The Pugilisticon Part 3
By Avida Dolor
Deena and Wylie



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: Daryl Buck 

To: Paul Buck 

 Greetings, O omniscient patriarch! Was riveted to the screen by your 
account of the Friday night fights with Super-Vee. Can't begin to 
describe how gratifying it is to know that someone is frigging with 
abandon to pics of little old me, especially someone who will apparently 
make me foam at the mouth with lust. It's equally thrilling to hear 
you've picked up a new love interest, who apparently will also make me 
foam with desire. I'm looking forward to a lot of foaming 'mid the New 
England loaming if you ever get the troops up here. Or does this mean 
you'll be spending a lot of time in Virginny? Maybe Bren can move up 
here and bounce locally (like on my mattress). Ha-ha, just kidding 
(yeah, right!) you sure did make her sound sexy. 

 It's lucky I have someone up here to vent my horniness on. I'm 
referring, of course, to Deena should-I-be-a-little-leana? Berdoo, who 
came up right on schedule to keep me company, and, get this, she now 
tips the scales at 224 in her party suit, which is to say stark raving 
nude. That's a lot of heft for a girl who only stands 5-9 in her 
calloused tootsies, but Deena is wearing the weight well. Wait till you 
see her. And you will see her, 'cause she's not leaving anytime soon. 
Her tits are so big these days, looking at her cleavage in her too-tight 
electric orange Cole of California bikini top is like staring into the 
sunkissed abyss. There's this dripping wet crevasse, sweat and suntan 
oil practically running through it like rapids, and when you stare into 
it your eyes are swallowed up in a plunging penumbral mystery that 
emerges, days later, somewhere on the swollen rise of her belly, only to 
disappear again in a navel deep enough for your tongue to go AWOL in. 
When she undoes the bikini top and shrugs herself out of the clinging 
cups, an embarrassment of riches spills forth, the thick brown nipples 
bobbing in space like fresh flesh chewtoys. I regularly have the 
privilege of rubbing her down with cocoa butter, and I exaggerate but a 
touch when I say she's on the half-tube a boob plan. 

 But make no mistake, Dee has kept up her training, and her increased 
size translates directly to increased strength. Get this: she can 
deadlift a whole section of dock! And hold it! Yes, the strip where the 
boat is tied wasn't fitting right. I was thinking of how to get under it 
to see what was going on down there, when Dee suggested she just lift it 
while I take a look. While I was still derisively chuckling, she stood 
at the edge of the sand and pulled the whole length up to pelvic level, 
then straightened up her back without even a grunt. And held it! For a 
few seconds I was too stupefied to look under the raised oil drums (they 
were clear of the water, you understand!) and just gaped at her 
incredulously. Then she said, calmly, "Look, will you?!" taut tendons 
fanning her tree trunk of a neck into an iron curtain. So I looked, 
repositioned a drum, and gave her the OK to let it down. She eased it 
down slowly after holding it aloft for, I swear, more than a minute. 

 The weather has been perfect all the time you've been gone. The weather 
is always perfect now that we've been greenhoused. New Hampshire without 
winter, how strange! But we've adjusted no problem. Our days, and our 
bowels, for that matter, have assumed a dissolute regularity: After my 
usual 30-minute morning workout, it's a run to the lake and an hour in 
the kayak. Deena does not go in for this; indeed, I'm not sure she can 
even fit in a kayak. She lies in the sand reading and tanning her bulk. 
I end the kayak session with a series of vigorous sprints around the 
lake that leave my lungs burning. Sometimes I enhance the kayak pump 
with a few hundred pushups when I hit the shore. This is immediately 
followed by a few tokes on the water pipe, then I lay back in a chaise, 
my swollen chest so sensitive at this point that Deena need merely suck 
my teats for me to come (though sometimes digital and even oral 
assistance is appreciated). After this sweet spend I doze for an hour or 
so while the Dead waft over the ElectroVoices. Deena may doze too, 
though she hasn't expended any energy yet ('cept for the jaw work of 
lipping my delicious areolae), then it's on to our afternoon iron 
session, which is invariably dimethyl adrenaline assisted. 


 This DMA really opens the arteries and gets the blood pumping. Deena 
and I agree never have we had more intense, productive workouts. We're 
out there on the sand, the music playing, the sun glinting off our Ray-
Bans and our oiled, sweat-drenched bodies, whipping out inhuman numbers 
of sets and reps with appalling poundages. In fact, after a few weeks of 
this routine, I am just plain bloated with muscle, never been bigger in 
my life. Moreover, I noticed where you mentioned to Super-Vee my best 
was a 22.8. Well, the other day I did a 22.9 lefty and a 22.8 righty 
after an evening ez kurl festival (this is at a weight of 193), and 
Deena was kind enough to get it on tape. Another two weeks of this I 
don't see why I can't pull a 23. I mean, I am just poppin'! So anyway, 
we do the DMA workout for anywhere up to two and a half hours, guzzling 
Powerade all the way, then it's time to collapse in the chaises and come 
down with some more tokes, which is often followed by playful kissing 
and hugging in the sand. After about an hour's cooldown we head back up 
to the house for our big meal of the day, a beery late afternoon feast 
that will take us almost to sundown. Nap time again when we're finally 
done eating. After this 90-minute siesta, it's off to the outhouse, 
where tons of stuff will come out. Between us we're eating and crapping 
for four, like clockwork. 

 Nighttime brings us movie viewing, cable grazing, fridge grazing, pussy 
grazing and more dope and beer. We usually flop into bed for extended 
lovemaking around midnight, and you haven't lived until you have 224 
pounds of wet, panting Deena sitting on your face. We're up at 7 or 8 to 
do it all over again. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up. I 
might get bored after two years or so. No, seriously, the sooner you can 
bring reinforcements, the better. Brenda, Super-Vee, Wally and Rachel, 
you, me and Deena would make quite a party, though it may be a little 
cock deficient (but just a smidge!) 


E-mail from: Daryl Buck 

To: Paul Buck 

 Well, grand patriarch in absentia, it's my turn to narrate a street 
fight, and O what a beauty I have for you! The action is at the chew 'n' 
brew venue called the Wharf Rat, right here in Franklin's Fist, a muggy 
Saturday night. We go there for no other reason than a change of pace, 
pumped from a late afternoon body blitz and mellowed on a few sticks of 
reefer (hep talk!) and what do we find but an  arm wrestling fest about 
to get underway. Three weight classes, a case of beer to the winner of 
each. (Winner's choice of brand, too.) While the stakes are most modest, 
the competition is not. The heavies (170 plus) are all biker dykes, big, 
brawny, leather and denim, silver-studded, tattooed and mean. Deena 
immediately wants to enter. 

 I say, "Deena, you really wanna stand nose to nose with these ugly 
diesels?" 

 And she says, "Yeah, sure, and I'm gonna crush 'em all, too." 

 Well, Deena enters, has a few beers, does five minutes of right-arm iso 
in the can--I take off my belt and she pulls on it like a monster truck 
a few times till I'm dragged across the floor--and we're ready for 
action. There are some cute and cool lightweights and middles, some of 
whom eye me lasciviously, as my reputation, and my bustline, precedes 
me. 

 I make some small talk, absorb some compliments, but manage to keep my 
attention on Deena, who requires constant shoulder/arm massage to keep 
her big self loose. Her competition amounts to three bikers, all from 
different clubs, judging by their colors, but all remarkably similar 
otherwise. Two have the usual half-assed bleach jobs that leave their 
unkempt hair an ugly mixture of black and blonde; their makeup is tacky 
and overdone, garish lipstick, one with actual blue eyeshadow; they're 
all in sleeveless denim jackets with tight sleeve-yanked t-shirts 
underneath; they all run about 200 pounds and they all have big tits, 
though none as big as ours; they all have big arms too, though again 
none of them can be more than 20 at best, and they all have copious 
tattoos, with devils, snakes and daggers being particular faves. 

 Deena, by the way, is bare-armed herself in a sheared-at-the-pits Notre 
Dame sweatshirt, and she is indeed our lady, as she will shortly prove. 
Her brachial whoppage (22 pumped) is clearly making the contestants 
nervous, but they're too butch to ever admit it. So Deena wrestles dyke 
1, while dyke 2 takes on dyke 3. Deena, who's no stranger to arm 
wrestling, and has pretty good technique, crushes dyke 1 in about 10 
seconds, then proceeds to do the same to dyke 2. After a crazy round 
robin, dyke 3 also beats 1 and 2, then squares off with Deena for the 
heavyweight crown, a case of beer in the balance. Now, let's run down 
dyke 3, a key player in the ensuing drama. 

 She's better looking than the two losers, and bigger as well. Her 
sleeveless demim jacket says Dunham Dolls on the back, and her tight 
red-with-black-lettering sleeveless tee says the same. You've seen the 
Dunham Dolls around before, and so have I, though I can't say I 
recognized her--this may simply be because she's so damn generic. She 
looks mid-20s, must be 5-8, maybe 5-9, and I'm informed she weighed in 
at 212. Her hair is a slicked back Elvissy bleach job, but well groomed 
for what it is; her features are plain, indeed coarse, her skin is not 
great (no makeup on this one), nor are her teeth, but she has nice eyes 
and a strong jaw. Her paunch is beery, hanging several inches over a 
silver skull belt buckle that holds up her crusty 501s, which encase an 
oversized and not particularly well-shaped ass. On the plus side, her 
arms are big, they look to be authentic 20s, and they're as well-shaped 
as her ass isn't. Too bad they're obscured with comic book designs and 
such. Also on the plus side, her substantial boobage, clearly braless, 
thrusts saucily in an abundant gnarly-nipped splendor that speaks well 
for her pecs. In fact, her tits look so good under that tight t-shirt, I 
find I have a hard time taking my eyes off them, and every time I glance 
at Deena, she's looking the same way. 

 So it's match time. This is done standing, free hand gripping a peg, 
feet in floor stirrups, fighting elbow in a pressure-sensitive cup, any 
shoulder movement within those parameters acceptable. The girl has good 
technique, she gets the jump on Deena after a surprisingly unfussy grip-
jockeying, but immediately runs into the brick wall of Deena's power and 
is suspended with a 5-degree advantage for about 10 seconds. Which says 
a lot for her, since that's as long as Deena needed to put away the 
other dykes. 

 Her name is Wylie, it seems, since that's what her four or five Doll 
mates are yelling. "Come on, Wylie! Put her away, Wylie!" 

It couldn't be Wally, could it? I'm sure they've all met her Beave. 
Well, after a few more seconds she starts to lose ground, goes back to 
straight up, then slowly but surely starts to sink under Deena's 
strength. Now, based on what I can see and sense of this Wylie's upper 
bod, I bet she can bench an Electra-Glide, but this is Deena she's up 
against, and I'm starting to feel bad for her, 'cause she's about to be 
humbled in front of her moto-mommies. She goes down real slow, a 
testament to her strength and heart, but she goes down all the same, in 
a little under a minute. 

 Then a funny thing happens. As she goes down and the ref's hand goes up 
in Deena's victory, Wylie whips her fist loose of the tangle and pops 
Deena between the eyes with it before hurling her bulk away from the 
table in disgust. Deena is holding a hand to her nose, blinking, shaking 
the cobwebs and testing with her palm for blood, but there isn't any. 

 "That's some pretty shitty sportsmanship," yells the previously 
defeated dyke number 2, an uglier, not as big or as strong version of 
Wylie, and Wylie turns on her right there, grabs her in a sudden 
headlock and starts pounding her face with a big right fist, getting in 
about four shots before her Doll friends pull her off. Dyke 2 drops to 
her knees in a daze, blood bubbling from her nose and mouth, then falls 
forward onto her hands, no one at all coming to her aid. Seems she's not 
a member of any local club and was there all by her lonesome. An indie. 
Deena looks at me in amazement, mutters something under her breath about 
what a pain in the ass it is getting punched after you win, then marches 
over to the downed dyke, and helps her over to a bar stool, putting her 
hankie to the girl's bloody face. 

Wylie takes exception to this. "Whaddya helping that shithead for?!" she 
bellows at Deena. 

"Shut the fuck up," warns Deena, "before I break you and your shitty 
gang into a million little pieces. I already owe you for that cheap 
shot. I'm prepared to let it go ' cause I'm such a nice girl, but if you 
don't behave yourself from here on out I'm gonna fix it so you won't be 
able to scratch your ass for a month. Get my drift, fuckface?" 

"Big talk from a fat shit," counters Wylie none too cleverly. 

"You fuck with Wylie, you fuck with all five of us," says one of Wylie's 
girls, who must be a mathematician. 

"You fuck with her, you fuck with me," I jump in. 

"Oh, it's fuckin' Miss America," sneers bigmouth Wylie. 

 My adrenaline is up, pumping DMA reserves, and I have a powerful desire 
to just wade into the bunch of them right now, fists flying, when Deena 
stands up, points at Wylie, and says, "Enough of this shit. I want you, 
right now, out back, just you and me, no weapons, no one else 
interferes, and the ref can ref it." 

 Wylie, a dyke of heart, instantly snaps, "Let's go!" and so we do. 

 I have no vidcam, alas. I should have put it in the car, but I didn't. 
Spank me. We all go out back, the ref, the beat up blonde, Wylie and her 
girls and about another dozen dykes of various stripes. A circle is 
formed, the ref pats both girls down for weapons, and we're underway. 
Wylie has taken off her jacket, which is too easily grabbed. 

 She's wearing big black Doc Martens, by the way. Deena is in sleeveless 
sweatshirt, frayed cutoffs and her sandals have been kicked aside, which 
is to say she's barefoot and pregnant with power. (The parking lot seems 
glass free, thankfully, they sweep it regularly here, anticipating 
plenty of fights.) They circle, Wylie in a boxing stance, Deena in a 
head-on wrestling stance. I can tell Deena just wants to close with this 
girl and break something on her, like an arm. Wylie throws some 
surprisingly fast jabs, getting her range, and it begins to sink in that 
this girl is an experienced street fighter, when Deena lunges low, and 
Wylie, showing nimble knees I didn't think she owned, backs neatly out 
of range and punches my pillow pal in the side of the neck, hard enough 
to break a pine board, I bet, then closes with her and locks her up 
around the shoulders, struggling for a knee drive position. She doesn't 
quite get the drive, but hangs on in a fierce struggle that puts the two 
of them on the asphalt, with Wylie on her knees still with the front 
grip on Deena. 

 Then comes the head butt, perfectly executed. As I said, I could see 
this Wylie is mighty streetwise. She breaks the lock on Deena, slips her 
hands up behind Deena's head and delivers the butt between her eyes all 
in a flash. The butt is followed by two handfuls of hair and she rises 
to her feet, dragging the hapless Deena up with her, and I can see the 
knee coming, and so can Deena, and then the knee is a fake, and Wylie 
has put the front of her Doc Marten into Deena's crotch, the groan of 
pain wrenches my guts, and Wylie has unhanded Deena, who crumples up in 
a fetal ball of agony on her side, her eyes rolling, her throat moaning, 
while Wylie stands there gloating. 

"That's dirty fighting!" I yell, sounding like Muffy at a Choate tennis 
tournament. 

Wylie spits in disgust. "The only rule was no weapons, sister! I didn't 
use no weapons." 

"Your boot is a weapon," I say. "She's barefoot." 

"The ref shoulda taken my boots off, then, right? I was patted down, 
wasn't I?" She looks to the ref, imploringly. This diversion is giving 
Deena time to recover, I hope, and also preventing Wylie from going in 
and kicking her while she's down, which would send me in to stop her, of 
course. The boots are legal under the rules of this fight, avers the 
ref, and so's her use of them, though it certainly isn't what you'd call 
clean fighting. 

"Well, I'm not what you'd call a clean person," laughs Wylie, and her 
crew titters appreciatively. 

 Deena isn't up yet, and I can see Wylie's foot is itching for 
action."Well, you've won," I offer. "She's down and out. It's your 
fight." 

"Hold on," says Wylie, "that don't mean shit coming from you. Lemme hear 
it from her. I'll wait till she can talk." So she stands there, big arms 
folded across her whopping chest, and waits for Deena to get up. 

 Deena does, slowly, and I go over to her and take her aside. She looks 
seriously pained and seriously pissed. Her nose is running mucus and her 
eyes are teary from the cunt punt. "This girl's a really good street 
fighter," I whisper in her ear. "Why don't you tell her it's hers and 
let's go home and make nookie." 

 She looks at me for a second like I'm daft. "No way," she whispers 
back. "I'm gonna break her arms, or I'm gonna go down in the attempt. If 
it looks bad for me, don't hesitate to step in. I don't think they'll 
fuck with you, they know who you are." 

 I can see Deena is not kidding around, so I switch to talking strategy. 
"Well, don't go in low on her," I suggest, "she's got too many counters. 
Stay straight up, jab, and look to take her out with a right." 

 "Right," says the game and slightly gamy Deena, and they're back at it, 
to scattered applause. Deena circles in boxing stance, but they're not 
evenly matched in this; Wylie's got a far better jab and they have about 
the same reach. After Deena gets tagged with three stingers, she leaps 
in for an arm lock, but Wylie just grabs her in a front hug and they're 
grappling again, straight up this time, where Deena should have an 
advantage. Except that Wylie, once again, pulls some street slicks: as 
they grapple close in, she somehow threatens to break Deena's right 
thumb, whips Deena into an arm lock, pulls her around sideways, then 
kicks her left ankle so hard the leg shoots out like Deena was 
placekicking, as she yelps in pain. She actually switches hands on the 
wrist lock she has on Deena so she can hammer her face with a right, 
which she does, sending Deena back on shaky bare heels. 

 Wylie is right on her, a left-right combo, the left getting shoulder, 
the right missing, as Deena, still with her wits about her, ducks down 
and in, driving Wylie back at the waist and expertly tripping her as the 
dyke backpedals. Deena falls heavily on top of Wylie, but again the 
blonde shows her smarts, hurling Deena off and to the side by her tits, 
even as her back hits the ground, and rolling the opposite way to 
quickly scramble to her feet. So they're squared off again, but Deena 
wastes no time. She's charging even as Wylie is setting herself, and 
this time she cleverly fakes a low assault, lurching high at the last 
moment and throwing a blistering Tyson-like--and I don't mean the 
chicken patty--right that catches Wylie above the eye. 

 There's an inexorable momentum following this blow, as Deena strikes 
with a left to the tit, a right to the chin that mostly misses, a left 
to the tit, a right to the jaw that partly misses, and Wylie ducks in 
low to stop the attack as Deena drops an elbow hammer onto the back of 
her head that could split a coconut. The blow has a nasty thud to it and 
for a second I think maybe she's just up and killed Wylie as the dyke 
drops to hands and knees, but Deena backs off and Wylie is alive, still 
on all fours, looking somewhat glazed. 

 "Now it's up to *you* to continue," she says to the groggy garage girl. 
"I'll wait for as long as you like." 

 Wylie pulls herself to a squat, her arms hanging limp at her sides, her 
magnificent chest panting painfully from those tit shots. She shakes her 
head to clear it, then says to Deena, "One fall apiece. This one decides 
it." 
 Deena is now standing springy and confident on the balls of her bare 
feet, having found her groove. Wylie rises slowly, squares off, and here 
we go. They circle, both in boxing stance, Wylie jabbing not so 
sprightly anymore. Deena moves in close, perfectly slashes aside a jab 
and delivers a short right that closes Wylie's left eye, followed by a 
left hook that misses her jaw by a hair. That punch would have put Wylie 
away, but alas, Wylie strikes to Deena's tit, throws a quick front kick 
to the midsection to back her opponent up, then, out of the blue, 
executes a graceful spinning backfist that hits Deena in the side of the 
head so hard she stumbles and almost falls. I see blood around Deena's 
ear and instantly fear she's got some nasty brain shake. (It's actually 
a superficial ear cut from one of the demonic rings that were on too 
tight for Wylie to remove.) 

 Deena is completely off balance as Wylie fakes a left and snap kicks to 
the crotch, catching mostly thigh. She digs in a right to the body, 
kicks again to the midsection, double jabs to the face, getting some 
chin and lip (her adrenaline is pumping now, and the big blonde is fast 
of fist!), then a right to the tit, but she's failed to land the big one 
in time, for Deena has rapid powers of recovery. She slashes the next 
left hook and puts a phoenix eye left fist into Wylie's nose--Wylie too 
often drops her free hand when she punches--then hammers her above the 
left eye, the one that is mostly closed. Wylie may not even have seen it 
coming. 

 The bike bimbo is precariously balanced on the side of her boot for a 
second, blood trickling out of her nose, evocatively dark and wet in the 
sodium glare, then she topples. She's on her back, and she looks beat. 

"That's it," says the ref, "third fall to Deena, she's the winner. Two 
falls to one," she adds, like she's checking the math. "Let's go back 
in, have some beers, and all leave here friends tonight. It was a good 
fight." 

"Fine by me," says Deena. 

 Wylie is just staring at the stars, breathing real hard, and damned if 
her braless tits aren't pointing almost straight up to the sky like 
meat-flavored amazon cones. This girl must have *some* chest on her, and 
I make a mental note that I'd love to see more of it. Her girls help her 
up and we all survey the damage. Wylie's got a closed eye, a bloody nose 
and upper lip, a big achy swelling on the back of her head and assorted 
tit bruises, no doubt, which make me wince thinking about them. Those 
beauties demand chest protection. Deena has a swollen crotch, a cut ear, 
a swollen, bruised ankle, some tit and belly welts of her own, and some 
nasty swelling and purpling across the brows and forehead from the early 
head butt and various stinging jabs, but her eyes, nose and mouth are 
intact. 

She won, I'm ecstatic, and I'm also thrilled that she didn't break 
Wylie's arms, 'cause I have a hankering to sponsor this girl in the 
tough gal ring, or maybe make her my sparring partner, or both. All 
kinds of covetous thoughts are dancing through my head as we go back in 
the bar. I know I wanna see her pose, and I also know I wanna see her 
beat up someone I don't like. I take Deena aside and say, "Let's make 
peace and offer to drink up our free case with them." To my surprise, 
Deena agrees and equally to my surprise, the Dolls are up for it. 

 We all gather at a big table at the back and start guzzling Heinies, 
smoking Marlboro Lights and talking girl-fight talk. Wylie, with an ice 
pack on her eye, says to Deena, "You know, you are one strong 
motherfucker. I've never lost an arm wrestle before. Never. That's why I 
hit you like that. I was just like fucking stunned and enraged. I'm 
sorry. It *was* shitty sportsmanship, I shoulda never done that." 

 Well! That was big of her. Deena is a bit taken aback, and has a 
newfound respect for Wylie. "Forget it," she says. "We fought it out, 
and thank the Goddess no one was seriously hurt. You're a tough chick 
and I respect you for it." 

 Hey, this is starting to work out pretty well. "Hey, Wylie," I ask, 
"just how big are your guns, anyway?" 

"I've pulled a 20.5 on a big pump. Righty. My wrestling arm." 

 "That's big," I say admiringly. "And you've got great shape. I bet 
you've got fine pecs too," I continue lasciviously, "judging by the way 
your tits ride." 

 "Oh, Wy's got super pecs," says the chick who must be her main squeeze; 
a total departure from standard moto style, this babe is a riot grrrlish 
cutie pie, a deep-tanned brunette with great skin and a physique that 
could win a major drug-free contest the day after tomorrow. "She can 
bench 350 for three reps, strict," continues li'l luscious (more of her 
in a minute). 

 "Really!" I exclaim. "That's impressive!" (And it is, I'm not kidding.) 
"I hope your boobs aren't too bruised from the fight," I say with 
sincerity. 

 "Let's take a look," says Wy's No. 2. She gets up, her tiny halter top 
flaunting etched abs that bulge like the coils in an antique radiator 
(it's a really old bar, OK?), stands behind Wylie and pulls the big 
blonde's t-shirt up to her neck while Wylie calmly sits there, one hand 
holding the ice pack, the other gripping both a Heinie and a 'Boro. 

"Oh, my," says Deena with a tut-tut air of resignation. 

 There are several green and purple bruises marring the beauty of the 
deep-curving undersides of Wylie's tits, which are so big (the tits) you 
have to lower your head and peer up at them (the bruises), hence Wylie 
can't see them from her aerial view, nor can her chickie, who squats 
down at Wylie's side to make a critical appraisal. 

 "Is it bad?" Wylie asks, hardly able to mask her disinterest. 

"Not really too bad," I say. "Couple days, they'll be OK." 

 "I've seen worse on you, Wylie," chips in chickie. "Remember the fight 
with Bertha?" 

 "How could I forget it," chuckles Wylie, "I put that poor bitch in a 
body cast." 

 "Goddamn, you have a gorgeous pair," I add with enthusiasm, abruptly 
changing the subject before Wylie pulls her top down. Wylie seems 
genuinely flattered that Miss America is admiring her knockers. And Miss 
America is indeed genuinely admiring her knockers, which are mouth 
watering delights. They're resting on her sizable paunch, whose navel 
yawns invitingly like a fragrant suck-hole, but that's only due to their 
immensity, for as they lounge on the shelf of her belly they 
simultaneously thrust, braced by the wall of pec they emerge from. A 
wall of power that, as Wylie flexes her chest, tightens into two hunched 
fists of muscle that bulge all the way up to her collarbones, and the 
already arcing boobage rises further, the thick brownish pink nipples, 
palm-sized areolae and tittie tips as big as wild mushrooms, slanting to 
the ceiling, the breasts themselves bunching into massively rounded 
cones that pull up and apart, the deep cleavage yawning into a wide 
chasm, a sweat-sheened tongue tunnel. Wylie drains her fourth Heinie in 
a few deep gulps, belches demurely several times, takes the ice pack 
away from her eye (it looks bad, and will for days) and fitfully pulls 
her tee back down over her mountainous boobs/belly trinity. 

 "Thanks," she says to me smilingly, "you got quite a pair yourself. 
Though I ain't never seen 'em naked." 

 It seems a direct challenge. "Well, you just may, sooner or later, 
'cause I'd like you and your best girl--a slight nod in the direction of 
the bronzed chickie, who I'm assuming is Wylie's pussy pal--to come out 
to my place sometime and party with me and Deena." I look to Deena to 
see if she's shocked, but she seems on my wavelength, which is tuned to 
Wylie's frequency, WTIT, about 55DD on the DC dial. And, for that 
matter, I'm sure Deena's been getting a load of the fine bod on the 
girlfriend. 

 Wylie seems shocked, for sure, and she says, "Wow, that's big of you, 
Daryl. thanks. We'll"--she looks to the tanned doll--"definitely take 
you up on that, when my eye is better." 

 "For sure," I say. I'll tell you a few other things about Wylie at this 
point, some of which I learned later. For one, her name's not Wylie. 
it's Y. Lee, as in Yvette Lee. Last name Connors. Don't ask why she 
chooses to be known as Y. Lee, she just does, it's different, certainly, 
and biker dykes are different, certainly. Tattoo-wise, Wylie, as I'll 
continue to call her, could be worse. She's got big 'uns on each of her 
big guns, but her guns being so big, they're not that overwhelming. I'll 
give her credit for having brightly colored ones, all greens and reds, 
none of those horrible black smudgy things. The left arm is a female 
biker astride her hog, seen in profile, hair slicked back in the wind, 
big bare arm, big shelf of bustline. In other words, it's a self-
portrait. Beneath the well-limned image are the words Born to Ride. 
Cute. On the other arm we have a well-rendered full-figure (and full-
figured) nude female, pretty in a brutal sort of way, leggy, busty and 
quite well-built, and under her are two intertwined hearts and the 
legend, In Memoriam, Cindy Coolidge, I Love You Forever. Seems this was 
Wylie's one true love, killed three years ago when her bike slid under 
an 18-wheeler, and the tattoo was made from a photo. Wylie doesn't talk 
about it except to say this much. 

 I got the story from her love cutie, and I might as well fill you in on 
her, too. Her name is Gina, better known as Nutro-Gina, 'cause she takes 
about every supplement under the sun (but swears she's a 'roid cherry!). 
She's as young as I am, and the girl actually calls herself a physical 
culturist, but she has the body to back it up. At 5-6, 150, Nutro-Gina 
is a buffed, symmetrical package of sizy definition--she's got cold 18s, 
beautifully massed, and she's well-busted, a solid D cup--that could 
blow any number of middleweight pros off the stage. Gina is no typical 
biker chick; no tattoos, no bleached hair, and I already mentioned her 
fab builder's tan. She's got a pretty face and a cute riot grrrl pony 
tail, which is a normal long pony but the sides are shaved extreme 
sports style, and she also extremely sports a silver ring in her nose 
right through the septum bull-style, which on her looks cute. Gina is no 
dummy either (she has an AA from Dunham Junior College!), and while 
she's tight with Wylie, their love is not an exclusive thing by any 
means (hot dog!). 

 As for the Cindy Coolidge story, it seems the grief-stricken Wylie--
Gina was there, as a 17-year-old biker dyke novice to witness this--
pulled the hapless trucker from his cab and beat him so bad he died of 
internal injuries that were later attributed to the accident. Here's how 
Gina tells it: "Wylie, who was bellowing incoherently, just jumped up on 
the truck and pulled him out of his cab. He wasn't injured from the 
crash or anything, but I guess he was kind of dazed from what happened. 
He initially didn't resist. He was a fairly big guy, but he didn't 
resist. So Wylie pulled him out of the cab and just hurled him onto the 
ground, pounced on him, jerked him to his feet and started hitting him 
with her right while holding him with her left. I guess she possessed 
the strength of the insane at this time, 'cause by the time she stopped 
hitting him, after maybe 25 blows, he looked like he'd been run through 
a meat grinder. She actually broke his skull with her bare hand, 'cause 
there was brainy stuff leaking out of his head." 

 Well! Some story. I'm still looking into it. It appears they put him 
back in the truck and drove it down an embankment, then set it on fire. 
I have not independently verified this account, nor can I really gauge 
Gina's veracity at this point. Anyway, it sure makes a great campfire 
tale, and I have no reason to doubt Wylie has the strength and had the 
determination at the time to do something like this. Anyway, that's it 
for Wylie's arm tattoos. Her forearms she has wisely spared, and her 
back is clear as well. She *has* got snakes and daggers on her ankles, 
but those are neatly tucked in her Docs. 

 Now, back to the conversation. After a few more beers, I broach the 
subject of Tough Gal, 'cause I have this very vivid image of Wylie in 
the ring pounding the living shit out of everyone I've ever seen fight 
in Franklin's Fist. "Hey, Wylie, have you ever fought Tough Gal?" 

"Naaah, arm wrestling is my only formal competition." 

"Well, why not," I press, "you'd be a terror in the ring." 

 "I don't know about going six rounds or even four," she says. "I'm not 
exactly the picture of cardiovascular fitness, ya know?" 

"Well, you just need some training," I say. "Six months of sparring and 
you'd be able to go four no problem, or even six." 

 "You don't wanna fight me, do you?" she wonders, " 'cause I'm not 
fighting you." 

 "No, I certainly don't want to fight you, I want to *sponsor* you." 

 "Really? Why? What's in it for you?" 

 "The same thing that's in it for you," I explain. "Money and glory, 
'cause I think you've got great potential. And if you go the state 
finals and then the regional finals, you could pick up as much as 100 
grand, of which I'd get 20 percent. And I'd pay all your training and 
equipment costs, too." 

 Wylie just smiles at me quizzically. "And that's just the purses," I 
continue. "If you become a betting attraction, you could pick up as much 
as 25 grand for a big fight. Look, I saw you fight tonight, you've got a 
good jab for a woman your size. You were dropping your free hand when 
you punched, but all that tactical stuff we can work out in training. 
I'm telling you, after six months in the gym with me and my trainer, 
you'll be ready to kick ass." 

 "Aren't you fighting anymore?" she asks. 

 "I don't know, I'm still thinking about it. I've got to find the right 
opponent, and it's definitely not someone who outweighs me." 

 "I saw your fight with the 'frican," she tells me. 

 "Really! I had no idea! She almost put me away." 

 "Yeah, but then you almost put her head into orbit. Those knees were 
wicked." 

 "She took them well, though," I point out. 

 "Yeah, she did. Must be the pads. It's funny, street fighting with 
equipment on. Weird." 

"Yeah," I say, "when your eye's better, you ought to come to the gym 
with us, suit up and see how you like it." 

 "Do it, Wylie," says Gina, "I bet you'd be great in Tough Gal. You 
could win the state title, I bet, with six months of training." 

"Well, who's the best in the state, besides you?" Wylie wants to know. 

"You don't even follow the fights? The best in New Hampshire right now 
is Brenda Bovee," I tell her, "a bull-necked dirty blonde about your 
height, around 200 pounds. You've got about as big arms and I bet a 
stronger chest. She doesn't jab that well. She's a good inside fighter, 
muscles her opponents into corners and puts them away with uppercuts and 
hooks. I bet given six months you could take her." 

"Do you know when she's fighting next?" 

 "Yeah, two weeks on the card here at the Fist. She's fighting a big fat 
black girl, goes about 230, Rayleeta Riggs. Should be a tough fight, 
'cause Rayleeta is hard to hit and can really take a punch and hits hard 
herself. We should all get together and see it. I got ringside 
priority." 

 "That's just what I was thinkin'," says Wylie. "I'll see her fight 
before I take you up on your offer." 

 Deal. So there we have it. We exchanged phone numbers. Wylie works in 
Dunham at the felicitously named Vee Twins cycle shop. Gina is a trainer 
at the Lucille Roberts here in town. No, I'm not kidding, Lucille 
Roberts. Women sign up just to look at her a few times a week. 
Arrangements are made to attend the title card at the arena, which 
promises to be a big fight, following which Wylie and Gina will come 
back here for a boobs bonanza at the beloved Ponder-Oh-So. Deena and I 
can't wait. 

 So it's fight night at the Franklin's Fist Civic Arena, and we've got 
ringside seats for the main event. The four of us met in the parking lot 
earlier and doobed up a storm, so here we are ready to get spattered in 
our seats, all funky on Tulsa tops, Wylie's "imported" homegrown, which 
she gets in the mail from some cousin of hers. Wylie and Gina are 
dressed much as they were at the bar, though Wylie is a bit better 
groomed, and Gina looks radiant in a helter skelter of a halter and 
creamette jeans. Though Wylie's nipplicious bulgettes are surely 
catching my fancy, Gina just looks plain good enough to eat from head to 
toe like a marzipan muscle girl. I arrange it so we sit Gina, me, Wylie 
and Deena, 'cause I want to establish an equal relationship, you might 
say. I still have some minor fears that Wylie will be possessive about 
Gina, you see, fears that later turn out to be unwarranted. 

 Anyway, on to the match, and it's shaping up like a doozy. Bovee, 
ranked No. 1 in the state, comes in at 202. She's 29, she's in her 
prime, she's 5-9, but she's so wide and thick she looks kind of squat. 
She flaunts a double bi for each side of the crowd after she's 
introduced, and damned if she doesn't look bigger than ever, gotta be 
21s at least, with really fine peaks. Bovee's not really a cute girl, 
but in her present physical shape, with those ham-slam arms and a lat 
spread that has her elbows jutting out like they were on two 100-pound 
racks of Texas prime, she's looking damn fine. One can make allowances 
for the oversized thighs and lower legs almost as thick as telephone 
poles from knee to ankle. Wylie is impressed with Bovee's arms, but 
doesn't understand how she can punch effectively with lats that big, and 
I say, "As I told you before, her jab is not great and she scores mostly 
with short hooks and uppercuts inside. For which her physique is 
perfect." 
 And I can tell you right now, my concerned parental unit, I'd never put 
my pretty face anywhere near her nasty mitts. 

 Then there's Rayleeta, who weighs in at 242. Yes, that's 2-4-2, about 
40 pounds of sheer excess fat. She should weigh no more than Bovee, 
she's also 5-9 and has about the same basic build, but this 24-year-old 
sweaty soul sistah doesn't do any aerobic training besides sparring, 
which I understand she does quite a bit of. She's in fact developed a 
reputation for beating the crap out of sparring partners, and has to pay 
a pretty penny these days to get anyone to go four with her, Lenore at 
the gym tells me. She's got big arms, big legs and big everything, but 
it's awful hard to tell where the muscle ends and the fat begins, so she 
just looks formlessly big like a sumo wrestler. Her chest is as big as 
her thighs and her thighs are as big as the satin bolsters on the mirror 
bed in the Caesar's Palace King Craps suite. Anyway, the crowd seems to 
think that Rayleeta's added weight will just make it that much harder 
for Bovee to get to her, and while the betting is favoring Bovee, it's 
by only a slight margin. 

 Well, Bovee comes out conservatively at the bell, jabbing tentatively, 
looking to counterpunch. Rayleeta has a good jab for her size, better 
than Bovee's, actually, and uses it to keep her from getting inside. 
Whenever Bovee does get inside, Rayleeta clinches, and Bovee, strong as 
she may be, is not about to overpower a 242 pound hunk o' chunky. 
Nothing much happens for the rest of the round. Neither girl takes a 
foot off the floor, and we all agree we'd give it to Rayleeta on her 
better jabbing. 

 Round 2 is a carbon copy of 1, only now Bovee's face is red from the 
sharp jabbing. Rayleeta ties her up inside with confidence--I guess her 
bulk is a great weapon against the champ--and even skillfully slash 
blocks a couple of hook tries. 

 Round 3 is going the same way, and we can see Bovee is becoming 
infuriated, even as Rayleeta is becoming winded. She's sweating like a 
pig and we can only imagine what she must smell like in there. Clearly, 
Bovee doesn't want another round like the previous two; she'd most 
likely be down 3-0 in rounds in that case, which is not good strategy in 
a six-round fight. So midway through the round she changes tactics, 
lifts a bulky foot off the canvas and snaps Rayleeta to the sternum so 
smartly the girl spits in her face. The involuntary loogie hock seems to 
further enrage Bovee, who mounts a sustained attack of hooks to the body 
alternated with uppercuts that she tries to snake around Rayleeta's 
gloves. Ray is driven into a corner and finally right hooked solidly to 
the jaw, which leads to another rapid barrage during which she's hit to 
the face with at least three more solid punches, including a left upper 
that snaps her head ceilingward, but she's nowhere near going down, and 
when the round ends she's still on her feet in the corner playing 
peekaboo. 

 Well, everyone's impressed, not least of all Bovee. The champ hits 
hard, real hard, and Rayleeta's fat face seems to absorb the damn blows 
like her mug was the quicker picker upper and Bovee's fist was a 
piddling puddle of orange juice on the Formica. Well, at least the champ 
won the round. 

 So that brings up 4. Bovee tries kicking again right away, but as she 
follows a probing foot with a long right, she walks into a particularly 
bracing jab that is backed up by a wild roundhouse right that slams into 
her ear with the force of a meteor destroying Cretaceous life. She goes 
down. She's on her knees. The place is in pandemonium. She's shaking her 
head on a four count, getting carefully to her feet on six. It was just 
a crazy roundhouse. Can Rayleeta follow it up? No. She tries, but now 
Bovee is clinching, and hitting to the body effectively in the clinches 
as well as hitting to the head effectively on the breaks. Bovee's gotten 
herself under control sufficiently well to spend the last 40 seconds of 
the round pounding Ray to the body in the corner again, while the tired 
fat girl plays sweaty, bobbing peekaboo. Who wins the round? Ray for the 
knockdown? Bovee for the comeback? Hard to say. Maybe it's even. 

 In any event, Bovee is in deep shit, probably down 3-1. She comes out 
for 5 faking kicks, then slips in low on Rayleeta and pulls a weirdly 
effective piece of technique: she bobs way down and rises up with a 
right elbow that catches the oversized Ray on the chin and again has her 
looking at the lights, again with no apparent effect. But Ray isn't 
moving too well anymore, and her jab has gotten downright desultory. 
Bovee fails to land anything big after the elbow, but she's keeping the 
pressure on, driving Ray toward the corner with jabs and hooks. The 
girl's in good shape, and she's hitting hard and frequently here in 5. 
She slowly but surely drives Ray back, fighting off clinches with sharp 
hooks, and then her moment comes. It's a short right that follows a 
quick left delivered on a break. The left nailed the chin, the right was 
perfectly placed to the point of the jaw, and this time Ray goes all 
glassy, her legs wobble and her hands drop enough for Bovee to put a 
left hook to her eye, then a right again to the same spot on the jaw. 

 Ray crumbles. The whole ring shakes, she's heaped on her chest, 
breathing like a beached whale, and she manages somehow to stumble to 
her feet on eight. I expected her to survive the round, there aren't 
more than 20 seconds left, but as the ref motions them together, Bovee 
pounces and throws what seems to be a low blow, a left, but isn't. It 
catches Ray somewhere in the blubber just above her belt--I can hear her 
grunt with the blow--jerks her hands down, and leaves her open for a 
devastating right again to the back of the jaw that puts her flat over 
on her back and that's it. She's counted out neatly, never took her 
glazed peepers off the lights, and Bovee, her massive shoulders flushed 
bright pink with victory, makes big arms for the hooting crowd. An 
impressive show, for sure, and one that gives Wylie serious pause. 

 "Six months, huh?" she echoes my refrain. 

 "Yeah," I reply, "six months of hard fuckin' work!" 

 So let's jump ahead in time, shall we, and take a look at Wylie after 
four months of high-intensity training. I realize I'm skipping that 
night of Dionysian revelry, but this is a fight column, ya know? She's 
dropped a good bit of fat, tips the scales at 199; her speed has picked 
up, she looks ring savvy, her jab is snappin', she has a decent kick 
with either leg and, dammit, she's ready for a tuneup fight. 

 But who to fight? Sure ain't gonna be any monster like Rayleeta. Wylie 
is keen on a girl we saw in one of the Rayleeta tapes we viewed. Of the 
Asian persuasion, she's thick, squat and powerful, but doesn't have a 
whole lot of Tough Gal technique. Her name's Maureen Chu, and she must 
be from some mucho hardy peasant stock, 'cause they just don't make many 
Chinese chicks 5-7, 192 with titties so big you can't help peeking but 
you'll have to duck for fear they'll hit you. Her face, however, is 
plain, flat and perfect for punching; this kisser is cryin' out for a 
fisting, fer chrissake. 

 So Wylie is keen on her, and I can't argue. In the tape of the earlier 
fight, Rayleeta pounded her pretty good in the first round but failed to 
put this tough cookie down. Chu has plenty of armor: she's got a 
powerlifter's physique that's considerably more muscle than fat, with 
swollen traps and wide-flared lats and delts. But she's slow, and her 
jab is no whistler. In the second, Ray leaned her into a corner, pawed 
her with a few jabs, then just plain put her lights out with a rounded 
right to the head that could have decapitated a parking meter. It's not 
that this Chu isn't a decent defensive fighter; her head just happened 
to be bobbing up and her left just happened to be thrusting forward at 
the precise moment Ray was launching a barnburner. So Mo Chu, as she's 
known, was down halfway through 2, which is just about right for a 
tuneup gal. Could Wylie do as well? We keep teasing her. She vows to put 
Chu away in the first. And so the fight is skedded. 

 Chu, who's only 22 but has plenty of experience, comes in at 194, Wylie 
at 197. Four rounds of TG mayhem, though only one if Wylie has her way. 
Well, the crowd is kind to Wylie from the moment she lifts a big leg 
through the ropes. I'll have to admit she isn't looking too bad in her 
red two-piece. She's lost no boobage, and probably even firmed it up a 
bit; her midsection has a new sculpted firmness about it, though it's 
still rounded and paunchy, and her arms are buffed and piquantly peaky, 
the thick cords of vein-braided sinew in her neck and shoulders strung 
as tight as Strad strings. Chu, for her part, sure doesn't look like any 
pushover--I personally would have serious doubts about putting my face 
in front of her gloves--but as the fight begins Mo makes clear right 
away that her jab is not the stuff champions are made of. It's a 
tentative thing that can barely make radio contact with its intended 
target, and of course leaves half her head open every time she moves it. 

 Wylie, in the meantime whistles some beauties that instantly redden 
Chu's brow, then snaps a perfect front kick into her chest, though the 
right hand follow fails to land. And so the round goes. Wylie works good 
jabs mixed with kicks, but fails to connect with any big right hands, 
and Chu backpedals and bobs well for such an ungainly girl. 

 When Wylie comes back to her corner at the end of 1, she seems a bit 
disconcerted. "I couldn't put her down," she complains. 

 "Shit, Wylie, forget about it. You won the round, you dominated the 
round, she didn't even land a decent jab on you. Just keep at it and 
work your technique. It's a tuneup fight." 

 Wylie nods and curls her thick lips around a water bottle. I am pleased 
to note the round hasn't winded her much at all, as I marvel at the 
gentle heave of her bosomy shelf, the heavy Everlast protection that 
encases it making it all the more massively inviting, though it does of 
course obscure the spectacular nips. I manage to tear my gaze away from 
the plunging sweaty expanse of cleavage just in time to give her an 
encouraging slap on the full-blown rump as she charges out determinedly 
for 2. An instant bummer ensues. Right away she throws a good right 
roundhouse foot that somehow Chu anticipates and counters with a perfect 
left cross to the nose that whiplashes Wylie's head like a truck 
accident. Chu tries to follow her break with a flurry of left-right 
combos, and Wylie covers up and backs into a corner. 

When her gloves part she reveals a nose running red and I fear it may be 
broken. Wylie bobs in the corner, takes a couple of good body shots, 
then kicks her way out with brio, and as she forces her way past Chu to 
ring center she puts an elbow into the girl's neck that might have 
snapped a skinny chick's spine. Chu is vexed. She'd bloodied the 
blonde's nose and muscled her into a corner, started delivering good 
body shots, and all she got for it was a sore neck. 

 Wylie is incensed. I can see the blood lust in her eyes, she wants to 
kill Chu, not just put her down. She looses an errant roundhouse kick, 
follows with a right that misses and I yell for her to settle down and 
jab. Chu simplifies things by countering a wild right with an exquisite 
left uppercut that snaps Wylie's head up and fans the blood running from 
her nose in a pretty red arc that spatters her eyes and forehead. I 
think for a second she's blinded by it as Chu plants a left into her tit 
with the force of the Iwo Jima flag raising. Again, Wylie is driven into 
a corner and pounded with body blows, and this time she stays there till 
the round ends, bobbing, courageously trying to uppercut, and getting 
hit all about the tits and belly. 

 She's gonna have another set of badly bruised milk wagons if this 
continues. Clearly, she lost 2 on everyone's card, including her 
mother's if her mother was a judge. She comes back to the corner 
breathing hard and we have to plug her nose up to stop the bleeding, so 
she wheezes through her mouth. I lecture her briefly and forcefully: 
"You're trying to put her away and you're not paying attention to the 
basics that will give you such an advantage over her. Jab, jab, jab and 
wait for that right hand opening. It will come, and even if it doesn't 
you will have jabbed your way to winning the round." 

 I unplug Wylie's nose and am relieved to see it remains dry. "I don't 
want to win the round," she mutters. "I want to knock her head off." And 
she heaves herself off the stool for 3. 

 But she goes out and jabs. Good stingers, Chu's face is reddening up 
nicely like a baked ham. Wylie hurls a couple of rights into space, but 
Chu fails to counter on them. Toward the end of the round, with no more 
than 30 seconds left, actually, Chu gets tired of being a jab bag and 
throws a roundhouse right intended to send Wylie's face into the 
rafters. It glances off her ear and Wylie counters expertly with a right 
foot to the face, sort of a hard push, and follows it with a beautiful 
right to the chin that topples Chu onto her back. She rolls right over 
and scrambles to her feet, clearly enraged, comes barreling forward on 
the ref's signal and runs into another right foot--Wylie is pretty damn 
nimble of leg for her size--this one to the tits, which Wylie follows 
with a fine left cross that looks like an eyecloser. This is followed by 
a right to the side of the head, partially blocked, a body flurry, then 
Wylie grabs her and tries to send knee greetings. Chu uses her big arms 
to partially block three industrial rams, then the bell rings and the 
ref pulls Wylie off. 

 Round 3 was all Wylie's and Chu has a rapidly closing eye and a bloody 
mouth, probably from the knees. Wylie is somewhat winded by all the 
leather she threw, but her cardiovascular system is holding up fine for 
a biker chick who can't ride on canvas. 

"Well, you almost put her away," I say encouragingly. "You've got three 
minutes left to do it." 

 "I'll do it," says Wylie, her shoulders heaving under my kneading 
hands. 

 "Whatever you do," I warn, "don't lose the round. That could result in 
a close decision, or even a draw. Stranger things have happened." 

"No way will I lose the round," says Wylie, sniffing back drippy snot 
from her nose that's just the tiniest tinged with red. 

"You oughta try the knee again," I suggest. "She's a lot more tired than 
you are. Get her into a corner, work to the body and then go for the 
knee." 

 Wylie springs off her stool for the fourth and final round, and at this 
point I could taste the knockout almost as much as she could. She dances 
and jabs, but Chu, whose right eye is badly puffed, probably making it 
hard for her to dodge the jabs, is not backing off now. She comes in 
lunging behind her relatively short reach, looking to put a big right to 
the face, and Wylie closes with her in ring center. There's a vigorous 
struggle as the two of them are wrapped together in sort of a lock-horns 
position mixed with kidney punches, and I think the ref will leap in, 
but she doesn't. 

 Suddenly Chu, who is very strong, you understand, the kind of girl who 
could outpull a tractor, breaks loose enough to put a right elbow in 
Wylie's face and follow it with a blistering left to the ribs. Wylie is 
dazed and off balance as Chu follows this with a foot to the belly that 
has Wylie backing for the corner, Chu barreling in after her to unload 
combos to the body. I have a bad feeling at this point, and it's not 
indigestion. The elbow has started Wylie's nose bleeding again, and 
she's standing kind of funny, on an angle sort of, like that left might 
have cracked some ribs. Now she's taking more shots to the body, just 
barely bobbing away from potentially KO'ing uppercuts, and the middle of 
the round is approaching. If she loses this round decisively she could 
lose a decision. She must be reading my mind, 'cause she suddenly 
explodes out of the corner in another wrestle clinch, and via some 
inhuman burst of strength born of pride and desperation, she sets Chu up 
for a knee drive and starts to do a high-impact can-can with such 
ferocity the whole crowd ooohhs and aaaaahhhs with blood-lusting 
admiration. 

 Well, Chu had already demonstrated that her big arms and great strength 
were a pretty good defense against the knee, but at least half a dozen 
of them are thrown here, and while all may be partially blocked to one 
degree or another, they are doing some damage. When Wylie finally 
straightens Chu up after all those knees, the achin' Asian looks 
confused and her gloves are down. Wylie doesn't miss a beat: she hooks a 
left that lands to the cheekbone, a right that scores big to the ear, a 
wicked lobe lob. Chu backpedals and bobs but her legs are wobbly and she 
can't get her arms up high. Wylie probes with a left, sites a big right 
on a bead to Chu's eye and lets it fly. Oooofff! The crowd groans in 
unison, we all felt the power of the punch, and Chu drops on her face 
like a log. She's counted out neatly while conscious but robbed of the 
strength to push herself up off the mat with 30 seconds left in the 
round, as the bloody-nosed, crimson-chinned Wylie parades the ring, 
making big arms that rival Bovee's for sure. 

 So she got her KO, and it turned out her nose never broke, but damned 
if that left of Chu's didn't crack a rib. Wylie's second tuneup is going 
to have to be postponed. I would have had her back in the ring in two 
weeks; now she'll need a month at least, and no sparring even for the 
next two weeks. 

 Well, Wylie has rested herself for two full weeks, doing no sparring, 
bagging or heavy lifting--just light machine work, exercise bike and 
such--and she's itching for action. She's back on the heavy bag and it 
feels good, so for week four she's back in the ring sparring, though her 
opponents have instructions to lay off the body. She needs another fight 
soon, a tuneup, nothing dangerous, and who wants a piece of her action 
but Winnie Tute, the Somalian Olive Oyl. Wylie balks. How can she fight 
a 150-pound stringbean after tangling with the massive reality of Mo 
Chu? She's got a point. 

 Then we get an offer we can't refuse. Dottie Grisham, that indie 
motochick Wylie bloodied the night of her fight with Deena, has donned 
the gloves and wants a revenge match with her barroom nemesister. We 
accept it immediately. Dot has no TG experience, though rumor has it 
she's been sparring in secret for the longest time with the specific 
intention of flooring Wylie. Well, never mind. Dot is 32, 5-8, 200 (or 
so she was the last time we saw her), too slow, too fleshy, though well-
bulked, and we have no reason to believe Wylie won't kill her no matter 
how much she's been sparring. 

 The fight's in a week . . . well, Dot's already got a surprise for us 
at the weigh-in. She's 191, looks trimmer than ever, and seems kind of 
buffed, like she's been on a high-impact special lean beef 'n' bulk 
program for eight weeks. She looks healthy and nimble and altogether 
like someone who could hurt you. Wylie is a bit taken aback, but she's 
cool about it. Wylie herself has put on some weight due to the layoff. 
She's 206, but she looks good, hard and strong and I fully expect her to 
knock this motoloner on her fat ass. Frankly, Dot doesn't inspire warm 
feelings; her tits could be bigger, her face is plain and sour; her hair 
is cut badly, her makeup is tacky, her teeth aren't good, she's got a 
white trash voice and no sense of humor. Even her tattoos are third 
rate. Who the hell puts Popeye on her forearm? 

 As I watch her enter the ring I can't help thinking she would have made 
a good opponent for me. Then the bell rings. We have had no tapes of 
Dot, haven't seen her in the ring, haven't even spoken to anyone who's 
seen her in the ring. She's an unknown quantity of dubious quality. We 
just figured she'd fight pretty much like a biker chick: dirty, frantic 
and unpolished. Well, we're in for a rude surprise. Dot has fast feet. 
Who would have guessed? She does have well-shaped calves, tapered ankles 
and her thighs are big without being excessively bulky--her legs are by 
far her best body part--but whistlin' tootsies? We're dumbfounded. What 
happens is Wylie comes out jabbing effectively, and somewhere in those 
first 30 seconds Dot fires a kick with her lead left, a foot jab, that 
slams Wylie's eye like a baseball bat. The foot moves high and fast, 
it's actually a blur, and it snaps back to the mat like a lizard's 
tongue. Wylie's left eye is swelling fast. She's reluctant to jab now, 
'cause Dot can counter with a foot. Wylie tries to throw her own foot 
and Dot counters *that* with a foot to the tits. 

 Wylie's in pain, and her game plan is already frustrated. She circles, 
her jabbing has become tentative, then Dot comes off a foot fake and 
delivers a wicked rib punch, fortunately to Wylie's other side, not the 
damaged one. This is followed with a left to the jaw that misses, and 
Wylie closes for a clinch, trying to outmuscle Dot for a knee setup. But 
Dot is no weakling. She's no Chu, I don't think, but she's no Winnie 
Tute either. Wylie can't get anywhere with the knee and the ref splits 
them. More circling, and again Dot uses the foot fake to punch to the 
body, again missing with a followup left, but now she closes and tries 
to uppercut inside, then tags Wylie nicely to the chin on the break. 

 Wylie is at a loss. "Jab!" I yell. "Jab!" The round peters out. It 
could be a draw, but more likely it went to Dot. Wylie, after all, 
landed practically nothing. So Wylie asks for strategy. She's calm, not 
at all winded, but her left eye is slitted and there are several sting 
marks on her face. I say, "When she throws the leg, grab it, hold on and 
hammer her. Or go in and clinch and muscle her for the knee. And when 
you're not doing that, jab. Just watch out for the counter foot." 

Round 2. Dot looks chipper like a wood chipper, she's practically 
dancing. She darts in, throws the foot, Wylie backs off, Dot pursues and 
clinches, working to the kidneys and sides. Seems she's not afraid of 
Wylie's strength at all. Wylie starts to wrestle in the clinch, is 
trying desperately to pull Dot's head down for the knee, but Dot throws 
her own knee into Wylie's tit. There's a frantic clinch struggle, their 
legs tangle and they fall down with Dot on top. She springs off and very 
nimbly turns on Wylie, who is just getting to her feet, which is to say, 
she's got only two points on the mat but is not set for defense, she's 
still coming out of a crouch, and Dot takes advantage of this to unload 
a right front kick to Wylie's face that puts her right over on her back. 

 Oh, gawd. I'm moaning along with the crowd, which is heavily betting on 
Wylie. That was a dirty move by Dot, though the ref was remiss for not 
stepping in after they fell. Still, kicking a girl while's she semi-down 
is foot murder most foul. Wylie's rolling over on the count of five, 
shaking her head to clear it and slowly getting to her feet. She's up on 
seven and her nose is bleeding profusely just like last fight. Dot is 
bouncing on the balls of her feet, trembling with KO anticipation. The 
ref motions them together and Dot fakes a left foot, charges into Wylie, 
hurling body shots and uppercut combos, but Wylie has wisely covered up 
and takes most everything on her gloves, then lurches into a clinch. 
They wrestle in the clinch again and now it's Dot who is trying to work 
a knee to her opponent's face. She can't make it happen though, and the 
ref splits them. Wylie has regained some of her composure and is 
circling and jabbing well. 

 Dot keeps her feet down and jabs back. The round is running down. Dot 
gets hit with several good jabs as she tries to come in close to throw 
rights. She backs off and goes back to the foot, cocking it and probing 
with it, then faking and throwing a left cross that Wylie takes on a 
glove. Dot cocks the foot again, fakes the foot, then throws it for 
real, and, hot damn! Wylie is there to catch it under her arm, her right 
arm, which leaves her left free to pound Dot's face. She lands the first 
blow, a wicked smash to Dot's cheekbone that snaps her head real good, 
then Dot gets her hands up and takes two shots on the gloves as she hops 
on her one free foot. Then Wylie, taking a gamble, looses the leg and 
throws a right that perfectly threads the needle between Dot's gloves 
and connects with her nose hard enough to dent cement. Dot goes over on 
her back--she was way off balance anyway since she took the blow on one 
foot--and breathes hard, rolling over on a five count, and her nose is 
bleeding as bad as Wylie's. She's up on eight and the two are motioned 
together, both with blood running off their chins. 

 Then the bell rings. Shit, I was hoping Wylie would put her away right 
there. We plug Wylie's nose as Dot gets her own packed across the ring. 
Dot's handlers are ugly biker types I've never seen before. "See," I say 
to a panting Wylie, "the leg grab worked like a charm. She's probably 
gonna keep her feet on the floor now." 

"Then I'm gonna jab her to hamburger," says Wylie. 

"That's the spirit," I enthuse, wiping errant nose blood off her chest. 

 And so she does. Dot plays a conservative 3, trying to get in on Wylie 
with her right hand and taking so many stinging jabs both her eyes are 
puffing up. Her nose is bleeding again too, and she seems to have a cut 
lip as well. She scores with a few mediocre jabs, her rights missing or 
getting only glove, and Wylie's nose holds up fine. In the last minute 
there's a hard clinch and again Wylie goes for the knee, and this time 
the winded Dot just doesn't seem to have the strength to resist. Her 
chin is bowing, the knee is wowing, Dot's head is whiplashing and 
suddenly Dot is on her knees slumped against Wylie's legs, having taken 
three knee drives, which were apparently poorly blocked, though her 
gloves were there, and Wylie is moving back, Dot is flattening out on 
the canvas on her chest and the ref is counting her out. 

It's over. Dot is still not up and her handlers are looking her over 
with concern. Wylie is circling the ring with those big arms cocked 
again, and Gina is embracing me and kissing me on the mouth, her warm 
tongue scouring my palate, and victory has been snatched from the feet 
of defeat you might say. Wylie comes over and I slip out her mouthpiece 
as she winkingly smiles at me with her half-closed eye. 

 Gina starts to unwrap her gloves and I go over to take a look at Dot, 
who's made it to a sitting position at ring center. Dot's a mess. Her 
eyes are swollen, her brow is swollen, her nose is mashed and bloody, 
her lips are mashed and bloody, her cheek where she got the left while 
on one leg is purpled and swollen and the left side of her jaw is 
purpled and swollen, I guess from the knees. Her whole face is smeary 
and off kilter like a Francis Bacon portrait. Her handlers pull her to 
her feet and she turns to me and, through mangled lips, demands a 
rematch. Tough cookie! 

A photog for the Franklin's Fist Ranger took some excellent color 
closeups of battered old Dot somewhere around that moment and was kind 
enough to give me some prints, one of which presently resides on Wylie's 
battered old fridge. It's a chin to hairline study of what getting in 
the ring with a mean 206-pound biker dyke can do to the integrity of 
one's mug, and it's enough to put you off dessert. But on to bigger and 
better things, as we continue tracing Wylie's swelling career. She was 
not about to have a rematch with Dot, which was just supposed to be a 
tuneup, after all . . . . 

--30--