Jenna Takedown: NADS Buster
By Avida Dolor (avidadolor@aol.com)
Chapter 8, Jen gets a two-way ticket punched to Palookaville.  


Copyright 2000 Avida Dolor 

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.

Chapter 8

I'm driving to Cait's, still all fucked up on the Rapture, but that 
I can handle. It's dark out now, and for some reason Rapture is more 
disorienting in daylight. Red taillights are smearing all over the 
road, but that's not a big problem, since I can gauge their distance 
now. It's the red smear of guilt I don't know what to do with. I 
mean, I not only puked and pissed on Mickey, I videotaped what must 
be the most humiliating humiliation he's ever experienced. At least 
I *hope* it is. I left Dunn and Gomez to lock up at Ton's--I gave 
them my key to the place, fuck it--and to take care of Mickey and 
Pedro with the help of a NADS cleanup squad, whatever exactly *that* 
is. I'd rather not think about it. I'd rather not think about 
anything. It's been a hell of a day. I can't believe lunch at the 
Pussy Pueblo was *today*; it seems like a week ago. All I wanna do 
is take a long hot shower, blow a big jay, sip a Stoli on ice, sit 
on Cait's face and bite Brit's clit. Not too much to ask, is it?

Well, it is. The moment I mount the front porch of Cait's, I know 
something's wrong. This is probably because she whips the door open 
and shrieks, "Where *have* you been! I've been trying to call you!" 

"Shit, I turned the cell off and forgot all about it. What's the 
matter?"

"The Sock Her Moms were here!"

Oh, fuck it all. A cold chill crawls up my ass like the icy fingers 
of a bestial molester. "What'd they do?"

"They pistol whipped Brit!" Then Cait breaks down and starts crying 
and I have to calm her down in the kitchen and hold her and pet her 
all over while she sits across my thigh like I was her mommy. She 
doesn't say anything about how I smell, thank the Goddess. But I'm 
famished, and I have to lift her off me and get up and take a 
barbecued chicken out of the fridge and devour it while I get the 
story between sobs, and it goes something like this: Five big, 
strong Moms--like there's any other kind--burst in at gunpoint, 
looking for me, of course, and when they couldn't find me they got 
pissed and Brit mouthed off to them and got her head smashed in with 
a gun butt and she's in Santa Retributa State Hospital now with 18 
stitches in her scalp, spending the night for "observation." Which 
probably means some male interns are looking under her hospital gown 
while handling themselves. I can't go visit her now, it's such a 
perfect setup for the Moms to get me. Jesus, this Millie Montoya 
revenge thing is getting out of control. Fucking Stef, why'd she 
have to leap to the defense of those little girls? Sometimes you 
should mind your own business. Yeah, I know that sounds a little odd 
coming from me after what I did today, but that's the way I feel. I 
call Ev Roper to see if I can't get something done about the Moms, 
like have them all killed, for instance, but she doesn't answer her 
cell so I call her house and get Kim No Vac, who says she's not in, 
so I ask her to tell Ev to call me as soon as she can. Kim tries to 
make conversation with, "When you come back for massage and take a 
nice dump?" but I politely hang up on her with a, "Sorry, gotta 
run."

I go upstairs and brush my teeth and gargle with mouthwash--I've 
still got that vomit taste in my mouth, despite all the chicken I 
just scarfed--go back downstairs, take all my evening supps, washed 
down with a Tecate--no more shitty beer in this house, thank you, 
now that the guys are gone--and make myself a drink, Cait following 
me around like a dog. No, not a Chihuahua. I light a big doob and 
pass it with her while I try to figure out what to do next. 

"What's that you said on the phone about eyedrops?" Cait asks. "And 
what the hell did you do this afternoon, anyway? You seem even more 
frazzled than I do."

"Oh, yeah, the eyedrops." They're still in the Jimmy. "Cait, I don't 
want to go into it now, OK? It's something I'll share with you 
another time. Like tomorrow. Right now I've got to put the afternoon 
behind me. So to speak. And I've got to take some kind of serious 
action here, or I could wind up sleeping in the morgue tonight. If 
five Moms with guns come back here and I'm *here*, I'm dead meat." 
Shit, why'd I have to say ^¥meat'? Not to mention ^¥shit'?

"Well, don't be here," says Cait. "Get out now. Go to a friend's 
house. And let me come with you." 

Hmmm. Where could I go? Brooke's, Michelle's, my mother's, Mickey's 
. . . nah, not Mickey's. I heard he's got a vicious dog. I'm trying 
to laugh off the whole Mickey/Pedro incident, but I can't. It's 
making me feel like a giant bag of sleaze. Lucky I have a bunch of 
chicks trying to kill me, it'll take my mind off what a sick fuck I 
am. I can't go to Michelle's, she's already got Bon filling up her 
house. My mousy mother who thinks I break legs for a living is about 
the last person I wanna see right now. I'm about to call Brooke, I'd 
like to see her anyway, and I mean that in the Biblical sense, when 
there's a knock on the kitchen door. All my muscles tighten, I start 
panting, I can feel my heart throbbing like a hardon and my 
adrenaline is pumping so wild I think it's leaking out my ears, 
though it's probably just sweat. I take the carving knife out of the 
block, the same knife I pulled on Glo, and nod to Cait to get the 
door. 

"Who's there?" she peeps. 

"Jenna Takedown? You in there? It's Lally. Lally Palooka. From 
Tonya? I'm here to help you out with this Sock Her Moms problem. No 
shit."

Lally Palooka! Haven't seen or heard from her since the day I left 
stir. "Let her in," I say to Cait. "It's OK, she's an old friend."

Cait opens the door and the new, improved Lally Palooka comes in, in 
a tight black Bif Naked muscle tee and matching micro bike shorts, 
and just about takes my breath away. She's got the same skate punk 
'do, the pony with the shaved sides, and the same earfuls of silver 
ringlets, but she's, like, grown. Lally at fight night was 5-4, 130-
something. Lally tonight looks more like 5-9, 170-something, lean 
and muscle luscious. "Sorry about coming around back. We're parked 
down the street and I sort of snuck over here, I don't know if this 
house is being watched."

I discreetly put the knife down and open my arms wide for a big hug. 
"Lally, you got so big!"

Lally gives me sparkling sex eyes, the tip of her tongue snaking 
past her louche lips like she can smell my musk from across the 
kitchen. She probably can. "Me? Look at you! You're *enormous*!"

Then we're entwined like vaginated vines. I didn't shower yet, 
unfortunately, but at least I washed my hands and face, changed my 
shirt and did something about my breath. Lally melts into my arms 
and I lift her off the floor in a play bearhug, then hold her aloft 
with my hands under her muscle-hard buns and we tongue kiss for a 
minute while Cait looks on, perturbed. When I finally let go of 
Lally, she does just the right thing. She turns to Cait and says to 
me, "Who's this absolutely gorgeous girl with the totally awesome 
legs?" Cait's in a tube top and cutoffs, barefoot, and she 
immediately perks up at the compliment. 

"This is Colossally Calved Caitlin," I go, "a good new friend of 
mine and my roomie at the moment, thanks to this Sock Her Moms shit. 
Cait, this is Lally Palooka, a righteous Hard from Tonya, who was 
actually on the card that's now known as Juvie Jailbait Slam Jam, on 
the Venomous Video label, available wherever filthy, rotten tapes 
are sold. I haven't gotten around to showing Cait the fight night 
fest yet." 

"Well, you can fast-forward *my* match when you do," says Lally, 
after Caitlin gives her a very hospitable stoned kiss on the lips. 
"I lost. But lately I've been very busy *winning* fights. Just got 
back from four months of topless barefists in Texas on the Austin 
Titty Limits tour. And funny you should mention Venomous Video." 

"Sit down and have a drink and a joint," I go, too excited to know 
what she's talking about. "What's this about topless barefists?"

To make a strong story short, Lally got sprung from Tonya six months 
ago when some promoter in Texas made a deal with the distinguished 
Dr. Dexter to put her on a bare-chested barefists fight tour of the 
Southwest--all the fights to be taped for Venomous Video release, of 
course. She never lost and almost never even got hit. Lally is one 
of the greatest natural pugs I've ever seen, with blinding hand 
speed and tons of organic ring savvy, and now that she's bulked up 
she's got the muscle to match her hustle. She got big on the 
Largesse we gave her when we all switched to Titanic, and she's 
still on Largesse. She's only 16 now, hence the wicked growth spurt. 
And hence the wicked growth spurt in my pants. Lally has got me so 
horned up I'm about to suggest we all drop Rapture and have a go-
down hoedown, but she cuts right to the chase, insisting there's not 
even time at the moment for us to shoot the shit about all the Hards 
we used to hang with. 

"Look, there's this group of five rogue Moms who were really close 
to Millie Montoya, who were out to kill you," Lally tells me with 
the utmost gravity between deep hits on a jay. "But it's just these 
five, not the Moms in general. The rest of the Moms don't want 
revenge, they don't want to mess with the She Roids. They're smart, 
in other words. These five, who are calling themselves Millie's 
Fillies, are dumb. They're also ultraviolent crazy. Fucked up on the 
new PHEW."

"They *were* out to kill me?" I go. "They're not now? And how do you 
know so much about the Moms, anyway?" 

Lally sighs, her pert and preppy, solidly C-cuppy rack rising under 
her tee like pec erections, and says, "OK, here's the weird part. I 
know so much about the Moms 'cause *my* mom is a Mom. In fact, now 
that Millie's dead she's the *head* Mom. And she's on *our* side. 
She made a deal with Harry Dexter to fight the head Filly, who is 
Millie Montoya's half-sister, by the way, so it's like a kin thing. 
She wins, the Fillies agree to lay off you and Stef and rejoin the 
Moms as loyal players. She loses, which I guarantee won't happen, 
it's open season on you and Stef--which just means the Roids'll have 
to kill all the Fillies. No big whup. Five less crazies in the 
world." 

Lally pauses to pull on the jay, her chest filling big, and I just 
sit there stunned. "Your mom is a *Mom*?" I finally go, 
flabbergasted. "I thought your mom was some powderpuff lawyer who 
disowned you. Didn't you hate your 'rents? Don't you have a Fuck My 
Mother tattoo on your ankle?" I look under the table to check out 
Lally's luscious legs. She sticks her foot out to show me the tat, 
turning the razor-blade ankle around this way and that with the leg 
flexed, the 16-inch calf glittering like drool jewels. Yup, Fuck My 
Mother in cool black gothic lettering, same as in Tonya.

"I still have the tattoo, but now it can be taken literally," Lally 
chuckles. "My mother and I have a thing going now. She's, like, 
totally remade herself. Even more than I have. She's been on PHEW 
for a year and a half, and it did her like a motherfucker, so to 
speak, but it didn't make her crazy. She's very level-headed and 
shrewd. Shit, she's a lawyer. Or at least was. In fact, she's 
waiting outside in the car. Can I invite her in? I think you'll 
really like her."

"Sure," I go, stupefied. "Have her join us." 

Lally nods and goes out the kitchen door to get her mom. Cait, who's 
very nervously tipsy, says to me, "What the fuck is going on here? 
This girl is fucking her *mother*? And if this girl's mother wins, 
you're OK, and if she loses, you're gonna get hunted by the Fillies 
unless the Roids kill them first? Like, I really dig you, Jenna, but 
since I met you I had a knife to my throat, a gun to my head, Brit's 
in the hospital with a skull fracture or something, both the guys 
who used to live here have apparently been *eradicated* and now your 
future health is based on someone else winning a fight? This is just 
a little fucked up, you know?" 

I put my hands on Cait's shoulders and give her a reassuring hug, 
pressing her against me so her face is squashed into my bustline, 
and she starts to rub her cheek all over my chest like a playful 
puppy. Short girls can be fun. "I know," I say as soothingly as 
possible, patting her broad back. "I don't get the fight part yet, 
but--" Then Lally and her mother come in and I'm flabbergasted all 
over again. Her mom's the big, beautiful redhead I was checking out 
when Stef and I watched the Moms stomp a bunch of girls that day 
after we left Ev Roper's and got the CHICKA lecture. She's got the 
same `you glow, girl' burnt umber tan as her daughter but she's 
built on a much bigger scale, with a jacked-up rack framed by the 
kind of square-flared shoulder girth that the French like to call 
c'est la vee. 

"Well, hello there," she husks in a thrillingly throaty voice that's 
dripping with sin syrup.

"Hi," I manage to chirp, feeling very self-conscious about getting 
totally turned on by Lally's mom while the daughter looks on. Though 
Lally seems to be totally down with it. She's got this slit-eating 
grin on her face like she's loving my discomfort. I shake Mom's 
hand, which is about as big as mine, and almost as sweaty. Her long, 
strong fingers engulf my grip and squeeze tight, which feels 
reassuringly good as she looks confidently into my eyes with the 
steely-gray gaze of a hotshot attorney. She keeps my hand locked in 
this firm but friendly power wrap while she says to me, "It's a 
pleasure to meet you, Jenna Takedown. Lally's told me so much about 
you."

"The pleasure's mine, Mrs., uh--"

"Call me Judy. And I'm not a Mrs. anymore, my marriage has been 
annulled--along with my husband." 

"OK, Judy. I'm so glad you're here. This Moms thing seems to be 
getting out of hand." Ours are still locked, and I'm starting to 
wonder if Lally's mom is hip to Rapture and is trying to milk what's 
left of my high through her palm. Hey, she can have two drops from 
my stash anytime--I'm not *that* selfish. She looks to be close to 
my size musclewise just about all over, and just like me, she reeks-
-that sizzling heavy metal smell can only be PHEW. I've never quite 
whiffed it this close and personal before, but I've read about it 
and heard about it. She's in typical Sock Her streetwear: a nearly 
painted-on tiger stripe Danskin tank over a canary yellow sports 
bra, hot pink kneelength spandex tights and Skechers high-heeled 
sneakers with argyle socks. She's also wearing bizarre purple, pink 
and blue eye makeup that's running up onto her forehead and down 
onto her cheeks like she just came from a Revlon rave, and her 
apparently natural dark red hair is spiked all punky and looks like 
it was cut by Edward Hookhands. When you're built like she is, you 
can get away with this, never mind your age.

"You recognize me, don't you?" Lally's mom says to me as she slowly 
detaches our moist, meaty mitts. "I certainly recognize *you*."

"You mean from when Stef and I were watching you stomp some girls in 
the street. You and I made eye contact, didn't we?"

"We sure as hell did. You two looked so good I wanted to shit 
myself." I manage to crack a nervous smile as my sphincter twitches.

"And I knew it was you and Stef," she goes on. "I would have 
recognized her from her Sinew layouts, but I know you both from the 
fight night tape. And I have your wrestling tape, too, it's *so* 
hot."

"Yeah, of course," I go glumly. "*Everybody* has my wrestling tape."

"But you're so much bigger now," she coos with delight. Judy rubs 
her hands up and down my arms, which makes my skin tingle, and I can 
feel my nipples, which are already stiff, start to harden like 
armor-piercing arrowheads. I'm really stoned again, I've still got 
the tail end of a Rapture buzz on and now there's this 
fortysomething thrust-busted vision of lady lust standing tit to tit 
with me in Cait's kitchen.

"You're so much bigger too, I guess," I go. "Lally tells me you 
remade yourself. On PHEW."

"Yeah," she smiles. "I guess you can smell it. It's PHEW 2 now, an 
advanced formula, but it still stinks. It stinks even more, 
actually. I don't notice it anymore, but everyone else does." 

"I like it," I go. "It's sexy. Like pheromones. Like all your girl 
glands are bursting." I know *mine* are.

"You oughta smell it when I really work up a sweat," Judy says, 
making it sound like a challenge. 

"Excuse me, would you like a drink, Judy?" Cait asks pointedly. 
She's bugged out about what happened to Brit, and I can't blame her, 
but I'm having trouble sharing the mood since I missed the whole 
thing and the day's been so fucked up.

"I'll have a shot of Stoli, thanks," says Judy, nodding at the 
bottle on the table.

"This is Colossally Calved Caitlin," I go by way of introduction. 
"You can see where she got her nickname. She used to be on PHEW 
herself. The old PHEW."

"You're gorgeous, girl," Judy disarmingly says to Cait. "I *love* 
your ankle tats. Crisscrossed barbed wire and chains in red and 
black, that's so pretty. And it goes so well with your streaky hair. 
Turn around and stand up on your toes and let me check those babies 
out."

Cait's beaming, and so are her headlights. "Thanks. Sure." She turns 
and calf-stands with hands on hips, bouncing lightly on her tongue-
tantalizing toes, making her luxuriant leggage bulge so big we all 
wow with wonder, then she blushingly pours Judy a shot and the big 
redhead tosses it right back like a Russian mobster. 

"Well, here's the story," says Judy, suddenly all business. "I made 
a deal with Lupita--that's Millie's half sister and the one who 
really wants revenge. The other four are just following her, it's 
her show, they're her lackeys. And now it's Harry Dexter's show. 
We've agreed to fight bare fists tonight for Harry's camera, and 
when I win, which is a sure thing, trust me, the Fillies will lay 
down their arms. Not that they've got much arm to lay down in the 
first place."

"How did Harry Dexter get involved with this?" I ask with annoyance. 
Judy gives me a sympathetic look, pours herself another shot and 
tosses it back like it was spring water. I pour myself a shot and do 
likewise. I'm starting to feel like I'm back in Tonya at a typical 
Hard party in the lounge. "Want to smoke some dope?" I ask, trying 
to play the hostess.

"No thanks, I have to drive," she says. "The story on Dexter is he's 
been propositioning the Moms, looking to get permission to film our 
street attacks. Like, let a camera crew ride in the van with us. So 
he's been in contact with me for a couple months now, though we 
haven't given him anything yet. But this I thought I'd give him, 
since Lupita agreed to drop the vendetta if she loses."

"But how do you know she really *will* drop the vendetta?" Cait 
wants to know. "She's a psycho, right?"

Judy throws back *another* shot of Stoli and wipes her mouth with 
her big hand. I can't help noticing how brutacious her knucks are, 
and they're kinda scuffed up like she's been punching wood. Or maybe 
she's been breaking tons of teen cheekbone. "Actually, it doesn't 
matter if she abides by the rules or not, because *I'm* not abiding 
by the rules. I have every intention of killing her tonight. Gonna 
give Harry a snuffie. Then he'll *really* be in my debt." She grins 
satanically, but on her it looks cute. She' got pearl-perfect teeth, 
just like her daughter.

"And I'm gonna be kicking ass too," adds Lally, "in the undercard. 
Me and Lupita's daughter. She's got a 17-year-old who's supposed to 
be some kinda muscle chubster. A wrestler type, but she can't 
grapple, this is fists only. Gonna wipe the floor with her. That's 
the theme of the tape, Mother/Daughter Slaughter. Cool or what?"

"Yeah, awesome," I go. Mother/Daughter Slaughter sounds a lot like 
the Daughters of Slaughter, something else I don't want to think 
about right now, but if Judy and Lally can really solve my Moms 
problem, I'm all for it. "So when're the fights?" 

Judy checks her hockey puck-sized Casio G-Shock, which looks kinda 
small on a vein-skeined forearm that you could hammer tent pegs 
with. "In 90 minutes. It's at the Venomous studio in Rauncho, just a 
stone's throw from Tonya. Your old stomping grounds." She smiles at 
me and Lally like we were in the Rimfire Girls together, going on 
small-arms weekend hunting trips back in the days when we had small 
arms.

"So what are you drinking *vodka* for?" I go. "And you just blew a 
jay," I say to Lally. "Shouldn't you both be over there now, working 
up a good sweat and getting a fighting pump on?"

"Don't worry, I can handle my liquor," says Judy, "and Lally fights 
stoned all the time. She used to do bong hits before Titty Limits 
fights. I'm telling you, this will be a piece of cake. Lupita's a 
big girl, but she's not nearly in my league and she's got no 
fistics. She's strictly a barroom brawler, a sucker puncher. I'm 
gonna beat her to a pulp, then snap her spine like it was the 
broomstick she rode in on, and I'm gonna enjoy every second of it." 
Judy looks pointedly at Lally, who slaps her mom on the back, then 
hits her with what seems to be a pretty solid left in the gut, 
making this meat-hard whomp noise, but the big redhead doesn't 
flinch.

"So what am I supposed to do while these fights are going on?" I 
inquire.

"Watch them and cheer us on," says Judy. "And supply extra backup 
muscle. I'll have two of my girlfriends from the Moms there, they're 
coming separately, but Lupita will have her four Fillies there and I 
don't know who her daughter might bring. You come too Cait, OK? You 
look *strong*, girl."

Cait beams with pleasure as Judy handles her 17 inches of deep-bore 
brachiage with admiring fingers. "Well, I'm surely not staying here 
alone," she says. 

"Good," says Judy, slapping Cait's big arm for emphasis. "Now punch 
my gut. Hard. Real hard. Much harder than Lally did." Cait makes a 
frightening fist--she's got big hands for her size, they're enlarged 
from her PHEW days--then hesitates. "Come on, punch it!" Judy 
exhales long and slow, squares her shoulders and tightens up her 
whole torso, causing her rack to shift into overdrive, the nipples 
pulling up and out like they're about to launch. Cait looks at me 
dubiously and I nod OK. Then she sets herself and puts a shot on 
Judy's belly that on a normal chick would bring the vodka back up 
like it was squirting out of a hose, but her fist just bounces off 
Judy's body with a resounding whomp like she hit a beef barricade.

Lally pulls her mom's top up to her tits, exposing the powerpacked 
gut, etched in so much deep-machined muscle, the ridges have me 
ruffled. I don't have abs like this in my *dreams*, and I have a 
pretty good midsection. Even *Tonya* doesn't have abs like this. 
"Judy, like, unbelievable," I go. "Is that the fucking tone zone, or 
what?"

"Mom's got the best abs in the Moms," says Lally, rubbing Judy's 
stomach with more than filial fondness.  

Judy pulls her top back down and inhales with relief. "You hit hard, 
Cait. I felt that."

"I felt it more than you did," says Cait, shaking her hand like it's 
numb.

"I always say, if you want a six pack, don't drink beer," Judy 
opines. "Hard booze for a hard belly." She downs another shot of 
vodka and smacks her lips with satisfaction. "Let's rock."

So the four of us are riding in Judy's big Mercedes. I've never been 
in a Mercedes before, and I guess that's real Corinthian leather my 
ass is sticking to. It's hot tonight, and I'm wearing cutoffs so cut 
off I think I've got pubic hair showing. Though I'm pretty much down 
from the Rapture, I can't stop sweating, even with the AC on in the 
car, and I still haven't showered. This is not a problem though, 
since I'm in the front seat next to Judy, who is completely masking 
my odor with her heady stench of smoldering magnesium. I'm resisting 
the urge to grab her thigh--her quad is popping seductively through 
the tight pink spandex--since her daughter's in the back seat and I 
don't want to seem too forward. I don't want to be like Mickey. Oh, 
shit, I just reminded myself of *that* again. I wonder if he's in 
the hospital now. I don't know how bad his head wound is. Christ, I 
don't believe Gomez broke a heavy lamp over his skull. I bet he's 
hurt worse than Brit. There's not any time now to think about it, 
thank the Goddess. "So I've been in touch with Evelyn Roper, who I 
understand is your Roids control, right?" says Judy.

"Yeah, she is," I go, puzzled. "When did you speak to Ev? I called 
her before and left a message." I've got my cell in my bag, of 
course, and I was clever enough to turn it on.

"This was earlier in the day, before the Fillies busted in on your 
friends. I talked that scene over with them on the phone too, and 
they're, like, sorry." Judy looks meaningfully in the rearview at 
Cait as she says this, but I peek over my shoulder and Cait is 
playing handsies with Lally while staring at the dreamteen's rousing 
rack, so it's lost on her. "I've been trying to work something out 
where the Roids won't come down on the Moms bigtime," Judy adds. "We 
just wanna get the Fillies taken care of, then everything'll be 
copacetic. It's just the five girls. They worshipped Millie, they 
were her personal posse, and now that she's dead they've gone nuts. 
They're basically out of control on PHEW 2. Psychologically, some 
women just don't take well to pineal hog extract, I guess. It's all 
about aggression ratios." 

Aggression ratios? Jesus. I'm more concerned at the moment with 
bicep/tit ratios. All I can do is sit and sweat and stare at Judy's 
right arm on the steering wheel, this 19+ gun bulging in my face 
backed by this double-D dug with a needle-nosed nipple firing out of 
her Danskin like a boob bullet. I ask Lally about her former 
roommate, Not Very Merry, just to get my mind off her mother's body. 

"She's not very alive," Lally laughs.

"She's dead?!" I go. 

"No, she's in a coma. Happened a couple weeks ago, and I just found 
out about it by, like, accident. I was reading newspaper clippings 
on Mom attacks, my mother has a whole collection. Not Very Merry got 
clobbered by Minivan Montoya herself during an attack on a bunch of 
skinny girls in the parking lot at the Santa Grava mall. She was 
knocked down and got kicked in the head a few times. Tough fucking 
break, considering she survived an attack by Tiff the Spliff during 
the K-Fad freakout on the basketball court. Remember that?"

"Like it was yesterday," I go. I remember yesterday like it was a 
year ago, but never mind that.

"She was a good kid," Lally tut-tuts. "Kinda gloomy, but basically 
OK."

"But why'd the Moms attack her? Didn't she look, like, built?"

"Merry? Nah. She never was particularly built and she stopped 
training altogether when she left Tonya."

The mention of Tiff gets us on the subject of her and Lee Ann--it's 
Tiff, with one arm tied behind her back, who Lally fought on fight 
night--which takes all of two seconds to update, since there isn't 
an update. I've lost touch with them. Christ, I haven't mentioned 
Lee Ann and Tiff at all, have I? I smoke so much dope I don't know 
what I'm doing anymore. Well, I hope they're OK, and getting taller, 
that's about all I can say. Titanic didn't do them like it did us. 
They bulked up huge on it, but they didn't get the height they so 
desperately wanted. They didn't get any height at all, actually, 
it's just a metabolic thing, and it made them sort of bitter. After 
a few weeks of steady correspondence when we got out, they suddenly 
stopped emailing me and Stef. When they got sprung from Tonya about 
the same time Lally did after making some kind of very mysterious 
deal via Warden Marlow with the Mossad--that's the Israeli CIA--they 
were still, well, stature-deficient. And a ton of heavy muscle when 
you're short-limbed makes you look like a fucking oversized midget. 
Anyway, they're supposed to be in Jerusalem doing some kind of 
undercover work, probably guinea pigging some new kosher growth 
drugs. Maybe they bulldoze Palestinian settlements with their bare 
hands. I don't get the Israel connection, neither of them is Jewish, 
but that's the story. Or as much of it as I know. I talk to Warden 
Marlow on the phone sometimes, but she's always very, like, dodgy. 
She says Lee Ann and Tiff can't contact me 'cause of security 
clearances or some such shit. Marlow must be working so many scams 
in Tonya she can't keep track of them. The place is just a big 
training center for Roids and NADS soldiers now. "Stow 'em and grow 
'em," she likes to say. 
 
So we continue to shoot the shit on the way over. I tell Lally all 
about the return of Bon, though I don't mention the semi-human 
sodomy, of course. I don't mention Paulette Pep at all. I have no 
intention of telling anyone about my magic eye drops until they're 
actually getting a dose. Fuck, I can't believe that was *today.* 
This Rapture really messes with my sense of time, way more than dope 
does. I tell her all about bodyguarding for Tonya, the accidental 
death of Charlie Montrose, the knife attack and everything, and I 
mention that Sara's coming back tomorrow--shit, I hope I have time 
to shower before then! I fill her in on Brooke and the Things, the 
Hideeho scene and what have you. 

But as we approach Santa Rauncho, I take the opportunity to ask Judy 
what the hell is up with the Sock Her Moms. "So, what the hell is up 
with the Sock Her Moms?" I go. 

"What do you mean?" she says innocently. 

"Like, what's the deal with driving around in a pack and beating up 
defenseless teen girls? What's the point? Is it really Britney 
Spears' fault?"

"Britney Spears?" Judy says, perplexed. "Oh, you mean that CNN 
report where they made it sound like we were making war on punk-ass 
girl culture and all that stupid `hip-hop' choreography that's just 
watered-down Bob Fosse? Nah. Britney's pretty cool, actually, for a 
whitebread chick. I love that wide-eyed face. And her bod could be 
killer if she trained and 'trophed."

I don't have a clue who Bob Fosse is, but I'm not about to ask, it 
could be embarrassing. I'm hoping Cait will, but she doesn't say 
anything, so maybe she knows. I'll ask her later. Instead she says, 
"I read that Britney Spears' tits are 'plants."

"They wouldn't have to be if she'd gone on Largesse or PHEW," says 
Judy. "Or Titanic," looking approvingly at me.

"But she didn't," I go. She *doesn't* train and 'troph. Is that the 
point?"

"Well, in a sense, yeah, but she's not a great example. She's at 
least *somewhat* physical, with all that Las Vegas lounge-act 
dancing. Celine Dion is a better example. Or Calista Flockhart. 
These chicks who look like hockey sticks with heads."

"But they're not teens. They're adults. Why beat up teens because 
some celebrities are anorexic?"

"How about this new fucking Mandy Moore," Judy counters. "She's 15 
and she's singing about fucking candy. Like, Twizzlers. That's about 
how big her arms are. *I'll* give her some candy. I'll give her a 
nice package of Knuckle-Ups."

"I never heard of Mandy Moore," I go, figuring I'm safe here since 
Judy said she was new.

"How about the skinny shit who plays Buffy the Vampire Slayer?" Judy 
asks. "She couldn't slay Bela Lugosi, and he's already dead."

"Oh, get off it, Ma," Lally groans, as my insides light up with the 
great glow of knowledge. In junior high, I was a total Frankenstein, 
Dracula and the Wolfman freak. And I thought Elsa Lanchester as the 
Bride of Frankenstein was a fox. Actually, I still do. But all those 
suture tracks are making me think of Mickey, who got himself sewn 
back together after his Hungarian midget incident and has the scars 
to prove it. I close my eyes and think good thoughts--like Judy 
sitting on my face while Lally laps my love lips. There, it worked. 
"They beat up teens because they're all wired out of their minds on 
PHEW and their daughters all hate them 'cause they're so muscle 
freaky and weird and their husbands hate them for the same reason 
and cheat on them with bimbos and they're getting revenge on the 
world," Lally spews in one big-chested breath, but she says it like 
it's a compliment.

"But you don't hate your mother, Lal," I go.

"Not *now* I don't. But at one time I did. As you well know. But 
that's a different situation."

"Yeah, in Lal's case, *I* had to come around to *her* point of 
view," Judy says proudly. "She was lifting weights, hitting the 
heavy bag and the speed bag and beating the snot out of all the 
stuck-up girls at her hoity-toity school. I thought she was a 
vicious little cunt."

"I was, and now I'm a vicious *big* cunt," says Lally, and we all 
chuckle.

"Yeah, but I didn't realize at the time that she was a budding body 
genius," says Judy. "Maybe it's a good thing that I didn't, 'cause I 
let her get sent to Tonya--I could've pulled some legal strings and 
had her sent to military school instead--which is the best thing 
that ever happened to her. Thanks in part to you, Jen. You got her 
the Largesse. And Lally told me about your private pee party."

"Mom, don't embarrass me," Lally groans.

"What's to be embarrassed about?" says Judy. "You frolicked in the 
kiddie pool with Jenna Takedown. That's a point of pride in my book. 
I'd like to be able to say *I* did that."

Judy takes her eyes off the road to give me a soul stare, which 
makes me so horny I almost wet myself. "Judy, you can pee on me 
anytime," I go. "In fact, we should all get together later this week 
when Sara is here and really shower down."

"Awesome!" Lally goes.

"It would be an honor," says Judy, taking her hand off the wheel and 
dropping it into my lap, the big thumb hitchhiking under my cutoffs, 
up past my panties and into the muggy moistness of my mons.

"But I still don't get the bit about beating up the girls," I insist 
with a sudden intake of delirious breath. 

"Well, the fact is, getting beaten to a pulp turns many of these 
girls' lives around," explains Judy, withdrawing her hand to punch 
the air with it for emphasis, and then sucking my jungle juice off 
her thumb like she's a baby. "About 50 percent of the girls we hurt 
end up lifting weights, studying the martial arts and going on 
growth drugs and remaking themselves--just like I did."

"What about the other 50 percent?" I ask.

"Half of those don't do shit," says Judy, shrugging her huge 
shoulders. "Life has just defeated them. They're victims. They'll 
get married and their hubbies will batter them and they'll kick 
their kids, smoke three packs of Salems a day and go on Prozac. 
Pathetic."

"And what about the other half of the 50 percent?" Cait demands.

"They become wheelchair athletes," says Judy, nodding with 
conviction. "Really get some fucking arms on 'em."

I pause, waiting for the laugh, but it doesn't come. Maybe she's 
serious. "Uh, cool," I go. Never mind. I can't worry about the Moms' 
motivation. I've got a full plate right now. Yeah, a full plate of 
shit-filled butt sausage. Then I remind myself that I'm going to 
witness a snuff film in the making; great, what else but 
cheerleading a premeditated murder could top off a day like this? 
"Hey, I got another question," I go. "Does Harry know you're 
planning to kill this Lupita?" 

"Not in so many words," says Judy, "but I think he suspects it."

"But if you kill her, won't her daughter start a vendetta against 
*you*?" Cait cleverly asks. She's a smart cookie. Did I mention 
she's a college graduate? She's got a BA in sapphic studies from 
Willa Cather College up in rain country. This impresses me no end, 
since I don't even have a fucking high school diploma and I guess I 
never will. "Not to mention the four other Moms," Cait continues. 
"They're just gonna roll over when you cap their captain?"

"Actually, they are," says Judy. "They're wavering a little already. 
They're in thrall right now to Lupita, she's got a psych-hold on 
them, she's kinda witchy, but when she's dead the spell is broken. 
When I take out their queen, *I* become their queen. I've got 
charisma."

"No arguing with that," I go, rubbing Judy's tensed thigh, which 
swells up under my hand like she's winching a bale of steel cable 
over her knee. "But still, you're gonna kill the mother in front of 
the daughter?" I go. "That's, like, really weird, don't you think?"

"The daughter won't be there when her mommy gets snuffed," says 
Lally. "I'm fighting first, and when I'm done with her she'll be 
carted immediately to Rauncho County. Harry's got an ambulance 
standing by and he's made arrangements with the hospital. If she 
wants to fuck with us when she recovers, assuming she *does* 
recover, we'll take her out later. Right, Ma?"

"Right, baby. We'll try to set up a revenger with Harry. Topless 
Texas death match. Maybe in a cage, huh? Kinda thing that'll drive 
'em wild in Asia." 

I'm wondering if Judy's banged Harry--she sure sounds video savvy, 
like she's been around him a lot getting the producer's spiel--but 
this isn't the right time to ask. I've got *some* decorum left. 
Then, like she's reading my mind, she says, "And if Harry doesn't 
want to play ball with me, I'll go to Gloria Sternum. She called me 
today too. Wants me to take over the role that Millie was gonna play 
in the movie she wants to make with Def Stef."

Shit, the movie. Stef's still got the script. "She must've been 
pretty pissed that her star killed the co-star, huh?" I go. 

"Yeah, she was kinda ticked off," says Judy, but I'll be just as 
good in the role, if not better."

"It's real fighting," I point out. "At least that's what she told 
us. As big as you are, Judy, you don't wanna tangle with Stef. I'm 
sure she won't make the movie anyway."

"Well, I don't wanna tangle with Stef *for real*, but if the money's 
right and assuming it's, like, semi-faked, I'd be game," says Judy. 
"I'm not a big-bucks attorney anymore. In fact, I've been disbarred. 
Broke my husband's hips. That prick. He's in rehab now, but his law 
buddies put the thumb screws on me but good. I had to cash in every 
chip I had with the DA just to avoid criminal prosecution. Little do 
they know they're gonna have pelvic catastrophes of their own." She 
chuckles demonically, but on her it's cute. "You sure you don't mind 
what I did to Daddy, sweetums?" she asks Lally, craning around in 
the driver's seat so her tits are pointing at me like loaded 
cannons. 

"Mind!?" Lally guffaws. "I watch that tape all the time, Ma, it's 
one of my favorites. I *love* what you did to Daddy. It's such a 
pisser the way he blubbers like a baby the whole time. I just wish 
I'd been there to see it in person." 

"It was taped?" I ask. "You busted your husband's ass on camera?"

"Oh, yeah," says Judy casually. "I had a girlfriend shoot it for, 
like, a personal record, but it's a Venomous title now. Harry made 
me an offer I couldn't refuse. It's called Trial by Judy. Gonna be a 
series."

"Uh, cool." Who am I to judge after what *I* did today? In fact, 
maybe I should have *my* dad approach the bench. I wonder how that 
sonofabitch is faring in Ohio with his tubby-titted ho. I mean, what 
an embarrassment, my dad ran off with a Hooter Hacienda waitress! 
Well, I suppose it would be even more mortifying if he skipped with 
someone skanky like Pandora from the Pussy Pueblo. Jesus, I wish I 
was back at lunch with Bon, and all this *man* stuff hadn't sullied 
our souls.   

But I'm not. And I've got yet another man to deal with. Cut to a 
warehouse down the road from Tonya that's been converted into a 
fight film studio with a regulation boxing ring, banks of lights, 
cables and equipment all over the place and six rows of folding 
chairs on each side of the action. Harry's operation has hit the 
underground bigtime, I guess. He's got a giant banner on the wall 
with the Venomous logo: a fang-dripping snake biting a movie camera.  
Cute. Sort of reminds me of the snake-and-anchor Titanic tattoo that 
Nora, Glo and Ice got when they were under the influence of Brooke, 
which makes me nervous, but I walk in real apprehensive anyway; I 
haven't seen Harry in months. Last time I ran into him was at a She 
Roids arm wrestling contest at the gym in Shorta that Stef and I 
checked out--no we didn't compete, we weren't even allowed to, too 
much risk of injury--where he was "trolling for table talent," as he 
put it. We didn't talk much, there was a big crowd around and a lot 
of deep-dish dykes were giving him the evil eye, he must've greased 
plenty of palms to be allowed in at all, so he split quick. But now 
I'm on his turf and he struts over to me all smarmy-impresario, like 
he was my uncle fresh out of the slammer after six years on a morals 
charge. He's got the same unnatural parlor tan as always, and he's 
dressed casual tonight, which is to say his jacket is off and his 
tie is loosened. Harry's one of those guys who thinks everything's 
legit as long as you do it in a suit. "Jenna, you look fabulous!"

"Thanks, Harry. I wish I could say the same for you." He kisses me 
on each cheek like he's a French pervert, ignoring my putdown. 

"You're so tall!" he goes in mock wonder, his hands gripping my 
hulking shoulders with way too much familiarity. "Were you this tall 
the last time I saw you?" 

"Um, I think so. I was tall enough to see how dorky your combover 
looks from up here." 

"Very funny," he smirks. "That's right, make fun of an old man."

"A *dirty* old man."

"The dirtiest," he says with pride. "I'm starring in my own movie 
now. ^¥Rex Tremendo in Ream of the Realm.' That's my nom de gore, 
Rex Tremendo. Cool or what? I back-attack a bunch of heavyset 
hausfraus and plumb their bums so bad they cry for mercy and bleed 
all over the sheets. You gotta take a copy before you leave tonight. 
Great stoned viewing, and it'll really clean your pipes out if 
you're a little irregular." 

"That's OK, Harry. I shit like clockwork."

"Was that clockwork or cockwork?"

"*Clockwork*, as in tick, tick."

"Was that tick, tick or dick, dick?"

I roll my eyes, but I can tell Harry finds this sexy. "Uh, let's 
just say I really don't need to see you in, like, action. I have my 
cherished memories, you know?"

He lights a Parliament and gives me a sincere smile like the sarcasm 
went right over his balding head. "Gonna be some great action 
tonight," he hisses in my ear, his bushy mustache tickling me as 
smelly blue smoke drifts around my face, leaking out his lips like 
his mouth was a chimney, though it's really a septic tank. "Too bad 
you're not on the card."

"Harry, I make love, not war," I sigh.

"Is that what you told Matiqua Montrose when she was knifing Tonya?"

"That was a low fucking blow, man. She came outta nowhere. Stef 
broke both that girl's arms and then started slamming her head in 
the door of a toilet stall."

"Awesome. Stef always had a marvelous mean streak. You weren't by 
any chance videotaping the scene, were you?"

"Very funny. Is everything a goddamn Venomous Video release to you?"

"Not everything. Some things are PVO. Private Viewing Only. I have a 
screening room in this building where I show footage that for one 
reason or another isn't ready for market. People shell out big bucks 
to just sit and watch. Well, they don't *just* sit." He snickers 
disgustingly. 

"PVO, huh? Like all the tapes you stole from us in Tonya?"

"No comment. And ^¥stole' is hardly the word. I like ^¥confiscated' 
much better. I seem to recall you were a bunch of *criminals* with 
way too many privileges. Well, not you, you got *railroaded* into 
jail."

"You got *that* right."

"Anyway, if you make love, not war, why not agree to do a sex tape 
for me? Choose your own partner, make a solo even. I'll pay you good 
money."

"Harry, you just don't get it, do you? I'm just living on a higher 
plane of existence than you, I guess."

"Please, you're starting to sound like Brooke," he goes, giving me a 
play punch in the jaw. "You're starting to *look* like Brooke, for 
that matter, which is a helluva lot better than sounding like her. 
What are you now, my height, 6-4?"

"Yeah, and I'm your weight too, like 250, 'cept mine is muscle and 
yours is--"

"Man meat," he interrupts. "A hog of a log and the kingliest cojones 
in Nut Land, honey. I'm the poster boy for Niagara, and the poster 
is a closeup of the biggest, baddest bag o' balls you'll ever bug 
your baby blues at."

"Duh. My eyes are brown."

"Duh to you too. It's an expression, you frigging sourpuss. You know 
I won the Sir Semen contest at the Iron John Tournament of Testicles 
in Santa Prepuceria last month? Everyone came in  ^¥regulation' 
condoms, they had these sagging retired porn stars giving handjobs 
with lip assists, and they weighed 'em up on a hanging scale. I mean 
they weighed the rubbers, not the *rubbers*. Mine weighed--"

"Maria!" I shout. I spot Maria the Muscle walking toward me in 
matching satin chartreuse tank top and hot pants with this oversized 
thigh stride and I bolt away to say hello. I can't take any more of 
Harry, especially when he's talking about his sexual prowess. The 
idiot apparently has no clue how pissed I am that he bagged me in 
return for getting sprung, and it was just a ruse. I would've been 
sprung anyway, it was the start of a massive Roids/NADS recruitment 
frenzy. Hey, how come Ev Roper never said anything to me about that? 
She's the one who set me up for the motel hell with Harry. I'll have 
to ask her about that sometime. Actually, it wasn't that bad, my 
night with Harry. I mean, I came like a bitch on wheels. But it was 
semi-voluntary, that's what's sticking in my craw. But never mind 
that, right now Maria the Muscle is *crushing* my craw, actually 
lifting me off the floor in an ecstatic embrace, then heaving me 
into a fireman's carry and hopping around the room with my bulk on 
her shoulder, screeching, "Jenna, Jenna, Jenna," over and over like 
she's going crazy. Maybe she is. I can smell the PHEW fumes on 
Maria's sweaty bull neck, and they're making my nostrils flutter.

I check out Maria's bod when she finally puts me down. She's pretty 
fucking ripped, with deep striations in the delts and upper chest, 
yet her bustline is bigger than ever, thrusting up into my face, the 
moist cleavage plunging deeper than a soul fuck. "Shit, Maria, you 
are *humongous*. Is PHEW 2 doing your body good or what?"

"You can smell it, huh?"

"Yeah, and it's making me high like I'm fucking huffing Superglue."

"PHEW 2 is the bomb, baby," she beams, "but it's more than that. I'm 
on an extended split with Glandex EF. You know the new fem-roids? 
Dy-no-mite." She hits a vein-plumped double bi, them pumps the arms 
over and over, making the fat muscle bellies blow up as big as her 
head. "I got 20-inch arms now, cold," she grins, her beestung latina 
lips in a cruel curl. 

"Awesome, Maria," I go, gripping her bustout bi's in my big hands 
and squeezing the huge muscles hard so they spring up into my palms 
like fresh-fed Puerto Rican pythons. I'm starting to feel brachially 
inadequate again. I'm bigger than her in raw inches, but Maria isn't 
even 6 feet tall, and her arms look bigger on her than mine do on 
me. She weighs fucking 218 and she's in *contest shape*. Jesus. 
Never mind the Ms. California Steel Sentinel title she holds, which 
is a contest for prison guards; she could walk onstage now and take 
the heavies at the Estefan Invitational, and she could probably hold 
the trophy  between her tits while arm posing. 

But I don't have time to worry about my self-esteem, I'm too horny. 
Maria picks up on this immediately and presses her nip-stiff nay-
nays into me and whispers in my ear, "And you cannot fucking 
*believe* what these drugs have done to my clit. You ever see my 
layout in Penal Illustrated?"

"No, I don't get Penal Illustrated. You posed for them?"

"Shit, yeah. Lewdie nudie, legs spread, cheeks spread, so fine you 
wanna toss the fucking magazine. I'm the prison pinup of the year, 
baby. Amy Fisher, look out."

"Why the fuck didn't Marlow tell me about this? I call her up 
sometimes just to shoot the shit. You have a copy with you?"

"Nah. But fuck it, I'm way bigger and better than that now anyway. 
Look at my pants, you big hottie." Maria steps back and stands 
there, hands on hips. There's an obscene bulge in her skin-tight 
satiny crotch that's way beyond girl-package.

"What's up down there, Maria? You're not gonna tell me your clit 
tripled in size, are you?"

"Tripled? It hit a fucking inside-the-pants homer. Check this out." 
She steps close to me again, pulls open her shock shorts and looks 
down at herself, mouth wide in wonder. I look down too, and I gasp. 
She's got no panties on, and what I'm looking at is more or less a 
tiny cock. More, not less, actually. Not nearly in Paulette Pep's 
league, but it's a clit so big it's starting to go authentically 
phallic, with a distinctly swollen man-glans, and when Maria flexes 
her pelvic muscles it jerks up and down like a deranged ding-dong. I 
reach a hand in and grip it with two fingers, flicking the hot hood 
with my thumb, and Maria moans and starts to roll her hips, snorting 
and smacking her butt like she was a horse. 

"We gotta get together after these fights are over," she husks. "I 
wanna put this thing up your beautiful butt, sweet Jen."

"For sure," I groan. Her wrought-iron body odor is driving me mad, 
my mouth is full of hot saliva and my asscheeks are twitching 
uncontrollably. With a herculean effort I pull my hand out of her 
pants and take a step back from her, trying to clear the hot zone of 
her scent. "So what are you doing here, anyway?" 

"I'm bodyguarding Harry," she laughs. "No shit, I really am. He's 
worried about all these Sock Her suckers turning on him." Maria 
points with her kissable chin across the room where the five Fillies 
are standing in an irritable group, trying to look tough. And more 
or less succeeding, since I bet they're packing heat. 

"Oh, shit, that's the one whose jaw I busted," I go. The Mom I teed 
off on when Stef went postal is there, wearing a modified football 
helmet with faceguard to protect her wired jaw, just like Maria wore 
after Tiff busted her up during the K-Fad freakout in Tonya. 

"Yeah, she's got the happy hat just like I had," Maria says, right 
on my wavelength. "Remember that day when Sara went crazy and I 
almost wasted fucking Scuzzy Ethel, that filthy pig?"

"How could I forget it? You worked Ethel over so bad she crapped 
herself. And Lally jumped in and almost had her arm broken by Sara? 
And look at Lally now!" I gesture over to where Lally's standing. 
"She's grown into one helluva strapping lass."

I'm about to tell Maria that Sara's coming back tomorrow but she's 
eyeballing Lally, who's talking to her mother in the corner, and her 
manic mindwheels start turning. "That's Lally Palooka?!" she blurts. 
"I don't believe it!" Then she runs over to say hello just as I'm 
about to introduce her to Cait. 

"Maria's a little hyper," I say apologetically to Cait. "Must be the 
drugs."

"Her body's a little hyper too," says Cait. "Her shoulders were any 
bigger she'd have to go through the door sideways, except then her 
tits wouldn't fit. And what's going on in that girl's pants?" 

"With a little luck, after these fights are over, you'll find out. 
Maria wants to party with us later."

"Is she really *that* clit-hung?" Cait asks eagerly. 

"She's big enough to blow," I go. "That's the new PHEW and the new 
Testo-Glandex she's on, I guess she alternates, though I didn't get 
the details. You gotta go back on 'trophs, Cait. Your calves are so 
big they're, like, out of proportion with your other portions." 

"What am I, a fucking TV dinner? So I'll go on 'trophs. But you'll 
have to train with me. Regularly."
	
"No prob. I can sit on you for donkey squats."

"And I can sit on your face with my new superclitty for monkey 
hots."

I'm mulling over the intriguing concept of monkey hots, though it's 
putting a gnawing image of Rick the Prehistoric Dick in the back of 
my brain, when Lupita, the head Filly, comes over and beckons me 
aside for a word in private. She takes her tacky shiny-nylon Nike 
warmup jacket off like she's gonna impress me with her bod, but 
after an eyeful of Maria, Lupita looks like something the fat 
dragged in. She's wearing an absurd string bikini top that was made 
for a chick half her weight, but at least all her tattoos distract 
the eye from her slabs of flab. She's got a mural's worth of all-
black tats on her not too awesome arms, tough-girl spiders and 
demons and stuff, with some fancy-script Spanish words that I can't 
translate and scenes of what I guess is the Virgin Mary--a chick 
with a halo--with muscles and really big tits. I find out later that 
Lupita is an original member of the Anacondas, the biggest national 
latina gang, and she was with them before the fem-muscle movement 
got underway, back when the Anacondas were just a bunch of knife-
wielding bitches with bad attitudes. Lupita's 37 and looks more like 
47. Judy says it's from crack smoking. And Judy, I find out later, 
is 47, though she looks more like 37. I'm sure she doesn't do any 
crack smoking, but I bet she has a smokin' crack. 

Anyway, Lupita's getting in my face now, or trying to since she's 
only about 5-10, almost poking me with her nail-bit index finger 
with the badly chipped shit-brown paint job, carrying on in this 
Mexicali croak about what Stef did to Millie Montoya. "I gonna keel 
dat beetch"--she points with her other equally disgusting index 
finger at Judy--"den I gonna keel you, den I gonna keel you 
girlfrien'." Then she sputters out a few sentences in very 
passionate, spit-flecked Spanish, and the only word I know is 
"puta," which seems to be repeated quite a few times. I don't say a 
damn thing, I just nod and stifle a few fake yawns, since I'm 
looking at a deceased woman. I mean, why get involved? This is her 
last night on the planet. Shit, what a place to die, Harry's fucking 
warehouse. And since she's threatening to kill everybody, her death 
is all the more justified. I just don't get how this piece of pond 
scum could be even half-related to a class act like the late Millie 
Montoya, but then Lupita's daughter comes over and I'm grossed out 
all over again like I've got deja ewwwww.

The daughter, whose name is Nita, as in "I Nita new face," is a 
repulsively pustulant porkette. She's 5-8, 240, way more fat than 
muscle, with French fry thighs and a cerveza stomach, and she's got 
acne so bad her entire face from hairline to jawline is a mass of 
ripely hideous whiteheads. This is from the old Testo-Glandex, I'm 
guessing, which would also explain how fucking *hairy* she is, 
though why the hell would she be on that when there are so many 
better drugs around nowadays? Never mind, she says something to her 
mother in Spanish, then she's in the ring in a black sports bra that 
can barely contain her pendulous pylons, and baggy black boxing 
trunks that make her ass look like something you'd want to throw a 
tarp over, with high-lace boxing shoes that at least hide her 
undoubtedly chubby ankles. She's bouncing around the canvas, calmly 
airboxing, throwing lefts and rights that would look pretty 
respectable, actually, if she was fighting an old bag like, say, 
Scuzzy Ethel. But against Lally, this girl's fists are going to be 
about as useful as tits on a fish.

Judy comes over to me holding her cell phone and says, "My 
girlfriends aren't showing, they've got car trouble. I can call 
other Moms, but I don't see the need. There's just the five silly 
Fillies, and they'll be only four when I turn the Loop to goop. 
Seems like her daughter didn't bring any friends."

"With a face like that, I'm sure she hasn't *got* any friends," I 
go, and Judy throws her head back and laughs, a deep, sexy rumble 
that sets my thighs on fire. She seems very relaxed considering 
what's going down here. "I'm sure we can handle whatever happens," I 
add. "Maria the Muscle is on our team too, any shit happens."

"Yeah," says Judy admiringly, "*that* is one hispanic panic. She was 
just talking to me and Lally, but I don't even know what she said, I 
couldn't take my eyes off her crotch."

Then Harry is at ringside hitting the bell with a hammer, yelling 
for everybody's attention. "OK, people, let's get ready to rumble," 
he bellows. *Harry's* ready to rumble, that's for sure. He's got a 
camera setup on a platform halfway back from the ring for your 
standard coverage; two middle-aged guys with ponytails who roam the 
apron with shoulder-mounted jobs; and, as he proudly points out to 
me, he's even got a camera attached to the ceiling for that overhead 
shot that looks so good on instant replays. Not to mention the stack 
of little monitors at ringside that he watches all his "feeds" on, 
as he calls them. 

"Very impressive display, Harry," I go.

"You too," he laughs, making googly eyes at my radically rockin' 
rack. I'm in a totally tight Tonya Forever baby tee with nothing 
under it, and with all these temptations around, my teatage is 
pucker wonderful, if I do say so myself. "You sure weren't chested 
up like that when *I* had the pleasure of your company," he leers. 

"Sorry, Harry, that was my pre-Titanic bod, you know?"

"So when do I get to download version 48.0?" he asks with a wanton 
wink. 

"When pigs fly."

"I love it when you play hard to get, Jen. A pig is gonna fly 
anyway, just as soon as little miss Lally gets her hardass in the 
ring. Shake a leg, Lal, time is money," he yells. Lally is at 
ringside in just a sports bra and bike shorts now, barefoot, though 
there's no kicking allowed, and Judy is oiling her up  with Load 
Lotion, the roids-based muscle rub that Nora and Glo used to use in 
stir. It can be hell on sensitive skin; I'd never use it. Too bad I 
don't have a tube of Af-Gro Sheen. That'd have Lally pissing herself 
in the ring. She might piss herself anyway--from laughter. 

"What's the deal with this matchup?" I quietly ask Harry. "This Nita 
chick can't pug with Lally, it's ridiculous. Why's she in there?"

"It's a latina macha thing," Harry hisses into my ear. "Taking a big 
beating builds character and rep."

"And brain damage," I go. "This is fucking bare fists. At least 
it'll be over fast."

"It certainly will not," Harry insists. "Lally has specific 
instructions to hold back and make it last. This is for the viewing 
public, after all."

"It'll be a fucking slaughter."

"So what? You ever see the tapes of Ice fighting Anaconda losers at 
Karla Faye Tucker? She ripped them a bunch of new assholes and it 
was *great*. Those numbers go for $250 a pop in Nigeria. Too bad 
everyone has AIDS over there, it's cutting into my potential 
audience."

"No, I haven't seen the tapes, and you had to fucking mention Ice to 
me, Harry?"

"Yeah, I know, Sara's coming back tomorrow and the last thing you 
wanna think about is Ice." 

I'm stunned. "How could you possibly know that Sara's coming back 
tomorrow?"

"Hello? Jesus Christ, Jen, it's my business to know *everything*. 
I've got informers informing on my informers. I'm Cali juvie 
commish, for the love of God, and I'm unofficially running Amy 
Fisher too. That's where Ice is now."

"*I* know that. You're not gonna let her out, are you?"

Harry shrugs like he hasn't thought about it, which of course means 
he already has a complete fucking *plan*. "I dunno. Maybe you can do 
something for me to see she stays in, huh?"

Before I can answer, the oiled up Lal, all her muscles glistening 
under the hot lights, climbs into the ring, and Maria the Muscle 
climbs in too, almost as shiny with PHEW sweat. She's reffing. I 
didn't know there'd be a ref, but her presence on camera can only be 
a plus. Harry turns his attention to the action and I sidle over to 
Cait, who's checking out the Fillies arrayed on the other side of 
the ring. "Which one hit Brit?" I ask. "Was it Lupita?"

"No, it was that one there," Cait goes, pointing to a big, kinda 
cute botched blonde who's wearing black leather overalls with 
nothing under them, not even a bra. 

"That's the one I took down in a Neckbreaker when Stef went wild," I 
say. "Too bad I *didn't* break her neck. Then Brit would be here 
with us tonight."

"If there's trouble, I wanna work that bitch over till she's one big 
black-and-blue bruise," Cait snarls. "If you can, hold her for me, 
OK?" 

"Sure, sweetness. I just hope those cunts don't have guns." 

"Get outta here," says Cait. "This Dexter guy wouldn't let them in 
here packing, would he? That would be insane."

I go back over to him. "Harry, the Fillies don't have guns on them, 
do they?"

"In here? Of course not! They had to put all their pieces in a box 
that's locked in my office, then I had Maria pat them all down real 
thorough. What kind of a schmuck would I be to let those psychos in 
here with gats? They even had to cough up their blades! Do I look 
like a moron? Don't answer that."

"OK, chill, I was just making sure."

"So you're sure. Now shut up, I wanna savor this."

The fight has started. No intros, the girls get ID'd with graphics, 
added later. They're not wearing chest protection, which is not a 
problem for Lally, who fought topless in Texas, but for Nita it 
sucks. She's got big, sloppy tits that are just out there flopping 
around under her ill-fitting bra, and Lally's punching them, I guess 
as a change of pace from punching her face. This poor fucking Nita 
can't do shit defensively, she's got no effective head movement, no 
snapping jab, nothing, she can't even keep her hands up high enough. 
Lally is tagging her mug over and over, hard enough to rock her but 
not knock her down, and it's the most disgusting thing I ever saw in 
my--well, since this afternoon. Picture the fight scene from Raging 
Bull where all the cuts keep squishing blood in slow motion--I saw 
it on tape with Stef and Ton at Ton's house just a few weeks ago. 
But picture it in color, and instead of blood, it's yellowy *pus* 
that's gushing all over the place. *Then* blood, when all the pus 
has been punched out, but before that there's a pinkish-white 
mixture of pus and blood that's squirting, and I do mean fucking 
*squirting*.

Yeah, Lally is popping every whitehead on Nita's fucking face like 
this was a session at some violently insane dermatologist's. Lal has 
to keep wiping her fists off on her shorts, and the pus is all over 
her neck and sports bra, some is on her face and even in her hair. 
It's puke city, I can barely bare to look at it, and it goes on for 
12 fucking interminable minutes, no breaks, there are no rounds in 
this thing. Lally expertly keeps Nita on her feet all that time, 
hitting her just hard enough to make it hurt, and Nita lands nothing 
except kidney punches in the frequent clinches, which are broken up 
very professionally by Maria, who's wearing *latex gloves*. By the 
time this is over she'll be able to pack Nita's ass with Nita's 
face. And Lupita stands at ringside the whole time yelling for her 
daughter to "Throw the hook, throw the hook!" In English, for some 
reason. Like maybe it's gonna psych out Lally? Anyway, what hook? 
That pathetic roundhouse that keeps getting slashblocked by Lally's 
steel forearm? 

Finally, Lupita herself throws something: a towel. Nita picks it up 
and wipes the blood and pus out of her swollen eyes with it as Maria 
bars Lally from charging in for the thousandth time, and Harry 
finally rings the damn bell to end this farce. 

"How about *that* for the first half of Mother/Daughter Slaughter!" 
he exults.

"I think you should call it Beyond Pimpledome," I suggest. 

"That was *so* gross," Cait complains. "Even the whiteheads on her 
*shoulders* were popped." 

"You know, we haven't been properly introduced," Harry says to Cait.

"Harry, your idea of a proper introduction is a blowjob," I go. 

"Well, as I said, we haven't been properly introduced. But that'll 
have to wait till after the next match. I wanna keep things moving, 
I've got some other business to attend to later, I'm on a schedule 
here. Judy, Lupita, let's get ready to rumble! Lally, you were 
fantastic!" Harry claps her on the back as she jumps off the apron 
and he gives her a kiss on the top of her sweaty head.

Lally smiles at us ecstatically, panting, her pecs twitching for 
joy, her muscles all pumped on Load Lotion and 12 minutes of what 
amounted to heavy-bag tagging, which must have her cruising on a 
super endorphin high. "Wow," she shouts, "that was the longest 
fucking Clearasil commercial ever made!" We all laugh. 

"Gimme big arms, champ, gimme big arms," yells Harry, steering one 
of his roving camera guys over to Lal. She hits a double bi and 
pumps it a few times, looking really peaked-up and fully Loaded, 
she's gotta be pushing 17 easy.

"Awesome!" cheers Judy. "I'm so proud of you baby! It's not easy 
holding back like that, punch after punch."

"Now it's your turn, Ma. Kick ass."

"Yeah, but kick it *slowly*," warns Harry. "You better ice your 
hands, girl, they're gonna swell up, I bet," he says to Lal. 

"Dr. Dexter, I just came off months of barefisting on the Titty 
Limits tour, I'm hip. They'll swell a little, sure, but it's Nita 
who really needs the ice."

"She needs a fucking ice*berg*," Harry chuckles. "Go to the dressing 
room over there, babe, you'll find everything you need and you can 
take a shower too, if you want. Wash all the gunk off you." He slaps 
Lally's butt like he's a football coach and turns away to consult 
with one of his technicians.

"But isn't Nita supposed to be heading for the hospital?" Cait 
hisses in my ear. "It looks like she's staying." She's on the other 
side of the ring, slumped in a folding chair, the Filly with the 
helmet working on her face with all kinds of salves and cotton tips 
and gauze while the bleached bitch holds her heavy head steady. 

"Fuck it," I whisper to Cait. "If she's staying, she's staying. She 
must be one tough motherfucker under all that acne. If it's a latina 
macha test, I guess she passed. And she must have some kinda cardio 
for a fat girl. She kept throwing shit right till the bitter end."

"She would've kept going too," notes Cait with a touch of awe in her 
voice. "It's her mother who stopped it."

"Hey, Jen, oil me up, will you?" Judy says. "Lally's gotta get ice." 
Like she needed an excuse to ask me. She hands me the tube of Load 
Lotion. Judy's in just the canary sports bra and matching panties 
now, wearing her iron abs like a shield, and she's taken all her 
makeup off. She looks tummy-yummy, good enough to eat with a fork. 
Pretty choice dish for Lupita's last meal. 

"Sure thing, Jude." I stand behind her and work the cream into her 
statuesque neck and the coiled copper-tone cable of her wicked-wide 
shoulders, digging my thumbs into her fist-thick traps, tracing the 
stark iron flare of her lats,  and I'm trembling with excitement as 
I ponder the pulsating perception that these massive muscles are 
about to wreak mortal mayhem on Lupita, who's in the ring now in 
that you've-got-to-be-kidding black string bikini, her belly and 
thighs jiggling like death rattles. Judy's rank PHEW sweat is making 
me dizzy with lust, and in an effort to stave off the desire to 
press my pounding mound into her ass, I spin her around and do her 
arms and upper chest, running my fingers over the maze of veins, my 
nostrils buzzing, and then I quickly grip her fists, admiring again 
how knuck-fuckingly nasty they are, then I kiss each one for luck. 
She looks longingly into my eyes, then takes a deep breath, her 
shoulders rising and her chest filling high and full, then Harry 
hammers the bell impatiently and she vaults up into the ring. 
As for the numbers, Judy is 6-1-1/2, 228 and Lupita is 5-10, 230, 
but they look painfully mismatched in the ring together and Judy has 
the far greater reach. But Lupita's not about reach; anyone would 
guess just looking at her that she fights like a bulldog, and she 
does. She comes in low, head down, swinging wildly, Judy pummeling 
her with short chopping punches, then Lupita lurches forward, 
latches on to the bigger girl and holds her around the chiseled 
waist, head tucked into her sculpted side, hanging on for dear life 
while Judy pounds her back, then Maria breaks them. This happens 
four times in a row, and the fifth time, Judy, fed up with having 
this ugly thing stuck on her like a barnacle, backpedals, throwing a 
fusillade of jabs to cover her retreat. Lupita, on the offensive, 
drives Judy into the corner right above the Fillies, who are 
cheering like maniacs, and tries to put a KO uppercut on her, firing 
shots from out of her usual face-down crouch, but Judy straightens 
her up nicely with a left hook, then hits her in the belly with a 
perfect right that doubles Lupita over with a gagging groan of pain, 
as her mouthpiece blows out and bounces out of the ring. She's hurt 
so bad she can't move, and before Judy can hit her again, Maria 
pushes the ravishing redhead to a neutral corner, as Harry yells, 
"Good reffing, girl!" Then Lupita, much to our surprise, sinks to 
her knees at ring center, gets this really queasy look on her face, 
her features twisting up just like her guts must be, and hurls all 
over the canvas, really retching up a storm. 

"Oh, Jesus H. Christ!" Harry yells. "Get in there and clean that 
up!" he directs a skinny male assistant, some kid who looks like he 
should be delivering pizzas. Instead it seems he's wiping one off 
the floor. I'm not sure what Lupita was eating, but there are huge 
steaming red, orange, yellow and white chunks in the ring, and the 
kid needs a ton of towels and a bucket of water to make any headway 
with this mess. "Keep rolling," says Harry to his crew. "We may 
wanna use all this, like it's a fucking documentary." Cait and I 
can't look, it's too awful. We sit down with Lally, who has her 
hands wrapped in Polar Paks--she didn't shower since she didn't want 
to miss anything--and talk about whether she's going back to high 
school and what have you, or if she's gonna switch to Titanic or 
some other drug. She's not sure about anything and neither am I. The 
future's a stone blur. I'm sure about one thing: I don't want to 
look at the ring. I've already upchucked once today, and I can't 
afford another, I need to keep my nutrition in me. There's something 
about looking at vomit that makes you want to look at *more* vomit--
like your own. While the kid cleans, Maria and Judy stand and confer 
in a corner, and Lupita is on a stool across the ring, talking to 
her Fillies, who are gathered round her in a semi-circle, massaging 
her shoulders and glaring at us. She has her mouthpiece back, but 
she's holding it so she can blab nonstop in Spanish, though just who 
she's talking to, I don't know. Maybe her stomach. Anyway, a few 
minutes later when the canvas is as clean as it's going to get 
without a real professional scrubbing, Harry hammers the bell again 
and yells, "OK, let's get it *on*," like this was Celebrity 
Deathmatch. 

Well, the deathmatch part is right, at least. The fighters come 
together again, Lupita goes low again, lurching in, firing wild 
hooks, and Judy catches her in the mouth with a wicked uppercut that 
drops the pudgy pugger right on her face, right on her vomit stain, 
and there she stays, the only thing moving is her fat back as it 
heaves with her heavy breathing. She's KO'd, she's not just resting, 
as Maria finds out when she rolls her over and pulls out her now 
bloody mouthpiece. Maria shakes her head and frowns at Harry, who 
thunders up at Judy, "What the hell did you knock her out for, you 
fucking lunatic?! This fight is like three minutes old! It's not 
even a fight, it's a fucking vomit video!"

Judy shrugs helplessly. "It was an accident. These are bare fists, 
Harry, I can't pitty-pat with 'em, they don't work like that." She's 
holding her fists up for Harry, and they look so brutaciously 
bodacious I just wanna leap into the ring and shower them with 
kisses. 

Lupita is in a sitting position now, with Maria's help. She's 
conscious, but kinda woozy. "Why don't you give her a couple 
minutes' rest, then continue?" I suggest. 

"Damn fucking straight," says Harry. "And keep rolling, you never 
know when something interesting will happen," he tells his crew, 
sarcastically. 

Maria helps Lupita off the floor and starts to walk her back to her 
corner when Nita gets up off her chair, tosses aside the ice bags 
she was holding to her face and throws a towel into the ring--one of 
the bloody, pus-stained towels she was cleaned up with. She shouts, 
"No mas, no mas." The towel lands at Lupita's feet, and she and 
Maria look at Nita in wonder, then look at Harry.

"What the fuck was that?" yells Harry. "Yes mas, si mas, plenty o' 
more fucking mas, you little cunt! You can't surrender for your 
mother!"

Nita comes around the ring over to Harry, and as she gets closer I 
have to wince. Her eyes are puffy slits, her cheeks are rosy like 
apples, and just as bulbous, her jaw is all misshapen and her lips 
are so fat she looks like she's been blowing a horse. Basically, her 
entire face looks like it got tenderized with a baseball bat, like 
she met Lally in an alley. This girl needs a Zmeskaline facial. 
Maria slumps Lupita on her stool and jumps out of the ring to stand 
in front of Harry, playing the dutiful bodyguard. Nita starts to 
jabber at Harry in Spanish and Maria starts to translate, when Judy 
grabs Lupita off her stool, lifts her easily onto her shoulder and 
is preparing to execute some sort of piledriver as the peachy-
bleachy chick in the leather overalls dives head first into the ring 
under the ropes like she was an RWF pro, and tackles Judy around the 
legs before she can shitslam Lupita. Judy goes down, Lupita goes 
flying and all hell breaks loose. Nita leaps up into the ring to 
come to her mother's aid as the Filly with the helmet comes charging 
over to us wielding a folding chair, the two other Fillies right 
behind her. Maria just gets out of the way, pushing Harry 
protectively behind her and I'm left to handle the nutcase with the 
chair. She's not a big girl and she has no chair technique, so I 
sort of sidestep her as she tries to swing it at me and I take it 
out of her hands easily and brain her with it, but she's wearing the 
helmet. Still, she goes straight down, her torso sort of driven into 
her feet, and the chair is bent and the helmet is cracked, so I 
must've swung the thing pretty damn hard. 

But not as hard as Judy is swinging in the ring. I get a glimpse of 
her punching Nita in the face, or what's left of her face, while 
Lupita is hanging on her legs and the blonde is hanging on her other 
arm. Nita's top has been pulled down and her tits are swinging 
loose, or rather these two huge purple mountains, forget the 
majesty, are bouncing around like punching bags from hell. This 
fighting bare fists without chest protection is insane, but I guess 
it's a macha thing. 

Speaking of macha things, I'm engaged in one right now--stomping the 
two other Fillies, who are already grounded, one put down by me with 
an elbow to the face, the other wrestled down by Cait. This is what 
I wore my Caterpillar work boots for. The one with the helmet is 
already out of action from the chair bashing, and in fact blood is 
leaking out the crack in her helmet from the crack in her skull, I 
guess. Shit, I sure swing a mean folding chair. Maybe I should get a 
job with the RWF. 

I stop stomping long enough to check the ring and see what Judy's up 
to. Sure enough, she's killing Lupita. She's got her in a heinous 
rear choke hold, the kind Cali cops can't use anymore, the right arm 
wrapped under her victim's chin like a fatal boa, pulling back so 
Lupita's feet are *dangling*, right in front of one of the camera 
guys on the apron who's calmly shooting it all, and now Lally has 
jumped into the ring to kick the downed Nita. The blonde, in the 
meantime, is behind Judy, getting back to her feet from a punch, I 
guess, and Cait takes the opportunity to climb through the ropes and 
kick the pistol whipper right in the zipper before she can defend 
herself. Her eyes roll into her head as she drops onto her ass, her 
face screwed up in agony, and Cait grabs her by the spiky bleached 
hair and puts a knee into her mug that pops her nose like it was a 
blood balloon, with a wet and wicked sound that's music to my ears. 
I hope Brit heard it.

"Break her fucking legs, Cait," I yell. My attackers are already 
down and out and I have nothing left to hit. I turn to Harry, who's 
standing with Maria just gawking at the ring action and checking out 
his monitors. Judy is still holding the fading Lupita in the choker, 
her limbs are twitching spasmodically, and all Harry has to say to a 
camera guy is, "Lou, get in a little closer." Dude's a regular Spike 
Lee. 

"Jen, get in here and hold this bitch up," Cait whines. "I wanna 
punch her, not break her legs. I don't even know *how* to break her 
legs." 

"Try telling my mother that, girl." Cait looks at me funny but she's 
too revved up to pursue it. She's shifting excitedly from one 
flirtatious foot to the other, clenching and unclenching her fists. 
I get into the ring, take the blonde off the canvas, peel her 
overalls down to her hips so her big, firm bubbies spill out, all 
lush and thick-nippled and ease her into a full nelson. She's not 
really resisting, between the boot in the crotch and the knee in the 
nose she's not all there. Then Cait starts whaling on her and the 
pain brings her back to life, and she starts grunting and groaning, 
but I've got her in a no-slip grip. Cait punches her face so hard it 
feels like if I wasn't holding her behind the head it would just fly 
off. I can see streamers of blood and snot hanging off her face, and 
then she starts spitting red gobby things out of her mouth, which 
turn out be  teeth. Not *too* gross. Too bad she hasn't got a kisser 
as hard as Judy's abs. Cait swtiches to the battered blonde's chest 
and belly, working it hard with very deliberate punches, and it 
occurs to me, as the vicious body blows reverberate right through 
the blonde into my arms, that I'm participating, somewhat 
unwillingly, in yet another Venomous Video production. But this 
one's for Brit. 

Then, between rib-cracking thuds, I hear my cell chiming in my bag 
at ringside. I unceremoniously drop the battered blonde and jump out 
to get it, leaving Cait standing there breathing hard, all sweaty 
and excited. As I figured, it's Ev. "What's up, Jen, you've got 
trouble?"

"Not anymore. The Moms problem is over. And so are the Fillies." 

"Judy won her fight, naturally?"

"Well, she kinda won it *un*naturally. Lupita is dead, or about to 
be." Judy *still* has her in the wattle throttle, and now Lally has 
the limp Nita in one too. "And it looks like her daughter is gonna 
buy the farm along with her."

"Do her, baby," says Judy to Lal. "No vendetta from the dead. Shut 
her ugly head down." Lally, who has this evil grin on her face, 
moves forward so Nita is big belly to belly with Lupita. Shit, face 
to face mother/daughter strangulations. Harry's Mother/Daughter 
Slaughter is exceeding even *his* sick expectations.  

"So you're gonna need a disposal team?" Ev asks.

"Harry, you want a Roids disposal team for this, right?" I shout.

Harry, turns to me with annoyance, like I broke his deathtrain of 
thought. He's got an erection in his pants that's so big, short 
people should have to wear a hard hat when they walk near him. 
"That'd be great. Who the hell are you talking to, Jen?"

"Ev Roper." 

"Say hello for me."

"Harry says hello. Isn't that nice? And yeah, we need a team."

"So how many stiffs you got?"

"Looks like two, but there could be as many as five. There are three 
other Fillies here and I don't know what's gonna happen with them."

"I'll send a team, they can handle five if need be, no sweat."

"Thanks, Ev. You're the best."

"*You* are, babe. You've gotta come over soon, Kim misses you. She 
likes to clean up your shit."

"How touching. But I'm tied up. I've got Sara coming back tomorrow."

"Oh, right. So bring her, Kim'll love her. And so will I."

"I will, but not tomorrow. We'll get together for sure, I'll call 
you. Is Stef gonna come home now? I mean, back to the apartment in 
Shorta?"

"I dunno, I have to call her. You going back tonight?"

"I don't think so, I'll probably be staying in Caitlin's house. Tell 
me one thing, Ev."

"What, sweet stuff?"

I take a few steps further away from the ring, where Judy has 
finally dropped Lupita's corpse on its face and is trying to massage 
the numbness out of her killing arm, while Lally continues her Vise 
of Demise on Nita, as they like to call a sleeper hold in the RWF, 
though there they don't mean it literally. Nita appears to have 
given up the ghost, her bloody tongue sticking out the corner of her 
bangy-lipped mouth like she's a retard. Her bladder has emptied and 
drenched through her crotch cover; hot pee is flooding down her fat 
hairy legs, making a puddle on the canvas. Harry's gonna have some 
cleaning bill on his hands. 

"Who's Bob Fosse?" I hiss into the phone.

--30--