The Pugilisticon Part 2
by Avida Dolor
Daryl has 22 inch arms

Copyright 1997 Avida Dolor (avidadolor@aol.com)

Warning: This work of fiction contains frank language and explicit sex and 
violence. No one under 18 permitted to read without the express permission 
of parent or guardian.

E-mail from: Paul Buck

To: Daryl Buck

A dub of Bren's Patsy-pasting behind the bar is on its way to you via 
express mail from your wonderful U.S. post office. The quality is excellent 
thanks to the good lighting back there and Wally's fine cinematography. I 
am confident you and Deena will tickle your willies with this baby, and 
wait till you get a load of Bren, she looks great. I've got big news from 
Jacksonville, and won't take the time to relate my night in the sack with 
Vee (and Wally) except to say it was very fine, though I'd take you (and/or 
Bren) over her any day. I believe she's more a woman's woman, if you get my 
meaning. It was fab nonetheless simply because there's something so 
exhilarating about riding such a fantastic thoroughbred, as you can well 
understand. Wait till you meet her.

Which gets me to the gist of this missive, which is said meeting will be 
delayed. Supervee is not going to be doing any partying for a while. Don't 
be overly alarmed. Just broken ribs. Which brings me to the ultraviolence 
of the Jville club fighting scene, the club in question one The Scrapple 
Yard, and more aptly named it could hardly be. Turns out Vee would not be 
going up against a bunch of pushovers for the amusement of a large paying 
audience; she's going up against an asskicker for the amusement of a large 
betting audience.

It seems one Evelyn "Kickapoo" Carlson is in town; she's a well-known 
tough cookie on the Florida tough cookie tour, and she offered Vee a 
lucrative deal that the blonde bomber apparently felt she couldn't refuse. 
(Vee is her own manager, you understand. She doesn't travel with anyone, 
actually, unless friends are along. Even her ring handlers are freelance 
locals.) So no sooner had we hit Jville than Vee was signed to face 
Kickapoo on Wed. night, a six-round feature that would turn out the local 
hard-betting cognoscenti in droves.

Now, all this would be fine and dandy if it weren't for the fact that 
Kickapoo--often simply called Kicky--is as good as her name. She has 
seriously injured girls with her feet--it seems one is as dangerous as the 
other, she's ambipedtrous--and she's pretty handy with her knees, too. Her 
fists, for that matter, have accounted for 13 knockouts of their own. Let 
me get the details  straight: Kickapoo is 31 years old, she's been doing 
this for four years and she's fought "major" bouts, six-rounders, at the 
rate of six or seven a year, 29 in all so far. She's never lost, and has 
knocked out all but three opponents, those going to unanimous decisions. Of 
the 26 KOs, 13 are by fist, as I noted, nine are direct to foot and the 
other four are knee. And down here in Jville, the girls go barefoot, no 
padded booties. The usual elbow and knee pads (which protect the elbow and 
knee far more than the face they're hitting), but when you get mule kicked, 
the girl ain't got no mule on. 

If this sounds wicked, let me assure you, it is. We watched tapes of three 
Kickapoo matches in prep for the big night, and I winced all the way 
through them, as Kicky dispatched opponents with knee, foot and fist, all 
within the first three rounds. Bren, Wally and I seriously raised the 
question with Vee of why she wanted to go in the ring with something this 
potentially damaging. Oh, let me fill in the body stats on Kicky: at 5-11, 
166, she's not nearly as big as Vee, but she has devastating power at all 
points and she's fast, faster than someone as big as Vee could ever be. 
She's bleached blondish with punky black streaks, hair cut way short, blue-
eyed, kinda cute, long-limbed, not too bulky, virtually no body fat, tiny 
boobs, she's all sinewy and vascular, has tremendous technique, can hang 
her lead leg in the air and jab with it, for chrissake.

The fact that she lacks voluptuousness and extreme cutes in the Vee style 
does not make her a crowd fave with men, however, though dykes like her 
better. I think she's pretty fine, myself. In any event, she's cast as the 
villain here, as she usually is, she's the mean and scowling type, and the 
crowd would certainly be screaming for Vee to kill her, but that doesn't 
change the fact that she can hurt a girl real bad, especially a girl who 
doesn't fall down easy. Vee's attitude is, the money's good, she's here, 
she wants me and it's time for me to put this hussy down. Total confidence.

Well, that's good, but we all had misgivings about it. Nonetheless, the 
fight would go on. Vee was as ready as she'd ever be, she had her strategy 
worked out, and Bren would be in her corner. Her strategy, by the way, 
amounted to pretty much what it always is: jab, jab, cut the ring down, 
corner the girl, lean into her and batter the crap out of her. Vee figured 
Kicky would never hang a leg on someone as big as her but would hang back 
and hand jab (it's a real stinger, and she's got great reach) and look for 
an opening. In the fights we saw on tape, Kicky was against slightly 
smaller opponents, and when the opponent is shorter it's possible to hang a 
leg on her and jab it with devastating effect. In fact, we looked over 
Kicky's official records, which are on file at The Scrapple Yard, and 
she's never fought a girl as big as Vee, at least not one who wasn't a 
fatty. This made us feel a bit better about the whole thing.

So anyway we're at the Jville Marriott, Vee is preparing for the fight at 
the local Y, Wally, Bren and I are sexing it up in the sheets, which are 
board stiff with semen each morning when the bored stiff hispanic maid 
comes in to change them. Yes, Wally regularly gets a piece of Bren, share 
and share alike we always say, and she's getting so much giant cock lately 
she's developing a bad case of rooster cogburn.

Never mind, it's fight night. Bren, looking divine in tight red tank top 
and shorts, is Vee's corner girl. We're sitting right below her corner so 
we can offer advice if needed. The club is packed, the betting is fierce, 
and Vee is heavily favored to win; her promotional tape, a compilation in 
which she hammers the crap out of half a dozen unlucky thrillseekers, has 
been playing on the monitors, and everyone is suitably impressed.

Vee is pretty in pink, hot pink tank top and matching bike shorts with 
fiery red elbow and knee pads as hot accents, I guess, and they match her 
gloves. She looks good enough to inhale, like cotton candy. Kicky is 
wearing a black AC/DC concert tee, but we all figured she was a bisexual 
anyway. She's got baggy black Everlast boxing trunks on with gold trim, 
they come just about to her knees, it looks like she's in fight drag. Cool, 
it's the punk look. Her pads are black too.

Round 1 is a standoff. Stinging jabs are exchanged, the kicks are 
experimental, no one works any big technique, no rights are landed, I'd 
call it a draw, they're clearly feeling each other out. Kickapoo is playing 
it real cautious, a wise move against a girl this big. 

Round 2 starts out the same, but after about a minute Vee maneuvers Kicky 
into a corner and starts to unload. Knockout-powered right and left 
uppercuts just miss Kicky's jaw, she gets rocked hard to the body several 
times, but slips out of the corner and keeps her distance for the rest of 
the round, scoring a few times with left stingers. Give the round to Vee. 

Early in 3, Kicky counters a missed right cross with the fastest front kick 
I've ever seen, catching Vee in the sternum and backing her up with a 
painful suddenness. She tags Vee with a looping right and, again, this is 
followed by a foot to the chest so fast if you blinked you'd miss it. Again 
Vee is straightened up, and the foot is instantly followed by a left to the 
tit, a right that grazes Vee's chin and another front snappin' foot to the 
plexus that doubles Vee forward enough for a knee setup.

We can all see it coming, we're yelling, "Watch the knee!" but Kicky is oh 
so clever. As Vee covers her face to ward off the blow, Kicky closes with 
her and slams the knee to the ribcage while driving Vee across the ring, 
gloves on her shoulders. Four, five, knees have been thrown and they seem 
to be landing, 'cause Vee is bouncing up in the air with each one, as if 
she was backing too fast over speed bumps. Kicky has her backed into the 
corner right above us and is working her fists to the body, following up 
the knee blows, firing to the tits, under the armpits, zinging an uppercut 
that catches her chin and snaps Vee's head back, then the bell's rung, 
thank the merciful Goddess.

Kicky has to be pulled off our girl by the ref, and Vee, bless her big 
heart, is still standing. She looks a bit dazed, but not too dazed not to 
be grimacing in pain: chest pain, cracked rib kinda pain, the pain you get 
with each wrenching breath pain. We sit her down and discuss the 
possibility that she's got some, uh, calcium deficiencies in her lung 
region. She thinks she probably does, the left left side of her chest is 
making her wince real bad. Does it affect her ability to throw the jab? She 
stands and tries the arm out, says it's OK. She wants to continue, she can 
handle the pain.

The next thing I know she's out there again, standing, most cleverly, 
southpaw, her left side away from Kicky, which throws the girl off a bit, 
and throws us for a loop too. Vee begins to snap jabs with her right. Is 
she trying to get Kicky to think she can't throw a left? *Can* she still 
throw a left? We don't know. In the meantime, these right leads look pretty 
damn good, they're keeping the awesome Aussie back. Then Kicky, in a fit of 
overconfidence, is hanging her left leg. Wham! She jabs with it perfectly, 
snapping Vee's head back. Again, the leg, driving her back. A quick 
shuffle, the other leg comes out of nowhere to catch the left tit, a 
lunging jab, a right snakes in under Vee's glove to catch the hurt ribs, a 
left to the side, she's in close, trying to grab the head for knee action, 
we're all cringing, when Vee, her back to the ropes, mind you, explodes a 
left uppercut, from her injured left side, mind you, and puts it so hard on 
Kicky's jaw I thought her head would tear loose. Kicky drops to her knees, 
her eyes are glazed, the ref is counting, there's still a minute left in 
the round.

I'm looking up at Vee's broad vee puffing rhythmically above me in her 
corner, the knotted muscle of the upper back writhing as she rolls her head 
around to keep her neck loose. Amazingly, Kicky is up on seven, she's going to 
finish the round, or try to, she doesn't look too steady. I'm rather taken 
aback. I know how hard Vee hits, and never mind the hurt ribs, this was a 
left hook with a thousand pounds of rocket propellant behind it. Did I 
mention they use mere 7-ounce gloves in this place? They're like big ski mittens? Is this girl for real? She's 
up, the fight's on again, she's smart enough to cover up and dance, as Vee 
stalks her, still throwing right jabs. Kicky's head is clearing, she's 
snapping her own jabs again, but then she tries to kick Vee away as she 
comes in for the kill, but this foot isn't that fast and Vee catches the 
leg, the left, in the crook of her right arm and throws a series of 
whopping lefts straight into Kicky's face, keeping the grip on the leg so 
the poor girl is hopping backward, her head whiplashed repeatedly like in a 
cartoon.

The tape later showed that four of these snapping punch-jabs were thrown, 
and when Vee stopped and dropped the captured leg, Kicky's back against the 
ropes, she landed a blistering right uppercut to the side of Kicky's head 
that dropped her like a shitcanned log. Bing! Saved by the bell. There's no 
count after a bell, 'cept in the final round. If you can come out for the 
next round you're welcome to do so.

Kicky's cornerguys come out and drag her over to her stool, she went down 
very near her corner anyway, she's bleeding from the nose and mouth from 
all those lefts, but she seems conscious. God, this girl must have an iron 
head! Vee's back in her corner and we're all watching to see if Kicky is 
coming out for Round 5. Despite the rib problem, Vee is looking pretty good 
right now, having lost only one of four rounds. Vee, however, is mind-
boggled that Kicky isn't in a coma from that right uppercut.

"How will I ever knock this fucker out?" she complains.

"Simple," says Bren. "You'll keep hitting her until she stays down. Who 
cares how many blows it takes? You've got plenty of energy, you're a very 
fit girl and you're only fucking 22."

Good point Bing! The bell for 5, and damned if Kicky isn't coming out, and coming out 
with a little spring in her step! Kicky is wise enough to keep her legs on 
the canvas, and Vee is wise enough to continue this very effective right 
lead style. They're trading opposite jabs, both landing more often than not 
with stinging blows, but no one gets a good opening. Then, midway through 
the round, Vee tries some technique. a right spinning backfist comes out 
of nowhere, but Kicky's there with a forearm slash. But the backfist is 
followed by a left elbow drive that hammers the side of Kicky's head and 
almost drops her with its force. Again, clever Vee fights through her pain 
and delivers telling blows from her hurtin' left side. The elbow is followed by a right 
snap kick, a left side kick to the face, and Kicky's in trouble, backed 
into the far corner. There's still a minute left in the round. Vee is 
bobbing and weaving, keeping Kicky in the corner, unloading uppercuts with 
both hands, and Kicky is hiding behind her gloves trying to find a way out, 
when Vee turns her side to Kicky, almost turns her back on her and fires a 
right elbow speared perfectly 'tween Kicky's gloves, possibly driving her 
sinuses into row four.

This has to be it. The girl goes down in a heap, her legs folding under 
her, she looks very glazed and there's a torrent of blood running out of 
her nose and into her mouth. The ref is counting, there's plenty of time 
before the bell, that's it, it's a KO, and what a KO. An elbow dispatch. A 
round 5 decking via elbotic ramification, the crowd is loving it, and the 
bloodthirsty are quite satisfied, for before her handlers could plug up 
Kicky's smashed face, her flattened nose bled so profusely it bathed her 
whole neck and chest crimson. She looks like she hit the windshield in a 
head-on collision. 

So that was that. Vee came, saw and conquered. Well, she didn't come, but 
she said beating this girl up made her awful horny. Now, unfortunately, she 
has three cracked ribs from all the expert kneeing, we had her X-rayed (and 
her face is variously swollen from the girl's great jabbing). So here's the 
deal: Vee is going back to Virginia Beach to recuperate in Bren's groovy 
pad. Wally and I are going back with them, where Wal will hook up with 
Rachel--they're probably heading out to California soon after, which will 
leave me heading home, alone probably, since indications so far are that 
Bren has to get back to her bouncing, no way can she take a vacation in New 
Hampshire at this time. So, warm up the bed for me, will ya? (As if Deena's 
ass alone wouldn't warm the whole room.)


E-mail from: Paul Buck

To: Daryl Buck

Big news from Virginia Beach, where I've been most entertainingly detained 
for an extra two days. No sooner had the four of us arrived back in town 
than Patsy--you remember Patsy, I'm sure, the simian dyke who took a back-
alley pasting from my rufus queen (have you seen the tape yet, by the way? 
An endorphin stimulator, or what!?)--issues a formal challenge to a 
rematch, not in the alley but in the tough gal ring at the Golden Angel. 
Four three-minute rounds, just like the usual Angel deal. Apparently she's 
been offered enough money by a local promoter, win or lose, to make revenge 
more than a matter of personal honor. Bren, as you might imagine, was 
tickled pink by the notion. She's long fantasized about beating the crap 
out of someone before an adoring crowd in the squared circle, and here's a 
perfect chance. 

An opponent she knows, one she's beaten already, it's all too perfect. The 
only catch is the fight is the next night, a question of scheduling at the 
Angel, no time for elaborate preparation or strategy. Bren, after all, has 
never fought with the gloves and pads on, it changes your balance, your 
style, everything. What we did was, after accepting the challenge, take 
Bren over to the gym, suit her up in full regalia and have her spar some of 
the better locals for six hours. The same was done on fight day, followed 
by a long nap, so by that time Bren was pretty well hip to the procedure. 
She was comfortable with the gear, she was punching and even kicking with 
assurance.

Let's cut to the chase: it's fight time, 11 p.m. Vee is in Bren's corner, 
Patsy has two of her skinny tattooed waifs. Bren looks regally muscled in 
her cerulean Danskin fight duds; Patsy is attired in appropriately 
villainous black, a tee from Mickey's Authorized Buick Repair Center, her 
chest more gigantic than ever, I can't imagine how they ever found a 
protector big enough, it must be the size of the hood on a Skylark. Her 
arms look bigger than ever too. In fact, *she* looks bigger than ever, a 
truly fearsome sight (she's 5-8, 218) particularly due to the crazed look 
in her eyes. Patsy's clearly all methed up. There's no drug testing here, 
you understand, you could enter the ring under the influence of anything if 
you so choose, you could be inhaling a paper bag of airplane glue when the 
bell rings, for all anyone gives a good goddamn. Patsy's got that intense, 
faraway focus of the truly speedy, her chest is heaving with every breath, 
her head is twitching constantly on the pillbox of her thick neck, she's 
pounding her gloves together (10-ouncers tonight, since these girls are 
"amateurs") with insistent resilient thuds. Obviously, she's gonna come 
charging across the ring on the bell like a bull with a stick of dynamite 
up its ass.

Bing! And so she does. In the street fight, as you'll recall, she locked on 
to Bren and went for a takedown. There's none of that here, of course, so 
she's gonna have to throw something, and it certainly won't be one of those 
tortoise-slow tree trunk understems. She comes in fast, her head low and 
bobbing, practically skull on at Bren, who's snapping jabs and circling. 
Patsy tries to strike with Tyson-style explosions, much like the ugly black 
girl  who fought Vee here not too long ago. They don't land, but they do 
drive Bren back, and she finds herself in a corner, and Patsy is firing 
uppercuts with both hands to the body, and they're landing and Bren is 
wincing in pain and trying to cover up, and it becomes uncomfortably clear 
to us that Patsy is hitting thunderously hard (has she been on the heavy 
bag 24 hours a day?), she's hurting Bren, she may even be cracking her ribs 
for all we know.

"Get out of the corner!" we're screaming, and Bren 
finally manages to slip out, Patsy scrambling after her, lunging again with 
KO throws, and Bren catches her with a good front kick, then a straight 
left, a glancing right cross, a double jab (Bren has fast hands! remember 
the double left she scored with in the street fight?), a left sidekick to 
the tits. Patsy is backed into a corner, trying to throw uppercuts from a 
peekaboo stance. 

Bren is trying to size her up for a big right. Patsy's head is bobbing like 
one of those spring-necked backseat dolls, as Bren misses with a right, lands 
hard to the body with a left, then suddenly Patsy puts a perfect vertical 
left on Bren's chin, we watch the head snap back, then boom! Patsy kicks 
Bren in the gut and drives her back out of the corner, it's more like a 
horizontal stomp, then Patsy is in close in ring center firing to the body 
and landing again, driving Bren gradually back to a corner, where Bren 
bobs, weaves, then clinches. Patsy leans into her hard and bounces her off 
the turnbuckle, thudding her fists off Bren's kidneys. They're split by the 
ref, and Bren is snapping jabs back in the center, Patsy coming in low, 
taking stinging blows to the brow, she's gonna get cut if she doesn't watch 
it, but she keeps coming in, setting Bren up for another pounding in the 
corner, when bing! the round is over.

Bren comes back to her corner looking, shall we say, a bit unpleasantly 
surprised. She's in a real fight, it seems, not a recreational activity. 
Indeed, she's already been tapped more times in one round than she expected 
to be hit in the whole fight. Moreover, she probably lost the round on 
points. At best, it was a draw. Vee feels her over for rib damage, doesn't 
find any. There's a break, ha-ha. I'm trying to make light of this, but at 
this point in the fight I was shitting charcoal briquettes. Old Chinese 
proverb goes, You can't get great head from girl with fat lips. Vee tells 
Bren not to get cornered, not to fight inside, to use the jab and her feet 
to set Patsy up, then look to put her away with a right or a left hook. If 
she does get cornered, clinch immediately.

Patsy comes out like a locomotive to start Round 2, throwing more Tyson KO 
lunges, and sure enough Bren is backed into a neutral corner where Patsy 
starts a body barrage. Bren throws a left hook that the lowslung Patsy 
ducks under and lets go a sidewise right elbow that slips in perfectly 
under Bren's right arm and bounces her off the ropes, her face an etched 
pain mask, and Patsy is still punching to the body, landing a right between 
the tits, a left to the ribs, a right to the kidney. Bren stumbles her way 
out of the corner, Patsy pursuing with an airkick, and Bren tries to 
reassemble herself at ring center.

 We're all wondering if that elbow cracked anything on her right side. She dances and jabs, throws a good front kick, a side kick, jabs some more. She seems to have stemmed the 
tide. Patsy is slowing down, her meth rush must be waning along with the round, and she's not the endurance type, she's the wheezy two packs of 'Boros a 
day type. She's getting jabbed and kicked regularly again, she's not 
cornering Bren, then Bren throws a spinning right backfist out of nowhere, 
catches Patsy beside the right eye, she totters, almost falls.

We're up on our feet war whooping. Bren follows with a wicked side kick to 
the chest, drives Patsy back with stinging jabs, then delivers a perfect 
head-snapping right between the eyes. Patsy is in the corner, there's still 
some time left in the round, but she's not going down, she's hiding behind 
her gloves. Bren swats fruitlessly at the gloves and the big tattooed 
forearms, trying to get to the fat face. She switches to the belly and hits 
Patsy with a thudding left/right combo that blows the girl's mouthpiece to 
the mat, but Patsy lurches out of the corner into a heavy clinch, breathing 
like an asthmatic mastodon, ties up Bren's feet and actually trips her and 
falls on top of her. They struggle to their feet, the ref keeps them apart 
and takes a point away from Patsy for the "improper" clinch, but she lost 
the round anyway.

 They're at ring center, Patsy is fighting without a 
mouthpiece, Bren double jabs expertly, then unloads a fast hard right that 
catches Patsy full in the eye, dazing her all over again. Bren is on her 
with a left hook that grazes the chin, a snapfoot to the belly, another 
double jab setting up a big right that misses the crazily bobbing head, 
then the bell has rung and Patsy's bells have rung but they sure haven't 
tolled midnight. 

At least Round 2 goes to Bren. She's more confident in the corner, and 
she's barely winded despite all the leather she threw. This girl is in some 
kind of shape for a 39+. As I look up and watch Vee, big arms bulging in a 
tight tank, massage Bren's sweatslick neck and shoulders, my length is 
throbbing so hard I'm about to ask Wally to give me a pocket pull. But 
Wally's so stiff he can't even stand up, he's bent over funny like his back 
hurts.

 Patsy comes out for 3 with a three-quarter closed left eye, but she's 
still charging in lunging with vicious rights that aren't landing. Bren 
straightens her up with some wicked jabs, then sidekicks her in the sternum 
so hard the big dyke almost falls on her ass. Bren takes advantage of 
Patsy's imbalance to tag her with nasty body shots. Patsy holds on, her 
head tucked down, and starts to kidney punch and Bren throws her off before 
the ref can step in, then she tries to put the greasy thugette away with a 
ballistic right uppercut, but it misses. Bren is now off balance and Patsy 
connects with a hard right to the ribs, a good left jab to the chin, then a 
right cross to the jaw that rocks Bren bad. She staggers, she looks glassy, 
Patsy is coming after her to put her down. Bren covers up against the 
ropes, her legs are a little rubbery as Patsy launches into a body attack. 
She hits Bren with a left-right to the torso and it's clear the blows are 
so hard we're all thinking the body's gonna die and the head will fall, and 
we yell "Clinch her, Bren, clinch her!" and she does, what a relief. 

She holds on and takes some more wicked kidney punches, the ref splits 
them, it's the midpoint of the round, Bren still looks a little unsteady, 
but she's moving and jabbing and staying away from this tenacious human barnacle. 
Patsy comes at her fearlessly again trying to muscle her into a corner and 
pound her good before Bren gets all her wits back, but Bren is snapping 
stinging jabs into Patsy's brow, and we realize the other eye is half 
closed, and the first bad eye, the left, is almost completely closed. Patsy 
drives Bren into a corner, but Bren puts a perfect elbow sweep into her 
nose and Patsy is suddenly bleeding into her mouth, she's leaning into 
Bren, getting blood all over her big tits, trying to punch her ribs, Bren's 
in serious danger of getting butted by that big head. We're screaming 
"Watch the head butt, Bren, watch the head butt!" when she fights her way 
out of the corner with two left-right combinations in which every punch 
lands. Patsy is knocked back almost to ring center, her eyes are dim 
swollen lumps, her nose is still trickling blood into her panting mouth, 
and as Bren is about to set her up for a KO, probably with a great kick 
followed by a one-two combo, damned if the bell doesn't ring.

Well, after a rough start, Round 3 went smashingly for Bren, she should've 
won it, so she's surely ahead on the cards. Will patsy come out for 4? Can 
she see? She sits in the corner heaving like an overheated dog, her face 
covered in ice packs. But she's coming out. She still has at least half of 
one eye. Maybe a third of the other. Well, it's numero quatro. Patsy isn't 
bobbing that much. She's looking for an opening, catching stinging jabs to 
the top of her head, her forehead, sometimes the already puffy brows. She's 
too tired to lunge in, it seems. She's circling, looking, throwing an 
occasional desultory jab, her reach is too short to get in with it, in any 
event, when she suddenly bobs her way right into a smart right hook that 
straightens her up abruptly.

 Bren, still sharp and swift, follows instantly 
with a snapping jab to the mouth that sets up a frontkick to the chest that 
sets up a piledriving right to the jaw that Patsy gets part of a glove on, 
but it's followed in a flash by a left hook to the side of the head and 
bang! Patsy is sitting on her ass looking very glassy. Finally Bren has put 
this dimestore buddha on her big butt! She scrambles up on the count of five 
and is raring to continue, though she seems a bit wobbly on her feet. 

Bren stalks Patsy into a corner with whistling jabs and a threatening fake 
right. There's still almost a minute left. Patsy is wise enough to clinch 
and try to power Bren to the center of the ring, but bless that lil' 
redhead's heart and barndoor back, Bren throws her off, taps her with a 
right across the chin and tries to mail a special delivery left elbow to 
the poor brute's right eye. Patsy's peepers are so tumescent it's not clear 
if she saw the blow coming, but she catches it glancingly on the brow--her 
head was in semi-bob while it was landing--and it cuts her, finally, after 
all those jabs. As blood washes into her eye, her nose starts bleeding again 
too, and as she bobs and weaves in the corner, trying to avoid the 
methodical lefts and rights that Bren is now launching, she's spattering 
crimson around like a priest swinging a censer from hell.

 She clinches 
again before Bren can land anything lethal, the round is ticking down as 
they're separated near the center, but coming off the break Bren puts a 
perfect foot into Patsy's face, a push-jab that causes Patsy's gloves to 
come up in defense, which allows Bren to step in and air mail a blistering 
right to the tit that crumples the rotund one's face in pitiable pain. She 
seems paralyzed for a moment, allowing Bren to slip a short left up into 
Patsy's bloody eye, and then damned if she doesn't go for the knee, 
grabbing the head with hummingbird swiftness and driving three beauties 
into that chubby mug, Patsy's gloves barely protesting as if attached to 
useless doll arms, a fourth knee prevented only by the ringing of the bell 
and the quick intercession of the ref. Did I mention the ref at the Angel 
is a big fat woman with big fat hair in a bow tie and white shirt, wears 
rubber gloves in the ring, looks like your aunt Mildred doing the dishes? 
But she's really good at what she does, breaks up the clinches with 
authority. So Bren stops kneeing after three and unhands Patsy, who drops 
flat on her face, her back heaving.

Is she conscious? Doesn't appear to be. But she was standing when the bell 
rang, so it's not a KO. Her waifish handlers pick her up and drag her back 
to her corner, which is no easy job since she outweighs them by almost 100 
pounds apiece. Bren comes back to a round of hearty congrats. As Vee wipes 
Bren down--she's dripping with Patsy's ichor, you dig--we watch to see if 
the bloody butterball is still alive. Yeah, but she's not entirely 
conscious, far as we can tell, and her face at this point has become a 
horrendous dripping pulp. They can't stop her nose bleeding, her lips are 
now bleeding too from the kneeing, and it seems she's also now bleeding 
from cuts above both eyes. The Angel house doctor is now tending to her, 
and the floor is littered with bloody towels, like this was a backalley 
late-term abortion. Bren, however,  is in good shape. A little swelling on 
the jaw from that near KO blow, and an assortment of nasty body bruises, 
but it could be much worse. The decision is announced, it's unanimous for 
Bren, she gets all four rounds on all three cards, and we repair after a 
suitable interval to the Stuck-Up Pig for a night of rampant celebration.


E-mail from: Paul Buck

To: Wally Stutz

So I'm back in Franklin's Fist. Bren remains the strong arm of the late-
night law in Virginia Beach, much to my great sadness, but at least Deena 
is here, not to mention the blandishments of my daughter. Speaking of 
which, check this little bit of news out: Daryl's got the fight bug, and 
her first fight was just last night, so let me get it down for you while 
it's still fresh in my mind. (A tape will be forthcoming in the near 
future, available to you for a nominal fee, ha-ha.)

First off, why is Daryl 
fighting at all? Precisely my question to her when she broached the subject 
of getting into the ring here where the local promoter has long been eager 
to pair her up with a club fighter, one who's decent but nothing more than 
a training bout for my girl. (The promoter, Gillian Barnes, clearly has 
notions of bringing Daryl along slowly and eventually grooming her into a 
big-money attraction, which, given my girl's looks and build, is certainly 
a reasonable aspiration.) 

So what's Daryl's motivation? Purely the desire to beat the crap out of 
someone, preferably before a cheering paid audience. Well, Daryl put it 
this way: she's gotten about as big as she's gonna get, really, unless they 
legalize certain drugs or invent some new ones they can't test so damn well 
for, and she's never gonna drop the weight to compete for a posing title 
again, so life needs a new physical challenge. What better challenge than 
this? I offered the usual arguments about getting your face bashed in and 
your brain bounced around and the rest of it, but she said let's just try 
one fight, it won't be against anyone awesome, and see how it goes. And so 
we did. Hard to argue with just one fight. And get who Barnes had in mind: 
a 6-1, 149 pound Somali chick name of Winnie Tute. That's too-tay. 27 years 
old, been clubbing around New England for three years, since she emigrated, 
was an Olympic boxer back in her country, hits hard for her size, long-
limbed and sinewy, narrow-hipped, tiny-boobed, great reach, not great hand 
or foot speed, and the line is Daryl will knock her into her old time zone. 

Well, Daryl had some initial reservations, 'cause the weight giveaway, 
about 45 pounds, looked kind of embarrassing, but Barnes talked her into 
it. After all, who you gonna start out against, Supervee? So there we are. 
Daryl has good hands, can jab reasonably well, hits very hard, has been 
heavy-bagging and sparring for weeks now, it turns out, but has no foot 
technique to speak of, nor do we know how well she takes a punch. We watch 
a Tute vid in which she lefts and rights a frowsy, overweight blonde for 
four rounds until the poor girl is cut above both eyes and swollen all over 
like a beach ball. Tute showed decent technique all around, nothing 
devastating. Actually, seems like a perfect opening opponent. I'm all 
excited, as you can imagine. Deena will corner. I'll be right below. 

And it's fight time. Daryl looks so big and so strong in her tight canary 
yellow ringwear (yellow! her choice! bold!), I'm expecting Tute to bolt any 
second, but the gangly, fine-featured 'Frican (a lapsed moslem, I'm told!) 
seems impassive and quite ready to mix it up. My girl weighed in at 196 and 
a half, and her arms are bigger than Tute's thighs, but let's hope Allah is 
on her side, 'cause Daryl is gonna be all over her. It's a regular four-
rounder, and the first two rounds are rather uneventful. Daryl keeps her 
feet on the floor and throws a relentless blend of head and body shots 
whenever she can slip inside Tute's jab (the girl's reach is ridiculous!), 
but lands nothing of real substance. Nor does Tute, though another round of 
her jabbing will mark Daryl for sure. We figure Daryl won both the rounds 
just on the basis of superior aggression. She's been taking it to Tute, 
repeatedly backing her into corners with hard thrusting assaults and has 
scored well to the body on several occasions. We tell Daryl to press the 
attack in 3, before she gets cut from a jab or has her eyes swell or 
something equally facially unpleasant.

So she takes it to Tute, who's adding some not very effective kicks to her 
mix now, and, about halfway through the round she muscles Tute into a 
corner, starts to unload on the body, when, as she's bobbing forward 
preparatory to releasing a ripping right, Tute deftly grabs her behind the 
onrushing head and whips it down into a flying right knee drive that 
catches Daryl on the point of the jaw. Tute releases the head or loses her 
grip and Daryl is pulling back and up in pain and shock as the black girl 
whistles a right by her nose, just missing, followed by a left that gets 
mostly glove.

We all agree that if Tute had landed that right, she would've 
walked away a few punches and knees later with a KO. But she missed and she 
failed to press the attack sufficiently. She drives Daryl to center ring 
with a flurry of rights and lefts, none of which do much. Though Daryl is 
clearly rocked by the knee to the jaw, a little rubbery in the legs, she 
has her gloves up and her head bobbing. Tute probes with a foot, lands a 
nice jab, but has utterly squandered her advantage, and the round runs down 
like that. No doubt she won it, though, which means if she wins the fourth 
she can draw. 

We ice up Daryl's jaw and tell her to put Tute down if she can, but win the 
round at all costs, and thereby win the fight. Well, to our surprise, Tute 
comes out for 4 throwing big rights, obviously looking for the KO. 
She lets go three or four, and Daryl is clever enough to notice that when 
she throws the big punch, she drops her other glove. Perfect opportunity 
for a counterpunch, which comes along in a matter of seconds. Well! let it 
not be said that my girl's 23-inch favorite arm (yes, she's hit the big 2-3 
on the Weider meter!) is all gravy and no meat and potatoes. She drops a 
short hard right counter on Tute and sends her reeling back on her heels 
several steps before falling on her back in a tangle of ebony arms and 
legs. She's up on a five-count, somewhat to our surprise, but she doesn't 
quite seem all there.

 Anyway, it's allowed to continue, and Daryl, to our 
surprise, decides to throw a foot, a simple front kick, which hits the 
sluggish Tute in the plexus and seems to hurt her. Daryl is so taken with 
this success, she tries a roundhouse kick to the head and scores again, 
which so rocks Tute she stumbles, and I think she'll fall, but she 
reassembles herself in the corner just in time to take a vicious body 
assault that compells the now pitiable Somalian to lower her gloves enough 
so that Daryl can grab her head and get a knee into the face, and, Katy 
bar the door, as they say during hockey brawls, Daryl becomes a rocket of a 
Rockette, putting three fast, accurate and devastating knee drives into 
Tute's face before letting her drop tits-down like a dead girl.

 When my 
baby raises her big arms above her head in victory, her tangled armpit 
thatches streaming sweat, her right knee pad stained with blood and mucus, 
her whopping chest heaving proudly, her Roman marble face split in a sexy 
grin, I stiffen like a torpedo and my heart beats with the lustful filial 
devotion of an elephant stampede. A knee dispatch in her first fight, and 
the sweet revenge of counter patella, which turned Tute's kisser to paella! 
Daryl left the ring with a somewhat swollen and purpled left jaw hinge, but 
she was otherwise unscathed (a touch of puffiness around the brows, I'll 
admit). Tute left the ring on a stretcher.  Maybe it'll make her even 
taller, yuk, yuk. So there you have it. Everyone's got fight fever. Now 
Deena's talking about getting into the ring. I'll keep you posted, bud.


Text of Serita Sanchez article in Sinfully Sinew magazine. Headline: 
Sippin' Pretty With Serita. Byline: Denise Massey, editor at large.

Serita Sanchez is standing stark naked (freshly shaven head included) in 
the wood-paneled, mirror-lined weight room of her Santa Monica duplex, 
doing "tittie jerks"--alternate pec flexes that send each individual 
breast skyward like a suddenly surfacing whale, the thick brown nipple, 
molded to a rounded nub the size of a jumbo ripe blueberry in the air 
conditioned chill, pointing almost to the ceiling before it dives again. An 
apt comparison when you consider that at her present off-season weight of 
188 pounds, Serita's bustage is clearly in the double-D range. She ceases 
the tittie jerks and does a "tit spread"--sort of a front lat spread with 
a special pec concentration that indeed parts her full breasts to such a 
degree the sweaty brown flesh of her sternum, less-tanned than the rest of 
her, can be seen shinign between them, an expanse usually lost in the deep valley 
of her cleavage. Remarkably, she holds this spread, her big breasts poised 
in space, pulled wide as if invisible hands were gripping them. She grins, 
and says through a slightly clenched jaw--the tittie spread requires a lot 
of tension in the neck--"Not bad, huh?"

I can only agree--in fact that "not bad" may be the understatement of the 
year--but Serita isn't done yet. She turns around to present the 
aggrandized avocado of her haunches with the intention of demonstrating to 
me that she "still has glutes with a 188-pound ass." She bends forward at 
the waist slightly and starts to rhythmically flex her derriere, the full, 
rounded cheeks tightening and remaking themselves from ripe, juicy 
honeydews to tautly overinflated volleyballs with each burst of muscle 
tension, faint gluteal striations still visible 'neath the succulent brown 
flesh patterned with symmetrical arrays of lighter stretch marks toward the 
delectable orbs' outer curves.

"Make no mistake about it," she says in her beguiling Caribbean singsong 
(she's half-Haitian, half-Cuban and fluent in French, Spanish and English), 
"I may be at an off-season weight, but I'm not in any off-season shape."
 
Who would argue otherwise? Minutes earlier Serita had pulled a pair of 
perfectly bilateral 21.2's on the Weider meter, arm size rarely seen on 
this or any other planet, and this from a girl who stands only 5-8-1/2 in 
her bare feet, toenails painted highway emergency orange. When she opened 
the door for me not long before that, she was wearing a plain white cotton 
robe, nothing under it, she teased, and explained she'd already pumped up 
"real nice," and was eager to show me just how big her babies were. The 
previous week she'd guest posed in Oakland (I couldn't make the gig, alas), 
at which time she was verified backstage at the 188, by the way, and word 
was getting around Socal that she was whoppingly huge, probably over 21. 
All that remained was a few minutes of isoflexion to really bring them up 
to size, she explained, and, yeah, they'd bust the 2-1 barrier for sure.

I was ushered into the weight room with a cup of steaming black coffee, 
where Serita casually shed the robe, and I found it took all my 
concentration to keep the cup steady and not spill hot java all over the 
beige-carpeted floor. The initial eyeful of this brown bomber is nothing 
short of stunning, like emerging from the dense rain forest to glom El 
Dorado, the City of Low-Rider Cadillacs. Her bronze flesh, with that 
burnished tinge of orange in its base coat, is dazzlingly beautiful, a 
perfect salsa of light and shadow dancing with reflected highlights. Her 
shaven head looks not the least bit severe, thanks to its graceful shape, 
and it too fires bursts of glancing light--in effect, it's yet another 
large, rounded muscle (you might say she's got a great skull belly).

 So 
Serita was about to start iso-ing when I wondered aloud what she'd measure 
right now. She guessed about 20.5, and I urged her to put it to the test. 
She did, and she was in fact a 20.4 left and 20.3 right. I expressed doubt 
that she could possibly break the 21 barrier here when she was more than a 
half inch off, and she chuckled, "You don't know how I pump up when I 
isoflex."

And, indeed, I didn't. A few minutes of concentrated flexing with nothing 
in her hands but her own big fearsome fists, then a series of one-arm 
chins, first right, then left (she did a cheaty dozen with each arm!), then 
another minute of careful flexing and she was ready for the meter again.

As she slipped on the wires, I thought she looked noticeably bigger than 
before, and there it was, 21.2 apiece, it came right up as she held the 
arms in this exquisitely tense state of oscillant fixation, which stunned 
me. I asked if I could videotape it or photograph it, but, alas, this was a 
no-pics visit--Serita has a vid deal coming up, details unavailable at this 
time--which is why the shots here are all from her last contest, the 
Calpurnia Classic, plus two that she consented to release from the Oakland 
guest pose. Well, for what it's worth, I hereby testify that she pulled 
21.2's, and yes, I checked the meter on myself, and it was accurate. (I've 
got cold 16s if you must know. I'm Massey, but I'm not all that massy, OK?)

I like the sound of hefty sums, and they taste so good rolled around the 
gums: 5-8-1/2, 188, 21.2, 58, which is her fully expanded chest taped 
'cross the nips. (I personally handled the measure on this one, and, yes, I 
managed to control my trembling and get a meticulous reading.) Big numbers, 
big girl,  bigger than life, really, but not too big to dream about . . . 
Then there's the question of Serita's age, which has been variously 
reported at anywhere from 26 to 32. Serita prefers to remain mysterious on 
this one, though she sure looks under 30 to me. "I don't think everything 
about me should be revealed," she says while petulantly squinching up her 
gorgeous sloe eyes. "It's too, like, boring. Age I'd rather keep to 
myself. You want numbers from me, let's stick to bodyparts." 

The crowd for Serita's Calpurnia crown was happy to stick to just that. As 
anyone knows who was lucky enough to witness the Cal Classic some four 
months ago, Serita's bigger-than-life self was a relatively chiseled 160 
and plenty big enough to bury the considerable competition. Rootin' Teuton 
Nordic nasties like Valerie Dichter and Trish Thorgerson were bowled over 
in an afro-Cuban blitzkreig of muscle-icious voluptua, the combined 
size/def likes of which this leading musclegirl state hasn't really ever 
seen before on this scale. At only 160, our Serita was sporting pumped 20-
inch guns (they were metered right after the event, and she was a flat or, 
rather, very well-rounded 20 apiece), the biggest arms ever seen on a 
heavyweight at the Cal Classic and an easy inch bigger than either 
Dichter's or Thorgerson's, each of whom outweighed her by 10 pounds or 
more. (Though they weren't metered officially at the time, rumor has it 
that Dichter and Thorgerson couldn't have mustered anything over a flat 19 
at the show.) 

The Sanchez arms are instant inducements to flights of poetic fancy, 
usually evoking lush tropical metaphors: cola nuts sitting atop coconuts. 
No cola nuts are too small, aren't they? How about mangos riding coconuts, 
or are mangos too big? How big is a ripe mango, anyway? Never mind. 
Sometimes, words do fail. Just look at the photos. I took 'em myself, and I 
managed to hold the camera steady, though my heart trembled like an itty 
bitty bird's. And when you do you'll note that Serita is no one-shtick 
pony; she's got everything needed to support the biceptual showcase, from 
the ripe-guava delts (sorry!) to the extra-latitudinal lats, the Etruscan 
bas-relief abs (and a deep innie navel, thank Hera), and the legs, well the 
legs match the arms fiber for fiber, with 29-1/2-inch thigh bulk that stops 
just one fast twitch short of being hopelessly oversized, with teardrop 
quads that are the lachry-mostest and calves that pop so diamond hard (20 
inches! another Cal Classic record!) the X-Acto knife ankles look frail in 
contrast.

And Serita, in her yellow wet-look PVC stage bikini, can pose. She loves to 
crab up hard, and her knotted traps, each making a trinity with a knurled 
mesa of delt and a tectonic plate of striated pec angling down and out to a 
butte's worth of boob capped with a nip that bulges like a fresh-picked 
psychedelic 'shroom, were guilty of entrapment--the judges flipped for her. 
In fact, there's been no comparable heavyweight physique in recent memory 
besides Daryl Buck's incredibly edible shredded beef show at the New 
England Amazon Classic last year, which comes close, but I think had Serita 
and Daryl been on the same stage, the outcome would have been the same.

So Serita rules. Or ruled, till she piled on 28 pounds of oral fixation. 
"Yeah, I like to eat," says Serita between taco bites, "but I'm carrying 
the weight very well, aren't I?" Yes, we've already agreed she is, but she 
won't be carrying any weight home from the upcoming Western Athena in Las 
Vegas because she won't be entering. Serita is, like her eastern 
equivalent, the divine Daryl, in a state of well-fed temporary retirement 
just when she was on the verge of grabbing all the gusto.

"Look," says the still-naked Serita, lighting up a fragrant blunt, making 
a careful show of her absolutely demonic chest expansion as she tokes (no I didn't have any, I'm working!), 
"I'm just not up for the lean and mean routine right now. It takes too 
much out of me." So, like Daryl, she needs a contest for the full-figured 
woman, a contest that doesn't yet exist. Until then, there's guest posing, 
for which Serita could hardly be in greater demand. She had the crowd 
moaning at the Oakland Armory last week when she opened the Estefan 
Invitational. "That was a trip," says Serita. "I did a too-tight clothes 
routine, which went over real big."

Too-tight clothes? "Yeah, I came out in this formal, white long-sleeeved 
shirt and bow tie that was way too tight. I popped each arm seam, then blew 
all the buttons off. The audience loved it. Then I just ripped it off of me 
and started really crunching up. Then I did the same thing with the pants, 
these thin black pants that I could barely walk in, they were so tight. I 
actually ripped my ass right through the seat with a glute clench."

 I 
wasn't in Oakland for this treat, as I mentioned, my damn grandmother had 
to pick this frigin' weekend to die, but Serita and I watched a well-shot 
private videotape of her performance that had my tongue hanging out in an 
awe-drool. And she wasn't topless, you understand, she had the yellow cups 
on underneath. Seems they don't allow bare nips in Oakland, which is too 
bad, 'cause Serita is not shy that way. "I'd love to do a tit show for a 
live audience," she beams. "I happen to be very talented that way. Of 
course, I practice hard," her knockers nodding in pec jiggly agreement.

Then there's the question of Serita's social life. She doesn't have a 
steady of either sex at the present time, it seems (she was often seen in 
the company of local heavyweight Rita Colon up until a few months ago), and 
it's not clear who she trains with these days, if anyone. She won't address 
her love life at all, except to say, "This is definitely a private matter. 
That's why they're called private parts." On the subject of workout 
partners, she says all her training lately is done at home, and there's a 
small circle of local muscle girls who spot her on a fairly regular basis, 
though none are competitive on the L.A. scene. (She won't name them, alas.)

So, enough prying. Serita *does* have a Latin temper. What's next on the 
Sanchez agenda? Well, there will be that video mentioned earlier--a full-
length celebration of her 188-pound self, probably with some nudity, that 
promises to be more stimulating than an anabolic speedball. And there will 
be more guest posing, too, with a possible appearance at the Western Athena 
next month (if she can't win it, she can at least skin it in Vegas). And 
eventually, Serita might just get around to winnowing her chaff and 
strutting the boards at a big event again. Maybe. "I don't know," says 
this self-described gourmand cook with wildly eclectic tastes, as she puts 
the Bic to a Macanudo. "I'm getting awful heavy into German cuisine 
lately. Lots of beer and sausages and spaetzle, you know."

Well, auf wiedersehn, baby, and thanks for the beef jerky. 


Text of Sinfully Sinew magazine interview with Daryl Buck. Headline: 22 
Skidoo. Byline: Denise Massey, editor at large.

Intro: Daryl Buck walks into my cheaply appointed cubby hole at Sinew's New 
York offices--I'm bi, you know, bi coastal--and my legs start trembling so 
hard I break a heel. She reaches across the filthy desk to offer me a big, 
potentially deadly hand to shake; I take it and squeeze it gently, 
delicately fingering the thick veinage behind her knuckles, like I was at a 
snake petting zoo, and I realize I'm holding the hand attached to The Arm, 
but I can't see The Arm, 'cause Daryl has demurely decided to wear a 
sweater. Well, she came down from New Hampshire, they wear sweaters up 
there a lot, even in summer, which is all year round now, so she's not being weird, and I'm sure I can 
get her to take it off anyway. I make a little dumb small talk about the 
weather and the traffic on her drive down, and then I say nervously, "So, 
what do I have to do to get you to take your sweater off?"

"You've already done it," she says, "it's hot as hell in here." Yes, 
our AC sucks. Or did I accidentally turn it down? And the sweater comes off 
just like that, while I sit there goggling like a little big-eyed fish. 
Daryl is in a Danskin top just like the one she fought Winnie Tute in, the 
New England club fighter she kneed to a bloody pulp (she brought a tape of 
the fight with her, and the beating is as nasty as it sounds), but Daryl 
doesn't look nasty, she looks, well, like a sweet and placid earth mother 
on bovine growth hormone. As we all know, Daryl is a natural girl: no 
makeup, no jewelry, just a big black Casio G-Shock (which looks girlie sized on her massive forearm), lush hairy 'pits, brown hair pulled back tight in 
the usual severe Greco-Roman bun (that's on her head, not her 'pits).

 She 
smiles at me as she masses the right arm dramatically, fingers in a full 
fist cocked almost so it touches the peak of the bicep, a brachial artery 
seemingly thicker than my pinky running along the crest of the bonded heads 
up into the melon-sized delt. Her breasts are nakedly braless under the 
Danskin, a volcanic eruption of flesh, saucer-sized nipples clearly 
visible, seemingly semi-erect, the right boob pulled up and out in flexion 
as it ties into the tightened arm, four inches of cleavage pointing the way 
to her mighty heart, which pounds visibly like a sledge hammer. Girl's got 
a lot of muscle to feed. In the meantime, my ticker is skipping every other 
beat, and I'm about to get the hiccups like a soused mouse. She looks 
admiringly at the gathered hugeness of the arm, and says, "Sorry, I'm not 
pumped up, I'm kinda small today." 

Denise Massey: Daryl, here you are a mere 20 years old and it seems you've 
already given up competitive bodybuilding, without even getting to go 
national.

Daryl Buck: Well, I knew the heavyweight competition would be very stiff 
for the [New England] Amazon Classic. I got myself down to 153, from 175, 
which was no easy matter. I was authentically shredded. I mean, I looked 
great, as far as that super-ripped look goes, but I felt terrible. I was 
totally enervated, physically weak and emotionally drained. A total wreck. 
It took literally weeks to recover from that contest. And I didn't win the 
overall title anyway. Bigger really isn't better at most shows, you know. 
Anyway, the physical toll of posing for that whole day in that weakened 
condition left me a hollowed-out shell. I have no desire to do it again. I 
have no motivation to go through all that again on the national level. Some 
people take better to extreme low bodyfat than others. It's just not for 
me. My body isn't meant to get below a certain fat level. When your period 
stops, you know you've got a problem.

DM: If mine does, I sure will--it'll mean I'm knocked up! I've got enough 
fat to supply a Joseph Beuys retrospective. So what do you weigh now?

DB: About 195. I eat what I want. I'm very comfortable at this weight, and 
I think I look much better now than I would if I dropped, say, 30 pounds.

DM: I myself dropped 30 pounds recently. On my foot. The amazing thing is, 
at this weight you still show a lot of definition and even vascularity when 
you're pumped up.

DB: That's right. You don't need to be shredded to show definition. When 
you're that ripped you're showing beyond definition, you're showing 
interstitial stuff that's best left unseen, as far as I'm concerned. Not to 
mention the terrible gaunt look most women get in their faces. I think it's 
very unattractive.

DM: Not to mention the bustline and glute losses.

DB: I did lose some bust size at 153, and, frankly, it bothered me.

DM: Your chest at 195 is enormous. What are you stretching the tape at 
these days?

DB: I've been pulling 59 inches fully expanded lately, which is as big as 
I've ever been. 60 is clearly in the offing. At 153 I was more like 55 or 
54. Actually my size everywhere is as big as I've ever been. My lats have 
continued to spread too, which surprises me a bit since I haven't done that 
much back work lately.

DM: Speaking of continued growth, let's talk about those unbelievable arms. 
We understand you've broken the 22-inch barrier recently, at an off-season 
weight, of course.

DB: Yeah, and with my right arm, too, which is weird because my left was 
always ahead. Lately, though, I've been concentrating more on the right 
with very heavy poundages--I've had some elbow strain in the left--and it's 
paid off.

DM: What are your arm numbers now?

DB: I hit a 22.1 on the right, on videotape, and my left has stalled at 
21.9. That's on an officially calibrated Weider meter, certified by an Arm 
Club of America representative. I've been taking it easy on the left 
lately, as I said, because of tendon soreness in the elbow. Too much 
isolated work, too many monster dumbbells. When the elbow heals I expect to 
take it beyond 22 and beyond the right, for that matter, because the left 
arm has always been the bigger grower.

DM: Those are, as far as we know, the biggest numbers on any off-season 
female bodybuilder ever recorded. At least of any who's still in what might be 
called "shape." You're huge with muscle, simply massive, the kind of size 
you'd think would take years to build. Just how did you get so big so 
young? What kind of monster dumbbell work are we talking about?

DB: Oh, it's nothing that a lot of women don't do. I started when I was 12, 
but there's no secrets about it. All the usual training. I find seated 
incline work is very effective. I might pyramid up to alternate dumbbell 
curls with 90 pounds. No big deal. It's ultimately genetics. And luck, 
'cause it puts a lot of strain on the joints.

DM: And what about growth supplements?

DB: Well, I take all the usual ones. Again, no secrets. Now that steroid 
and growth hormone detection is so advanced that no one is cheating 
anymore, we all take the same stuff. Protein is key to massive hypertrophy, 
as far as I'm concerned. Three grams per pound of bodyweight, which seems 
intense, but it's really necessary, at least for my particular body.

DM: What do you think about Serita Sanchez, who also seems to have quit  
ripped-down competition?

DB: She's fabulous. A great poser. And I respect the fact that she's not 
prepared to lean down again right away for another contest.

DM: At the time I interviewed her, as you know, she pulled a pair of 
21.2's, at a comparable weight and bodyfat percentage.

DB: But she's shorter than me, with shorter limbs--I'm 5-10-1/2-- and I'm 
sure on her the size looks even more awesome than it does on me.

DM: Like Serita, you must be strong as all hell. Have you thought about 
entering the Brooke Shields Power Bowl?

DB: Well, there's been some talk about guest posing. At my normal weight, 
of course, my current weight. There's a big arm-freak contingent there that 
would be really into this, I'm told.

DM: Can you blame them? 23-inch guns with a 60-inch chest, and the face of 
a Diana?

DB: Are you talking about Sanchez? [laughs]. Thanks, you're too kind. If 
I'm really in that kind of demand, I'd be happy to guest pose at the 
Shields, but I don't think I'm up for the competition. It would require 
about four months of rigorous training if I was planning to take it 
seriously, which is the only way I'd want to do it.

DM: And what about arm wrestling? Your mother was a Yukon Jill champ for 
many years. Have you ever thought about going for that title, say?

DB: I've never arm wrestled formally, and I'd be reluctant to get into it. 
As it is, my training has put a lot of stress on my elbows. Mom was the arm 
wrestler in the family, and I think we should keep it that way.

DM: It's just that it would be such a great arm showcase.

DB: True enough, but I just can't see myself doing it. Anything can be a 
great arm showcase. Even brushing your teeth. 

DM: Maybe you can enter the Gleem Brush Off! Seriously, what about this 
Tough Gal tangent. Is it a tangent? Are you planning to get into this in a 
big way?

DB: Well, I doubt I'll ever fight on the national level. I don't think I 
have the natural skills. I have no leg technique, no real hand speed . . . I 
might fight some more locally, though. It's a physical challenge, an 
exhilarating one. The girl I beat, Winnie Tute, was no pushover. She came 
within an inch of taking me out at one point. She kneed me on the jaw.

DM: But you put her away with a knee in the last round. Watching it made my 
gums ache. 

DB: Yeah, I did, so I'm off to a good start. And she's OK. She's a tough 
cookie. I wouldn't have the guts to get in the ring with anyone with 22 
inch arms who weighed 195 pounds.

DM: Like Serita.

DB: Wild horses couldn't drag me into the ring with her.

DM: You realize your fans are concerned about you getting your face 
damaged.

DB: I'm concerned about it myself.

DM: You getting a broken nose could be likened to someone taking a hammer 
to the Nike of Samothrace.

DB: You flatter me too much, Denise.

DM: Maybe we should call your nose the Nike swoosh. Maybe if I keep this up 
you'll let me touch your arm.

DB: You can touch my arm anytime, Denise. As long as you let me touch 
yours. 

DM: You'll have to find it first. It's kinda hard to see, I didn't pump up 
today. But what about this boxing business?

DB: Clearly, there's a risk involved here. Broken noses are fairly common 
in tough gal fights. Jaws can break too. I know I want to fight again. In 
fact, I think we have an opponent lined up. After that, I don't know. I'll 
see how the second fight goes. I really don't want to treat myself as an 
art object that's subject to breakage, but, on the other hand, I'm not 
going to get into the ring with a TG champ, someone big, strong and 
sufficiently skilled to pound the crap out of me.

DM: Makes sense to me. But let's get back to posing. What if there was a contest for the non-ripped? An Amazon Classic that was really for amazons, voluptuous muscle girls with normal bodyfat levels?

DB: I'd be there in a minute. And I bet Serita would be right next to me. 
That would be a trip!

DM: I'll have to organize it myself. We'll call it the Massey Classic.
 
--30--