an obscene phone 
call to herself. 

One of the Lock 'n' Load Ladies at the front of the stage, a big-bellied 
brunette with "Unconcealed Weapon" tattooed on the back of each of her 
fists, whimpers like a bitch in heat and jams a hand into her Wranglers. 
She's masturbating like an adult wind-up toy, this faraway look in her 
bloodshot eyes. What an example for her Rimfire charges. Actually, many 
of them have started frigging *each other*, and one girl way in the back 
is actually doggie fucking her friend with a strapon. Jesus, this is the 
gymnasium of Mother of Mercy High School, you're not even allowed to 
*spit* on the hardwood. I hope that huncher is wearing the official 
Tonya "Olymprick" model, at least, with patented "triple lutz nutz 
action." Yeah, Tonya's got some heavy marketing going on now, thanks to 
the She Roids, but wait a minute, I better backtrack. Like Ricky would 
say to Lucy, I got some 'splainin' to do. 

Well, lemme 'splain. It's the summer, and Stef and I have been out of 
the Tonya Harding Correctional Facility for Girls for about eight 
months. We've been on Titanic all that time, training like animals at a 
private gym run by the Roids, and we've gotten pretty hefty. We're both 
6-4, I'm 250 and she's 260. The 10 pounds she's got on me is all muscle, 
and Stef remains bigger and stronger than me, and her arms are so 
totally the bomb--they pump to 23-1/2 and may someday actually be bigger 
than her waist like chicks in comic books--she already got her second 
Sinfully Sinew layout, and this time she got the cover *and* the 
centerfold. But my growth has been the more dramatic. I was 5-11, 190 
when we started on T; Stef was 6-2, 235. Titanic isn't turning us into 
giantesses like it did for Brooke and Bonnie, but that's just as wel l. 
I'm still trying to adjust to being 6-4. I mean, everyone stares at you 
on the street like you're a total freak. Of course, that's not just the 
height, it's the tits and the muscles. Like, 20-inch arms and a 55-inch 
DD chest are kinda noticeable. OK, a lot of the bra size is really back 
width, but still, Titanic has put a pair on me like I do not believe. 
When I was little I used to suck on the waschcloth in the tub; now I 
can't stop sucking on my own nips in the shower--I mean, they're just 
jiggling there, thick and chewy out in front of my face like mocha 
Malomars. Stef is racked out like a super bimbette too, a full cup size 
bigger than I am, though she was always pretty lusty-busty, even back in 
her pre-Ton hetero days. 

Anyway, I got out of jail a little ahead of Stef and moved into this 
little bungalow kind of house with Michelle From Hell, who's living in 
Santa Chucho, my hometown. By the way, Harry Dexter, the Cali juvie 
commish, made a deal with me that turned out to be totally bogus. I got 
fucked more ways than I can count with that early release in return for 
a night of motel sex. I since learned I would've been sprung no later 
than a couple weeks after Stef anyway, since the She Roids had big plans 
to pair us off as training partners so we could get huge together. They 
had us recruited from the get-go, even though we didn't know it. Anyway, 
I didn't want to go back to my 'rents. They were still being pretty nice 
to me, but they don't really get the muscle thing, even though they were 
always supportive during my high school wrestl ing career, probably 
'cause I always won. If all those 200-pound slobs I used to pin had been 
lying on me like I was a Sealy Posturepedic, I bet my mom and dad 
wouldn've urged me to join the chess team. Anyway, I didn't want to 
freak them out. I knew I'd be getting humongous on Titanic and training 
constantly, real heavy, dropping big weights on the floor, sitting 
around all the time in a superpumped stupor sipping Designer Protein 
shakes and touching myself. 

But I couldn't even take two weeks with Michelle. She had guys over all 
the time, cuffed in her "dungeon"--really the second bedroom--wailing 
while she whipped them. It's not easy being a dominatrix. And it's not 
easy rooming with one. I had to leave the house whenever she had a 
client, I couldn't stand all the mewling. When Stef got out we agreed 
we'd take an apartment together, then the She Roids, via Evelyn Roper, 
the Tonya resident psychologist and Roids recruiter, made us an offer we 
couldn't refuse. A really cool apartment in Santa Shorta, rent-free, and 
a salary of $1,000 a week for each of us. It's paid off the books; 
somehow the money just shows up in the checking accounts they opened for 
us. And we don't really do anything to earn it. It's like we're on 
retainer. The Roids are just letting us grow, waiting for the moment 
when we're ripe. 

Then, a month ago, Tonya came out of seclusion, looking to do a West 
Coast inspirational tour of juvie jails, girl's groups and Reckless 
Wrestling shows, and she needed bodyguards. She wanted 'em big, cute and 
young. Tonya has good taste, and she tastes good. We're both 18, we're 
street legal, and we've got "big" and "cute" under control. We got the 
gig. So we travel a lot, we've been up and down Cali and all over rain 
country. Done shows at Tonya, of course, and all the other juvie joints: 
Joanne Chesimard (very tough crowd) Aileen Wuornos (pretty tough crowd) 
and Heidi Fleiss (bunch of pussycats). We're going to go to Susan 
McDougal in Arkansas and Karla Faye Tucker in Texas soon, then we'll go 
east and hit Amy Fisher, if we can work out a deal with Amy Fisher 
herself. She doesn't want to get into an Amy-Tonya rivalry unle ss the 
money's right. Tonya's got a Sinew centerfold coming out next month 
that's going to take a lot of the limelight away from Amy, who's a 
familiar face on the scene. Maybe too familiar. Overexposure is a 
problem in the fleshflex business. And so's getting shown up by a 
"smaller" girl. Tonya packs almost as much bulk as Amy's got into a 
package five inches shorter. And since Ton doesn't tan, she's got a 
whole different look; a milk-fed complexion with girl-next-door freckles 
that really brings the veins out like a cobalt bank vault. Not only 
that, but Amy just got sprung for real from the big house. She had a 
deal with the state for years where she was technically a free agent, 
but now she's free as a bird of prey. Unless she's got a contract with 
the Roids--or the NADS. Anything's possible with a loose cannon on a 
short fuse like Amy. 

Anyway, things are going just peachy till Stef comes in one Saturday 
from shopping while I'm sitting in sweat-soaked panties and sports bra 
in a stupor with the TV on after spontaneously slaughtering my arms with 
bells and an EZ Kurl bar. I wasn't skedded for a bi blast, but when the 
blood calls, I answer. That's the way it is on Titanic, especially when 
you get past a certain size. We don't really worry about overtraining--
on this drug you *can't* overtrain, it builds you back up faster than 
you can tear yourself down. And the strength! I'm handling poundages I 
wouldn't have dreamed of moving in my Tonya days. So Stef is standing 
there, blue eyes beaming with excitement, and she says, "Unbelievable 
fucking great news, Jen. I spotted Dennis in Tower Records today. 
Followed him to the mall, took him out, got his wallet. I know where he 
lives. A little house in Santa Retributa. Let's go get his girlfriend, 
pump her for info." She's grinning like a piranha. 

Not *too* Tara. I was afraid this would happen. Dennis is one of the 
five guys who raped Stef when she was in high school. "What do you mean, 
you took him out?" 

Stef pours herself a Stoli at the bar and motions for me to fire up a 
doob while she explains. "He went out a side entrance of the Retributa 
Mall. This entrance was way in the middle of nowhere, down a long 
corridor, no one else around, and it opened onto a near empty parking 
lot. This is not a popular mall, even on a weekend. He didn't have any 
idea I was following him till it was too late. I mean, he never turned 
around to see there was this 6-4 blonde behemoth behind him till he was 
going into the revolving door. It's this heavy brass door with really 
heavy glass. But it spins fast. Anyway, I had him trapped in the door--I 
stopped it turning before he could get out--then I spontaneously started 
to jerk the door back and forth so it was hitting him going both ways. 
The effect was tremendous." Stef sighs, her chest swelli ng up huge, and 
her eyes get all dreamy. "His face and the back of his head were getting 
slammed into the glass hard enough to put cracks in it--I mean in the 
glass *and* his skull," she says in tones of hushed pleasure. "So I just 
kept hauling on it, it was like some kind of *rowing* movement, like I 
was training. He fell down finally, but I kept going 'cause the door was 
still hitting his head. Then I stopped. There was blood all over the 
glass and someone was sure to come by eventually. I checked him out. He 
was unconscious and he looked really bad, like a truck ran over him a 
few times. But he wasn't dead. So I cleaned out his pockets and broke 
his neck." Stef smiles and waves his keys at me. 

"Tell me you didn't leave prints on the door," I go. 

"Do I look like an idiot?" she asks, offended. "I wore my Dan Lurid 
lifting gloves, the full-fingered ones. Good thing, too. Could really 
get a bad callous hauling on those doors." She looks over her hands--a 
pair of pulverizing meat mitts that can rip a phone book in half like it 
was a Maxi pad--and frowns like she's contemplating a trip to the nail 
salon. 

I pass her the jay and she hands me the Stoli she poured for me without 
asking if I wanted one. I want one. She's freaking me out here. When we 
first got out of Tonya, she talked a lot about getting the guys who 
raped her, but she couldn't find any of them--like, they weren't listed 
in the phone book, they knew when she was getting out--and she started 
to forget about it as she got into training on Titanic and sharing her 
bed with me full time. 

I better do some more 'splainin'. Stef got two years in Tonya in the 
first place for arson. She set fire to the frat house where her rapists 
lived, but they all got out safely thanks to the smoke alarms. She got 
raped in the first place 'cause she was unconscious. She was a naive 
high school girl dating Brad, a college jock, and she played some of 
those stupid drinking games in the frat house, passed out and they took 
turns fucking her, and they all had more than one turn and none of them 
used protection and she got pregnant and had an abortion. Whew! I had to 
get that out fast 'cause it makes me mad to think about it. But not as 
mad as it makes Stef. It makes her positively livid. But right now she 
seems giddy with glee. 

"How'd you break his neck?" I hate to rain on her parade, but I need to 
know. 

"I twisted it like it doesn't go." She looks at me funny, like it's a 
dumbshit question. "I turned his chin around so it was touching his 
*back*." 

"You sure his neck broke?" 

"I heard it snap. It made a big noise. And then his head went way limp, 
it was just hanging real weird. You're not the only one who knows how to 
break a neck, Ms. Takedown. You have issues with this?" 

"I'm just trying to make sure you killed him. He turns up alive, he'll 
finger you. I definitely have issues with *that*." 

Stef snorts. "He's not fingering anything except a flaming harp in 
hell." 

"So what are you gonna do now? What'd you say about his girlfriend?" 

"We're gonna get her and see if she knows where Brad is. Or any of the 
other ones. I assume Dennis was still tight with them. They have this 
bond with each other--the violation of my body." 

"He didn't have an address book on him?" 

"No." 

"How about a cell phone?" 

"Yeah. I checked the programmed numbers. No guy's names I'm looking 
for." 

"You didn't use the phone, right? The calls can be traced." 

Stef looks at me again like I'm mondo retardo. "Jen, I'm Def Stef, 
former Head Hard, now a Sinew covergirl and one of Tonya Harding's 
bodyguards? Excuse me, do I look like a moron? Is there a fucking drool 
cup around my neck? I took the battery off the phone and threw it all in 
a Dumpster." 

"He was going to his car, right? Did you check his car?" 

"Fucking A. Shithead drives a little Beemer. Nothing in it I could use. 
I *did* drive it out of the lot though, and put it on a side street 
where it might not be noticed for days. Took all the ID out of the glove 
compartment. Basically, if his car's left alone, the cops won't know who 
this guy is till he's reported missing and he's ID'd by someone. How's 
that for smarts, babe? So right now what I guess is his girlfriend, he 
had no wedding band--Brittany, her picture's in his wallet--is home 
waiting for him to come back." 

"How do you know she's home? Did you go over there?" 

"I drove by the house. There was a car in the driveway, a Neon, little 
girlie kind of car. I'm assuming it's hers." 

"So when do you want to go over there?" 

Stef sort of hugs herself and starts rubbing her arms real slow and 
sensual. She does this all the time lately, like being so big requires a 
constant reality check. "Now."  

We're driving to Retributa, a partly loaded Stef at the wheel of our 
fully loaded GMC Jimmy. We don't like a truck named after a guy, but 
we'll take it. It's free, it came with the apartment. I've got a bad 
case of nerves, and the fact that I'm not Zestfully clean isn't helping. 
Stef wouldn't let me shower. We had to take immediate action. I just put 
on clean clothes and she rushed me out of the house, so I've got this 
skanky locker room aroma on my skin that she insists is hornier than 
musk. So I'm sitting there in my musk cloud staring at the wallet photo 
of what we think is Dennis' girlfriend--written on the back is 
"Brittany, Lake Manioc, 1999." I have no idea where Lake Manioc is, but 
I can say for sure that Brittany is a first-class piece of ass. She's 
standing at the water's edge in the photo, in hiking boots, cutoffs and 
a tube top with an unbuttoned grunged-out flannel shirt over it with the 
sleeves ripped off at the shoulder. She's deep-tanned and voluptuous, 
with hefty thighs and arms, a robust rack and a surprisingly hard 
midsection. "Stef, this Brittany is a hottie." 

"Yeah. Maybe we'll keep her for a few days. I'm thinking we can take her 
to Michelle's." 

"Really? How are we supposed to keep a prisoner at a little house where 
a dominatrix has guys over every day?" 

"So Michelle will take a few days off. We'll pay her for her time, if 
she insists. We can afford it." 

I don't argue. I sure don't want anyone stashed in *our* place. "How big 
do you think she is?" I ask while waving the photo. "She looks pretty 
*large* here to me." 

Stef glances at the pic in my hand. "Hard to say, without any scale of 
reference. I'd peg her for a cruiserweight for sure. And cruising her 
would be worth the wait. Poor Dennis. He won't be dipping his fountain 
pen in the inkwell anymore. I broke his pencil neck." She chuckles. 

"You never killed anybody before," I say soberly 

"No, I didn't. And I really enjoyed it. Too bad they disbanded the Doom 
Patrol. I'd probably make a better assassin than a bodyguard." 

"Stef, you're no fucking savage killer. This is just a personal thing." 
I don't want to think about Stef as a cold-blooded killer. She's so 
sweet. "I don't believe the gut on this girl," I go, just to change the 
subject as I study the pic some more and stifle the urge to put a hand 
in my pants. I like to frig myself a lot lately. I mean, more than 
usual. I think it's a Titanic side effect. Or front effect. "She looks 
so zaftig, yet she's sixed-out in the belly." 

"I bet she's got some heavy muscle bulk in those thighs and arms too," 
says Stef. "Big broad with a big broad back. Can take a fucking and keep 
on trucking. I know Dennis' taste. He likes strong girls. That's why he 
was so fucking amped to party with me back then. I was a high school 
total jockette, top field athlete, on all the teams. They didn't have 
girl's football, but if they did I would've ruled. Coulda played both 
ways, tight end and middle linebacker. I was like 5-10, 175 back then, 
strong as a half dozen cheerleaders. Used to do a tug of war with the 
whole squad and win. Could clean and press a full keg of beer no sweat. 
That  impressed the shit out of Dennis. I did my keg show the night all 
those fuckers raped me. Should never've got off the beer. Those scumbags 
talked me into switching to scotch. That did me in. You know they left 
me in a park? Put me on the grass under a tree in some fucking little 
park near campus. Did I ever tell you that part?" 

Shit, this is so Tara. "Yeah, you did, Stef." 

"I woke up, it was just daylight, and I started puking as soon as I sat 
up. When I finished hurling my guts up, I found out what a fucking mess 
my cunt was. It was so caked with come it made me dry heave so hard I 
thought I'd spit up a lung. They put my jeans back on me but they didn't 
close them. My crotch was so swollen they probably couldn't have if they 
wanted to. They actually had the temerity to claim I left their room 
under my own power and I must've been jumped in the park and raped by a 
gang." 

"Stef, you don't have to relive this." 

"Dennis won't be." 

"What about this girl? We don't have to kill her, do we? She's not part 
of your revenge." 

"I'm hoping we can scare her into silence and not even have to hurt her. 
Well, we scare her into silence after she tells us what we want to know. 
She's gotta give up Brad. I want him so bad it's making my knuckles 
ache." 

I have a bad feeling about this. Things were going so well for us. I 
finally got over all the death that went down in Tonya. All the video 
snuffs that are now in the possession of Harry Dexter; the suicide of 
Missy; the fatal ring beating of Flung; Brooke's poor little slave who 
got her head caved in with a paper towel dispenser and sent my sweet 
Sara to Texas, where she won't come back from even though she's free. 
All this was behind me, part of another life, though I still want Sara 
back in *this* life. But now Stef's killed somebody and she's looking to 
kill again. She thinks she can get away with all this 'cause the Roids 
will clean up after her, and no doubt they will. She's one of their 
prized possessions. Still, murder is bad karma. Why can't she just, say, 
shatter their knees? A good Tonya-style double capping. And maybe a 
couple wicked nut punches, just so they know to keep their dicks clean. 

"Don't worry about anything, Jen," Stef says out of nowhere like she was 
reading my mind, as she rubs my bloated left bi with her big hand. 
"Jesus, you're *pumped*, girl. And we're on a sanctified mission. These 
are justified killings, it's a holy vendetta. And the full power of the 
Roids is behind us. They can kill Wendy O. and the whole world thinks 
it's a suicide." 

"And now they got Dana Plato, that poor little thing. Fuck, they can be 
so evil. I don't believe we work for them." 

"I don't believe we work for Tonya. It's a dream come true. It's a true 
come dream." 

Tonya! The sudden realization causes my arm to tighten, which swells the 
bicep into Stef's palm, and her fingers wrap around the fat, hard muscle 
bellies and start kneading the gorged flesh like massage magic. "Shit, 
we've got a show tonight," I groan. "Tonya's at the Hideeho. You haven't 
forgotten, have you?" 

"Fuck, no. We don't have to be there till 9, girlfriend. Chill. It's 
friggin' 4:30. What you need is a good rubdown." She drops her free hand 
into my lap, the fingers pressing forcefully into my crotch, and I 
exhale long and slow, pressing my back into the seat, feeling the heat 
rise from my hips like sex steam. But it's strictly a tease--we're here. 
We pull into the driveway, blocking the Neon, and walk quickly around 
back, unlocking the kitchen door with the key. Brittany is sitting at 
the kitchen table with another girl and they've got what must be a pound 
of pot in front of them. They're weighing out eighths on a scale. "Roll 
us a nice fat joint, Brittany," says Stef. 

"What the fuck is this, Brit?" says the other girl sourly. She's short, 
cute and busty, with what appears to be the same kind of meaty-strong 
bod as her friend. 

Brittany's looking up at us, her mouth hanging open in wonder, her 
pretty brown eyes getting wide with terror as we're towering there in 
her kitchen, wearing ominous Killer Loop wraparound shades, tight jeans 
and Doc Marten stompers, muscles bulging insanely out of our Tonya 
Forever braless baby tees, stiff nipples thrusting dangerously. "You 
came for the smoke, right?" she says quietly. 

"Who's this girl?" Stef says, nodding at the short one, who has red and 
blue punk streaks in her black hair. 

"I'm Caitlin," says the short one. "Who are you? Brit, why do these 
totally awesome fucking girls have keys to the house? Tell me they're 
moving in with us." 

Brittany stands up, making a terrible squeaking noise with her chair as 
she pushes it back over the linoleum. She's standing very close to us, 
since it's not a roomy kitchen and we're all so big. Including her. 
She's barefoot, in cutoffs, just like in the picture, and a Raiders 
football jersey. I peg her at 6 feet, gotta be at least 200. The legs 
are very sturdy, brutally heavy thighs and big springy calves that I 
can't wait to see from the rear. "Who are you two and what do you want? 
Did Dennis give you the keys? Is this one of his party ideas?" 

Stef chuckles. "This is definitely one of Dennis' party ideas, but 
unfortunately he won't be able to party with us today. Caitlin, why 
don't you roll a joint and get some beers for us all. I'm sure there's 
beer in the fridge, right?" 

Caitlin looks at Brittany, who nods OK. She gets up and goes to the 
fridge. She's maybe 5-4 in sandals, about Tonya's height, and built on 
the same endomorphic scale, with huge calves exploding under her beige 
Capri pants, they must be close to 20 inches, plummeting precipitously 
to straight-razor ankles that are tattooed with a red and black 
intertwined barbed wire and chain motif. It's the shit. Can't see her 
upper bod, she's in a UCLA sweatshirt, but she's got a definite lifter's 
vibe. "Paging Kim Zmeskal. Girl, I don't believe the locomotive legs on 
you," I go. 

Caitlin looks over her shoulder with the fridge door open, smiling 
demurely, and stands up on her toes so the calves pop big as melons, as 
the crunchy cartilage noises in her ankles and knees barely mask the 
sound of my breath whistling out in love shock. I recently developed a 
calf fetish from watching the Soleus Sisters perform at the Hideeho. 
"They're mostly genetics," she says in mock modesty. "I had a pair of 
diamond-studded bombs when I was, like, 8." 

"But you train, right?" I ask. "You both do, I can tell." 

"Yeah, we train," says Caitlin, as she hands us cans of Coors Light. 
Dennis has shitty taste in beer. Had. The refrigerator door closes 
behind her and I notice they've got the Sinfully Sinew calendar stuck on 
it with a bunch of official Amy Fisher Strong Island Lolita fridge 
magnets, and this month's girl is none other than my former arch enemy 
Brooke, wearing this white plunging-neckline ball gown or something with 
palms pressed together in front of her, her pecs flexed so big if she 
squeezes up any more muscle cleavage she'll knock her own pearly perfect  
teeth out. "We're just not in your league," Caitlin adds with reverence. 
"You're, like, *unreal.* Are you on that new drug I've been reading 
about? Titanic?" 

"We'll ask the questions," I go. "Ever do 'trophs?" 

"I was on PHEW for a while," Caitlin says, "but I quit when I couldn't 
take the smell anymore. I stank like a steel mill--" 

"--Uh, girlfriend, we're not paying a social call," Stef interrupts, 
nudging me with her elbow. "Big-calves, why don't you go home now? We've 
got some business to attend to with Brittany." 

"I *am* home. I live here." 

"Oh," says Stef, temporarily nonplussed as she nervously drains half her 
beer, being careful not to crush the little can in her hand. 

Then Caitlin looks hard at Stef and says, "I *know* you. You're in the 
new Sinew! I flipped through it on the newsstand, our issue's late in 
the mail again." 

"Shit, they read Sinew," I mutter. 

"This isn't working out right," Stef sighs, sucking down the rest of the 
beer. 

"Why are you here, and why do you have the keys to the house?" Brittany 
demands. "Did Dennis send you over to, like, inspire us to work out more 
or something? Like, your arms are as big as my thighs, for Chrissake." 

"If her arms were that big she woulda walked over here on her hands," I 
say. 

"I'm here because I have bad news," goes Stef with sudden conviction. 
She pulls out her wallet and flips it open to show her very official-
looking photo ID. "We're with the She Roids, the federal fem-growth-drug 
enforcers? Dennis was grabbed this afternoon by the National Association 
of Dyke Sisterhood. He was in a drug deal that went bad. They took him 
for insurance." That's my Stef. Fast on her feet. 

"What?" Brittany seems annoyed. She's not reacting to the news that 
Dennis is in the clutches of the nasty NADS. Maybe she's in shock. 

"Dennis has been abducted by the NADS," Stef repeats. "You know the 
NADS? Radical lesbian terrorist organization?" 

"Sure I know the NADS," says Brittany crossly. "They aren't *terrorists* 
And I know the She Roids too. We subscribe to Sinew. And Mega Ms. And 
the Vaginal Voice." 

"And Slam Gams," says Caitlin proudly. She pulls a magazine out from 
under a pile of newspapers. There's a mind-bending rear leg shot on the 
cover of Kim Zmeskal herself in her crotch-kissing, rump-rubbing one-
piece, standing up on her bare toes with calves bigger than footballs 
popping off her perfect power pedals. 

"I never heard of Slam Gams," I go, wondering how much Zmeskaline I'd 
need to put on my face if I got my mug caught between Kim's lower limbs. 

"It's new," says Caitlin. "This is the premiere issue. It's billed as 
`The magazine of leg brutality.' They have a Kim miniskirt layout inside 
that had me pissing myself for pleasure. Check it out." 

Shit, she's into water sports? This Caitlin of the Colossal Calves is 
getting better by the second.  "Never mind that right now," says Stef 
sternly, grabbing the magazine from Caitlin and slapping it onto the 
table. "We're investigating the abduction of Dennis and we need to warn 
his friends. You have an address for Brad?" 

"Dennis was taken by the NADS?" Brittany echoes. "That's hard to 
believe. How? Where?" 

"At the mall in town," says Stef. "He dropped his keys in the struggle 
and I have them. I need to get ahold of Brad." 

"Since when is Dennis dealing 'trophs?" Caitlin asks Brittany. 

"I don't know," says Brit. "But I wouldn't put anything past that 
fucker. He'd sell his mother's heart out of her chest if the money was 
right." 

"We need to get to Brad," I go, heartened by the fact that Brittany 
doesn't really seem to be so tight with Dennis and is more likely to be 
Caitlin's girlfriend. 

"Brad?" Brit casually inquires. "He's upstairs. Sleeping off a drunk." 

"He's here!?" Stef almost shrieks. Her neck and face flush beet red with 
excitement and her chest starts heaving like she's starring in a romance 
novel called Pecs of Passion. 

"Yeah. Upstairs. Unconscious, last time I looked. Guy's a fuckin' 
blackout drinker. You wanna talk to him?" 

"We need to get him out of here immediately!" Stef announces. She's 
still holding the empty Coors can, which she has unconsciously 
pulverized into a ball. "Take us to his room!" 

Brittany shrugs. "Sure, whatever." 

So we all go upstairs. I make sure I go up behind Caitlin so I can check 
out her leg action, which is so fine it's making my breath come in 
gasps. Then I start to worry about Stef. She could go out of control at 
any moment. What if she kills Brad as soon as she lays eyes on him? Then 
she'll have to kill the girls. And I'll have to try to stop her. The 
legs on these girls are screaming, "Let me live!" Or maybe she'll just 
swear the girls to silence on pain of death, which would be nice. Then 
we're in the bedroom where Brad is. He's snoring in nothing but his 
dingy Tommy Hilfiger briefs. He's got that jock-out-college-bigtime-
beer-drinker bod. A pretty strapping guy by normal guy standards, but 
he's no match for either of us. I bet Caitlin could take him too, if she 
got in low on him. Brittany would give him a handful herself, 
but I'd have to see more of her before I'd bet on her in the ring. 

"I'm just gonna whisk him out of here," explains Stef evenly, "and take 
him into protective custody. He'll never understand what's going on if I 
try to get his permission right now. He's too fucked up." She goes right 
into action. She takes professional plastic restraining gear out of her 
bag and hogties Brad expertly. When he starts to groggily protest, she 
gags him with duct tape. Stef came prepared. Brittany and Caitlin watch 
with unconcerned interest, while they mutter among themselves about the 
incredible size of Stef's arms and wonder if they should ask her to 
autograph their Sinew calendar now that I told them that Stef is Miss 
November. They seem relieved that we're taking Brad off their hands. 
Stef wraps Brad in a blanket and duct tapes it tight, then she lifts the 
human bundle and throws it easily onto her should er. "Thanks, girls," 
she says. "We've gotta run. We'll be in touch with you as soon as we 
hear something." 

"But what about us?" Brittany whines. "What if the NADS come here 
looking for Brad? What do we do?" 

Shit, she really *bought* that story? Or is she jerking us around? I 
can't tell. Stef turns and pauses with Brad on her shoulder, 
accidentally banging his head against the wall. Or maybe it was 
deliberate. "Meet us at Hank's Hideeho House in Santa Gasma tonight at 
10," she commands. "We'll fill you in on everything. And I'll autograph 
a lot more than a calendar for you, babes." 

And we rush the hell out of there. I grab four bags of dope and the copy 
of Slam Gams on our way through the kitchen. Stef rudely stuffs Brad 
into the back of the Jimmy. He's twitching under the blanket, but he 
can't really move, he's hogtied like a motherfucker. I'm already behind 
the wheel, and as Stef jumps in the front I pull away, not having the 
faintest idea where I'm going. "Where the fuck am I going, Stef?" 

"Michelle's. I'll kill Brad there, then we'll zip home, change, shower, 
eat and we'll have plenty of time to get to Tonya's and make the show." 

"Michelle will be working on a Saturday." 

"Not at this time, only at night. She trains on weekend afternoons, 
doesn't she?" 

"Yeah, usually. I think. We haven't seen her in a while. Call her on the 
cell." 

"Nah. Let's surprise her. She'll really get a kick out of this." 

I don't know if *I* will. I recently had the misfortune to sit through a 
tape of Nora and Glo--two of our great Nancy nemeses when we were in 
Tonya--beat an overweight old guy who was hung up by the arms to a 
bloody deceased pulp. Tonya got ahold of it and made me and Stef watch 
it with her like it was the fucking matinee movie. It was disgusting. 
Just as bad as the snuffies that we got in the mail when we were in 
stir, even though this one just had a strange guy in it. And just like 
the snuffies at Tonya, Brooke is rumored to have something to do with 
it. She's still tight with Nora and Glo, though she's supposed to be a 
pacifist now. The worst part, though, is how fucking psycho vicious Nora 
and Glo really are. They're in the Daughters of Slaughter now, the NADS 
combat division. They're as big as we are, more or less , and I have the 
feeling we're gonna square off one day. They still want revenge from 
their losses on the last big fight night at Tonya. That's the night 
Flung died. I want revenge too--on Ice, who's now at Amy Fisher. She got 
shipped east 'cause Amy took a fancy to her. I'd like to take a baseball 
bat to her. Not just for Flung, but for what she did to Sara when they 
were in Karla Faye together. Shit. No more time to stew in my own 
vengeful juices. We're at Michelle's.  

She *does* train weekend afternoons. She answers the door all pumped and 
glistening in her workout clothes--thong bikini bottoms--and doesn't 
seem the least bit fazed by the human bundle Stef hauls in. "Hey, 
stranger," she says to me, blue eyes twinkling. Michelle likes me a lot. 
I guess I should be flattered, 'cause she's a real sociopath. 

"Hey, Michelle," I go, kissing her tenderly on the mouth. She smells all 
musky and workout ripe. I guess I do, too. "Sorry to barge in like this, 
but we've got sort of an emergency." 

"You're gonna love this, babe," says Stef, grinning, as she rips the 
blanket away to reveal pitiful Brad pulled taut as a bowstring, hands 
and feet painfully locked behind him as he jerks his head around 
uselessly and makes frantic humming noises under the duct tape. "Get 
your camcorder. I'm gonna hang this bitch up in your dungeon and beat 
him to death with my bare hands." 

--30--