Battlefield The Fairgrounds

Battlefield – The Fairgrounds

Someone gets a beatdown

By Mongoose750

About a year ago, there was some little thing they called a “Fitness Festival” at the local fairgrounds. Apparently the genius who arranged it didn’t think it all the way through, for while there were lectures and exhibits, and demonstrations on exercise, sports, and overall fitness inside the building, they sold cotton candy, elephant ears, and other junky treats outside, like they normally do at a fair. Many of the health-minded participants, which included a wide variety of athletes (they heavily invited them, offering a discount on the tickets), were appalled, while others just shrugged and helped themselves to a treat, looking both ways as they did so.

Myself, I’m a baseball player, left field. Before you start wondering if I’m famous, let me throw in that I’m minor league, triple A. We may not make millions of dollars, and have our faces on cereal boxes, but we have our own devoted following, to who we provide fun on lazy summer evenings. Needless to say, we keep in shape, just like the pros do. Maybe more so, because we don’t pump ourselves with steroids like some of them do.

Anyway, we had a day off, and myself, along with a few of my fellow teammates decided to visit this train wreck of an exhibit, since they practically begged us to come. We were still laughing about a lecture on nutrition, while a hot dog wagon was posted outside (the man was enjoying some good business too). Not far from where the stand was, stood a young guy standing by a park bench watching a nearby fountain. Upon closer inspection, I found he was Ronny English, a friend of my younger brother. Like my brother, Ronny’s sport was basketball, and they both had dreams of becoming the next Kobe Bryant.

A moment later, a small group of women came by, and this blond woman approached Ronny. She stood about 5’5”, and her long hair brought out her blue eyes. She wore a short sleeve black blouse, a black skirt, and ribbed black hose. Her shoes, a pair of black flats, were lying beside her friends. I wondered why she glided up to Ronny in her stocking feet, but I soon found out why. Let me also mention that this woman was big; not fat, but she had large parts on her, like her arms, for example.

From what I saw, the conversation started innocently enough, until Ronny said something with an angry look on his face that was matched by a scowl clouding the blonds’ beautiful features. The exchange went back and fourth, until Ronny threw his hands up in the air, and pushed her away, or tried to, but she wouldn’t budge. Then suddenly she punched him, a right cross that knocked him off his feet, and sent him landing on the bench. He managed to get up, but he appeared to be a little wobbly. Heck, I felt that punch from where I was.

The blond woman walked over and delivered more piston-like punches, treating Ronny like a punching bag, or like those inflatable clowns you whack away at. He tried to block his face and body from her blows, but whatever he left open, she hit, hard.

“Hit her back!” I thought to myself, thinking she started it. The fight had started to draw attention, with some wondering if they needed to step in to stop it. Finally, Ronny fell to his knees, and it looked like the bout was over. Instead, the woman gave him a kick to the head with her stocking foot. Why he was knocked over and not knocked out was beyond me. Then she delivered a series of kicks and stomps to her victim.

She bent down and grabbed him by the collar. For a moment, I thought she was going to throw him in the fountain. But she threw him down the hill, rolling in the grass until he bumped against a light pole overlooking the fountain. He arose, a little disoriented, and tried to get away. But she rushed down the hill after him, grabbed his lapel, and slapped and backhanded his face several times. Finally realizing a crowd was forming around them, she released the man, letting him fall to the ground, and returned to her friends.

We were speechless, save from an occasional “wow,” and “what did he do?” All I know was some woman halfway beat Ronny to death. One of my friends snapped me out of it by touching my arm, and gestured to me as we ran to Ronny’s aid (the woman didn’t have a mark on her). Nothing was broken, and he still had his teeth, but he looked like one big bruise, aside from some grass stains on his clothes. The lapel on his shirt was a little torn, and he barely knew where he was. Not a pretty sight.

After deciding he didn’t need to be sent to the emergency room, my friend said he was going to take him home, and asked if I could drive Ronny’s car behind him. I agreed. Sad to say, in the whole festival, the fight was the most exciting thing there.

On my way out, I saw the woman (who’s name was Colette, I found out later), sitting on the bench, arms folded, legs crossed, with an angry expression still on her face. Her shoes wee still off, and probably would be forgotten if not for a friend holding them. She saw the questioning look I gave her, and as if she read my mind, said, “You want to know why?”

I must’ve nodded my head, for she motioned me over and told me. Ronny and a close friend of Colette went out for a little while, and during that time, Ronny two-timed her. Not only that, after she broke up with him, he spread some very bad false rumors about her on Facebook®, and by word of mouth. I had to admit, if he did this with my kid sister, I’d want to deck him myself. Colette wasn’t going to let Ronny get away with it, and beat him for it.

Oh, and one more thing; Colette was a bodybuilder. She said she tried to pull her punches and kicks, lest she really hurt him. Thinking of that first punch and kick she gave him, I shudder to think of the damage she could’ve done at full power. I wouldn’t want to face her.

“Hey, aren’t you a baseball player?” She asked suddenly.

“Yeah,” I said, remembering I needed to grab Ronny’s keys so I could drive his car to his home.

“You guys are doing great this year, keep it up. My friends and I have season tickets.” Well that was flattering. This Amazon was a baseball fan.

“Thank you. We’ll try not to make you angry,” I replied.

That made her smile a little. “We’ll see you on the field tomorrow,” she said.

Ronny recovered eventually, but he doesn’t show up in public much these days. As for me, whenever I’m out in the field at home games, I look at a section across from third base, where a group of muscle-bound women wave at me before the game starts.

Thinking of what happened to Ronny, I jokingly encourage the team to do their best, for there were some fans we should not upset. It wouldn’t be pretty.

If you enjoyed this story, perhaps you may want to read other stories from the Barefoot Heroines collection. There are a variety of stories to choose from. They can be found at http://www.thevalkyrie.com/stories/mongoose/index.htm.

For suggestions, comments, or story ideas, email the author at Shrewsberry@juno.com.