The Pugilisticon Part 6 By Avida Dolor The DaCostas take a lunch break Warning: This work of fiction contains frank language and explicit sex and violence. No one under 18 permitted to read without the express consent of parent or guardian. Copyright 1998 Avida Dolor (avidadolor@aol.com) Excerpt from: Lisboa Constrictors: The Inside Story of the DaCosta Rampage. By Denise Massey. A Sinfully Sinew Bench Press Book It's hot today in Moose Wagon, Maine, sticky hot, dark armpit stains and crotch chafing hot, and there's not even an air conditioned McDonald's or Burger King in this fucking one-moose town. Which is why Anna, Paulina and Nikki are sitting in Little Leslie's Lunch Bucket having cheeseburgers and chocolate malteds under all these old whirring ceiling fans that aren't doing much but moving hot air around. They're glum, they're uncomfortable, they have no appetites--too much coke, but they have to force themselves to eat, they need the protein--and there's no one interesting in here, just "little" Leslie, who's a tubby thing in her 50s, looks like a wrinkled cow, and two grizzled old rednecky truckers in the corner who are trying to pretend they haven't noticed all this awesome bare flesh sweating in the room. "Let's get the fuck outta this shitty town," says Paulina, "before I shoot myself." "The burgers are good," says Nikki. "Way better than fast food, that's for sure." "Yeah, but I can't taste anything anyway," says Anna. "My gums are all numbed out. My fucking sinuses are clogged with, like, dry ice. We gotta cool the blow and blow a jay. Mellow out." The truckers finish their coffee and leave, looking over the outrageously built threesome long and hard on their way out, but no one says anything. Too hot to talk. Besides the girls, the place is empty now but for fat Leslie and her skinny cook Rufus, an ancient wizened black man, who's back in the kitchen smoking his 25th Lucky Strike of the day, dropping ash on the sizzling stovetop. "Can I get you girls anything else?" Leslie yells from behind the counter. "How about some nice pie?" "I really doubt there's anything particularly 'nice' about your pie," says Nikki, when all heads swivel to look out the front windows. An engine sound is all it takes to get everyone's attention around here. It's a van, a big one, the kind you take to the airport or something, and what gets out of it but seven of the cutest little girl athletes you could ever want to lay eyes on. It's the Moose Wagon High gymnastics team, accompanied by head coach Lillian Bowser and assistant coach Cassie Castleman. They're coming back from a meet in Slunk Junction, where the Moosettes kicked the collective tight little butts of the Slunkettes, total humiliation, and coach Lil is taking them out for a burger and fries party as a reward. They noisily file into the Lunch Bucket, exchanging excited Hellos with Leslie and Rufus, yapping merrily about their victory, and Pauly and Anna are sitting there, mouths hanging open in shock. Seven girls, they all look about five feet tall and 100 pounds, all more or less cute as buttons, all with bulging calves and lean, flaring thighs, narrow hips and wide shoulders--power pixies with perky blue-veined biceps and sinew-wrapped forearms--all in tiny cutoffs and Moose High Gymnastics Department t-shirts over sports bras that cling to their pert little titties, peeping and pecking about like windup toys. "Anna, am I dreaming?" Paulina hisses, though she could never be overheard in the happy din the girls are making. "Can they really have such a hot gymnastics team in this hole-in-the-fucking-wall town?" "You're not dreaming, babe," says Anna, trembling with anticipation as she lights a Kool. "Seven little salsa chickies just right for crushing. It's like a gift from heaven." "Wait a minute," says Nikki. "You really gonna *do* all these girls?" The sisters just look at her, dazed with expectation. "Where?" presses Nikki. "Here? How? It's too dangerous. Load 'em all back into their van at gunpoint, I say, and drive 'em into the woods. Then you can do 'em up right." "And what about that fat fucking waitress and the skinny fucking cook?" Anna wonders, unable to think straight in the presence of all this embraceable meat. "They've gotta go to the woods too," says Nikki. "You don't wanna leave any bodies here to be found. Everybody goes. They can go in our van." The sisters don't say anything. Their lips curl slightly and their noses do funny things like on Bewitched. They're looking into each other's beautiful brown eyes, and Nikki guesses they're doing that telepathy thing again. They really seem to be on some interior wavelength. "Nikki," says Paulina, "go and get the Sony, you gonna be taping." "Where?" Nikki asks. "In here?" "Yeah. We gonna just shut this place down and work fast, you know what I'm sayin'? Lunch hour is over now and there's no one in this town anyway. We're in the fuckin' middle of nowhere right now. And bring a coupla the doobs you rolled this morning, they're in the armrest." Nikki nods grimly and heads for the Caravan, parked right outside the door, next to the Moose Wagon wagon. "Anna," says Paulina as she lights a Kool, "hit the floor and start crankin' pushups. Get your blood up, babe." Anna nods excitedly, kicks some chairs out of the way and drops to give herself 20, though she'll do more like 80. All the tittering and twittering from the gymnasts stops on a dime as they turn to look at the huge-armed latin spitfire who's doing pushups like she was at the Brooke Shields Power Bowl, her big tits bouncing on the wood floor like basketballs. Paulina takes a Browning 9mm automatic, which actually belongs to the late Marcy, out of her bag along with the coke tooter, a stainless steel bullet-shaped thing that lets you do blow with no fuss and no muss, which they found buried in a corner of the van--something that belonged to the late Latoya, which has become a sort of talisman. She toots deep into each nostril as she stands up, pointing the gun at the now silent group of girls, as Nikki comes back in with the camera, bolts the door behind her, lowers all the blinds and puts up the Closed sign. "No one moves or says a fucking thing or I kill them," Paulina announces in a malevolent near whisper. The gymnasts' eyes dart nervously between Paulina's gun and Anna's guns. She's piling on the reps, her triceps jutting like ax heads on each body rise. Nikki stands by the door, the camera in her left hand, a snub-nosed .32 Smith & Wesson revolver--her backup gun, which she used to wear in an ankle holster--in the other. The sisters have made Nikki a full partner in crime, which means she gets to carry now. Paulina suddenly leaps very athletically over the counter, rushes by "little" Leslie and races into the kitchen where Rufus, who doesn't move very fast, is trying to inconspicuously slip out the back door. He turns to her, smiles sheepishly and says, "Spozin' I be settin' down heah a spell, ya thank?" Paulina looks at him crossly, not having got a word of it. She takes a heavy iron skillet off a hook on the wall and slams him over his chef's hat with it, breaking the spindly arm he puts up in defense before Rufus' skull splits along its seams like it was a badly upholstered bar stool under a too-fat ass. He hits the floor in a small pile of jerking limbs, his puffy hat, smashed down over his brow, turning red, his head leaking like a slit wineskin. Paulina fishes the pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket, pulls a huge carving knife out of a wooden block and drives it through the middle of Rufus' emphysemic chest so it sticks in the floor under him, pinning him down like a butterfly. She pushes back through the doors to the counter. "Anna, you ever seen a homey don't smoke menthol?" She shakes her head in disgust and tosses the Lucky Strikes on the counter, then notices that the place sells smokes, so she gets her bag and fills it with all the Newports, Kools and Salems behind the cash register, which she empties of money too, all $49.38. Leslie is standing there stunned, hands on the counter, staring at the late Rufus' pack of Luckies like she was thinking about switching brands. Anna is done with her pushups now, stretching out and flexing up, her joints making threatening popping noises. She takes a roll of duct tape and a switchblade out of her bag as Paulina announces, "OK, I had to hit the cook, he was tryin' to escape, you know what I'm sayin'? But all the rest of you be fine you just cooperate. This is a robbery, we have to tie you up. Bind your hands and feet, gag you, so we can leave you when we go. No problems, no one gets hurt. Dig?" "But we don't have any money. We're a *gymnastics* team." It's Coach Bowser, standing up tall, looking all indignant, saying "gymnastics" like it's a word these Porto trash types wouldn't know in a million years. Coach Bowser is a large, fleshy woman, a strapping 6-2, and she's regretting that she hasn't got her basketball team with her, those long tall sweeties would take care of these lunatics. Her gymnastics girls are just too *small* for this kind of thing. Coach Bowser herself was a big gawky teenager, never a gymnast, of course. She would have been on the basketball team if they had a girl's team back then--Coach Bowser is almost 60 years old. She played field hockey in her youth, like all the dykes did. Paulina pauses, tosses the bullet to Anna, who toots up with uncouth piggy snorts, her chest still heaving from all the pushups, then tosses it back. "Well, you got a van we like," says Paulina. "We want the van. Obviously, we gotta tie you up to give us time to get away from here before you call the cops. So just let my sister do you up real nice and we'll get moving. OK?" Paulina is trying to be real sweet. She wants to just shoot this oversized grandma, blow her full of holes, but she doesn't want to freak out the gymnasts, who could rush the door in a group. Then Nikki would have to start wasting them, and that would really be a waste. Coach Bowser nods resignedly and buys the story. She really has no choice, they've all got guns. She calms her girls as best she can and reluctantly allows Anna to tape her hands behind her back, tape a gag on her, then lay her down and tape her ankles together. Anna does the same to assistant coach Castleman, a small girl, just like the gymnasts, but with as much muscle size as two of them put together. Cassie Castleman is an ex-gymnast herself, she was a star at the University of Minnesota ten years ago, and she's the real inspiration for the girls on the team, since Coach Bowser pays much more attention to basketball. Anna works fast, cutting with the switchblade and wrapping like a postal pro, and she does Castleman and the seven gymnasts, making them all take their shoes and socks off. When you get done, you've gotta be barefoot. They're quickly all laid out on the floor in a row like sardines ready for deboning. "What about me?" says fat Leslie, who's still standing there, hands on the counter. "Yeah, what *about* you?" says Anna, who's got this crazy look on her face now, her eyes dark and weird, it's her game face. Anna strides over to the counter, picks up one of the wooden stools that line the customer side, holds it overhead and snaps two of the legs off like it was a dollhouse accessory. "Those chairs--" Leslie is starting to say something profound about her furniture when Anna leans over the counter and swats her across the face with a leg, spinning the fat woman around, but Paulina punches her in the mouth with the gunbutt before she can bounce off the wall. Little Leslie is knocked back into the counter, bloody teeth spilling over her lips like she was spitting a mouthful of Tic-Tacs, and Anna, who's up on the counter on her knees now, drives one of the chair legs down into the big slob's head like she was sinking Excaliber into the stone. There's such force behind the move that the leg, blunt-ended as it is, shatters Leslie's skull and settles into her brain like a fence post in mud. Paulina turns to the gymnasts to see how many can follow the action from their limited vantage point across the room on the floor. The nearest one surely did, her eyes are wide with terror, and she's flopping around like a dying fish. The others aren't even facing this way, maybe they don't want to know what those squishy noises were. Leslie is still standing, leaning on the counter, her eyes dim and frozen, this curved length of wood sticking up out of her head like the wick on a bizarre human candle, wet red running in messy streaks all around her wound like hot wax. Paulina grabs her by the throat and spins her around so Leslie's back is to the kitchen doors, then she fires the 9 into her jelly belly four times, just to see if the damn gun jams. These automatics fuck up all the time, but no problem here. Leslie topples backward halfway through the doors and lies rigid with her fingers twitching, blocking off the kitchen with her bleeding bulk, her brainstuff mixing with Rufus' in a raw gumbo. "OK, Anna," says Nikki, who's crossed the room to the counter to get a good angle on the kitchen mess with her camera. "Please start on the little girls. I'm worried about the time. What if the sheriff comes by for a cup of coffee?" "The place'll be closed," says Paulina. "But why would the place be closed? And the team's van is outside, and so is ours. He'll know something's wrong and he'll check it out. You know what these towns are like, Pauly, everyone knows everyone else's business." Paulina shrugs. "So we'll shoot him. Mellow out, gimme a joint. Anna, let's go, you do the first couple, then it's my turn." The gymnasts are still lined up in a helpless row like cheap figurines at a garage sale. Anna picks the girl off the floor nearest the counter, the girl who saw everything. She's shrieking behind her gag, but she can't do a damn thing, she's like a Bondage Barbie in Anna's hands. This is Stacy Mullins, a freshman, 14 years old, a wee 4-9, 87 pounds, one of the alternates. She hasn't even had her first period yet, she's got a boobless, tight-bunned boy bod that'll never get the chance to girl- flower. Stacy's head doesn't even come up to Anna's tits as she stands at lethal attention waiting to be mishandled. Anna rips the t-shirt off her so little Stacy looks painfully vulnerable in her needless sports bra--she's rail skinny and not thickly muscled like some of the girls-- and then the big brute puts the hug on fast, clasped hands pressing into the lower back, Stacy's feet a mile off the floor, the toes curled in like they want to hide, her body crushed into the powerful curve of Anna's massive torso, and little Stacy's delicate vertebrae give way in a series like a vertical domino collapse, the cold blasts of pain climbing up her back, sounding off with sharp little bursts like popped bubble wrap till her whole spine snaps like a Number Two pencil and her pretty little pixie face is locked in a blanched death mask, eyes wide and lifeless. Anna makes a face and drops Stacy on the floor like she was a rolled up Sunday paper. The broken girl's shorts have filled with shit, and there's a stinkcloud hovering around Anna's head like a black halo. She crabs up hard, making her traps bulge up around her neck in fisty mounds. She whips off her tank top, she's topless and titswinging, pecs in an excited freejerk. "Fuck my ass, she went like styrofoam, Pauly, the girl must have a calcium efficiency." "Deficiency," says Nikki from behind the camera. "What?" asks Anna, waving her hands around to clear away Stacy's taint, her breasts punching the air, bigger than 12-ounce boxing gloves. "Dee-ficiency. The girl's not getting enough calcium. That's a dee- ficiency." "Well, she don't need none now," shrugs Anna. "Sometimes milk don't do a body good. Gimme that joint." Pauly passes Anna the doob she lit, Anna takes a deep hit and passes it on to Nikki, who's put her gun back in her shorts. "Next," says Pauly. "Do another, baby, that was sweet. I'll put this one in the kitchen, she smells." Anna slowly exhales her toke, rolling her head around languidly on the beautiful column of her thick neck, then bends over like she was deadlifting, takes another tiny gymnast off the floor and cleans and jerks her like she was a warmup weight. She presses the girl a half dozen times, then sets her up in an embrace, feet dangling. This is Stephanie Simms, a 16-year-old junior, a killer in the floor exercises, the team's best tumbler. She's not much bigger than Stacy though, at 4- 10, 92 pounds, and she looks just as friable with her t-shirt off, her skin so thin every muscle and bone stands out like a 3-D anatomy chart. Anna rips her sports bra off and admires the little budding breasts, softly pink-nipped like in a watercolor. She starts sucking on a tiny tit, the whole mini mound pulled deep into her mouth, and when she lets it pop out the pink nipple is nubby stiff like a gumdrop. Stephanie is crying, her nose is running, her skinny puppy bod is racked with sobs, and Anna tut-tuts and coos sweet nothings into her ear--"Don't cry, baby, it's OK"--then sucks the other tit to stiffness and wipes Steph's tears away with her big hands. Then she takes the girl high, legs spread, pulling in fiercely at tit level, and in less than 30 grunting seconds Steph's rib box caves in like someone took a sledge hammer to a box of eggshells, her punctured lungs deflate, her sternum snaps and her heart bursts like a blood balloon. Steph is vomiting something red and chunky that looks like giblets, she's making this horrible buzzing noise, a wet death rattle, soaking Anna's tits and belly with her sticky life sap. Anna lets the crushed corpse drop at her feet, backs away and sniffs the air cautiously. She didn't shit herself. "That was fucking totally salsa," husks Paulina, who has a cigarette in one hand and her cunt in the other, a fist plunged in her shorts rubbing the swollen nub of her clit between thumb and forefinger like it was a ball of Play-Doh. "Do one more while I warm up." Anna wipes the blood and gunk off herself with a wet rag from behind the counter, stretches out again and iso pumps her torso, hitting and holding a series of crabs and lat spreads, making her big breasts pull up and out on hydraulic pec rails, like invisible hands gripped them, then she lights a Kool and inhales deeply. She goes to the pile and hoists a gorgeous blue-eyed blonde onto her shoulder--this one is clearly bigger and stronger than the girls she's done so far. It's Brittany Bell, a dead ringer for Mariel Hemingway but with muscles right up to her ears. She's a 17-year-old senior, the team captain, the biggest girl and the best uneven bars performer. She's a womanly 5-4, 112, with an alarmingly mature bustline, despite her irregular menstrual cycle, that's grown to the point where she's become self-conscious about looking incongruously full-chested. When she sticks her dazzling dismount these days, and raises her arms high, thrusting her broad chest with typical pubescent abandon, these two big obscene *things* shoot into the air, like something you'd expect to see on an exotic dancer. She's too big for a sports bra, in her opinion; she wears a real bra, and with the width of her back it's a tight 40C. "This one's heavier, really fuckin' built." says Anna. "Oh, wait, I forgot the t-shirt." She stands Brittany up in front of her like a pole lamp and rips the t-shirt off her. Britt's got her eyes closed, her face all squinched up, she's not making a sound behind her gag. Coach Bowser is, though. She's struggled to a sitting position and she's making a racket under her tape, gesturing wildly with her head and shoulders, banging her heels on the floor. They've got Brittany, her pride and joy, and it's time to do something. Paulina does something. She leans close and shoots Coach Bowser between her sagging lady tits three times, right through the O's of her Moose Wagon High shirt. Coach Bowser falls flat on her back and stares up at the ceiling, eyes open and unblinking as the life leaks out of her, wishing Brittany was sitting on her face. Anna's wishing the same thing, staring with fascination at Britt's body. "Pauly, look at the muscles on this girl!" Paulina turns from the coach's carnage to admire Brittany's wide, defined back. She hasn't got any knobby spine or stick-out ribs showing, she's knotted with wiry muscle all over like a lean and super- conditioned fitness girl, iron stripes of delt filling out her shoulders, and her calves explode below the knee with the hard curve of bowling pins before they taper to ankles that could cut glass. "This should be a challenge, Anna, you know what I'm sayin'? This girl is strong. She ain't no Tinkerbell. Gotta weigh 110, and there's no fat there. But look at the tits on her, those are real girlie tits." Anna, who's got her nose an inch away from Brittany's ridiculously fabulous abs--all these near perfect squares of muscle arranged in neat rows like someone dropped iron blocks into a milk crate--puts her hand out impatiently for the tooter, just shaking it like she was drying her nails, and Paulina flips it to her. Paulina has to keep the tooter on her, it's a superstition the girls have. Anna toots mightily to each nostril, lets a coke shudder run through her whole body like a tiny tsunami, flips it back, then, as she turns to rip off her victim's bra, Brittany, who's bent forward at the waist, delivers a perfectly timed head butt--a neck whip, really--catching Anna square in the nose with the back of her beautiful blonde head, just above her ponytail. Anna stumbles back, her nose running red into her mouth, that familiar salty sweet taste she associates with her father, and she's just starting to say, "Why, that sly little fuck--" when Paulina raises the gun to shoot Brittany in the head. "No, Pauly!" Nikki yells. Paulina turns to look at her, the gun still pressed to the terrified girl's head. "No fuckin' way, Pauly!" Nikki says with Highway Patrol authority. "This girl is the cream of the crop here, 'cept for that older one, who must be a coach. This girl has the *bod*. Would you look at her, for Chrissake? Anna's entitled to do her *live*, you know? This is the kinda thing I gotta get on tape. It's the kinda thing you're gonna wanna replay five times in the motel tonight while you got your pussy down my throat." "Yeah, that's right, babe," says a muffled Anna, who's grabbed a wad of napkins from a table dispenser and is holding this bloody mass of paper up to her nose. "Gotta do her while she's alive and kickin'. She's bitchin' fine." "Then fuckin' do her!" Paulina shouts, "and stop letting her do *you*! Nikki's right, this is takin' way too long! We got a lot more girls here." "Awright, awright." She grips Brittany firmly by the head and tries to look into her eyes, but Britt shuts her exquisite cornflower blues tight. Anna nuzzles her lips gently on Britt's impeccable button nose and husks, "Girl, I'm gonna squeeze the shit outta you now, so I'm glad you got your last lick in. You a tough bitch. But let's get tittie to tittie first." She pulls Britt's bra down below her tits and watches with delight as the big firm mounds spill out all taut and springy, bright red erect nipples beckoning thick and juicy like plump strawberries. "Oh, my fucking God, Pauly, these tits are so beautiful, I'm gonna die." Paulina doesn't answer, she's on the floor doing pushups. Nikki stands close and gets all the action as Anna gobbles a spectacular nipple into her mouth and suckles like a baby, moaning in oral ecstasy. Britt has her head raised, she's staring at the spinning ceiling fan, trying to take herself out of her body, but no one's ever sucked her tit before and it feels so good she wants to cry. "Uh, Anna, this is really hot stuff, my pants are wet, but you better get on with it, we can't be here all day," Nikki pesters. Anna unfastens her face from Britt's tit, lets the stiff nipple bob in front of her lips, shiny strands of saliva still connecting the two girls, blood from Anna's nose smeared on Britt's chest. Then she takes a deep breath and puts the grip on Brittany, takes her off the floor and grunts and groans for almost a minute, pulling like it was an Olympic tug o' war, getting nowhere with the girl. Britt has her back arched away as far as it will go, and that's pretty damn far--these gymnasts are limber like contortionists. Anna can't crush the arch out of her back no matter how hard she squeezes or where. She tries low, high and mid grips and can't break a thing on Britt, whose muscles are tensed all over in steely definition, nor does the gymnast make a sound at any time during this ordeal. Anna finally puts her down, panting, and steps back. "No go, Pauly. She's got too much muscle and too much muscle control. She's harder than Marcy, it's like squeezing a fucking anchor." Anna turns for a fresh load of napkins, all the exertion has made her nose bleed freely again; Paulina, panting from her pushups, goes to take a can of Pepsi out of the refrigerated case in the corner; Nikki has taken the camera from her eye to use the tooter. At that moment, Brittany bounds kangaroo-like with her taped ankles to a table near the front of the Lunch Bucket and jumps up on it in a stunningly graceful hop. All the girls turn to look at her and Nikki reflexively watches through the viewfinder. Brittany stands on her toes for a second, making her tenpin calves swell gorgeously, tightens her legs so her thighs ripple big with sinew, and launches herself into the air like some sort of rocket-propelled bullfrog, diving right through the blinds, smashing through the flimsy screen, shattering the open louvers of the window and landing in the dirt outside, more or less unscathed. The girls are flabbergasted for a second, motionless; fit Britt has already bounded to her feet and is hopping through the parking lot heading for the road. Nikki scampers to the smashed window to continue shooting, while Anna and Paulina, cursing petulantly, bolt for the door. They tear outside, grab up the frantically pogoing girl, hustle her in like they were carrying a roll of carpet and toss her back in the victim pile. No cars have passed, the town is dead as ever. They rearrange the blinds and prepare to get back to work. "Unbelievable," says Anna. "That girl is triple salsa. Let's take her with us." "What?" Paulina croaks, her throat numb with coke drip. "Let's take her with us, Pauly. This blanca is totally awesome. She deserves to live. Let's take her with us, get someone else somewhere and make them fight. We can keep her cuffed in the van, there's plenty of room." "I personally think it's a great idea," Nikki says. "This girl looks like some porn star from Personal Breast." The sisters stare at her blankly. "You know Personal Best? Mariel Hemingway? Best lesbian athlete movie ever made?" "Who, what?" groans Paulina. "Fuck you talkin' about, Nikki?" "Shit. Never mind, she's absolutely gorgeous. Let's take her and one of the others. Like the coach, she looks pretty strong and she's pretty cute, too. Imagine the two of them squaring off? It'll soak your clam like a sex marinade." "Fuckin' A, Pauly, Nikki's right," says Anna. "This one against the coach would be the bomb. Great fuckin' fight. I go with this one." "You ain't seen the coach yet," says Paulina, caught up in the fight fever. "You ain't seen her outta her t-shirt." "So let's see it," Anna says, and lifts Cassie Castleman up to vertical and rips her t-shirt off. All the girls gawk. She's wearing this really brief CK sports bra, it's more like a bikini top. Pert thrusting boobs, plenty of striated pec, abs granite-chiseled like a Ms. Athena bas relief, arms muscle-flared above the elbow front and back, blue veins in a pulsing whirl right down to her wrists. "Flex those fuckin' arms," Anna orders, and Cassie obeys, hitting the only pose she can with her hands taped behind her: a triceps buster that punches up thick forked slabs of muscle and swells the brachial arteries on the bulging ridges of her tensely extended biceps so they hum like fat bowstrings. "Shit, she almost as big as you, Nikki." "Not quite," says Nikki, who's eating up Cassie with her lens. "But she's real nice. Bigger than Mariel. This one's gotta lift, you don't get arms like that from gymnastics." "We'll never get these two to fight," says Paulina. "They're friends. For all we know, they're lovers. If I was this one, I'd wanna make the other one." "And vice the versa," says Anna. "And that fuckin' dead coach musta got her old cunt wet just thinkin' about 'em." That's when they hear a car pull up outside. Anna takes a careful peek through the blinds. "It's the fuckin' sheriff, just like you fuckin' said, Nikki. He's gonna come in." "I'll handle this," says Nikki, handing the Sony to Paulina. "One cop to another." "Leslie, you in there? What's goin' on, you got broken glass out here. What the hell happened? I see the girls are back." It's Moose Wagon's finest, James "Jimbo" Barnes--a big, pot-bellied peace officer, the standard small-town cliche right down to the Camel filter attached to the corner of his mouth and the pint of Jim Beam in his glove compartment. He pounds on the door, and Nikki, .32 in hand, opens it suddenly and quickly empties the gun into Jimbo's whiskey-hot gut. He belches, sits down heavily in the dirt, looking dazed and not a little put out, smoke rising out of his mouth from his last pull on the dangling butt, which falls from his lip, bounces off his seeping mountain of belly and lands in the dirt below his crotch, which is soaking wet now, since, to his extreme embarrassment, he just pissed himself. He opens his mouth to say something, but Nikki grabs him by the neck, and, her starkly muscled arms bulging deliciously, starts to drag the 240-pound lug inside. "Anyone else in the car?" Paulina asks, crouching with the Sony in the doorway. "No," says Anna from the window, "he's alone." "I shot the sheriff, but I didn't shoot no deputy," says Nikki, letting her kill settle like a gunnysack of shit in the middle of the floor. "What?" The girls look at her blankly. "You're kidding. You don't know Bob Marley either?" "Who? You know this guy?" Anna wonders, pointing to Jimbo's big dying bulk, which is lying face down in a widening pool of blood. Nikki snorts derisively. "What do you girls do in White Pines when you're not crushing and burying people? Never mind, forget it. We've gotta hit the road *now*. I suggest we take these two cutie pies with us, cuff 'em and tape 'em together just like you did with me and Marcy, then we torch this whole place. Agreed?" "Yeah, but first I gotta squeeze some of these chicks," says Paulina, who's feeling thick and mighty after all those pushups. "Pauly, you outta your mind?" Nikki whines. "We got a cop car out front now, how do we know he didn't call in? We gotta *move*. Shoot 'em all in the head or break their necks or something. I'm getting something flammable from the kitchen." So the four other members of the Moose Wagon High girl's gymnastics team don't have the privilege of getting their chests mashed to bone- splintered pulp; instead their strong young necks are unceremoniously wrung like they were scrawny chickens. When Anna, Paulina and Nikki pull away from Little Leslie's Lunch Bucket with their girl plunder this sultry afternoon, they leave a blazing mess behind them that, days later, when all the broken bones have been sorted out from among the sodden ashes, will be known as the Moose Wagon Massacre. --30--