A Change of Rules

A Change of Rules

A law is spreading; banning sumo wrestlers from fight clubs

As women’s sumo wrestling in the United States became more established, more rules and regulations were created. One of them was the ban on unsanctioned bouts outside the stables and tournaments. It was not a universal rule among the stables, but it was spreading.

The rule was primarily targeting the Female Fight Clubs that were scattered throughout the country. During the off-season, or a spare weekend, it was becoming commonplace for some sumotori to travel to these places, and test their skill against other women. This appalled the stable owners and coaches when they caught wind of it, and started delivering bans against participating in such clubs with consequences ranging from fines to expulsion from the stable. For those who reached professional status, the penalties were even higher.

The Female Fight Clubs at first saw no problem with sumo wrestlers fighting it out with the other women. All styles, except aikido were accepted. That was until a monopoly was starting to form. For the Female Fight Clubs, even those who were “free clubs” (no fees of any sort, everyone gathered to fight), when there were monopolies, that kept away other fighters. Less fighters, less audience. Less audience, less income. Those who saw where the downward spiral would lead, they agreed with the nearby stables. But not all of them.

Jacob and Kaitlyn Gamble was a married couple who ran a local accounting firm. They also were owners of the Old Schoolhouse, a Female Fight Club that took place in an abandoned school building.

[This particular club was first mentioned in the story Schoolhouse Rock, which is in the usual place, my bookshelf – Mongoose.]

The club brought in a nice extra income. It was nice, discrete, and off the books. Actually, the club had its very own books. Those who knew about it, audience and fighters alike, kept the club’s existence down to a low rumor. Very few people even knew of the connection or ownership of the club.

So they were rather surprised when they were asked to attend a meeting regarding “the club” at a private room at the local library. When they arrived, they met a 5’5” woman of Asian descent sitting at one end of the table. She was dressed professionally in a black business suit consisting of skirt and jacket, a white blouse with matching pearls, black hose, and black flats.

“Mr. and Mrs. Gamble, so nice to see you. Please, have a seat,” the woman said.

Both did so, a little hesitantly, keeping a watchful eye on their host.

“I’m sure you know who I am, but to be cordial, I’m Robin Chung, leader of the Crimson Dragons stable,” she continued, “and I asked you here to talk about your fighting club.”

Kaitlyn was about to claim denial, but Jacob bypassed all that, asking, “How do you know about us?”

“Mr. Gamble, my sources are rather accurate. Don’t worry, I will not reveal that fact to anyone. I attend your club myself from time to time, so I have no plans of malice toward an event that I enjoy.”

Kaitlyn had a sudden case of recollection. “Yes, I remember you now. You’re known by many names, the most popular one is . . .” she began.

“Mother,” Robin finished for her. “I’m also known as the Sumo Nazi, your highness or majesty, Bobby Knight’s love child, and a few that I won’t utter in polite company. For now, just call me Robin.”

“I’m Jacob, and she’s Kaitlyn, or Kate,” Jacob said. “I’m going to guess you’re here about sumo participation in our club.”

“Very good.”

“You are aware that any woman is welcome to participate in our club,” Kaitlyn reminded her.

“Unless they practice aikido. Why is that?”

The couple looked at each other and shrugged.

“I don’t know; it was in the bylaws when we bought the club,” Jacob said.

“So you’re here to keep us from inviting your sumo wrestlers from fighting?” Kaitlyn asked.

“Not just my wrestlers, but others as well. Let me tell you about a few of them. One is a lightweight who until recently terrorized the Ice Box, one of your fellow clubs. I think she’s been here once or twice. I think one of her favorite lines is, ‘I only offer mercy but once,’” Robin said.

“Yes, I remember her. She put a few of our regulars out of commission for a while,” Kaitlyn replied. “She’s quick and brutal.”

[And you can find the story relating to that in The Ice Box, same place – Mongoose.]

“She wore out her welcome at the Ice Box, so she’s ‘on tour’ as it were. Her stable is beginning to ban club fighting, so I think she’s getting all the matches she can. Another woman from her stable, a heavyweight, has also been causing havoc. Her bearhug alone has sent many to seek medical attention.

“A third example comes from my own stable just a few weeks ago. A heavyweight by the name of Hilda took on one of your house favorites. She threw her down, and performed what I would call the ‘Brock Lesner style of fighting,’ which is to pin your opponent to the floor with your body spread-eagle, and pound them.”

“Oh, you mean ‘ground and pound,’” Jacob interjected.

“No, I mean literally lay on your opponent with a minor hold, and punch them until they submit or are knocked out. Hilda had only a partial headlock on the poor woman. It was painful to watch.”

“I remember that fight. I thought that woman was heading to the hospital with a broken face. I almost sent someone to break it up,” Kaitlyn replied.

“Okay, I know about that, but I don’t see the big deal. Come to think about it, your women, that is, the sumo, are winning,” Jacob said.

Robin leaned back in her seat. “I thought about the best way to explain my point. I came up with this example. You two are familiar with car racing, correct?”

“I am, but Jacob is the big fan; he watches Indy and Daytona both,” Kaitlyn said.

“Brickyard too,” Jacob added.

“Then you are aware of the training that the drivers go through, and how much money goes into their vehicles,” Robin said.

“Right, thousands of dollars goes into those cars alone,” Jacob replied.

“So would you take your race car street rodding, using it to race against young punks in races down empty roads in the middle of nowhere, or through the streets of downtown cities at night?”

“You kidding? That would be dangerous, not to mention a good way to get arrested, and banned from racing,” Jacob answered, as he started to see the point Robin was getting at.

“A lot of training goes into the creation of a sumo wrestler,” Robin continued, “Only the very ignorant believe they just eat and get fat, which is totally false. Even with traditional sumo in Japan, they build muscle along with bulk. Shin-sumo with three weight classes has no need for it, but the bodies become more solid, from lightweight to heavyweight. The point is, Jacob and Kaitlyn, that each wrestler is an ‘investment’ if you will, a potential professional in the making, an asset to the stable. With all due respect, most of the women who participate in your club are nothing more than glorified catfighters, undisciplined and unskilled. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“I will say with more women with marital arts training participating, your club will evolve into something more. But you have seen this already, I’m sure.”

The couple nodded their heads.

“I understand your point,” Jacob agreed.

“I do not,” Kaitlyn disagreed, “but Jacob and I will discuss it further. Perhaps if we had race cars, that would settle it, but even Michael Jordan probably played a few pick-up games off-season.”

“There have also been pick-up games where players have been injured as well. But I say this not just for my benefit, but yours as well. You don’t want or need sumo wrestlers to be ruling the roost at your club,” Robin said.

The couple whispered a few things to each other, than turned to Robin.

“Okay, we will talk about it, then give you our answer in about two weeks here, at the same time,” Kaitlyn said.

“Agreed,” Robin replied. “I will tell you now, if I see one of my wrestlers participating, do not be surprised if you see me dragging them out by their ears.”

Jacob laughed. “Seriously? Now I know why you’re called ‘mother.’”

“Yes, I sometimes treat the wrestlers in my stable like my own children; and sometimes they act that way.” Robin gave a small grin.

“A rather . . . extreme view of treating your athletes, isn’t it?” Kaitlyn remarked.

“You be the judge. Some time ago, two of my heavyweight wrestlers started fighting over a man in one of our facilities. They almost destroyed the whole place. And while this was going on, the man in question was watching it all, smiling.”

Jacob just grinned and shook his head. “What did you do?” Kaitlyn asked.

“I took the damages out of their salary, and I invited the man over for a ‘special talk.’”

“How ‘special’ was it?” Jacob asked.

“I challenged the punk to a little sumo match later that evening.”

Kaitlyn saw what was coming, and asked, “How bad did you hurt him?”

Robin smiled. “Just enough to keep him out of the hospital. Needless to say, neither woman will have anything to do with him.”

“Have to say he had it coming,” Jacob said.

“I treat my ladies like adults. But during those times when they don’t, I intervine. Call it what you will, but I don’t want them distracted, especially by two-timing losers,” Robin stated.

“I see,” Kaitlyn replied, struggling to stay formal while hiding a grin.

“Come, Kaitlyn, what would you do if you were in my place?”

Kaitlyn finally smiled. “Point taken. We’ll meet in a couple of weeks; we need to get back to the office.”

After they said their goodbyes, the couple got to their car.

“What are you smiling about?” Kaitlyn asked her husband.

“The ‘Brock Lesner School of Wrestling,’ that’s a good one,” Jacob said.

“That may sound funny, but I thought that woman was going to get killed.”

“Then why are you so hesitant about banning sumo wrestlers from our club?”

“We had a few, but aside from Hilda, we haven’t had much trouble from them.”

“Well Robin is right, they are trained athletes, while we have ‘glorified catfighters,’ with a few exceptions.”

“She’s also right in that is changing. More trained fighters are taking place in the clubs.”

“Well here’s something we’ll need to consider that Robin might have forgot to tell us,” Jacob said as he pulled up at a stoplight.

“What’s that?”

“The sumo stables are already forming associations. Rules will be made as a result. Eventually, the matter might be taken out of our hands anyway.”

Kaitlyn ran her hands through her hair. “Robin appears to be a good patron; I guess we may want to honor her request. I don’t know; all I know is I’m hungry. Let’s get some Chinese food.”

In the end, the matter would not be decided by just a mere decision.

The Crimson Court was an old civic center that contained a basketball court with a hard rubber floor. That floor was a bright red in the beginning, but through constant use, the color had faded to a dull color. There were certain days during the week where the center would be used, except for Thursday. On Thursday, the center was “closed.” It would be late at night that the so-called closed facility would open into a Female Fighting Club.

The Female Fight Clubs were open to participation from only women. Despite the bylaws, the Crimson Court in this respect was different. Every now and then, mixed bouts would take place. On some nights, these events would pack the house. Fortunately, these matches attracted only those skilled enough to know what they were doing. One-sided beat downs weren’t too exciting.

On this night, Ray McDougal was in his element. A tae kwon do practitioner, he had served as the self-proclaimed “king of the court,” defeating women and men alike. He stood 5’9”, with short sandy brown hair, and was well built. He was bare-chested, wearing only a pair of white warm-up pants. He had his arms outstretched, beckoning to the crowd.

“Is there anyone willing to face me?” He bellowed, receiving a response of both cheers and boos alike.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ray saw a pair of blue socks walk onto the court. He turned around and saw that those blue-socked feet belonged to a 5’6” woman of Asian descent, wearing a blue plaid skirt, and a short sleeve white blouse with a short blue tie. Her medium-length hair was tied back in a loose bun with a blue ribbon. She looked like she came from class at a Catholic school. The woman herself had a smirk on her face.

“School’s out, little girl!” Ray yelled, laughing at his little joke. The woman said nothing.

Finally, the buzzer sounded, and Ray ran toward his prey. “School’s out for you!” He vowed. The woman just stood there, wearing the same smirk on her face.

Suddenly, Ray backpedaled and fell to one knee, hands on his chest. Just before Ray was about to make contact, the woman delivered a quick palm heel blow. She held her form as Ray gasped for breath, subconsciously checking to see if his sternum was broken. The woman strolled over to Ray, who decided to counter with a right crescent kick. It was poorly executed however, given his pain and lack of breath. The woman caught his leg, and threw him down on his back, knocking the breath out of him.

On the floor, Ray already felt like he’d been struck in the chest with a hammer, had a stinging in his back, and short of breath from the throw. Now things were made even worse as the woman placed her left foot slowly across his throat. Ray could feel the softness of the sock in contrast with the hardness of the foot increasing pressure and cutting off his air. He struggled to get free, which was made more difficult, because the woman still had his right leg tucked in her armpit. He tried to move her leg, but it was like moving iron. Finally, just before he could turn blue, the woman let go of his leg and removed her foot.

Wheezing, Ray slowly climbed to his feet. He raised his hands to a defensive position to fend off the next attack. As soon as his eyes settled on the woman’s smirk, she struck again. Dodging a right cross, she charged in, grabbed him around the waist, and threw him to the floor, a little harder than before. Ray’s body shook from the impact. Despite the pain, he struggled to roll to his feet, but the woman dropped her knee onto his throat. While he struggled to get free, she peppered his forehead with rock hard palm blows. When his movements ceased, she got up.

Nonchalant, she strolled off the court, despite the cheers and whistles from people who waited for someone to take Roy down. It was almost an afterthought for a ragtag medical crew to check on the loser. Later, after she counted her money, and pulled a few dead leaves off her socks that she accumulated from the walk to her car, she sat back and grinned to herself. She observed her prey over the last few visits. Ray was so arrogant and so predictable, and a little too easy to break. Oh well, he had it coming.

People asked her if she ever fought at the Old Schoolhouse. No doubt her outfit raised that question. She had heard of it, and visited, but she never fought there. She also knew there were a few good fighters there, like Sun, a college student originally from China. The woman saw Sun squeeze one opponent like toothpaste in her visit to the court. It would’ve been cool to see Sun crush Ray. Maybe someone could send a note her way.

The more she thought about it, the more going to the Old Schoolhouse sounded like a great idea. It was the off-season anyway, so why not?

A couple of nights later, Reagan Camden brushed her long blond hair back as she prepared herself at the Old Schoolhouse in the dressing room. It actually was an old restroom adapted for the club’s purposes. She found herself excited, nervous, and a little aroused about competing that night.

Reagan was a catfighter, and despite Robin’s prediction that catfighting was becoming a thing of the past at the Female Fighting Club, Reagan would adamantly disagree. In fact, she practically considered it a martial art of its own. Whatever type of catfighting there was, Reagan had done it at least twice, winning more matches than she had lost. She had also won a variety of prizes, not all of them monetary. In fact, she won her current boyfriend at a catfight. She had also won a few slaves on occasion.

Reagan stood 5’6” with a slim, yet powerful frame. She worked out some, but her best weapon was the pent-up fury she unleashed to savagely attack her foe. This schoolhouse would be a change from the apartments, homes, backyards, private clubs, and the occasional bar where she normally fought. For one thing, this place had rules. No biting, scratching, or blows to the breasts or crotch were allowed. For another thing, after the victor won, that was it. No humiliation or the . . . other stuff. That was okay. She could still punch, slap, and kick.

She made a final adjustment to her fighting outfit: a blood red camisole, black bikini bottoms, and black fishnet hose. There was a knock on the door, telling her it was time. She opened the door and walked out, noticing the wide-eyed stare of the man who came to get her. Oh yeah, she still had it.

She openly welcomed the wolf whistles and other remarks as she entered the arena. She also heard remarks that she at least wore a little more than Sun does. Reagan didn’t know who this Sun was, but suddenly she was very curious as to what she wore to these fights. She had fought a few times wearing less than this. She settled on this outfit because it was functional, and alluring at the same time. She waved her hands up in the air to gain more responses.

The woman appeared in the midst of Reagan’s fanfare. She wore the same outfit she wore at the Crimson Court, mainly because it was suitable for the theme of this fight club. Though she didn’t show it on her face, she looked at Reagan with scorn. She came here to face some of the most skilled fighters this place had to offer, and she ends up facing a catfighter parading around in her underwear. What was she doing here? Wasn’t there a catfight club somewhere in town?

Reagan promptly turned around to face the woman, and gave a cocky pose, hands on hips, and trash-talked her, calling her names, and concluded with the statement that she’s too hot for her.

Wait until we begin, the woman thought, and I’ll show you about being “too hot.”

In a room that overlooked the arena, Jacob and Kaitlyn sat watching the whole thing. Jacob was slowly shaking his head, while Kaitlyn snorted in disgust.

“Disgusting,” she said. “Jacob, how would you like it if I came out there dressed like that?”

“Later,” Jacob offered.

Thinking he didn’t catch the point, she continued, “No, I think it’s, it’s . . .”

“What, that it’s unprofessional, with this girl dressed more for the bedroom than for the arena? Yeah, I’m with you. I’m just wondering, don’t they have a club for catfighting somewhere in town?”

“Yes. Apparently someone wants to cross over.”

“Well it could be worse. She could be facing off against a sumo wrestler.”

“Heh, true.”

The couple watched as introductions were made. After a few moments, Jacob spoke.

“So Kaitlyn,” Jacob said.

“Yes?” Kaitlyn asked.

“Could you wear that outfit tonight?”

Kaitlyn gave a small grin. “We’ll see,” she replied.

As Reagan was playing to the crowd, the woman was looking at the floor, finding she enjoyed the feel of crushed chalk underneath her socked feet. She was curious if she would leave a trail of white footprints to her car once this was over. It was something to keep her mind off the appalling display before her. Finally a referee – dressed like a high school football referee, complete with a striped shirt, yellow flags, and a whistle – appeared and gave both of them the rundown on the rules. The referee backed away, and the introduction of the two fighters were given over an intercom. The woman remembered this club held strongly to the literal old school motif.

That was solidly confirmed when a loud school bell (the type with bell and clapper) rang. It’s been said that some fighters were startled out of their skulls from the sound of it. The woman ignored this as she focused on her opponent.

Reagan was unfazed as well as she launched into her attack. She charged the woman, hands shaped into claws going for her hair, while uttering a high-pitched war cry.

Charging and sounding like Xena might startle lesser foes, but not me, the woman thought as she grabbed both wrists and jerked down, sending Reagan to the ground. Besides, if she touched her hair, she’d had to kill her.

Reagan used the momentum of the throw to roll to her feet. It was a little trick a veteran catfighter taught her a few years ago. It save one from receiving the full brunt of the fall, plus a counterattack could be launched quickly. Reagan sprung to her feet and delivered a right slap across the woman’s face. It stung, but it didn’t keep the woman from blocking another attempted grab to her hair. From frustration, Reagan gave a left kick to the woman’s right leg with her stocking foot, and circled her foe warily.

For one who dresses like a stripper, she moves pretty fast, the woman thought. But she was still fighting like a high schooler, not a real fighter. This was made evident when she threw Reagan to the ground again. Why does she want my hair?

I need to think of something else other than going for her hair, Reagan thought as she again rolled to her feet, and gave a kick that the woman blocked with her arm. One time, she faced off against a woman who shaved her head bald. She just had to grab . . . other things to get her into position before submitting her. Giving another war cry, more like a banshee and less like Xena, she shot forward, claws extended for the woman’s hair. As the woman displayed the expected defense, Reagan suddenly went lower, one hand grabbing the blouse, while the other grabbed the skirt. She gave both a mighty tug. Two rips could be heard echoing through the arena.

When the rules for the Female Fight Club were first formed, there were none covering clothes ripping. It was never an issue. That wasn’t done. The clubs were formed to display female combat in almost all of its serious forms, except one. No one expected a catfighter to mix it up with karate, judo, kung fu, or MMA practitioners. By that same token, no catfighter expected a martial artist to crash their party.

Everything seemed to stop for a moment. The audience was stunned by the gesture. Reagan was frozen for a moment, not by what she done at least a thousand times, before, but by what she uncovered. The woman wore a blue sports bra, which in itself was not unusual. What she wore under her skirt was a thin blue cloth mawashi.

The belt that sumo wrestlers wore.

Reagan realized with horror that she was facing a sumo wrestler.

The little disguise the woman wore hid a few things. Both her legs and arms were large, and her build was not skinny by any means, nor fat. Her bare belly was a solid core. A six-pack wasn’t displayed, but it didn’t have to be.

The woman took advantage of the sudden confusion to pull off the rest of her shirt, and step out of her torn skirt, kicking both to the side. Her expression was still stoic, but from the deliberations of her movements and the intensity of her gaze on Reagan, one could guess a promise of pain was in the air.

Reagan rushed in to deliver a headlock, but until now, the sumo woman never displayed her speed. She grabbed Reagan’s wrist with the speed of a snapping turtle snatching its prey, and jerked her close. Reagan yelped. The woman gave her a big slap with one hand, followed by a backhand slap by the same hand.

Reagan stumbled to the floor, feeling like she was hit by a truck. She delivered a kick to the leg that still had little effect (at least now she knew why), but it was more for giving her time to get away. The one thing she needed to keep in mind was not to let the sumo get a hold of her. Even with her limited knowledge of them, she knew that they were strong. One had to be to throw another person out of a ring. She rolled to her feet.

But again, Reagan forgot about her speed as the sumo woman came upon her as she got up, grabbed an arm and leg, and threw her down, hard. Reagan moaned from the impact, but she got up and threw an upper cut to the chest, followed by a left cross to the chin. The chest blow had no effect, but it looked like the left cross stunned her some.

However, Reagan’s hopes were dashed when the sumo woman thrust a knife hand blow into her solar plexus. Reagan crumbled to the floor, but the sumo woman caught her by the armpits and jerked her up. The sumo woman then clamped two hands on both sides of her head, while two thumbs pressed up on the underside of her jaw. Reagan started squealing in pain with her mouth clamped closed, her hands trying to grab something, anything to relieve the pain. Next, the sumo woman lifted her up, using her jaw. Reagan was now standing on tiptoe, squealing helplessly with a closed mouth. Saliva was beginning to seep out of her mouth, and run down her chin. The grip the sumo had, along with gravity, were creating a situation that very few opponents had her in, none of them with a hold like this.

Feeling like her head was coming off, and no clue how to escape, plus she couldn’t say anything, she took one hand and tapped it frantically against the sumo woman’s forearm.

The referee, who was almost feeling Reagan’s pain, saw the sign of surrender, and blew the whistle loudly. The sumo woman gave a shrug, dropped Reagan, and walked off the field of battle, collecting her clothes on the way out.

Bet she’ll think twice before ripping someone’s clothes off next time, she thought.

“Is she moving?” Jacob asked.

“Yeah; the medics are seeing to her now,” Kaitlyn replied.

“Good.” Jacob pulled out his cell phone and started dialing.

“Who’re you calling?”

“Our resident sumo expert. I’m betting she’s in the audience. Yeah, who was that woman? Is she from your stable?” Jacob hit the speaker function on the phone.

“No, she’s one of the independents,” Robin’s voice said from the phone. “She’s plowed through her opponents at fight clubs and sumo rings alike. She can be rather brutal in fight clubs as you may have noticed. Granted, the catfighter didn’t belong there, but still . . .”

“Uh, we have thought about your proposal, and we are in agreement,” Kaitlyn began, “and starting now, sumo wrestlers are not allowed at our fight club.”

“Thank you. I need to go, but I’ll see you at the next sumo tournament, okay?”

“Count on it,” Jacob replied as he ended the call.

“So how are we going to do this?” Kaitlyn asked.

“The old-fashioned way; word of mouth, and we’ll put up a sign.”

“What about catfighters?”

“What about them? After tonight, Reagan will go back to her little stripper pole, or wherever she came from. That’ll take care of itself.”

Reagan lay on one of the cots of the Old Schoolhouse, which, ironically enough was in the school’s nurses’ office. Aside from the bottom of her jaw being a little sore, everything else felt fine.

Giving it a little thought, perhaps the Female Fight Clubs were not for her. Not now, unless she took up judo or something. That woman was a beast! Ripping her clothes made her a little mad. She shuddered to think what would happen if she was really angry.

The one bright spot out of all this was she had a new hold to give her next opponent. She may need to do some work on her arms, but if she could get it down, it could be potent.

Suddenly a shadow fell over Reagan. She turned her head to see who it was. What she saw was a Hispanic woman the same height she was with light brown skin and short black hair. Her build bordered on stocky with well-sculpted muscles. She wore a faded blue denim jacket, a white tank top, faded blue jeans, and barefoot.

“Olivia, what are you doing here? We agreed that I could still do catfights,” Reagan said.

“That you did,” Olivia replied with a Mexican accent, “and I can attend these catfights if I so desire.”

Olivia “won” Reagan in a recent catfight a week and a half ago at a catfight club. The match stipulated that the winner would have the loser for twenty-five days. Reagan thought of all the household chores she could have done for her. Unfortunately, she was no match for Olivia’s wrestling skills, which earned her victories in Mexico, and eventually the states. Reagan was further surprised when she found out Olivia wanted more than someone to do mere housework. But it was something she dealt with before.

The saving grace in all this was it was only twenty-five days, and Reagan had a boyfriend that put a damper on Olivia’s romantic ideas. Reagan managed to throw the catfighting clause in at the last minute just in case the match went south.

“What were you thinking, chicka, to participate here with marital artists, MMA women, and especially sumo wrestlers? You could’ve gotten hurt,” Olivia said.

“I didn’t know she was a sumo wrestler! She wore this school outfit over everything,” Reagan argued.

“I knew she was a sumo wrestler from the way she was built, and the way she moved. You have to fight women like that. That slapping and pulling hair just gets them mad.”

“So I’ve noticed. So why are you here?”

“I watch the fights. When I saw my bebé was getting trounced, I came to check on you.”

Yeah, I’ll be you “bebé” for just a few more days, woman, Reagan thought. Out loud, she said, “I’m fine, Olivia; I’m going to drop by my boyfriend’s place on the way home.”

“About that. I challenged your boyfriend to a match two days from now.”

Reagan shot up to a sitting position. “You did what? Why? What’s the prize?” She demanded.

“The ‘prize’ is you, bebé,” Olivia replied, smiling.

Cold dread crept down Reagan’s spine. Her boyfriend was sweet, but he’s not a fighter. Olivia will kill him. Her arms alone were like steel cables, and her legs were stronger than that. And she’s been wrestling since she was a little brown girl in Mexico. She had the awards from middle school to prove it.

“Why?” Reagan asked.

“Senorita, you have not understood my intentions,” Olivia began. “Since I came to the Catfight Club, I watched you, I desired you, and I was going to have you. I knew twenty-five days weren’t long enough, but it was a start. But I find your boyfriend is in my way. So I challenged him. I made it clear that it was a more . . . proper way of obtaining you short of . . . being forceful. I told him when there’s something or someone I really want, nothing can stand in my way.”

“Please Olivia, there must be some other way,” Reagan begged.

“There is, two in fact. If he wins, he keeps you. If. When I win, I can obtain both of you.”

“But you’re not attracted to him . . . are you?”

“I can be, but I want you. By winning both of you, he will have access to you, but I take top priority. For him, that would be his best choice.”

“Olivia, you can’t do this. You have no right!”

“By the catfighting code we both abide by, I have that right. Remember, you won your boyfriend by that code, I won you by that code, and in a few days time, I’ll have you both.”

In her mind, Reagan was starting to curse that blasted code. The best catfighters, or at least those who made it a part of their lifestyle, swore to abide by a list of rights and privileges. Not all swore to it, but in order to get the best matches, and the best benefits, like money, esteem, or even companions, it was necessary. Reagan reaped the benefits. Now, Reagan felt trapped. She could fight Olivia for her freedom, but even if she won, which was not likely, Olivia could get her through her boyfriend.

“I see,” Reagan said, feeling exhausted.

“Yes. For now, come with me. I will tend to your wounds, and go over what you did wrong with the sumo wrestler. You have work in the morning, so I won’t keep you too long . . . tonight.”

Olivia took her strong arms and gently led Reagan off the cot, to the dressing room, and eventually to their cars. But for Reagan, that gentle caress might as well be a noose around her neck.

Robin stood in the hallway of the nice apartment complex. No one had been able to track down this mysterious woman, but Robin was never one for giving up easily. The previous night, she waited until that woman left the building, got into her car, and left the parking lot. Robin jumped in her car and followed.

As the car parked, and the woman climbed out, wearing a spare pair of sweat clothes to cover her sport bra and mawashi, and entered her apartment, Robin committed the address to memory, and made plans to return the next day. Apparently she had a day job, for Robin arrived just in time to see her enter her car, shoes in hand. Tailing her workplace was a bit much, so she decided to wait until later that day.

She rang the doorbell, and the woman answered. Her hair was down, a little past her shoulders, and she had on a purple T-shirt, blue sweat pants, and white socks. Her expression appeared to be unreadable, but Robin could see the surprise in her eyes.

“Hello?” The woman said.

“Hello,” Robin replied. “May I come in?”

They walked into a simply, but nicely furnished living room. Robin sat down on a sofa.

“Ice tea?” The woman offered.

“Sure,” Robin replied.

“Green, or with lemon? Both are sweetened.”

“Green, thank you.”

The woman returned with two glasses. She handed one to Robin, and sat down in a recliner, and propped her feet on a footstool. Robin cocked an eye as she saw black footprints on the bottoms of her socked feet.

“Excuse me, I had to do a few errands,” the woman said.

“You always do them with your feet al naturale?” Robin asked.

“Heh. My younger sister, Suzi and I always liked socks, stockings, and fine hosiery. We just never liked the shoes you’re supposed to wear with them.”

“Does your sister practice sumo?”

“No, my sister is adept with the naginata, and has a black belt in aikido. When she was a green belt, she defeated a black belt in karate once.”

“Really?”

“A man challenged my sister’s sensei, and my sister offered to fight in her stead.”

“Fascinating. Who’s your sister’s sensei?”

“Yoko Nagano.”

Robin almost stopped mid-sip, the glass just an inch away from her mouth. “You mean the Yoko Nagano, the one who slew five gang members?”

[For those wondering who Yoko is, you can read all about her in my Internet novel, Caught Between a Dojo and a Hard Place, located in my bookshelf. – Mongoose.]

The woman displayed a grin of pride. “That’s the one. So what do you want with me, Robin Chung, stablemaster of the Crimson Dragons?”

“Oh, a few things, Sharon, mysterious sumoroti without a stable.”

“How did you find me?”

“The old-fashioned way. It’s been said when I wrestled, I could do anything I put my mind to. Nice to know I haven’t lost my touch. I saw you last night.”

Sharon leaned back in her seat. “Ah, so you saw that, did you?”

“You were a little rough on the woman, weren’t you?”

“She tore my clothes. And a catfighter has no business in a female fighting club. I thought they had their own club somewhere in town.”

“They do. From what I heard, it’s sort of kinky. By the way, do you always wear a mawashi under your clothes?”

Sharon laughed a little. “Only when I fight and do sumo. This is the new lightweight style. You can put it on by yourself, it’s not as bulky, and it’s as comfortable as wearing shorts or even panties. Yes, I do wear something under them. But they are even strong enough for tournament play. I do wear a heavier one in tournaments over my leotard.”

“Are you wearing one now?” Robin asked.

Sharon just gave a small grin.

“Times have changed since I wrestled. The mawarshi I wore you could barely sit down in, much less wear under a skirt. In any case, I’ll have you know after the fight, the club forbids sumo wrestlers to participate, effective immediately.”

“Another one, eh? Did you have something to do with it?”

“Part of it, yes. My ladies, along with other sumotori, are trained too extensively to participate in things like that. The stables don’t want to be held liable either way.”

“The stables, I see. So again, the reason you’re here; is it to taunt me?”

“No, it’s to hire you.”

This time, an actual look of surprise displayed itself on Sharon’s face. “Hire me?” She asked.

“Yes. You’re very strong, and you display a lot of power. Your technique is very good. The only weakness I see in your game is footwork, but your other aspects make up for it. If you sign up with me, we can work on your footwork, and make you even more formidable than you are now,” Robin explained.

“I see.”

“I suspect you work a day job. Is it rather important?”

“I’m an administrative assistant for a company in town. It’s important enough, I suppose.”

“You are about five wins away from becoming professional, did you know that?”

“I knew that, but I’m a little concerned that you do,” Sharon said warily.

“Participating sumotori records are open to everyone. I asked about your job because if, excuse me, when you become professional, you’ll make possibly more than you’re making at your present job and the fight clubs. Professionals who belong to a stable make more than independents do. And there are the benefits as well. Any sumo-related injury, or most common injuries will be taken care of.”

“I . . . see.”

“And,” Robin concluded, “you may never have to deal with wearing shoes ever again.”

Sharon exerted just enough self-control from taking the bait. “Really?” She said.

“You’d be surprised how many ladies want to sign up on that last part alone.”

“All right, I’ll sign. Where is it?”

Like a magician, Robin produced a folded contract almost from thin air. “Please read carefully so they’ll be no misunderstandings later.”

“I would almost swear you participated in this no sumo rule at the fight club to get me,” Sharon said, reading over the contract.

“I admit, the thought occurred to me, but it was my stable, and the other associated stables that I had in mind.”

Robin sat patiently while Sharon read the contract. Inside, she was excited. Her stable would become more powerful after this latest addition. Finally, Sharon signed her signature.

“Thank you very much,” Robin said, placing the contract back in her jacket. “I’ll give you some time to get your affairs in order with work, etc. For now, come with me, and I’ll show you the facilities at the sumo village, including the workout room. No more working out at the Y, Gold’s Gym, or wherever you’ve gone before. We also have a real buffet too. I like my ladies to have dinner together. It creates a bond. Welcome to the Crimson Dragons, Sharon.”

“Thank you.” Sharon grabbed a gray sweatshirt, and pulled it over her head. “Okay, I’m ready,” she said.

As they headed out the door, Robin turned and smiled at her latest recruit.

“Since you’re now part of the team, I can officially say this: participating in any unsanctioned activity like the Female Fight Clubs is strictly prohibited.”

Sharon took a breath. “Yes, mother.”

“You’re getting the idea.”

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.