[Author's Note: Before reading this story, you may want to read Agony in the Mud first to get the whole story.]

Hello comrades! My name is Irena Brezhnev, and I am an employee at Barefoot Betty's Auto Repair Shop. My employer and co-worker is Betty Conrad, who I also consider a good friend as well as a nice boss to work for. I found working for Betty was a godsend; one of the reasons I left my native Russia to come to the states was to make my living as an auto mechanic (Russian cars were too boring for me to work on). I also considered it a blessing because Betty was a very skilled mechanic who knows what makes a car tick. There are people who masquerade as mechanics who really don't know what they're doing, and it's an insult to work under them. A third treat of working for Betty is I can leave my shoes at home, which is just as well, because I do not know where they are except for the clogs I wear to church. Shoes have always been an annoyance to me, so I avoid them whenever possible. Yes, it does get cold in Russia, but being barefoot through the cold winters can toughen your feet for almost anything, especially in this college town in the Midwestern United States where the weather is mild (except the summer) all year round. When I first heard of Betty's shop, I knew it was a place after my own heart, or feet in this case.

My employer somehow was pinned with the title "The Toughest Girl in Town," and on almost a weekly basis, some man or woman or group of people come to Betty's shop and challenge her for the title, which she never claimed. If she's not able to talk them out of it (which hardly ever works), then at a particular time and place she meets her foe and defeats them with no problem. Then again, since she has a black belt in Tae Kwon Do mixed with some basic boxing skills along with a few tricks from other fighting arts, defeating most foes wasn't a problem. Though she claims it to be a nuisance and a burden, I think somewhere deep inside, she actually enjoys it. I don't think she'll ever admit that to anyone though.

As for me on the other hand, I love to fight. I spent the childhood years of my life fighting on the streets of my neighborhood. Later in high school and college, I didn't fight (as much) because I took lessons in Combat Sambo which gave me a more healthy outlet for my aggressions. That, and a visit to my family from a Baptist missionary from the states, but that's another story.

Combat Sambo for you Americans who never heard of it, is a Russian martial art that is similar to judo and jiu-jitsu. Emphasis is placed on joint locks and throws. I excelled at the art, and participated in many competitions, winning quite a few awards. In college, where I majored in business administration with a minor in English (which explains how I can speak so well), I was the champion in the college Sambo tournaments two years in a row. After college, I put Sambo aside because I was tired of the uniform. In Sambo competition, you wear kimono-type gis, shorts, and . . .boots. As I said before, I do not like shoes, and several years of wearing those things on my feet were more than I could stand.

After I graduated college, I earned money for the trip to the states by working on cars at my father's auto shop, and by participating in cage fights. The cage fights in Russia were what you would call "mixed martial arts" (MMA) tournaments, where men and women of any discipline from boxing to karate would battle to see who's the best. Unlike the MMA tournaments in the states, there was no weight class or height requirements in these fights. At only standing 5'5", with a slim frame, I encountered a number of opponents taller and larger than I. My knowledge and skill of Sambo had served me well though, for during the brief time since I entered the cage fights, I emerged and "retired" undefeated with the women's championship belt and the prize money to prove it. But as you Americans say, that's enough about me.

When Betty receives these challenges, depending on who's doing it, I "help out." If it's a gang, I fight by her side; if she's on a business trip or not able to make it, I fight in her stead. Again, I consider her shop the perfect place to work for me; I can work on autos and hone my combat skills at the same time.

Not too long ago, Betty and I took on a gang of seven women. Well, actually six women with a so-called leader directing the action. I say so-called leader because she was a lousy one. Five of the six women were bodybuilders who apparently had as much muscle in their head as they did on their bodies. We beat them easy. The ring leader escaped before we could get her, but the fool beforehand made the mistake of challenging one of our friends who was watching the fight. Janelle Edwards, the woman she challenged, happened to be a black belt in judo with her own dojo. The ring leader, Sheila I believe she's called, had some problem with her because she threw her brat cousin out of one of her classes. Janelle choked her unconscious and left her on the ground while she and the others stopped Betty from beating the last fighter to a pulp.

While most of our foes that night were no challenge, the only woman who put up a decent one was of all people Betty's former high school gym teacher. It turned out Sheila recruited her to join in with the attempted beating of Betty and me. Betty was able to knock her out, but not before her old teacher grabbed her, whispered overtures in her ear, and groped her butt. That made Betty - what is the term - "freak out." Even though we won, the experience shook her a little bit.

Several days later, on a steady work day, a Friday, I believe, we decided to have our lunch an hour early. On some days, people use their lunch hour to bring their car in for a quick repair, or so they think. There are some repairs on a car that take longer than a half-hour or a hour, but some customers tend to forget that. Anyway, while we were eating, Betty was talking about the fight we had with the gang, particularly fighting her old teacher, and the way she was waving her arms, pacing back and forth, and talking a mile a minute, it didn't take long to see she wasn't herself. She also vowed to give Sheila "a big whack across the head and some serious pain." I agreed wholeheartedly with her on that, not just because of recruiting her teacher, but also because of her poor leadership skills. It sounds like a meager point perhaps, but I was taught that leaders take full responsibility for their crew and stands by them. Sheila did neither of those.

I reassured her, saying, "Don't worry, well find Sheila and give her what she deserves. We don't need to worry about the others. After we had beat their hides, I don't think we'll see them again."

We agreed on working out a plan to sniff her out and deal with her in the near future, and Betty started to feel much better. Betty has always been a person who has been self-assured and confident in her abilities, and to see that shaken in such a magnificent warrior is truly heart-breaking. I've seen it before in competition, and though it's a big advantage if you're the competitor, it's not a pretty sight to see. I'm not referring to losing, because even if you lose, you can bounce back with the proper spirit. But when you lose that spirit for whatever reason, even winning doesn't bring it back.

As the lunch hour started, and we readied ourselves for business to roll in, the office door opened, and all my encouragement went for naught. Rachel Cooper, otherwise known as Ms. Cooper, Betty's old high school gym teacher appeared in the doorway.

Let me pause for a moment to tell you about Rachel (since she wasn't my teacher, I have no problem calling her by her first name). All of us who went through high school know that gym teachers come in all shapes and sizes, unfortunately. Yes, you see some who are in good enough shape to deserve the title of gym teacher, but you also see those who are there only because they needed a job somewhere or the school could not find anyone else. I had a friend who went to one high school where the gym teacher was as big as a house and smoked cigars every chance he got. The funny thing was he always had the students in his class run all the time. He started taking his own advice after he suffered a heart attack. Rachel obviously was not one of those people. On the contrary, she had one of the best physiques for a woman of her age.

Her build, about 5'9" or so, was very muscular; not like a bodybuilder, but similar to a fitness model or a wrestler (a real one, more on that later). She had light brown hair like yours truly, but hers stopped an inch short of her shoulders with bangs around the front. Her skin was lightly tanned, natural, not from any of those tanning beds. She was in excellent shape and she knew it. Furthermore, she was not afraid to let you know it. She wore a short black dress that was cut in a way to show almost all of her long strong legs. The dress had spaghetti straps to hold it up, and wasn't cut deep down in front, but it revealed her muscular development on her shoulders and arms. Her shoes were similar to the black clogs I wear to church, showing the strength in her arches. She probably wears them just to shut people up about the shoe requirement in school. Then again, I can't imagine any of my teachers wearing that dress to school!

The thing that stood out to me about her was her eyes. She had what we called in competition "the eyes of the wolf." The eyes looked predatory, hungry, like she came to get something, and she wouldn't stop until she got it. They were rather chilling, even to myself, and I faced down some fearsome opponents. Even her voice had a deep, assertive tone to it as she asked to come in.

Betty to her credit was cordial and let her in. I got up from my chair and told her I'll go out and wait for the other customers. Actually that's a coded message we came up with that meant I'll stand close by in case I'm needed. Betty can take care of herself, no problem, but it doesn't hurt to be cautious, no?

From what I heard through the door, I heard Rachel make her apology; how Sheila made her an offer to take care of somebody and even offered to pay her for her services. She was surprised when she found out it was her and wasn't sure what to do. Betty accepted her apology, and that was all I heard. Rachel apparently moved closer to Betty's desk, preventing me from eavesdropping further. Shortly after, Rachel left out the door, and said goodbye to me as she was looking me up and down. I halfway expected her to lick her lips like she was eyeing a delicious steak. After shaking off the chill, I quickly went back into Betty's office.

Betty was holding herself and shaking, like she was suddenly dropped in the middle of Siberia on a cold winter's night. She told me what just happened, and I gave her a hug to help comfort her some. It made her feel a little better. I also told her that Rachel gave me the chills too. Again, I was shocked to see Betty acting this way. This was more than I could take. I had to do something.

As the rest of the work day went along, I had a plan in mind, but I couldn't tell Betty about it. She would appreciate what I was doing, but say it's her fight, etc. All I knew was it hurt me to see a good friend and employer as well as a great warrior suddenly become like a scared rabbit.

As we approached closing time, I went ahead and closed up shop like normal. Usually Betty and I sit around and talk after the day was over, but not this time. I said goodbye to Betty, told her I'd meet her later that evening for Krav Maga practice. If my plan was successful, that shouldn't be a problem. I drove home to my apartment, took a quick shower, then changed into a quick outfit consisting of a forest green top with the sleeves just past the elbow and a navy blue skirt that was cut right above the knee. One of the many benefits that being without shoes offers you is it doesn't take you half as long to get ready in a hurry. Your feet will match with whatever you're wearing. It also helps a lot when you're packing as I stuffed a few things into my gym bag and ran out the door.

I drove out to the high school where Rachel worked, and looked for her car. I remembered from an earlier conversation from Betty that Rachel besides teaching physical education was also the track and field coach. That meant she would be staying after school a few extra hours for me to see her leave. When I saw her car, I pulled into a nearby parking space that wasn't too close to attract attention, and waited. Fortunately I brought a novel written by an American author, Tom Clancy. His novels tend to be rather long, which was a good thing, because I may have a long wait. That was fine too, because when I left off, the main character Jack Ryan was in a tight spot dealing with the Russians. I know that sounds funny coming from me, a native Russian, but Clancy is one of the few authors who gave a realistic view of my homeland. He's a good writer too. I set my seat back, propped my feet on the dashboard, and waited and read.

While I was reading, I did get a few looks and greetings from some of the male students and two of the teachers. I just smiled and waved. I was flattered, but the students were too young, those two teachers were too old, however the man I had in mind was just right, and I have plans on snagging him at the cookout at Betty's house. However, I'm getting ahead of myself here.

Eventually I saw the track and field students leave the school, and a couple of minutes later, so did Rachel. She wasn't dressed in anything provocative this time, just a standard warm-up track outfit. She was alone as she walked to her car, got in, and started it up. I waited a few minutes as she pulled out of the parking lot, then I pulled out and followed her.

Contrary to what you see in the movies, you can't easily tell if someone is following you while you're driving. If you live in the middle of nowhere, that's a different matter, but if you live in a standard location where there's a normal flow of traffic, especially in this college town, cars are all around, so unless you're paranoid, or a car that really stands out goes everywhere you do, you wouldn't know. Besides, who expects to be followed? My car is a redone classic, but not anything that would attract attention unless you're a car enthusiast.

We left the school, went down a main highway, then turned off into a nearby subdivision. As I passed by the houses, I noticed something interesting. As I understand it, teachers in this country are at best paid moderately well, despite the great service they perform. As I look at the houses, they did not look like something that could be afforded on a gym teacher's salary.

She finally stopped at a modest house, that is, modest for that neighborhood, it was a two-story Ranch design. As she pulled into the driveway, I drove past and parked a little bit up the street. I made sure to pull the car around so I could face the house. As she got out of the car, she was greeting by a man old enough to be my younger brother. I thought he was her son until they embraced each other. No mother kisses her son like that, at least not in my country!

As they walked into the house, hand-in-hand, I thought it might be a good idea to read another chapter of my novel. After I finished, I first pulled my car over to her driveway, then grabbed my gym bag and walked to the door and rang the doorbell. That same young man who I saw not too long ago answered the door dressed in a blue robe. From the smile he greeted me with, I realized I was right in reading one more chapter before approaching the house. He wore what I would call "Clark Kent" glasses, and didn't look like the young stud I would expect Rachel to see. He looked more like someone you would see on the honor roll in college instead of a star player for the basketball or football team.

"Hello, is Rachel at home?" I said, ignoring the boy's goofy grin on his face.

"Why yes, come on in," he said, and opened the door further, letting me in.

As I walked into the house, looking at all the nice furniture and collectibles, I hear a voice coming from down the hallway.

"Harold, honey, who was that?" Rachel said as she appeared. She was wearing a black silk robe, and it was easy to guess nothing else.

"Well hello, Irena, isn't it? Come on in and make yourself at home," Rachel said. She led me to the den and motioned for me to sit on the sofa. Rachel herself sat in a black leather chair and crossed her legs.

"I would love to go barefoot everywhere like yourself, but as a schoolteacher, there are certain manners of conduct we're supposed to follow," she said with a slight note of frustration in her voice, rolling her eyes.

"That's probably one of the reasons I'm not a schoolteacher," I said. "I have a friend who plans on being a physical education teacher like yourself, and I'm not sure how she's going to get away with it."

"It depends on how uptight the principal is. The kids love it."

Just then, Harold reappeared and walked over to Rachel.

"I'm going to go upstairs and study for my finals," he said. "This one professor is tough, so I have to be sure of my details."

"No problem sweetheart, I'll let you know when it's time for dinner," Rachel said. They kissed - a little too long for public viewing I thought - and he walked toward the stairs.

Rachel noticed me looking around the room as well as at her young lover with some curiosity. "Before we get started on why you came, I know you have a lot of questions. I'll answer them for you to get them out of the way. How's that?"

"That would be nice," I said.

"First, I'll start with Harold. I like them young. He's currently a computer science major at the local university here. After he finishes this last final, he'll graduate in a couple of weeks. There's already a couple of companies in town who are talking to him about working for them."

"I figured as athletic as you were, you would go for a-"

"A jock? Most young male athletes are too much into themselves to be any use. There was a football player I dated once. He was a star tight end, a prospect for a major university with a good chance of making the pros. He was a nice guy until it all got to his head. He started becoming a little too self-important. The last draw came when he thought he was so big, he thought he could order me around like a servant. He ordered me to do something for him once, but I said no. Then he hit me. To make a long story short, he still received his scholarship to go to that major school to play football, he just had to wait for his arm to heal from being broken. That was the arm he hit me with, by the way."

I couldn't help but smirk at that one.

Rachel leaned forward. "Let me give you a quick word of advice. If you want to have a decent relationship, don't go for the 'jocks.' Go for the so-called 'Geeks' or 'nerds,' you know, another word for those who aren't so popular on campus because they're too busy preparing for their future. What you lack in having a so-called 'bod,' you gain in a whole lot of ways; one of them being they treat you right."

Little did she know I already had plans to obtain one of those so-called 'Geeks' the next day, but there was no need to tell her that.

"You said you like them young," I said. "Does this mean you date-"

"High schoolers?" Rachel laughed. "You must've heard the rumors about me, how I stalk the kids, scouting them out when they're freshmen, giving the ones I like a special 'visit' after they graduate, being brutal to the ones I don't like; having my face seen on milk cartons next to a few missing students, I heard them all.

"Irena, as I said, I like my men - and women - young, but I am not a pedophile. The football player I told you about didn't even attend my school, and we met at a night spot two months after he graduated. This high school I've taught at ever since I first graduated college. One day, some cocky senior made a pass at me. When I turned him down, that's when the rumors started. I will tell you that Harold did graduate from my school, but I never noticed him until I saw him at a college basketball game two years after he graduated."

"So how are you and Harold doing?" I asked.

"A couple of months from now, after he graduates and embarks on his new career, we're getting married."

"Oh really?" I said, stunned. "Congratulations."

"Thank you."

Changing the subject, I said, "Betty said you were hard on her when she was in your class."

"Irena, I was hard on everybody," Rachel said. "Still am. I am the hardest on those who are 'gifted.' I have an eye for that. I push them to do their best. Betty has great physical talent. She has the trophies to prove it, not including how well she fought that Friday night. Tae Kwon Do?"

"Yes, black belt."

"Suits her. She never wore shoes in gym class."

"So you've been a gym teacher for years," I said, changing the subject yet again, looking around me at the elaborate settings around me.

"I know, how can I afford this nice house, right?" Rachel interrupted.

"Yes."

"This is because of my 'second job.'"

"And that is?"

"I'm a submission wrestler."

Let me stop for a moment to explain to you Americans about real wrestling. Whenever the word 'wrestling' is mentioned in this country, the image of bad actors and actresses in garish costumes doing antics that would have them banned in any other sport, and performing moves that would never work in a legitimate match. This is a farce, and a true insult to the fine art of wrestling. For I believe wrestling is the basic foundation from which all combat arts have originated.

There are several types of wrestling, but for the sake of brevity, I'll mention three. Greco-Roman is a style of wrestling where only the upper body is used. The goal is to obtain points or to execute a pin on your opponent. Freestyle is your basic overall grappling; no blows, no hitting your foe with a metal chair or any silly "drop kicks" like you see on TV. Both these styles are active in high school, college and the Olympics.

The third type is submission wrestling, which is lesser known and a little more "underground" in this country. In this style, points are not sought for, nor does pinning your opponent signify a win. A win is only obtained from either gaining a verbal submission from your opponent or having them tap their hand or foot on the mat. Locks of joints, leg scissors, chokes, and painful holds are allowed. In the case of chokes or pain holds, a win is obtained where your opponent becomes unconscious. In some matches, blows are allowed, which almost puts it in the category of a "no holds barred" match. This type of wrestling is more popular in other countries; over here if you look hard enough, it can be found in private sporting clubs, and more unofficial circles.

As you can see, I take my grappling seriously.

"That would explain why you're in excellent shape," I said.

"For the last fifteen or so years, I have been wrestling in an exclusive club backed by a group of businessmen. We hold matches in a variety of places, including this house. To participate in a match, you get compensated well for your trouble. If you win, let's just say your winnings are very generous."

"Do you also get part of the fees for having the matches at your house?"

"You got it. When I bought this house, I did it with holding matches in mind."

"Besides holding the matches here, you must do pretty well for yourself," I said.

"I guess you could say that. Since I've started, I've been undefeated in all my matches."

"Impressive."

"Now you have an interesting fighting style. I can't say I've seen it before," Rachel said, giving me a inquisitive stare.

"I am a master of Combat Sambo, a Russian martial art."

"Ah yes, I've heard of it. Have you ever entered competition?"

"Yes, I've fought in Mixed Martial Arts competitions in Russia."

"I see. How well did you do?"

"I won the championship and finished my career there undefeated."

"That's interesting. Perhaps I should travel to Russia and participate in those tournaments. Are they open to anyone?" Rachel asked.

"Yes, a fighter of your caliber shouldn't have any problems entering. There's even some officials who speak fluent English along with several other languages so there won't be any confusion among the contestants. The matches are held in several places, but the big matches are held in Moscow. It's been a while since I've done it, of course, but you could probably register there. You can register on the internet also."

"Great. Now it's my turn to ask a few questions. I'm sure you didn't come all the way to my house just to find out how I live and to check out my love life."

"You are correct, that is not the reason for my visit. You really upset Betty earlier today."

Rachel looked puzzled, but not enough to be convincing. "How is that? I apologized to her about what happened that night," she said.

"It wasn't that, it was your, uh, innuendoes to her that bothered her."

"Oh, that. She should be flattered that other people find her attractive." I saw the glint in her eyes as she said that, the eyes of the wolf once again.

"Well, to put it as Betty would say, 'her doors don't swing that way.' And if you're going to be married in a few months, why are you flirting with her?" I asked.

Rachel looked around her to make sure no one else was listening, than leaned forward and said in a low voice, "Because I would like to have one last fling before I get married. And since Betty has grown up into such a strong, beautiful woman, I'd love to feel the touch of her muscles. That's something I don't get to do often during my matches."

"What?"

"Oh that's right, I forgot to tell you. The wrestling club I belong to is different from other clubs. When we perform a match, we do it under the understanding that the winner gets to uh, have their way with the loser."

I was shocked. It took a long moment before I could gather my wits and speak again. "You mean the winner gets to do. . .things to the loser?"

"Oh don't make it sound so horrible. Usually the loser enjoys it as much as the winner," Rachel said, licking her lips. Suddenly it felt like the temperature in the room fell a few degrees.

"Since I'm at a break between matches," Rachel continued, "I thought besides my fiancee, I would just have to wait, but after I saw Betty, I thought see would be nice to have, because she looked real good. For that matter, so do you."

I remembered the American expression, 'being undressed by his eyes,' or something like that. The unnerving thing is I never had a man look at me the way Rachel was at the moment. For the first time in my life, I knew what a piece of raw meat felt like before a snarling tiger.

"B-but Betty doesn't do that, Rachel. Why would you do something so futile?" I said.

"I've met women like Betty before. It doesn't take me long before I break down their resistance, and get a taste."

I quickly rose to my feet. "I suppose you know why I'm here, then."

"You came here to tell me to leave Betty alone. Well, I know your country is starting to learn this concept, but in this one, we say it all the time; it's a free country. I haven't broken any laws, I didn't come to 'challenge' her, I just came to apologize and talk. And I plan to talk to her some more. Hopefully in the end, I'll get to do much more than that."

"I can't allow that to happen."

"Are you here to challenge me? I'm sure that gym bag isn't here as part of your fashion accessory."

"I want to make a deal," I said. "I propose we perform a match at your earliest convenience. If I win, you leave Betty alone. If I lose, you'll be able to 'talk' to her as much as you want."

"I accept your challenge, but on one condition. If I lose, I will leave Betty alone, you have my word. However, if I win, I'll have you. Then I'll try to have Betty too."

It took me a second before I realized my mouth was wide open. "I will not accept that! I do not do things like that, in combat or my personal life!" I said.

"You don't understand Irena," Rachel said to me in a voice that was husky, convincing, and dripping with lust, "if you lose, I'll have you anyway. That's the only way I'll accept your challenge. Now it's up to you. Do we have a match or not?"

I was not expecting this. I expected either to solve this matter peacefully (which I doubted) or to fight it out, plan on winning, and have Betty regain her peace of mind. Now, I'm facing a match where if I lose, not only do I face the possibility of my employer and good friend being hunted like a frightened rabbit, I also face the possibility of being ravished by this woman before she goes after Betty. I know Betty won't be seduced, but if Rachel is as good as she claims, this could lead to another physical battle which could get rather messy.

I remember the one time a woman made that type of proposal to me in college. Whatever feelings she had for me I'm sure went away after she climbed out of the trash can I threw her in. She was supposed to be a supposed tough girl of some sorority who demanded servitude from everybody. After that incident, her and her gang got the hint and left me alone.

As I look over at Rachel, I see that she's actually enjoying this, the thrill of physical confrontation. Whether that referred to a possible fight or what planned to do after she won I didn't know, and truthfully I was afraid to ask. All I know is for her to do both to me, I would have to be at the very least semi-conscious, which she would have no hesitation in doing so. Under any other circumstances, I would just refuse and walk away, no insult to my pride. However, Betty was my friend, and I don't want to see her harmed.

"All right," I said, "I'll do it."

"There's a bathroom behind you over to the left. I'll go to my room to change, then I'll meet you here." Then she turned and went upstairs.

In the bathroom I changed into my spandex shiny silver leotard, which I admit was a bit showy for the occasion, but since I was in a little of a hurry, it was the one most available. As I was changing, I remembered I do have some things in my favor. I do not play the card game poker, but that and fighting have some similar tactics that are very useful. One of them is don't show your hand. I am a master of Combat Sambo, true, but when you participate in mixed martial arts tournaments, you familiarize yourself with other disciplines so you won't be taken unawares by your opponent. I also know few techniques in judo, karate, jiu-jitsu, and boxing; not to mention Krav Maga, where it looks like I'm going to miss that evening's lesson. Of course when you have friends who are very accomplished in most of those fighting arts, you have a regular fountain of knowledge to choose from. I know I know these things, but she doesn't know that I know, which puts things in my favor. I'm also familiar with wrestling too, so unless she really surprises me, I may be able to take her.

I also quickly mentally examine my opponent. She is taller, at least as strong as me if not stronger, and from what I've seen of her in that fight Betty and I fought, she's not afraid to charge in and take the advantage. If she wasn't whispering sweet nothings in Betty's ear that night, she could've squeezed her like a tube of toothpaste, or stunned her with a throw to the ground. Given her age, the experience factor puts things on her side as well. I have fought since I was a little kid, but her professional experience equals my high school, college, and cage fighting experience behind. Be ready for anything appeared to be the watchword here.

When I returned from the bathroom, Rachel appeared at about the same time. She was wearing a black bikini.

This may be harder than I thought.

The bikini was your standard bikini, nothing expensive or revealing. But then again, it didn't need to be. The swimsuit in its modest form showed off Rachel's muscular form and definition in her shoulders, arms, and legs. It also revealed her chest's six-pack. I didn't have any problems believing it before, but I have no doubt she put that football player in the hospital. Served him right too, the big lummox. My strategy suddenly became very simple; put her away as quickly as possible.

"One more question," I said. "What does your boyfriend think of these matches?"

"Oh he loves them, especially the end," she said, giving that predatory smile again. "Come with me."

We went into the basement, which was transformed into a mini wrestling arena. Blue mats covered almost the entire room, which was as wide as the whole house. At the edges of the room, there were chairs and benches for the spectators. There was room for three or four matches to take place at the same time, if it was so desired. Some of the white walls had full-length mirrors. A spectator or a wise wrestler wouldn't be able to miss a thing.

"I don't think we'll need that much room," Rachel said, then hit a few light switches.

All the lights went off, except for a few that shone in the center of the room. I'd love to have a setup like this in my house someday.

"Welcome to Rachel's Arena," she said. "This atmosphere must be almost like back home for you, except for the lack of cages. Oh, and by the way, I like what I see."

I knew I should've spent more time looking for my other leotards. I need to do my laundry more often. She echoed my remark that I said the night of that fight. Betty told me when I said it, some big oaf of a woman nodded her head in agreement, then proceeded to stare at me through most of the fight until Betty walked up and knocked her out. It saved me the trouble. However, this is no oaf I was facing here.

"In my wrestling matches, we have a few rules that are probably similar to what you're used to," Rachel continued. "Everything is allowed, except for hair pulling, biting, or any of that catfighting nonsense. We leave that to the cats, who are better at it anyway. Blows and kicks are allowed, but none are allowed to the breasts or crotch. This will truly be a match of skill, not who can scratch up the other. Is that all right with you?"

"Very much so, I don't put up with scratching or biting either," I said.

"Very good." She paused, and looked at me for a second. "Let's fight in the nude."

"I will not!" I said. "I do not participate in such a thing."

"Didn't think so, but I'd thought I'd ask anyway," she said, winking. "This will be one fall, win by submission. When the timer goes off, we begin."

She held a remote in her hand and pressed the button. On one side of the room, a large digital display counted down from ten seconds, when the countdown reached zero, a pleasant sounding bell rang, and we got started.

No sooner than we crouched down and circled each other, Rachel made her move. She stepped forward and launched a left kick towards my head. I barely got out of the way in time. This woman was fast, too. A split-second slower, and she would've knocked my head off. The match would've been over before it begun. As I regained my balance, it occurred to me almost too late that the kick (as well as that "nude" remark) had one or two purposes. If it didn't knock me out, dodging it would have left me off balance for her to make her next move.

As I started to regain my balance, Rachel was almost on top of me. Just in time, I hastily lifted up my right foot to place on her stomach, fell back, and executed a tomonage, a "circle throw" in judo, also called a "monkey flip" in professional wrestling. Whichever you want to call it, I was thankful to my good friend Velvet for teaching it to me, though she would've frowned on my form. I thought after she landed on her back, it'll give me a chance to recover and take the advantage. No such luck. It turns out Rachel knows how to do a break fall too.

She rolled with the throw, and was almost on her feet by the time I got up. She again had that wicked grin on her face, plus that stare.

"Well Irena," she said, chuckling, "it seems you've been holding out on me. That's fine, I've taken the time to study a few martial arts myself, including most of the grappling arts. This is going to be interesting."

To quote that American saying, "busted." No more surprises from here on end. I will need to execute more of what she doesn't know (my Sambo), to counter what she does know.

There was also no more words said for the biggest part of the match. The only sounds were the squeaking and shuffling of our bare feet and our breathing. It was like a physical chess match, one of us would make a move, to be followed by a counter-move. If one of us executed a throw, the other would break their throw and counter with something else. Even though I was not able to do any myself, I managed to avoid her submission holds. Except for the beginning of the match, very few, if any punches or kicks were thrown. We are both accomplished grapplers; a badly thrown kick or punch could end up in a throw or a possible submission hold. That's what makes a grappler dangerous; whereas a "striker" (boxing, karate) would have to hit you, all a grappler would have to do is to almost merely touch you or for them to be touched to apply some damage. I also did something a little different in avoiding any ground fighting. I am skilled at it, but I'm sure she is too. I was gambling that she may be a little out of her element performing a standing battle.

Finally, we clinched in a traditional wrestler's embrace, then suddenly, she let go and dropped down, firing a right fist into my stomach that surprised me more than hurt, and the next thing I knew, the floor became the ceiling as my world was turned literally upside-down. It turned out Rachel had distracted me with her blow, then surprised me with a body slam. I barely had time to maneuver just enough so the impact wouldn't be too hard, but it still stunned me.

If I had a second or two, I would be able to recover completely, but wrestling is a match of seconds. Don't let the clinches or the holds held for a time fool you; in a closely fought match like this one, seconds are all you have between a possible submission or total defeat. The mat stung my back, but I couldn't lay there and wait to see what Rachel had in store for me. I folded my arms in so they wouldn't be grabbed, and rolled away as quick as I could away from her. It was just in time too as I heard the stamp of a foot. After I stopped rolling, I saw Rachel's right foot placed where my chest would have been. I was gasping for breath at the moment, but if I remained, I wouldn't have any breath at all from her stomp, leaving me vulnerable to place a submitting hold.

My adversary had been able to detect every strategy I had. By the same token, I have identified most of hers too. I was starting to become thankful that Betty was facing off against her and not me the night of that gang fight. I didn't care much about the other foes, but this physical education teacher/submission wrestler won my respect. If not for her indiscretions and her - inclinations, we could even be friends. But instead we're fighting over a woman who for me was a good friend, and for her a possible notch on her belt before she got married. I shook my head, still stunned from the body slam. I had to get up before she was on top of me, then a quick idea hit me. If I did it right, it might work.

I continued to shake my head as I got up, a little stunned, but not as stunned as I was acting. Rachel wasted no time in coming over to where I was at to take care of matters and end the match. As soon as she started to place her hands on me, I dropped down like I was falling, grabbing her right arm as I did so, and as I was hitting the floor, swung my right foot to make a foot sweep. Rachel lost her balance and hit the mat, but because of the hold I had on her arm, she couldn't break the fall. As soon as she landed, I placed my right foot in her right armpit, while I crossed my left leg over my right. I took her arm, laid it across my left knee and pulled; an armbar, except this version is posed to be even more brutal than the regular hold, with my left leg applying more leverage. From my knowledge, armbars are almost impossible to escape from; the best advice being to not get into a position where your opponent can put you in one. Rachel grunted and jerked, trying to find a way to get her arm loose, but I held on, and applied enough pressure to keep her still.

"Submit, or I'll break your arm," I said, a little more emotional than I intended. A long moment went by, then Rachel relaxed and gave a big sigh.

"Okay, you win," she said. I let go of her arm.

"There's a shower in the bathroom on this floor to your right. There should be clean towels in the cabinet under the wash basin. I'll go upstairs," she said as she turned toward the stairs. I looked at her back, then I looked at myself. We have been going at it for at least close to an hour. None of my matches in Russia took this long. I was covered in sweat. It was a small miracle I was able to hold on to Rachel's arm without it slipping from my grasp. I staggered toward the bathroom to clean up.

When I finished my shower and changed back into my street clothes, I came back out into the arena (this could not be called a basement), as Rachel came back down the stairs, wearing her black silk robe once more. We faced each other in the middle of the room.

"You know, common courtesy would dictate that I have the right to demand a rematch," Rachel said. I noticed she was a little tired. Good, I was tired too.

"But we agreed-" I started to say.

"I would leave Betty alone if I lost," she interrupted. "I stand by my word. This isn't about her anymore, it's about you. I want to feel your muscles under mine."

I stood there a little stunned, not comprehending what she said.

"Look, aside from the fact that you're the first to beat me, you're also the strongest, smartest, and toughest opponent I have ever faced. So I demand a rematch to claim that victory you took from me. I'm not asking for a rematch tonight, or tomorrow, or even the next week, but someday I will challenge you to one."

"Can we change the stipulations of the winner and loser?" I said.

Rachel smiled. "No. I still like what I see, and I will have it, at least for a night."

"I see," I said. Even tired, she still has that predator's stare. I thought beating her would diminish it some.

"When you're not working on cars, you should consider joining my wrestling club. We could use some new blood in there."

"I would consider it a pleasure if it wasn't for what happens at the end."

"Who knows, maybe one of these days they'll change that."

"They should, there's too many good fighters around here for that rule to be allowed."

"One of these days I'll talk to them about it. As their champion, I have some pull. However, this changes nothing between us as far as our rematch is concerned."

I keep on telling myself that it's because my hair is still wet that I'm feeling a chill.

"After Harold and I get married, I think I'll take you up on that idea of traveling to Russia and participating in a few matches now that's school's out," Rachel said. "Where can I go over there to learn that Sambo style?"

"I'll give you the name of my teacher," I said as I grabbed a pen from my gym bag and wrote down his name and number. Maybe after she's been there a while, she'll forget about taking me on again. I hand her the piece of paper with the information on it.

"Thank you. Are you sure you don't want to join my group?"

"Not until they change that rule."

"Of course." She extended her hand for me to shake. "Thank you for a very thrilling match. I haven't had one like that in a long time. Now if you excuse me, I was originally planning on cooking dinner, but you wore me out, so we're ordering pizza tonight."

"Did he hear us at all?" I said after we finished shaking hands. "We must have made a racket."

"When Harold studies, the whole world could go up in flames and he wouldn't know it. But that's one of the things I love about him; he knows how to focus on what he wants to do. I'll walk you to the door."

We said our goodbyes and I walked to my car. As I started it up and drove back home, I thought about something the great American basketball coach Bobby Knight once said in a close game, the team who makes the first mistake loses. And that's what it came down to, a mistake. If Rachel didn't fall for my trap, the match would've continued. Or she may have won because of her move that resulted in that body slam. We were both very evenly matched, and we both knew the match could've went either way. At least the objective was achieved, Rachel will leave Betty alone, and Betty will have better peace of mind, not having to look over her shoulder to see if a former gym teacher is after her. But at what cost, I wonder?

I have no qualms about losing. Before my cage matches, when I started participating in Sambo matches in high school and college, I've lost a few bouts. Not too many, but enough to know that defeat isn't the end, you just get prepared that you don't fall for it a second time. I managed to defeat those who defeated me by playing a stronger, better game then I have before. However, the only thing I lost was a match. When I fought on the street and now with Betty whenever she's challenged by someone, the only thing that would happen if I lost would be getting beat up. But someday, I have a rematch with someone where if she wins, would delight in ravaging me like a hungry dog over a piece of meat. The thought that bothered me was I don't know if I can beat her a second time. I turned the radio to some classical music station to help soothe the pains of that day.

I realized I was sitting in my car for twenty minutes before I got out and went up the stairs of my apartment. I glanced at the answering machine and at my cell phone, which I realized I still had turned off since earlier that afternoon. I found out I had several messages from Betty along with two from Velvet Jones, a friend of ours. Besides Betty being concerned that I missed Krav Maga practice that evening, no sooner after I left, she was challenged by some foul mouthed female who challenged her on the spot. When Betty arrived at the location, she was encountered by some large woman who claimed to be undefeated in the cage fights in New York City, and a master of all known martial arts. In any case, she beat her, and now she's held hostage over at Velvet's apartment waiting for me to get my licks in because she said she planned on beating all of us who were there at the fight that Friday night. Velvet, along with her sensei in judo Janelle, and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu instructor Loretta DeGramo already had their turns with her. Oh brother, another one. What was that American saying by that salt company? Oh yes, "When it rains, it pours." Well I decided this "invincible warrior" would have to wait. I'll talk to Betty tomorrow at work about this oaf. I worked out for an hour and a half on my Bowflex machine, then I went to bed to sleep the sleep of the dead.

When I arrived at work the next day, Betty asked me if I fell off the face of the earth or something. At that time, I did not feel like giving her all the details of the previous day, but I did tell her that her "problem" was solved, and left it at that. She respected my wishes and did not inquire any further. I will tell her later when the time is right.

People who know me tell me I have a "bubbly" personality. That morning I didn't feel like much of anything, except wore out from the events of the day before. To give me my "space," Betty let me do some paperwork while she did minor repairs on two cars. It was just as well, all my coveralls were dirty, and other than my dress clothes, most everything else was dirty. I wore a black T-shirt and black jean shorts, mainly for the purpose of what I was going to be doing later that afternoon. I knew I wouldn't be doing any major repairs that day.

When the time came, Betty and I walked over to her house, where she showered and changed, and I talked briefly with her parents. Her brother was nowhere to be seen, hanging out with a few friends. That's fine, I will be waiting for him that night. After she finished changing, we jumped in Betty's 1965 blue Mustang convertible. Oh comrades, there's nothing like a ride in a classic convertible to lift your spirits up. The next time you've had a bad day, and you or a friend has an old convertible, give it a try. Despite the fact that it was a little cool that day, we had the top down as we drove to the spot where Betty fought this woman; Sara, I believe her name was.

Well first, before we drove to that spot, we went to the motel where Sara was staying, I elected to sit in the car while Betty, along with Loretta, Velvet, and Janelle, escorted the woman to and from her room like a wanted criminal. When Betty got back to the car, I couldn't help but laugh at what I saw. Betty turned and gave me a smug look.

"We'll see how much you'll laugh when you fight her in the mud," she said.

I shrugged. "Mud? I've fought barefoot in the snows of Russia, comrade. What is mud to me?" I said.

As soon as I said that, Betty had a sad look on her face. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me about hwo the fight was a near disaster because of the muddy conditions, and how Janelle, Velvet, and Loretta took care of her in record time. I told her that yesterday was a bad day all around with Rachel's visit and fighting in unfamiliar terrain.

"It happens to everyone, Betty. Even me," Irena said, smiling.

As we arrived at the football field where Betty and Sara fought, we met the remaining two people of our party, champion kickboxer Susan Davidson, and Betty's sensei, Kim Chang. The both of them couldn't wait to see this "great warrior" who supposedly knows every martial art known to man. Between the seven of us, who represent five martial arts, we don't know every martial art known to man. By the time you found out what they were, you would be too old to use them.

I chose to go last, to play "clean up." Susan did not take any time at all, literally giving Sara a muddy slap on both cheeks with two kicks, putting mud on her leather tunic (she was dressed like some character on a TV show, a "warrior princess" or something) with two other kicks. The kicks didn't cause any damage, they just showed Sara Susan could've kicked her head off if she wanted to. Kim didn't take long either. After being called a "shrimp" by Sara, Kim finished her with two kicks, the last one a beautiful flying side kick. When she finished, she walked over to where Sara was laying, and told her about her cousin who was 5'2", a grandmaster in judo, and probably would've broken a limb or two for that insult. I would love to meet her cousin someday, I've heard so much about her.

"She's all yours," Kim said. "I saved the rest for you."

Now, it was my turn. I was told by Betty and the others who took her on yesterday that she likes to give melodramatic speeches like she was in a B-movie about the Romans or a high school play. When I faced her, all she said to me was, "Who are you?" I was a little disappointed, to tell you the truth.

"That's all I get, no long speech or name calling?" I said. I am Irena, Betty's co-worker, and I'm going to make you eat some mud. I understand you're a cage fighter, no? So was I, undefeated in Russia before I came here. Let's see how fast I can break you."

That managed to enrage her, which was what I hoped. After having grappling with a very formidable opponent the day before, which I barely won, I was ready to let out a little steam, and ready to find someone to place my frustrations on. This fight was everything the previous one wasn't, as Sara trudged after me like some clumsy bear. In return, I executed just about every throw I've ever known on this woman. As soon as she got up, I'd take her and throw her again. The feel of the cool mud felt good underneath my feet as I tossed Sara back and forth. Betty walks barefoot everywhere she goes like myself, so why would mud bother her?

After a few minutes of throwing Sara, and hearing "oohs" and "aahs" from the gang, I decided it was time to end this. Administering the coup de grace, I picked Sara up and gave her a body slam in the mud. It really felt good to do that after being on the receiving end of one the previous day. I gave her an right overhead punch, knocking her out, and I gave a poise of victory with my muddy right foot over her face. The audience applauded, and I left the field to wipe my feet off.

Betty came to me and suggested the idea of finding out from her where Sheila was, but I waved my hand, dismissing the idea.

"Wake her up and send her home, she's not worth the trouble," I said. "We'll find Sheila without her help. If we're finished, I'd like to get home; I have things to do."

They cleaned her off a little and escorted her back to her motel room and saw her off as she drove away. It couldn't have been over a minute too soon. I had a lot of stuff to do that day, like cleaning some badly needed laundry, and going over my game plan for later that evening.

That evening, Betty's family decided to have a little cookout, in honor of Billy, Betty's brother, approaching graduation from college. Along with the immediate family, I was invited (Betty's parents already made me an honorary family member. If they only knew), and Barbie Kendoll, an old high school friend of Betty. I have met Barbie in church. She's a real nice person and all, but I think Betty had an ulterior motive for inviting her to the cookout. Fortunately, Barbie knew what I was planning, so that took care of any possible messy situations.

It turned out that Betty's father is quite the cook, his grilled steaks and ribs would melt in your mouth. However, her mother is not to be outdone either, with her mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, green beans and other vegetables, and for desert, blackberry cobbler. Such a meal was the stuff of legend. Oh, how could I forget the sweet ice tea!

A filling meal like that needed to be walked off, and Betty's house had the appropriate place for that. Behind the house, there was a wooded pathway that led to a picnic bench. That was perfect for my purposes as Billy and I went for a walk. He was wearing a white polo shirt with blue jeans, while I wore a sapphire blue tank top dress that had a split on the left side that showed off calves as well as the rest of my legs. The ground felt nice and cool under my bare soles as we walked. I saw Billy take a few subtle glances at my legs as we went along, playing it off like he had to tuck his shirt in, so it wouldn't look so obvious.

One of my friends in Russia once joked that I prepare for everything like I'm engaging for combat. After giving it some thought, I realized she was right. Then I realized, why not? Combat is about challenges and conflict, and since life has challenges and conflict, what's wrong with engaging it like you would a fight? You see your objective, you make plans on when you're going to engage it, and how to do it. It works for me!

As we walked, I couldn't help but smile as Billy talked about this and that, especially concerning his popularity at college. Oh, he doesn't boast about it, but you can hear the pride in his voice. He seemed to be popular among the cheerleaders and female athletes there. Indeed.

He sat on top of the picnic table while I sat on the bench, facing him. He continued to talk about the latest thing that one of the cheerleaders done at a party at her dorm. Enough of this, I thought, it's time to strike.

"William," I interrupted, "did you know I can beat up your friends?"

As I imagined, this put him to a halt, causing him to laugh. He knew about my cage fighting past. I wasn't really going to go up to his school and beat up those cheerleaders and athletes, although I have beaten up cheerleaders and athletes before. However, my high school and college indiscretions can be discussed at another time.

"William," I said again, as I took my right index finger and stroked it against the underside of his chin. "Did you know I can beat you up?"

This stopped him cold. He sputtered a little bit, but that was it.

"Now William, here's what I want you to do."

"My, my name is Billy," he stammered.

"Not to me. You're going to go back to the college, tell those athletes and cheerleaders to get lost, and then come back to me. We'll discuss more of the details when I pick you up for church tomorrow."

I then take the fingers of my right hand, and grasp his chin so I can pull it down. He already knows how strong I am by now, so he doesn't resist. I give him a firm, but gentle kiss on the lips. I can feel his heart beating like a jackhammer. I whispered in his ear, "I'll see you tomorrow," then said farewell in Russian. I could have expounded on the color of his eyes or the creamy color of his skin, or anything else to make him putty in my hands, but that wasn't necessary. He was mine now.

I walked back down the walkway, only taking a moment to glance at him once. He sat there in shock, with nothing to say, a feat that Betty told me was impossible. I ran into Betty and Barbie heading the opposite direction. I think they were chatting about the old days back in high school.

"Barbie, Betty," I said, "once again, I'm going to thank your parents for the delicious food, then I'm going to go home. I'll see you both in church tomorrow."

They said bye to me as I walked by. Betty gave me an inquisitive look, probably wondering why I had this big smile on my face. Barbie gave me a knowing smile as she realized my mission was accomplished. After I thanked Betty's parents, it was all I could do to keep from skipping to my car. I couldn't wait to go to church in the morning!

Several months later, I came in my apartment after work and looked at my mail. Along with the regular bills and junk mail, there was a postcard from Russia. Thinking it was from my family or one of my friends, I first glanced at the picture, then I looked at it again. It was the award platform that they use to signify the first-place winner and two runners-up of the cage fights in Russia. Second and third place were won by two ladies I did not recognize, but as I looked at the first place stand, I saw Rachel holding her championship belt high for the crowd to see. Quickly, I turned the card over.

It read, "I am very much looking forward to our upcoming rematch. Until then, Rachel."

And then, I felt a little chill.