Sweet release: Jen and Sara's wet reunion.
By Avida Dolor (avidadolor@aol.com)
Chapter 9, Jenna Takedown: NADS Buster


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 9

There's a ringing in my ear. I squinch my face up, trying to make 
it stop, but it won't. Wait, it's not tinnitus, it's my fucking 
cell phone. For some reason I passed out with it right next to my 
head. Where am I anyway? Oh, Cait's house. Right. Why isn't Cait 
right next to my head? She was all over my head last night. I'll 
work on that in a minute. I press Yes on the phone before it makes 
my skull explode. It's Stef. "Stef!" I go cleverly. 

"Hey, babe, I've got big news."

"You back in the apartment? You sound kinda distant."

"I *am* kinda distant. I'm in Cleveland."

"Cleveland?" I wince as I realize my head is throbbing like one of 
those hammer-hit thumbs in a cartoon. "What are you doing in 
Cleveland?"

"Visiting the fucking Rock and Roll Hall of Fame." I pause, 
racking my swollen brain for what Stef would be doing at the Rock 
and Roll Hall of Fame. Yeah, she likes music, but still . . . 
"That was a fucking joke, you ditz," she goes. "I'm hot on the 
trail of one of my rapists. Marty. Party Hearty Marty. Soon to be 
Dearly Departed Marty. Got a tip last night at the safe house from 
a Roids chick who can tap into all kinds of classified Internet 
databases. I jumped on a plane and here I am. Gonna nail the 
fucker today, I think, if I can get the right setup." 

I'm wondering if Stef is still pulling my leg, but she sounds too 
pumped up. "Well, cool," I go, not sure what the hell I'm supposed 
to say. "Be careful. Don't let your vengeance get in the way of 
your, like, personal safety. You know what I mean?"

"Of course I know what you mean. I have to make a clean hit and a 
clean getaway, duh. Are you fucked up on something?"

"I had a weird night last night. Got totally Bobek Oksana. I'm 
kinda hung over."

"I'll bet. Too fucking Tara, girl. Tell me about it later. And you 
take care of yourself too. There's shit going down. Have you heard 
from Ev?"

"No. I mean not since last night. What shit you talking about?"

"Never mind, it's a long story, she'll fill you in. I gotta go, my 
mark's on the move. I'll call you when I can. When does Sara 
arrive?"

"This afternoon. That's not why you left town, is it?"

"Get outta here. I'm on a mission. I got Roids clearance for this. 
Give her a big kiss for me."

That's a relief. "Will do, girlfriend."

"Love you, babe."

"I love you too, Stef." She hangs up. I feel bad about Sara coming 
between me and Stef, but I'm glad Stef has another revenge killing 
to take her mind off me. They say it's good to stay active when 
you're between girlfriends, and what's more active than a death 
stalk? The pain in my head, for one thing. I squint at the clock 
on the dresser--the red LED numbers are searing my eyes like laser 
beams. It's 10. I'm supposed to meet Sara at the bus depot at 2. 
Well, at least I have time to shower. I must *smell* like the bus 
depot. I get out of bed slowly, trying not to move my head too 
much. I'm naked and coated in so much dried sweat I feel like I 
could peel it off in layers like I was some kind of a fucking sex 
onion. "Cait?" I yell. 

"What!?" she groans from somewhere in the room. 

I walk around the bed. She's on the floor, splayed out like she 
fell off a roof. Maybe she fell off the roof of my mouth. I look 
around the room, blinking in confusion. There's an empty Stoli 
bottle on the floor, which doesn't surprise me at all. I'm trying 
to focus on last night. I remember talking to Ev on the cell at 
Harry's studio, and I vaguely remember getting it on with Cait 
here, and I don't remember anything else in between. "Cait, what 
the hell did we do last night? I'm kinda fuzzy on what went on. 
How about you?"

Cait, who's stark naked just like me, but I'm sure she smells a 
lot better, shoots suddenly to a sitting position, making her big 
tits bounce up into her face. Then she moans and holds her head 
like it's gonna fall of. Then she looks up at me wide-eyed. "I 
fucking *killed* that blonde."

"What blonde?"

"The blonde I was beating the shit out of in the ring. You were 
holding her for me, then you dropped her to answer the phone. Who 
the hell just called you anyway?"

Right, the blonde. The one who pistol-whipped Brit. I remember 
backstopping her for the beating. "That was Stef. She's gone out 
of town on, like, business. So what about the blonde? What do you 
mean you killed her?"

"You don't remember?"

"Would I be asking you if I remembered?"

"All right, don't get testy. She was on the mat, beaten up real 
bad--my knuckles still ache from it," Cait digresses, holding her 
meat maulers up and curling the thick fingers tentatively--"and 
Harry suggested I put a calf vise on her. I played along, 'cause 
my fists hurt too much to hit her anymore anyway. So I put her 
head in the calf vise, face up, and put a big squeeze on, Harry's 
camera guy was shooting it, and--"

"--and you crushed her fucking skull with your calves?!" 

"Shit, no, I couldn't do that, I don't think, even if I wanted to. 
Maybe if I practiced on melons for a few months . . ." Cait looks 
down at her huge legs and flexes her feet hard so her calves lift 
off like booster rockets.

"So what did you do?"

"You really don't remember this? It was so intense."

Exasperated, I bend over and pick Cait off the floor under the 
armpits, haul her high in the air and plop her on her ass on the 
bed, then grip her by the face, go nose to nose with her and yell, 
"If I could remember this, I wouldn't be asking you, would I, 
girlfriend?" This blackout is making me nervous. 

Cait grimaces up at me. "Shit, Jen, chill, will you? Your breath 
could kill a moose."

"Sorry." I let go of her and take a step back. "Now what the fuck 
happened?"

"Lally came over while I had the blonde in the vise and kicked her 
in the crotch, then stomped on her gut a few times. The blonde 
threw up--it sort of bubbled up over her lips--but since she was 
trapped face up she choked to death on her own vomit. Like 
Hendrix."

"James Hendrix," I go authoritatively. Yes, I've heard of him.

Cait frowns in horror, recalling her snuff scene. "I mean, I kept 
her in the vise for another couple minutes, I didn't understand 
what was happening, I was posing for the camera like a dumbshit. I 
*killed* her." 

I don't remember any of this. "Harry has this all on tape?"

"Yeah. He said he'd send us a copy of the whole evening."

"Super, *there's* a great VCR party. Too bad Ton's not in town, 
she'd love it. What else happened? Did Lally and Judy get it on 
with us here? What about Maria the Muscle?"

Cait shakes her head sadly and pulls idly at one of her stiffening 
nipples. How could the girl get a tit chubby at a time like this? 
"Nobody came back with us. Maria had to go somewhere with Harry, 
the Palookas had some Moms business to attend to. Another time. 
They dropped us off here, we did a lot of Rapture, smoked a lot of 
dope and drank a lot of vodka. I guess too much. My head's killing 
me."

"At least you're not blacked out on half the night." 

"You drank more than I did, and you had twice as much Rapture. 
Christ, that stuff is unbelievable! It was like a fucking Twilight 
Zone episode--one minute the room seemed five feet long, the next 
it seemed five *miles* long. And I came so many times I got a 
sprain in my cunt. And you sweated so much I thought you'd 
dehydrate--except you were drinking vodka like it was water." She 
giggles. Despite my love for this girl, I have a tremendous desire 
to bitch slap her right now, 'cause I've got these mental gaps and 
they're making me real edgy. Like what if I got brain damage from 
too much Rapture? I don't really know anything about the stuff. 
"The bed is still soaked," Cait chuckles. She puts her palm on it 
and presses down. It makes a damp squishy noise. "I'll have to 
change the sheets." 

"Sounds like you'll have to change the fucking mattress. So there 
was a lot of killing last night. I do remember Judy strangling the 
old Mom and Lally strangling her daughter." I can't remember the 
victims' names, but I'm not gonna mention that right now. Other 
details pop into my pounding head. "What happened to the one with 
the helmet I bashed with the chair?"

"She was taken away in an ambulance. The other Moms you stomped 
too. So there were only the three, uh, fatalities." 

"Great. Well, join the killer ranks. You're in good company. Seems 
like everyone but me has finalized someone lately."

"Brit hasn't killed anyone, or even hurt anyone."

"She hurt Nora during that hairy scene in the kitchen."

"Don't remind me. And I've got to visit her in the hospital. And 
take her home, I hope. You coming with me?"

"I dunno. I have to get Sara at 2. Thank the Goddess I didn't 
forget *that.* Right now I just have to get my shit together." I 
stumble into the bathroom, take a long pee, then wash down four 
ibuprofen with tap water--two is candy to someone my size. I brush 
my teeth, then stumble into the shower and let the hot water scour 
me clean while I try to piece together last night, but I can't get 
my mind around anything else. Well, whatever. At least I didn't 
make Maria and the Palookas, 'cause I'd sure want to cherish 
*that* memory.

No sooner do I get out of the shower than my cell rings again. 
It's Ev. "Jen, some wicked shit went down last night."

"What? You mean at Harry's?"

"No, much later. There was a NADS attack on the lab in Santa 
Herminosa."

"Where Paulette Pep works?"

"Yeah."

"Is she OK? I was just with her yesterday." Though it seems like a 
year ago.

"She's fine, she wasn't there at the time. But the lab was 
damaged, classified stuff was stolen and some members of her team 
were killed."

"Who?" 

"I dunno exactly, two assistants. Lab technicians. Why do you 
ask?"

"Was a guy killed?"

"No, her staff is all chicks. What are you getting at?"

"Nothing. She has this male, like, slave, and I thought maybe he 
got killed."

"He didn't. I know who you mean, I heard about him. You met him?"

"Yeah."

"What's he like?"

"Like a 5-foot version of Harry Dexter but with enough body hair 
to make a thousand chest wigs."

Ev laughs. "Yeah, that Professor Pep, she's a real pip."

"Speaking of Harry Dexter, Ev, I've been meaning to ask you--why'd 
you sucker me into sleeping with him to get out of Tonya?"

"Oh, shit, Jen, you're not gonna hold that against me, are you?"

"But I would've got out anyway, the Roids would've recruited me 
anyway, right?"

"Yeah, when you were sprung. The Roids had no reason to try to 
pressure Harry to spring you right away. You were on Titanic, you 
were training like a bitch, there's no reason they couldn't leave 
you for the six months you had left and recruit you then. I got 
you out the *next day*." 

"OK. Never mind. It's just something I've been thinking about."

"Well, now you've got something else to think about, girl. The 
shit has hit the fan. Tot Nots are on the market and the 
distribution war is *on.* You've been officially drafted into the 
CHICKA, and you've got a new control. And Bonnie's been drafted 
too." 

Huh? My head is in no condition for this kind of shit. Ev gives me 
a name, an address in Santa Riposa and tells me to be there at 6 
p.m. sharp today, and to take Bonnie with me. Michelle From Hell 
has been CHICKAfied too, but she's not joining us, she's got 
another assignment that I can't know about. And I need a new 
control 'cause Ev's not CHICKA, and this is CHICKA business. "But 
what if I don't want to join the CHICKA?" I whine.

"Jen, don't do this to me," Ev pleads. "You've *got* to join the 
CHICKA. Bon's in and so's Michelle. I recruited you for the Roids, 
my reputation is at stake. They've groomed you like a star, and 
now they need you, bigtime. The NADS have a lot of power now in 
Cali. There's a big war brewing, and you have to take a side, you 
can't be neutral. If you want to be a noncombatant, go somewhere 
nonaligned. Like Switzerland."

"What about Stef? You spoke to her, right?"

"Did she call you?"

"Yeah, from Cleveland."

"Right. Stef's doing her own thing. She's not part of the, uh, 
mobilization that's going on right now. But she'll play a role, 
you can bet on that." 

"Fine, I'll be there at 6." At least Bonnie'll be with me and at 
least I'll have time to get Sara, bring her back to Shorta and 
ride her like the Fun Flume at the Ocean Motion Water Park in 
Santa Bloomafina.

I get dressed and tell Cait to go see Brit without me, I have a 
really busy day scheduled. She pouts, but she understands. Cait's 
a smart cookie. Did I mention she's got a degree from Willa Cather 
College? Fuck, I can't remember. Then my cell rings again. It's 
Tonya, from Mexico. "Tonya! What's up? How's your rehab?" I have a 
horrible feeling she got wind of the scene in her house yesterday, 
the broken lamp and everything, and she's calling to chew me out, 
and I don't mean that in the good way. But she knows nothing, 
apparently.

"Totally awesome," she goes, all bright and bubbly. "I'm on some 
kinda Zmeskaline IV drip, I never felt so strong in my life. 
Yesterday I beat a guy to death with a hubcap."

"You what?! You been there one day, you already killed somebody?"

"Yeah, beat his fuckin' head in with a hubcap. Just happened to be 
handy. Was walkin' around outside the compound, loaded on Z and 
some kinda upper. He was drivin' by, stopped his car and came on 
to me. I wasn't wearin' much, it's real hot down here. Some 
grapepicker or somethin', had an old Yugo. I turned the little 
fuckin' car on its side, a hubcap rolled off, and I beat his 
brains to mush with it, broke a fuckin' nail. They have a great 
manicurist here, by the way."

"Did you get in trouble?"

"Are you kiddin'? This is Mexico, babe, life is cheaper than a 
taco here."

"Life is getting kinda cheap here, too. I had a wild scene at 
Harry Dexter's video place last night, some Sock Her Moms got 
wasted. I don't have time to tell you about it now, though, I'm 
out the door, Ton, I'm late, I'm picking up Sara today. But you'll 
see the tape, it'll be a pisser."

"Are you with Stef?"

"No, she's, uh, out of town on business."

"Roids business?"

"Yeah, sort of. And so am I. There's a war on."

"I heard. Ev called me. But fuck that. I'm gonna be back soon, 
this shouldn't take but a few weeks, and I wanna pick up where I 
left off with the RWF. Plus we gotta tour some more juvies. And I 
want you and Stef on my team again."

"That's very sweet of you, Ton, after how we let you down."

"You didn't let me down. *I* let me down. Never shoulda let that 
black bitch get behind me. I mean, blindsided? *Me?*"

"Well, we'll see what happens. I gotta run now, call me again 
soon, though."

I get rid of Ton--I'm just too frazzled about the scene in her 
place yesterday to deal with her now, and I'm still feeling guilty 
about letting her get knifed in the first place--kiss Cait goodbye 
and tell her to kiss Brit for me, preferably on the clit. I jump 
in the Jimmy and head back to Shorta, gobbling Amazon One bars as 
I drive. I stop off at a Toys R Us on the way and buy a deluxe 
Fisher Price kiddie pool in hot girlie pink. I have to sort of 
squeeze it into the back of the Jimmy on an angle, but it goes. 
I've got my Rapture with me too, of course, and I'm wondering if I 
dare use it with Sara. Will it fuck my mind up more? Just how much 
did I use with Cait? I should've asked her. She was drunk, how 
could she keep track, that's stupid. I'm pondering this, trying to 
piece together the puzzle of last night as I park and head for the 
building, and who's right in front of me on the street with a big 
turban of bandage on his head like he was the Sikh who shall not 
find: Mickey his fucking humiliated self! I'm about to make 
believe I somehow don't notice him behind my Killer Loops as I 
fuss with the kiddie pool I'm carrying when he shouts out "Jenna 
Takedown!" in this hysterical screech.

I stop, frozen with guilt. He's in the usual shorts and happy 
Hawaiian shirt, but he looks like shit warmed over. "Mickey! Is 
your head OK?"

"If you call 27 stitches OK, yeah, it's OK," he snarls. He's 
glaring at me like a pit bull and his face looks terrible. His 
lips are puffy, his jaw is discolored and swollen and he's got his 
nose taped like it was broken.

"Where's Pedro?" I ask, since I don't know what to say, and I 
realize as soon as it's out of my mouth that it's a shitty 
question. I look down at the ground nervously and notice there's 
blood on the toes of my Caterpillars from last night's stomping.

"With a friend," Mickey says viciously. "I need a little time away 
from the dog. So the both of us can forget. Otherwise, when it's 
dinner time, he'll just sit there waiting for me to bend over, 
thinking he's supposed to eat out of my ass!" Mickey's almost 
yelling, and he looks around nervously and lights a Lucky and 
takes a big drag on it that makes him cough. "What are you doing 
with a fucking kiddie pool?" 

"Uh, I'm gonna fill it with big goldfish and watch them swim 
around."

"Get outta here."

"Actually, I like to fill it with champagne and relax in it."

"You can't even *fit* in it. You could use it for a fucking 
diaphragm."

I change the subject. "So Dunn and Gomez got you to the hospital 
all right?"

"Yeah, they rushed me right over--after I nearly bled to death for 
an hour on the fucking floor!"

"Mickey, look, I'm sorry about the whole thing. It was a big 
mistake, but I told you they play rough."

"You didn't tell me how *you* play, Jenna. You did everything but 
take a dump in my mouth!"

"I wasn't myself. I was fucked up. On drugs. I'm really, really 
sorry. I'll make it up to you somehow."

"You'll give me a special scissors session with fuck privileges?" 
Mickey asks with this wicked glint in his eye.

"Uh, something like that. Look, I can't get into it now, I've 
gotta get upstairs and get the apartment ready, I've got an old 
friend coming over. Call me later in the week." And I rush into 
the building as Mickey's yelling something about "doggie style."

So I get upstairs and start to straighten up, get things nice and 
cozy for Sara. Good thing Stef left town, now that I think about 
it, I need privacy. Around noon, my head is feeling a little 
better and I decide to pump up a little. I want to look sharp for 
Sara. No time to go to the gym. I pick up a pair of 40 bells and 
start working through all kinds of sets just to get the blood 
flowing all over. After I've got a decent sweat going--am I gonna 
have to shower again?--there's a buzz from the lobby. It's Ned the 
Head Brando, the RWF ringmaster. Shit. "Ned, what do you want, I'm 
kinda rushed today."

"I was in the neighborhood and I thought I'd drop in," Ned says. 
"Can I come up for a minute?"

I buzz him in. I don't wanna piss off Ned too bad. He's a weird 
fucker, but he owns the RWF outright, he's like a one-man board of 
directors, and if I get booted out of the CHICKA or something and 
the Roids cut off my salary, I'm gonna need a livelihood. The RWF 
is a pretty lively 'hood. I wanna keep my options open. And my 
legs closed. Ned's a notorious lecher, and he's rumored to be a 
stud of truly equine proportions. I let him in and he sits down on 
the sofa in the living room. The kiddie pool is in the middle of 
the floor, but Ned doesn't mention it. I sit across the room from 
him in a recliner. "So what were you doing in the neighborhood?" I 
ask.

"I had a little business meeting with Brooke. You know Brooke, 
right?"

"Fucking A I know Brooke. You can't really be asking her to join 
the RWF, can you?"

"Actually, I'm trying to get a thing going with the Soleus 
Sisters, and she sort of manages them. You know the Soleus 
Sisters?"

"Yeah, I've seen them perform at Hank's Hideeho. What kind of 
thing you trying to get going?"

"Sorry, I really can't go into it, Jen, it's, like, in 
negotiations." He doesn't say anything after that, just studies me 
with this gleam in his eye, as sunlight streams through the open 
blinds and reflects off his huge shaven head. I'm in just a sweaty 
sports bra and track shorts, my upper bod all pumped and 
glistening, and I'm getting the feeling Ned is taking this the 
wrong way. "Where's Stef?" he finally asks.

"Out of town on business."

"You heard from Tonya?"

"As a matter of fact, yeah. Her rehab's off to a great start and 
she's looking forward to getting back with you soon. You haven't 
spoken to her?"

"No. She hasn't called me and I don't know how to get in touch 
with her. I don't even know where she is. You have a number for 
her?"

"No, she called me. She can't give a number, she's in a special 
Roids compound. You know, her Sinew layout comes out in a couple 
days."

"Great," he says sarcastically. "She's got a centerfold and she's 
not here to take advantage of it. She could be signing issues at 
the matches, it'd really boost her image. Instead, we're getting 
sued by the Montrose family."

"I'm sorry to hear that." I'm wondering if I should offer Ned a 
drink, but then he'll just stay longer.

"You know, you should sign a contract with me," he says out of the 
blue. "To wrestle, no manager crap. You're Jenna Takedown. You 
know your way around a mat. I'm thinking about getting a bunch of 
chicks into the ring--to fight, not as cheesecake sidelights. Or 
beefcake sidelights, like Ton."

"Ton's a lot more than a beefcake sidelight," I go. 

"Yeah, she's a trash celeb. But she's strictly sideshow material. 
You're an athlete."

"Ton's not an athlete? Come on, Ned, you're being ridiculous."

"Look, let's not argue about her. I want to talk about you." Ned 
shifts uneasily in his chair like he's trying to make his lap 
comfy. His lap that looks like it's got a prize butternut fucking 
squash stuffed in it.

"Well, thanks for thinking of me," I go, "but I'm kinda tied up 
with the She Roids right now."

"You got the look. You got the muscles, and you sure got the 
puppies." The puppies. These wrestling guys and their fucking 
puppies. If I get my tit punched, what do I do, call the ASPCA? 
I've got big nip stiffies on, I notice, much to my chagrin. It 
must be the AC in here, it's surely not Ned. He's about as 
attractive as Mr. Clean's perverted uncle. "Maybe when Ton comes 
back we can all work something out," I add helpfully.

"I'd like to work something out right now," says Ned, unbuckling 
the belt of his khaki shorts, lifting his ass a few inches off the 
chair and slipping them down to his knees. There's a bulge in his 
striped boxers that's big enough to be the winning salami at the 
Cucamonga Cold Cuts Convention. "I really got one on at the sight 
of you, Jen."

Oh, balls. Do I need this? Really, am I being punished for 
yesterday already? "Well, I'm glad I have that effect on you, Ned, 
it's very flattering, but please pull your pants back up. I've got 
a friend coming over soon and I don't have time to fool around." 
That didn't come out right. It sounded like I don't have the time 
but I have the inclination.

"No prob, Jen. I just wanna jack it off is all. You don't have to 
move. Just sit there and be your beautiful self. It won't take 
long, my first load of the day comes quick." Oh, isn't that nice 
to know! So if this is his first load, that means Brooke doesn't 
rate a chicken choke? No, it means if he took his member out in 
front of Brooke, she'd *dis*member it with her bare hand, pacifist 
or not. But I've got ulterior motives. And Ned has *ex*terior 
motives. He pulls his undies down to his knees and this thing 
springs up that could give Harry Dexter the shakes. Maybe that 
shaved noggin has nothing to do with why they call him Ned the 
Head. 

"That's a hell of a knob on your fucking wonder horn, Ned," I 
blurt.

" `Too big to blow,' " he says sadly. "That's what I hear all the 
time from the ladies. `It's just too big to blow.' " He's stroking 
it now, and I'm starting to panic. Ned's a pretty large guy. Like 
6-6, 280. He must be well over 50, but he definitely stays in 
shape. Used to wrestle in the old days when they all wore black 
briefs and big lace-up boots and had nicknames like Killer and 
Gorilla. He's got a gut now, but I'm sure he's at least as strong 
as I am, and he knows how to grapple. I don't want to bodily start 
up with him. Not only will I have my hands full with him, but I 
want to stay on his good side. Right now, though, his good side is 
way too in my face. He continues to stroke away at himself, 
looking at me with this vacant grin like I was an image on a TV 
screen. At least he hasn't got *pos*terior motives. A big RWF joke 
locker room joke is, Q: What's the best method of birth control? 
A: Sodomy. I sit there uncomfortably, wondering if I should flex 
for him or something. He's not making any move on me, and he's not 
asking me to do anything to him, he's just sitting there jacking 
off, just like he said. 

"Well," I finally go, "since you're sort of a business partner of 
mine, I'll walk my puppies for you." 

He grunts, which I guess means "good."

I stand up, take my sports bra off and start to play with my tits, 
bouncing them on my palms, pulling on the stiff nipples, flexing 
my pecs so they jiggle like meat treats. I even stick a mam in my 
mouth and suck on it, which makes Ned groan like a Guernsey. I'm 
just starting to get into it myself, I can fell my haunches 
heating up, when Ned, hyperventilating like a heart patient, 
springs out of the chair and, bending way over so his superstiff 
prick is pointing down, lets a load go into the kiddie pool--and I 
do mean a load. Is he on Niagara or what? When he's finally fully 
drained his main vein, which takes like two excruciating minutes 
of ejaculatory excess, the pool has a puddle of penis puke in it 
that's a fucking inch deep. Not *too* gross.

"Sorry," says Ned with a wry smile, still heavy-breathing like an 
obscene caller who won't hang up the phone. "It seemed like the 
only safe place to come. What's with the pool, anyway?"

"That's just what it's for," I go deadpan. "I have a lotta really 
studly guys over here who jack off to me, and where they gonna 
unload but a deluxe Fisher Price kiddie pool, ya know?"

"So you got a good thing goin' on the side. I shoulda figured." He 
seems serious. Whatever. Or maybe this is professional wrestling 
irony. I don't want to pursue it. Ned may be another one of those 
functionally insane people that always seem to cross my path. He 
produces a napkin from his pocket, which he wipes his dick drip up 
with. His runoff is about as much as the average guy's gasm, I'd 
guess, though what do I know about cock? Way too much, at this 
point. I thought yesterday was Dong Day, but maybe this is a two-
for-one sale. It's more like a *four*-for-one sale with the size 
of this guy's equipment. "Well, thanks for having me over, Jen, I 
won't keep you a minute longer," he says, much to my delight. "But 
I'll be in touch soon about that contract. I should talk to Stef 
too. When's she back?"

"Can't really say right now, but I really doubt she's into a 
wrestling career, Ned. She's most likely gonna do an arms tour, be 
an arm queen. You know?" 

"We could work that into an RWF act," he says thoughtfully.

"Well, we'll see. You have a good day, now." I'm sort of pointing 
with my chin at the door, hoping Ned gets the message to let 
himself out. I don't want to get next to him, he may make a move 
on me. 

"You too, babe. Pet those puppies for me." He smiles, belts up his 
shorts and leaves. 

I need half a roll of paper towels to soak up all his spew and get 
the pool clean, it's totally hurlitacious. 

And so's the Shorta bus depot. It's just as well I didn't shower 
again--just walking into this place makes you all dirty. There's 
actually a homeless family that seems to be living in the corner 
by the broken soda machine. I mean, they have plastic garbage bags 
of clothing and stuff all around them, it's unbelievable. But 
never mind, the bus is on time and Sara steps off in a Tonya 
Forever baby tee and tiny, too-tight CK cutoffs that you just 
wanna add the FU to, all muscled-up, lewd and luscious, and my 
heart starts pounding in my chest like the kick drum in a strip 
show. 

"Jenna Takedown! Look at the size of you!" 

"Sweetass Sara! Look at the size of *you*"

We embrace hard and start squeezing each other in a very 
*familiar* sort of way, which has everyone in the place staring at 
us, but they'd be staring at us anyway, we're huge and bulging all 
over, and then I just grab Sara by the hand and hustle her out to 
the Jimmy and head straight back to the apartment. "I shoulda peed 
in the station," she says. "I have to go real bad."

"Wasn't there a can on the bus?"

"Yeah, but there's been a line for it for the last hour. I think 
some skeevy chick was giving blowjobs back there."

"Good thing Ned the Head wasn't on line, he'd be disappointed."

"What?"

"Never mind, it's a long story and I'll tell you later. But 
shitting on the bus is still better than shitting in the depot. 
First of all, you'd never wanna use the bathroom in that shithole, 
someone's probably *living* in every toilet stall, and anyway, 
there's only one place you're peeing and that's all over *me.* So 
just hold it in till we're upstairs." 

"Oh, I can hold it in, all right. I got good muscles for that 
kinda thing."

"You got good muscles for *any* kinda thing," I go. "Girl, you 
look awesome. What are you running now? Like 6-1, 230?"

"Actually, I'm closer to 6-2, I put on another half an inch. The 
230 is about right. Largesse works for me. There's a thrill in 
every pill. I didn't get any knockers out of it, but, if I say so 
myself, it works wonders on my pecs. When I get a raging chest 
pump going, I can't believe the kind of definition I get from my 
nips right up to my neck." She shrugs her massive shoulders and 
sighs deeply, blowing her rib box out so big, modest but 
magnificent mounds of nip-hard tit riding the arched armor plates 
of her pecs, I can't take my eyes off them and almost swerve out 
of my lane. "You really gonna quit Titanic?" she asks innocently 
as I stare at her like a sex snake.

"Yeah, I think so. I'm waiting to talk to this Professor Pep 
again, who's got a new Roids lab. I saw her yesterday with Bonnie-
-you'll see Bon later tonight or tomorrow, by the way, she just 
got into town the other day and she's staying with Michelle From 
Hell till she gets settled. She sort of started out her return to 
Cali ass backwards. Anyway, Pep has some new drugs I might try. 
There's PHEW 2 and Testo-Glandex EF, for instance."

"Yeah, I just read about them in the new Slam Gams. You know this 
mag? It's only the second issue. I brought it with me, was getting 
off on the pics on the bus. I may wanna switch drugs too and try 
to put a bustline on."

"Oh, you have the new Slam Gams? Someone was telling me about it. 
This Shanna chick who went to Amy for scissoring a guy is on the 
cover, right?"

"Yeah. They're calling her The Thighonic Woman. It's in my bag in 
the back, you can check it out later. The funny thing is, I spent 
a night with the chick, and her thighs are great, but her arms are 
better. She should be the *Bi*onic Woman, she's got killer split 
heads, totally awesome."

"Your arms are looking pretty damn fine too, babe. You flex, 
you're gonna rip right outta that shirt."

"What about you, Jen? You pushing 21 or what? You're so *big*!" 
Sara starts handling my arm delicately like it was some kind of 
prehistoric bird egg. "Look at the veins on this thing, they're 
*huge*!"

I'm so glad I pumped up. I get goose bumps of joy when anyone 
flips over my bips. It's a product of living in the shadow of 
Stef. Now to pooh-pooh the whoo-hoo like I'm really modest. "Yeah, 
I'm a monster," I go sarcastically. "I'm so big I stand outside 
the junior high school and give all the girls bi rides for a 
quarter. Shit, that sounds like a Sock Her Moms fantasy." 

"So what's up with the Moms?" Sara asks. 

"Have I got a story for you. Too bad I can't remember most of it. 
But wait, how'd you spend a night with this Shanna?"

Sara's sexy smile clouds over like a sudden shitstorm. "She was 
Amy Fisher's bodyguard and they did a show at Karla Faye and I got 
asked to show her around town after Amy decided to spend the night 
with Ice. This was before Ice got shipped east. I'm sorry I never 
told you about it, Jen. I guess I felt a little guilty. You're not 
mad at me, are you?"

"Are you nuts, Sara? You're entitled to make anyone you want, you 
know that. I'm not celibate here in Cali, as you well know. I've 
been sleeping with Stef for months, for Christ's sake. She's not 
home, thank the Goddess. Went to Cleveland to kill another one of 
her rapists."

"No shit! But what happens when she comes back?"

"She's gonna move out. She's making room for you, and *don't* feel 
guilty about it. We had our fling, it's over. Maybe she'll take up 
with Bon again. She should, they were good together. Stef needs 
someone bigger than she is to keep her motivated."

Sara rubs my bare thigh tenderly, tracing the cuts with her 
fingertips. "I just don't wanna cause any trouble, Jen." 

"Sara, coming back home was the best thing you ever did. It's time 
to get your life together." And probably be forced to join the 
CHICKA and kill for a living, but I don't want to get into that 
right now, I'll wait till after I find out what the deal is at the 
meeting tonight. I drop a hand into her lap and rub her crotch 
through her cutoffs, feeling the wet heat on my palm like she's 
got a mini-sauna in her pants. Actually, she's a proficient pee-
dribbler--she likes to hold it in a really long time and vent a 
drop now and then 'cause it feels so damn good, she told me this 
on the phone months ago. It may be a little weird, but hey, Sara 
was Ice's "wife" for a couple months in Karla Faye, and that can 
play havoc with your head. She unsnaps the shorts and pulls them 
down to her knees along with her panties and I palm her wet mons 
and slip a big finger past her trim lips, her slick pink clit 
standing up under my hand like a divine little divining rod. She 
moans, then sighs again, making the fabulous chest billow, then 
she warns, "Jen, you make me come now, I'm gonna pee in your 
truck, really let the flow go. My muscles aren't *that* strong."

"Hang on, girl, we'll be there in a minute. Anyway, if your 
muscles aren't *that* strong, why are you gripping my finger like 
a fucking clamp?"

Cut to upstairs, where the first thing Sara says is, "I've got to 
go to the bathroom and freshen my ass. Had to shit on the bus 
hours ago, it was so fucking gross. Could barely fit in the 
fucking head, my shoulders are the width of the whole space."

"You go, girl. It's back down the hall on the left. But *don't* 
pee."

"Don't worry, I won't even dribble." Sara smiles and I watch her 
strut off, her ass riding high, firm and full-blown, half moons of 
glute squeezed out under her cutoffs like ripe slices of muscle 
melon.

I have to pee real bad myself, but I'm holding it in and I'm not 
dribbling either. Instead I'm dropping--a dash of Rapture in each 
eye to ease the distribution, maybe, then I load the bong with 
shit from Brit's stash. My head is feeling much better, though I 
still can't remember any of the missing details from last night. 
Hey, fuck last night. You gotta live for the moment. That's 
probably a big mantra with amnesiacs. Then Sara comes back into 
the living room, stark fucking naked, and I forget everything I 
ever knew, including how not to stare because it's supposed to be 
impolite. 

"Shit, Jen, I'd think you were undressing me with your eyes, 
except I'm already nude," Sara says, blushing like a bursting 
bride as she stands with hands on hips, gut sucked in so her abs 
bulge in chiseled sex sections like an industrial heat vent, her 
pecs flexed in thick plates of sensual sin-surround, the lats 
popping like stealth fighter wings. 

I drink in the cutely heart-trimmed pubic bush, erect clit lit 
like a little party bulb, then I ask her to turn around, the 
Rapture already hitting me in a tidal rush of heat-sweet sweat, 
trickling down the back of my neck in rivulets of reckless raunch. 
She pivots on the ball of one foot and I catch a glimpse of the 
tattoo on her ankle, the one that Ice made her get in stir. She 
told me about it months ago on the phone, and I'm gonna pretend 
not to notice it today, it can only spoil the mood. But now that 
I'm looking at that ass, nothing can spoil *my* mood. It's the 
closest thing to a KaBoosted bitchin' black backrack that any 
white girl can ever hope to ho-throw, the pale ivory globes in 
starkly cunt-constricting contrast to her light Texas tan, and as 
Sara slowly cheek-tightens, ratcheting up her rear like it was on 
hydraulic lifts--she must practice this in the mirror every day--
the glutes dimple deep in striated implosions as the thigh-bi's 
bulge and the calves fan up and out in slow toe-rise. "Oh, Jesus 
Christ, Sara, that looks so good," I say, my voice sounding to me 
like it's coming out of another body. She looks over her shoulder, 
craning the head gracefully on the gorgeous column of her neck, 
then she turns away and adds the back, fists on the hard arc of 
her hips, the lats spreading like forged wildfire, elbows pulled 
forward in electric high tension and this groan comes out of me, 
this "Aaaaaaaaggggghh" noise, and I realize my hand is in my open 
pants, a finger plunged into my wetness, the flood of pee surging 
behind the dam of my cunt muscles, and--I haven't even gotten her 
high yet! 

"Sara, you're in such fine shape I could die. I wanna eat you like 
you were a coconut custard pie, girl. But sit down for a minute 
and throw your head back. I've got a special drug for you."

Sara sits obediently in the recliner, and tilts her chin way up so 
the blue veins in her neck beckon like kissy cords. "What drug?"

I like her throat all over, feeling her pulse under my tongue, 
then come up for air. "Remember when I told you on the phone last 
time we talked about Af-Gro Sheen?"

"Of course I remember."

"Right. Well I'm asking that 'cause my mind is a little hazy from 
last night, but that's another story for later. Anyway, I've got 
the love drug part of Af-Gro Sheen, I was at the new Roids lab in 
Santa Herminosa yesterday, and it's called Rapture and it comes in 
eye drops. I took two while you were in the bathroom."

"Is that why you're sweating so much and your eyes are all 
dilated?"

"Fucking A, girlfriend. Now lemme give you two, then we'll do some 
bong hits and maybe have a drink."

"Cool." 

More like hot. Hot enough to raise bliss blisters on my lips. Cut 
to me naked on my knees tossing Sara's salad as she stands in a 
toe-touching bendover, the unblinking brown eye of her anus flexed 
wide enough to take my tongue almost up to the root. The sweat is 
running down her butt crack and mixing with her jungle juice to 
form a love lava so sweet I wanna bottle it, mix it with tequila 
and sell it to the Pussy Pueblo, where they can serve it as a 
Derriero. I push a thumb up into her cunt, like it was plum 
pudding, and she purrs like a clit-kitten, then tenses up all over 
so tight she's gripping my hand and my tongue in a vulvic vise 
with an iron lining. I stop everything, feeling her on the 
beatific brink. "Jen, I know it's only been a few minutes, but I 
can't go another second without losing it," she husks, looking at 
me upside down from between her legs, blinking sweat out of her 
high eyes. "This Rapture stuff has me way over the edge, my clit 
is so stiff and swollen it's starting to hurt. I gotta get in the 
pool and let it go. OK?"

"Of course it's OK, baby," I coo, rubbing my inflamed mons with 
the hot heel of my hand. I need release just as much as she does, 
and I haven't even been tossed yet. "Let's stand in the pool, do a 
very sloooow thigh grind and let it all loose. It'll be soooo 
good." 

So there we are welded like wet steel sculpture in the living 
room, standing naked in the kiddie pool, which was christened by 
fucking nookie-head Ned's cream filling. Well, we'll wash *that* 
memory away soon enough. We angle ourselves for cunt contact, 
embrace strong-girl solid, big arms tight around broad, damp 
backs, glistening stiff-nipped chests pressed in laminated lust, 
and fasten faces like we were breathing through each other's 
lungs. I look deep into Sara's dilated eyes and suck her soul into 
mine and let it swim there like a mermaid in amniotic fluid as we 
work our muggy mojo's in angled ecstasy, then we let the liquid 
loose on a Rapture-synced come command and we're spasming like 
speared fuckfish, soaking each other's cunts and bellies in steamy 
pee, it's running down our legs in a torrent, we're moaning behind 
our melded mouths, and the spend won't end, the contractions keep 
coming as our legs melt and we sink to our knees in the puddle of 
piddle, there's not enough room in the pool, we're too big and we 
lose our balance and fall over onto the floor, still locked like 
sin-twins, laughing now, hysterically for joy, still twitching in 
aftershock, deliriously happy. Sometimes life can be so good, like 
time stands still on a pure note of bright gold pleasure with no 
fade to the gray of the everyday. Sorry, that's the love drug 
talking, it makes me all dreamy and poetic.

But fuck the bard, it's time to be Hard. There's a war on out 
there in the real world. I leave Sara napping like a big naked 
baby in my bed and drive to Chucho, still drug-buzzed--this 
Rapture is really fucking with my head, but in a good way now, no 
pain, with another four ibu's in me for insurance--to get Bonnie. 
Michelle From Hell is not home, she's on some kind of Roids 
assignment that's top secret. And with Michelle, the accent is on 
"top." Bon's in a good mood, she's looking forward to some street 
action, and I'm in a good mood too, thinking about Sara, though 
I'd rather not think about this CHICKA business, it can only mean 
trouble. Well, whatever. I made my bed, now I'll lie in it. With 
Sara next to me, thank you. 

Though Marcia Mesto isn't exactly go-sleep-on-the-couch material. 
She's tall, tan and lean and I mean that in a very, very good way. 
Like 6-7 of burnished mahogany with maybe 4 percent bodyfat, more 
vasc'd even than Paulette Pep, younger--maybe 44--and with the 
almond-eyed, full-nosed face of an Italian movie star. In other 
words, a serious looker, never mind the two inches of bright 
purple brush cut on her head, and the twin eyebrow piercings, 
which give her a slightly demented Moms skew, but this false 
impression is quickly corrected by the ominously gothic-lettered 
Doom Patrol tattoo on her neck. Yeah, this chick^ãs the real deal, 
way beyond Sock Her-style danger to outright Terminator time.

She shakes our hands warmly in a finger-firm power grip as she 
gives us prim little lip kisses, then sits us down in some kind of 
den/home office in her very nice ranch house in a ritzy Riposa 
neighborhood known as Tangier Terrace, then puts on this grim face 
and launches into an explanation of the declaration of war with 
the NADs. "To get right to the chocolate center, girls, it's all 
about Tot Nots," says Mistress Mesto. It's hard not to think of 
this chick as a diabolical dom, she looks the part too perfectly. 
On the other hand, doms don't say things like "To get right to the 
chocolate center," which is a new expression on me, but when 
you're 6-7, built like a bushido blade, with Doom Patrol inked 
into your neck you can say any damn stupid thing you want to. At 
least she didn't say "To get right to the cream filling," which 
would remind me of Ned again. Well, whatever. As for Tot Nots, I 
already knew about them, but now I learn it isn't exactly about 
the French abortion pill, this is a shabby knockoff made in the 
Ukraine. Hence all the vomiting. They're on the black market in 
bulk as of immediately, priced to sell at $50 a uterine rejection, 
and both the Roids and the NADS have distribution channels, so 
they're fighting for turf. It's that simple. Well, not really. 
There's also Quik Tit, this do-it-yourself implant injector kit, 
which is coming either from Malaysia or Singapore. Or maybe 
Singapore is a city in Malaysia, I'm not clear on this part, but 
it really doesn't matter and I sure as hell am not gonna ask 
Marcia Mesto for a geography lesson. Unless I get to make a 
topographical map of her bod. In fact, when she pauses during the 
Quik Tit lecture--yeah, you really stick yourself in the boob with 
this bigass hypo and shoot yourself full of an expanding gel sac, 
you can't make this shit up--I politely ask, "Mistress, uh, Ms. 
Mesto, can I ask you a, like, personal question?"

"Sure, Jen. If it's too personal, I'll let you know, that's all. 
And call me Marcia, I'm your control now."

"OK. Ms., uh, Marcia? Is there a special drug that makes you so 
incredibly ripped? What do you weigh, by the way? We saw Professor 
Pep yesterday, and she was ripped beyond the bone too. I was 
wondering if you got something from her, maybe? Like, you knew her 
from her Amy Fisher days?"

Marcia looks down at herself like she's not aware she's shredded 
like muscle mozzarella sprinkled on a sex salad. She pushes her 
chair back from behind her desk a little and raises her arms to 
shoulder level and tightens everything so all the muscles swell 
and the veins snap up like bungee cords, and she holds it for a 
few seconds and studies it like she never noticed herself before. 
She's in a tight tie-dye tanktop that's clinging to her saucy 
little titties like wonder wrap, the nipples in a mam slam under 
the stretched material, pointing at me sharp as mini throwing 
knives. "Funny you should mention Paulette Pep," she says, 
slapping her huge hands back down on the desk. Her fingers, by the 
way, are so long it looks like she could palm a medicine ball. 
"You heard about the attack on the lab in Santa Herminosa last 
night?"

"Yeah, Ev told me and I told Bon," I go. I also told Bon that Rick 
the Prehistoric Dick is alive, much to her regret.

"Well, that's your assignment. Paulette Pep. She needs bodyguards 
on a 24/7 basis now. She's way too valuable to risk with any more 
close calls like last night. We're fortifying the entire lab 
compound, and you two are getting the guard gig. I spoke to her on 
the phone and she said you were both really swell girls, she'd 
love to have you around all the time. And you apparently had a 
really good time with her, too."

"Uh, Ms. Mesto, um, I mean Marcia, I can't actually do that kind 
of job," says Bon, all flushed and flustered, looking like she's 
about to shit an elephant. "I need action. I can't sit around 
waiting for an attack that probably'll never come. Let Jen do that 
with someone else, she's been a bodyguard before, she's good at 
it. Uh, despite what happened to Tonya. Put me on the front lines 
where I can bust some heads. Please?"

"Actually, Marcia, a girl named Sara, a good friend of mine from 
Tonya, just hit town, she's staying with me. She can do the 
bodyguard thing with me. Bon's right, she's too big for that kind 
of work. Sara and I can do it."

Marcia looks at us dubiously. "How big is this Sara?"

"Almost my size," I go. "Around 6-2, 230, very strong, a good 
fighter. Been on Largesse for a long time. She'd make a great 
bodyguard, she's smart and alert, and, like ... you know what I 
mean. You want me to bring her by tomorrow?"

"Yes. And have all your stuff packed for the both of you, because 
you'll be heading right on to the compound in Herminosa, which is 
where you'll be living for the indefinite future. Cool?"

"Right." I guess Stef gets to stay in the apartment after all. And 
I'm not getting my drug question answered either. She wouldn't 
even tell us her weight. I'd guess 220, but she's wearing jeans 
and I need to see more of her. A *lot* more of her.

"What about me?" asks Bon. "Can I do something, like, physical?"

Marcia gnaws thoughtfully at her beestung lip. "Yes, you can, 
Bonnie. Right now, as a matter of fact. I've got a DS bitch in the 
basement, she was captured on the Herminosa raid. We got 
everything there is to get out of her, we gave her an experimental 
truth serum called Chatterbox--it's administered vaginally, and 
it's been developed by none other than Professor Pep, who is a 
fucking one-woman Pfizer."

I don't know what a Pfizer is, but I make a mental note to ask 
Paulette.

"Now we're gonna kill her," Marcia continues. "Actually *you're* 
gonna kill her, Bon. I'd like to see you beat her to death with 
your bare hands, big girl." 

Bon's eyes light up like her mommy promised to buy her a toy. She 
slams one huge fist into the other huge palm and makes this 
concussion that rattles the windows. "The pleasure's all mine, 
Marcia," Bon bellows. I'm glad she's all rarin' to go, but, shit, 
not *more* death, not after last night. This is worse than what 
went down in Tonya, where I thought I left all the death behind 
me. 

"Uh, Marcia, you can't really have any doubts about what a great 
fighter Bon is," I go. "You must've seen some of her Moosehead 
Melee matches, right? She just about hospitalized every chick in 
Canada. You know?"

"I'm afraid I've been very busy, I didn't get to see any of them 
yet," Marcia says.

"How about the famous Tonya fight night tape?" I insist. "It's 
called Juvie Jailbait Slam Jam now, it's on the Venomous Video 
label? Bon almost killed Brooke with a heart punch on that one, 
you must've seen *that*?"

"Nope. Heard about it, but never saw it. I did see your high 
school wrestling tape, though, Jenna. Very sexy stuff. You really 
knew how to ride 'em. I liked the way you'd just rack up points 
and postpone the pin. Really make 'em suffer."

"Of course," I go, trying to smile. "My wrestling tape. 
*Everybody's* seen my wrestling tape."

But Marcia is already rising to her feet, and Bonnie is too, and I 
reluctantly follow them down to the basement, where who is sitting 
naked in a folding chair with her hands cuffed behind her back? 
"Fran the Man!" Bon and I go in stunned unison. It's Fran the 
fucking Man from Tonya!

"You know this bitch?" Marcia asks sourly, as she dismisses the 
two hulking fortysomething, Doom Patrol-stamped Roids soldiers who 
were guarding the prisoner. 

"She's on the Tonya fight night tape I was just telling you 
about," I go. "She got her ass kicked in about three minutes. This 
is Fran the Man, she was a low-level Hard in Tonya." 

"That means she was on your side?" Marcia asks.

"Technically, yeah, but she fought a top Hard on the tape, 'cause 
it was revenge for her girlfriend getting her leg broken. It's a 
long story, too complicated to go into." It *is* a long story, 
it's the story of Tiff, Lee Ann and the K-Fad freakout, and Marcia 
doesn't want to hear it anyway, she just wants to see Bon bust 
someone up.

"Well, she's DS now, and it's time for her to get her ass kicked 
again--permanently," says Marcia with an icy grin.

"Whatever happened to Gonorrhea Pia?" I ask Fran.

She glares at me for a second before saying anything. There's not 
a mark on Fran--if you discount all the acne scars on her face and 
shoulders from the Testo-Glandex--and she's sitting there, nude 
and all-over sweat-shiny, maybe from the Chatterbox, it's not hot 
down here, arms pulled tight behind her so her big thick-nippled 
chest is thrusting, looking pretty damn good for a Glandexed pig. 
I mean, Fran has a face you wouldn't wish on a lapdog, and her 
hair is still a mess, a kind of perm from hell, but her bod is 
hotter than I could've ever imagined. Her tits are way bigger than 
they used to be, the rack pinioned on a wall of brick-thick pec 
that swells up to her neck; her abs are crated and serrated in 
mouthwatering midriff bulge; and her clit is so Testo presto it's 
standing up like a little dick, the glans glistening pinkish 
purple. Wow, has she got a woody on, or what?! I wonder if having 
your hands cuffed makes you horny. I've never been into bondage. 
Right now I'd like to bond with that whopping wand--I have a 
bizarre desire to get on my knees and suck that baby like a Hoover 
groover. Maybe I'm projecting myself into a Paulette Peppy future. 
But this lickety chick is about to split, soon to be catapulted 
into the Not So Great Beyond.

"She got killed in the raid," Fran finally snarls in her bossy 
baritone, spit flying off her lips.

"The Herminosa raid," Marcia explains. "Fran here got shot with a 
trank dart, got herself captured without a fight, and as you can 
see no one's laid a finger on her. Till now. See what I have for 
you, Fran? A girl who's 6-9, 325. She's gonna pulp you so bad 
we'll be able to serve you like a fucking juice."

Bon goes, "Hi, Fran. Bye, Fran," and giggles.

"Pia was DS too?" I wonder aloud. "Do they take *anybody*? She was 
no physical specimen the last time *I* saw her."

"They have to," says Marcia. "We get all the winners, they have to 
take the leftovers."

"Pia was in great shape!" Fran growls, her voice breaking with 
sobs of grief. "Been on TG for months, put on 40 pounds."

Regular TG or the new EF?" I ask.

"EF. Me too. I been off the old TG for months."

"That explains those big fucking tits," I go. "And I guess you 
don't have to depilate your nips anymore, huh, Fran? That's why 
she was called Fran the Man," I explain to Marcia. "Got all hairy 
and deep-voiced on male 'roids. Too stupid to wait for a good 
'troph like the rest of us." Shit, I'm being awful mean to someone 
who's about to die. What's the matter with me?

Fran just sneers at me, pulls her unbound legs apart, flexes her 
squat-solid thighs and somehow sucks air into her cunt and farts 
it back out at me with this wicked razzy noise. I'm impressed. 
That's some kind of muscle control. I wonder how long she can hold 
in a pee. I peer closely at her party parts, careful to keep out 
of kick range, looking for the DS labia ring, but Fran's frizzy 
brunette bush is too dense to see anything down there except the 
wet eggplanty ends of her love lips. 

"Make this fair," says Bon. "Take her cuffs off and let her have a 
go at me."

"There's not a lot of room to fight in here," says Marcia, "and 
what's fair about it anyway, you've got about a hundred pounds on 
her." 

"How about they arm wrestle?" I suggest. 

"Don't worry, I'll try not to break anything--except Fran," 
chuckles Bon, ignoring me completely, along with Marcia. Bon 
starts to stretch out, making all her joints crack fearsomely, all 
these gristly crunching noises like a preview of the soundtrack to 
Fran's beating. Big Bon is stylishly decked out in black Capri 
pants and a black Kerrigan Must Die baby tee with hot pink 
lettering and black platform Candies that make her about 7 feet, 
and she's so juicy-jumbo in this kinda low-ceilinged space it 
looks like an early transition scene from Attack of the 50-Foot 
Woman. 

"All right, I'll uncuff her," says Marcia. "And we'll give you a 
minute to stretch yourself out, Fran, 'cause we're such good 
sports."

"And what if I win?" Fran wants to know. "Will you let me go?"

"Absolutely," says Bon. "Is that OK, Marcia? If she so much as 
knocks me down, will you let her go?"

"Sure," says Marcia. "After she gets by Jenna."

"Very funny," I go, but Marcia isn't smiling. I'm not gonna worry, 
Bon'll never get unfooted. She's too damn big. "You don't happen 
to have a videocamera handy?" I inquire. "I might as well shoot 
this for posterity, you know?"

Marcia arches a saucy Sicilian eyebrow at me, nods, opens a 
cabinet in the corner, futzes for a minute with a Sony Hi-8, slaps 
a tape in and hands it to me. "You can shoot the fight, but keep 
me off camera. For obvious security reasons."

"Of course," I go. I'm already thinking about what Harry will pay 
for a quick snuff vid. Or maybe I can trade it for one of Mickey's 
and make up for what I did to him. Oh, no way, that's plain dumb, 
it'd never be worth one of Mickey's and they'd always have a copy 
anyway. Then why am I shooting this? I want to recapture the fun 
of being behind the camera when something unpredictable goes down. 
Jesus, what's the matter with me? Is it the Rapture? Too much 
ibuprofen? Is the shit from Brit's stash laced with something? 
What?

No time to wonder. Fran is uncuffed, standing tall--she's an easy 
6-2 in her bare feet these days--stretching out, big sweaty 
muscles bulging on her beautifully. As long as I keep her face out 
of the shot, she looks great. I even like the way the light falls 
on the acne pits on her brutaciously bulked shoulders. Then she 
drops on her unfortunate face for a quick 50 pushups to get her 
blood pumping, and I shoot this like I'm making an X-rated workout 
tape, from the rear with a nice view between Fran's spread legs, 
her munchable cunt cozying up to the camera, the oversized clit 
stiffly visible even from this angle. Then she's up, pecs 
twitching, abs all abulge, stretching her tri's before she dies, 
then nodding OK. Shit, she's got balls. 

Marcia says "Go!" and Fran fearlessly feints in with a left hook 
and tries to throw a KO right to Bon's jaw, but Bon's jaw is like 
half a foot over Fran's head--Bon kicked her platforms off, of 
course--and it's hard to throw good stuff *up* like that. Bon 
easily slash blocks the shot with a forearm that could fell a 
tree, then the ruthless redhead delivers a right of her own to 
Fran's chest, a right right between the tits, it's a heart punch, 
more or less like the one that almost killed Brooke, and Fran 
hacks a gob of yellowish white mucusy stuff up from somewhere in 
her innards, which splats all wet and sloppy on Bon's shirt, right 
where her left boob is bulging. But Fran is in motion, even as the 
pre-puke is spewing--backward motion. She's thrown back from the 
force of the punch, tottering on her heels all the way to the 
wall, which she bounces off of with a shattering thud--but she 
doesn't fall down! Not only doesn't she fall down dead, she 
doesn't fall down at all! She's on her feet, bent forward, hands 
on her thighs like she's on the line of scrimmage, breathing hard, 
or trying to breathe hard, sort of wheezing like something broke 
inside her, and she's clearly incapacitated, but she's 
*conscious.* 

Bon is stunned. I can see the admiration in her eyes. "Shit, this 
girl is tough," she says to Marcia. "That was a harder punch than 
the one I put Brooke in the hospital with. And Brooke is much 
bigger than Fran."

"Brooke almost *died* from that punch," I explain to Marcia, 
careful not to point the camera at her, who hasn't seen the tape, 
after all. "She had to be *revived* in the ring, her heart 
stopped."

"Fuck Brooke the Look," Fran hisses painfully. "I'm tougher than 
she'll ever be. Shit, I think something broke in my chest. Like my 
sternum, some ribs maybe. It doesn't feel right. Can't you take me 
to the hospital? Don't I rate something for surviving a death 
punch from a girl as big as Bon?"

"She's right," Bon says to Marcia. "I was trying to *kill* her 
with that punch, and it didn't even put her down. Can't you get 
her fixed up and brainwash her or something? Turn her to our side? 
Seems like such a waste to snuff someone this tough. She could be 
a great CHICKA street fighter. Can't she be rewired like that 
little guy that Paulette Pep keeps? You know the guy I mean?" Bon 
is wincing at the memory and doesn't want to say any more. 

"Yeah, Professor Pep's male slave," says Marcia. "Rumor has it she 
brought him out of a coma and retrained his brain somehow. Maybe 
you're onto something, Bonnie." Marcia pauses and thinks it over 
while I continue to shoot Fran's panting agony, the phrase Brooke 
the Look running through my head like a tape loop. Brooke never 
had a moniker before, but the Look is so perfect for her. I wonder 
if Fran just made it up on the spur of the moment, but this 
doesn't seem a good time to ask, since I think she has a bone spur 
at the moment in her throat. "OK, Fran, it's your lucky day," 
Marcia finally announces. "I'll have you shipped back to 
Herminosa, so the woman you wanted to kill--Professor Pep herself-
-can fix you up with that Zmeskaline-based surgery she's so good 
at, then you can get your mind refitted for a Roids reality. How's 
that for irony?"

"It beats dying in your fucking basement," Fran croaks, her ugly 
face twisted in pain. 

So I didn't get a snuffie after all. But I'm not disappointed in 
the least. Maybe there's hope for me yet. And even more on the 
upside, tomorrow I get to move to Herminosa with Sara. Should be 
an easy gig, the DS'll never attack the lab *twice*. And no more 
chance of running into Mickey on the street! Things are looking 
very promising all of a sudden. I want to rush back to Shorta and 
open a celebratory bottle of Stoli. Too bad I can't remember if I 
have any left in the house.