Kiva’s Fight Journal

[Kiva]

Thank you all again for your comments, likes, or if you read and enjoyed it. I noticed that the concept of two women fighting in front of their husbands is a favorite fantasy here, with the presumption of great sex for the couples, especially the winner. This story was me having fun with this idea by throwing in a twist. Kiva (fictional) had to find a surrogate husband and chose a very trusted gay friend partly because she expected him to not be interested in post-match sex with her. Of course, it backfired when she underestimated the powerful aphrodisiac effect of victory, and she was stuck with a dud in bed. Did you catch the self-deprecating line: "A fiction writer never would come up with this."

I like the Calvin character. I don't mean to promote the stereotype of male nurses as gay. I've had many gay colleagues. I've also worked with many guys with wives and kids. I've had special friendships with some of them over the years like I described in Part 1. Calvin is a composite of those guys. Great humans. Great nurses.

[The speech prof]

Thank you all again for your comments, likes, or if you read and enjoyed it. I noticed that the concept of two women fighting in front of their husbands is a favorite fantasy here, with the presumption of great sex for the couples, especially the winner. This story was me having fun with this idea by throwing in a twist. Kiva (fictional) had to find a surrogate husband and chose a very trusted gay friend partly because she expected him to not be interested in post-match sex with her. Of course, it backfired when she underestimated the powerful aphrodisiac effect of victory, and she was stuck with a dud in bed. Did you catch the self-deprecating line: "A fiction writer never would come up with this."

I like the Calvin character. I don't mean to promote the stereotype of male nurses as gay. I've had many gay colleagues. I've also worked with many guys with wives and kids. I've had special friendships with some of them over the years like I described in Part 1. Calvin is a composite of those guys. Great humans. Great nurses.

If people are getting upset about a story on freecatfights.com, then you are lost

[Kiva]

Chapter: The Woman Who Kept Walking (Part 1 of 2)

I closed my eyes and I could make it real
And feel it one more time

Can you hear it, babe
Can you hear it, babe
From another time, from another place
Do you remember it, babe

And the radio played like a carnival tune
As we lay in our bed in the other room
When we gave it away
For the sake of a dream in a penny arcade
If you know what I mean
-Neil Diamond

I slow down on the sidewalk as the crowd surges around me. Yellow taxis honk up the avenue; buses hiss to a stop at each corner. Countless voices blend together. It's that familiar Manhattan noise I haven't heard in years.

For a moment, I just stand.

I live in Texas now. I'm a nurse. My conference badge is tucked into my pocket. But I still feel like the little girl who pressed her nose to the train window as the skyline came into view.

Back then, Manhattan was magic. My parents took the family on the train down here every December as an annual pilgrimage. I'd step into the cold and feel swallowed by buildings that blocked the sky. We'd wander through Central Park, then drift toward the huge glowing tree at Rockefeller Plaza. My father would lift me onto his shoulders so I could see the lights above the crowd.

And there was always FAO Schwarz, where the toys seemed bigger than life. I smile at the memory as the light changes and I cross.

Now I'm here for a different purpose. A nursing conference. Tomorrow, I will stand in a ballroom of healthcare professionals giving a talk titled Nursing Care of the ECMO Patient, trying to make extreme life-support situations sound both practical and hopeful.

Hardly the stuff of childhood dreams.

I planned this carefully: three extra days in the city after the conference. No hospital shifts. No erratic sleep patterns and night alarms. No custody schedules. Clarissa is back in Texas with her father, already texting me pictures of the school art project she finished this morning. I made Tom promise to keep Jeanne out of the picture while I'm gone.

The thought of Jeanne tightens my chest, but the city doesn't leave much room for lingering self pity. Manhattan pushes forward constantly, you either step into the current or get swept aside by.

So, I step into it.

The sidewalks bustle with lunchtime energy. Glass storefronts mirror passing strangers and the buildings climb forever. Everything feels alive--louder, brighter, faster than my quiet Texas neighborhood. This is the electricity I remember, the sense that anything might happen if you just keep walking.

I slip my hands into my coat pockets and let the avenue carry me like a current. I follow the tide north until the buildings open into a fairy tale kingdom of light.

Times Square.

I laugh under my breath. It's as impressive as I remember. Giant digital billboards blaze over the crowds in gaudy colors. Tourists stop in the middle of the sidewalk and stare up while irritated New Yorkers move around them. Music from street performers mingles with traffic and voices.

When I was little, this place felt like stepping inside a television. My parents made a game of trying to spot celebrities. My father joked that I was so cute, if I stood still long enough, someone would discover me and put me in a commercial.

Now I stand alone in the middle of it, smiling at the memory.

Clarissa's latest message buzzes in my pocket--probably another photo or a misspelled text I'll never delete. I slip the phone back into my coat. I'll answer in a few minutes. For now, I stay in the moment--just a woman wandering Manhattan with no particular place I have to be.


That freedom feels strange.

I leave Times Square and continue north. Block by block, the noise becomes calmer. Sleek glass towers rise higher and higher; reflections off buildings stretch into the stratosphere.

Billionaires' Row.

I tip my head back, trying to follow the buildings to their peaks. The towers are so tall they fade  into afternoon haze. Somewhere hundreds of feet above the sidewalk, someone's living room overlooks the whole city. I imagine someone drinking coffee in a quiet kitchen while Manhattan roars below like an anthill.

It's another thought that makes me smile.

I've spent most of my adult life on hospital floors and in ICUs, surrounded by beeping machines, monitors, and ventilator circuits flowing life through plastic tubing. It's the familiar, fragile balance of keeping someone alive one careful adjustment at a time.

Standing here now, feeling tiny by the towers and the city's restless energy, I feel something I haven't felt in a long time.

Possibility.

I don't know what to expect from the next few days, but for the first time since the divorce filings, the future doesn't feel like something I brace against. It feels like something I can walk toward.

I keep going, eyes drifting up the glass and steel of Billionaires' Row. The buildings look less like architecture and more like monuments to ambition--or greed.

I'm so busy looking up that I nearly collide with someone coming the other way.

"Oh--sorry!" I say, stepping back.

He steadies his coffee before it spills. For a second, we both wear the polite, distant expressions of strangers in a crowded city.

Then his eyebrows lift.

"Kiva?"

My heart skips in the strangest, disorienting way. "Craig?"

We stare at each other for  moment, both of us laughing softly in disbelief.

Craig looks older--mid thirties instead of eighteen--but the changes are subtle. His hair is shorter, and there are new lines at the corners of his eyes. The confidence is the same. He still has that sharp, observant look from our high school days.

"Well," he says, shaking his head. "I did not expect to run into you here today.


"Neither did I," I say. "What are the odds?"

He glances up at the massive buildings. "Actually, for me, higher here than most places."

"You're still in finance, aren't you?"

He laughs. "You remember that?"

"How could I forget? Your nickname was literally Money Boy."

He groans, smiling. "I hoped that died a quiet death sophomore year."

"Not a chance."

He takes a sip, studying me with curiosity. "So, what brings you here? Last I recall, you were headed to Yale for nursing."

"I did. I'm a critical care nurse in Texas now. I'm here for a conference. I'm giving a talk tomorrow."

"Really? What's the topic?"

"Nursing care of the ECMO patient."

He blinks, processing. "I'm going to pretend I know exactly what that means," he says.

I laugh. "Extracorporeal membrane oxygenation. It's a life support device for patients when even a ventilator won't keep them alive.

"Ah," he says, nodding. "That sounds... significantly more important than what I do."

"I doubt that."

"Well," he says with a shrug, "I manage hedge funds. Or technically, I do it for a firm that does. Lots of spreadsheets, lots of numbers, lots of people pretending they know what the market will do tomorrow."

I tilt my head, smiling. "I'm not surprised."

"You're not?"

"No. You always knew how to make a buck. By senior year you were juggling football tickets, reselling sneakers, and tutoring math."

He laughs. "I forgot about the sneakers."

"Money Boy," I say.

"Please stop saying that in public."

We stand there another moment, both a little amazed by the collision of past and present.

"So," he says, "are you here long?"

"A few days. I added time after the conference."

"Well," he says, gesturing down the street, "since fate decided we should crash into each other--would you let me take you to lunch?"

I hesitate. Craig--the boy I dated all through high school, the one I haven't seen since graduation--stands in front of me in the middle of Manhattan.

"Lunch sounds nice," I say.

He smiles and turns. "There's a place a couple blocks from here. Great food, and I promise not to talk about hedge funds the entire time."

"Good," I say, falling into step beside him.

We weave west through the lunchtime crowd to a quiet corner restaurant tucked between two office towers. Inside, a host leads us to a small table near the back. I slip off my coat and sit across from him, still shaking my head.

"I still can't believe I ran into you," I say.

"Manhattan is a big place," he says. "Apparently not big enough."

A server drops menus and a water pitcher. We glance down, but I barely read it. My attention keeps drifting to the man across from me.

"So," Craig says, setting his menu aside, "Texas?"

I nod.

"That's a long way from home."

"It is. But I like it. Slower pace. Warmer winters. People talk to each other in grocery lines."

"New Yorkers do that too," he says.

"Only when they're flipping you the bird," I joke.

He laughs. "And you're really a critical care nurse?"

"Yep. ICU."

"That sounds...intense."

"It can be. But it's meaningful. Some days are hard. When someone walks out who almost didn't...it's worth the effort."

He nods. "That sounds more fulfilling than staring at markets all day."

"You chose that life," I say.

"I did."

"And as I recall--Princeton?"

He raises his eyebrows. "You remember that too?"

"You talked about it constantly senior year."

"You're right," he says, smiling. "I went to Princeton. Economics undergrad, then a master's in finance."

"And now you're on Wall Street."

"Guilty," he says. "Hedge fund manager."

I nod. "Money Boy."

He rubs his forehead. "That name will haunt me forever, won't it?"

"Absolutely."

Our food arrives, and we eat for a few minutes. The conversation centers around the strangeness of the afternoon.

"So," he says, setting his fork down, "are you... married?"

I expected the question, but it still flips my stomach. "No. Soon to be divorced."

"I'm sorry," he says.

"It's okay. It's the right decision. Just... difficult."

He hesitates. "I'm divorced too."

"Really?"

"Two years now. We have two kids."

I smile. "How old?"

"Ten and seven."

"My daughter Clarissa is nine."

His face brightens. "You have a daughter?"

"Best thing in my life. She's with her dad this week."

"I bet she keeps you busy."

"You have no idea."

He leans back, studying me with a quiet expression. "You know, I always wondered what happened to you after graduation."

"You could have looked me up," I say, teasing.

"I probably should have."

I smile, but something in me tightens. Something very uncomfortable hangs between us. I know he feels it. It's something long ago, a wound that healed but never fully forgotten. So far, it remains unspoken. The memories swirl inside my head.

Football games, late night calls, when life once felt certain. And the night we crossed a line. My parents out. A few friends over that turned into too many. Beer on the cushions. Ash burns in the carpet. My parents will be furious. We slip into my room. It's brief, awkward, over too fast. The condom vanishes. My period is late. My future ruined. Terror and shame working together. My parents will disown me. I tell Craig, and he steps back.

"Kiva, we can't see each other anymore," he said then.

We break up before prom. My period comes. Relief doesn't fix the hurt.

Craig drops his eyes to the table now, as if he's about to speak and can't find the words. The unfinished part of us sits there on the table between the water glasses like an invisible weight.

He lifts his glass. "To unexpected reunions."

I touch mine to his. "To New York City."

He invites me to dinner two evenings from now. I say yes. Maybe I want to know more about his life. Maybe I'm still holding on to some small hope for an apology.

We trade phone numbers and part outside. He disappears toward Wall Street. I head back toward my hotel, my awe at the city tempered by the shock of seeing him. Still, I'm fascinated by what might lie ahead. I cross a street, wondering what any of this means. Did fate bring us together for a reason? Did--

"Oomph!"

A shoulder clips mine and spins me sideways.
"Oh my goodness. I am terribly sorry."

The woman steadies me with surprising strength, one gloved hand light on my forearm. She looks to be in her seventies, yet she carries a forceful presence. Silver gray hair is swept into an elegant shape that exposes pearl earrings. A camel cashmere coat fits her like it's made for her.

"No, that's my fault," I say, though I'm not sure it's true.

She smiles. Her face carries its age without apology; the fine lines around her eyes and mouth read as a life fully lived. None of it diminishes her beauty. If anything, it deepens it. She exudes composure. Her voice is low and calm. I feel a sudden, inexplicable affinity.

"For a moment," she says, "I thought you're about to step into traffic."

I laugh, a little embarrassed. "I think this street breaks my brain."

"Yes," she says, smoothing a cuff. "New York can do that."

We part. As she slips back into the current, something glints near the toe of my boot.

A bracelet.

It lies on the concrete with a shimmer of sunlight. Heavy gold links are threaded together. Not costume jewelry. I pick it up and feel its weight in my palm.

"Wait!" I call.

She's already halfway down the block.

What surprises me isn't the distance so much as the speed. She threads through the crowd with fluid certainty, her camel coat swaying as businessmen, delivery workers, and tourists part around her. Nothing in her stride looks rushed, yet she covers ground remarkably fast, like a panther gliding through tall grass.

I tighten my grip on the bracelet and hurry after her.

"Excuse me...sorry...coming through."

I sidestep a family on the sidewalk, nearly level a man staring into his phone, and hop over the legs of a homeless man sleeping on a steamy grate. The woman never looks back. I catch flashes of silver hair. With each glimpse, she's farther ahead.

She slips beneath the awning of a black tower. Above the entrance, brass letters read:

MOLL TOWER

She vanishes inside.

"Hey--wait!"

I lunge and catch the glass door with my palm before it seals. The security man is distracted, talking to man in a three-piece suit. The lobby's quiet feels like a sanctuary compared to the noisy street.

Everything gleams in here. Cream and charcoal marble. Light sparkling from delicate chandeliers. Waterfalls moving over stone pools. The air smells faintly of sandalwood.

At the far end, I spot her moving toward a frosted glass door framed in gold. She opens it with an access card and disappears through it. I hurry and catch the door on the close. A brass plaque reads:

DAVE MOLL MEMORIAL WOMEN'S GYM
PRIVATE
MEMBERS ONLY

I slip through the sideways, the frame pushes on my shoulder. Inside, the warm air and low music is immediately soothing.

It's a gym, though unlike any I've seen. Carpeted floor stretches wall to wall. Recessed amber lights glow overhead. Women in immaculate athletic wear move between state of the art chrome equipment. Attendants carry rolled white towels like offerings of hors d'oeuvres. Where do all these beautiful women come from? Are they all wealthy?

Down a hallway, the silver haired woman waits at an elevator.

"Excuse me," I call.

She turns. Up close, her confidence and composure are even more striking.

"You dropped this," I say, holding out the bracelet.


For the first time, surprise flickers across her face.

"My bracelet!" She touches her bare wrist and laughs. "I wondered why I felt incomplete."

I step closer and place the gold into her hand. Our fingers touch. Her eyes meet mine, and I'm more curious than ever about her backstory.

"You chased me three blocks for this?" she asks.

"I wasn't sure how else to get your attention," I say.

"Well, dear," she says, "most people in Manhattan would sell it by now. Thank you. Bless you."

She smiles. "If you'll excuse me, honey, I must get to work," she says, and turns into the elevator.

She works here?

I turn back toward the lobby, still absorbing the opulence. Who is Dave Moll? Why a women's gym?

"Excuse me," a stern, bespectacled security uniform-clad woman  calls from behind a desk. "This is a private club. Do you have a membership?"


"Uh, no," I answer. I'm only in town for a few days. Do you offer temporary guest memberships? How much does a membership cost?"

"No, we don't," she says matter-of-factly. "Membership is by invitation only."

"Really? Who does the inviting? Who would I need to talk to?"

She looks irritated. "How did you get in here? You're not a fighter, are you? You need to leave now."

"A fighter?" I ask. "This gym is for female fighters? Like boxing? MMA?"

She reaches for my arm. "I'll walk you out," she grumbles.

"Wait," I tell her. "I'm not a professional fighter, but I do have this." I scramble through my hand bag, retrieving my catpin. "Does this count?"

"Is that a catpin?" she asks. "May I see it?"

I hand it over and she examines it as if she were determining the authenticity of an archeological artifact.

"Do you have photo ID?"

I give her my Texas drivers license. She spends several seconds squinting her eyes, alternating between the license and my face.

"Please take a seat and wait here," she instructs. She turns and abruptly leaves with my catpin and license and disappears down the hallway toward the elevator.

She returns a few minutes later. "Someone will be with you shortly."

Thirty minutes have passed and I'm still waiting in a chair near the desk by the entrance. I assume I'm being considered for membership and I'm excited about the prospect of working out in this gym. The equipment looks very contemporary and top of the line. The women here are gorgeous. Are they fighters? I wonder.

Finally, the elderly woman who lost her bracelet returns. She must be heading back out to the street. No, she's heading right toward me.

"Kiva Sheppard?" she asks with a beaming smile while holding out her hand for me to shake.

"Yes," I reply as I stand and take her hand.

"So, you're the woman who returned my bracelet. It's so nice to learn the name with the face."

 "My name is Cynara. Please follow me. The Molls would like to meet you."

"Really," I respond dumbfounded. "The Molls? As in Dave Moll, the name on the door? Do they own Moll Tower? Who are they? Are they approving me for the gym membership?"

"Well, yes," she answers. "You may use the gym. But they wish to speak with you about other matters. Please come this way."

I'm now officially nervous. The family that bears the name of this building wants to speak with me? Cynara can detect my slight unease. We walk to the elevator and she ushers me inside, her hand gently resting on my shoulder. She uses her knuckle, not her finger to press the button for the 78th floor. I notice some moderate arthritis in her hand.

The floor rises and we watch the numbers flash during the ascent: 17, 39, 43. Air from the ceiling vent loosens my hair and I automatically tuck it back. We give each other a silent awkward look. She smiles faintly at me.

At floor 78, the elevator chimes, and the car comes to a standstill. For a few moments, nothing moves. Then the door opens and the 78th floor appears. Cynara takes my hand and we step forward.

The hallway floor is lush carpet and walls are adorned with muted art. The air smells like lemon scented wood polish. "Don't be nervous, Kiva," Cynara tells me. "I think you'll like the Molls."

We reach a pair of tall walnut doors, the kind that imply importance. Cynara gives me another half-smile and presses the bar, causing the doors to swing inward.

The boardroom appears like a stage after the curtain pull. There is a long mahogany table running nearly the length of the room. The far wall is all window overlooking the city far below. A chandelier with its crystal lights dimmed floats over the table.

The walls are lines with framed vaguely familiar still black and white photos of women in bikinis, fighting or wrestling in a carpeted room. In most photos, their bodies are tangled or applying holds; their teeth gritted, their faces expressive of anguish or the joy of inflicting punishment.

My attention, however, is drawn to a large 4 x 3-foot oil paint portrait on the other end of the wall. I feel it more than I see it. For a moment, I wondered if the temperature in the room dropped.

The overall tone of the painting is a murky gray. The brush strokes are indistinct as if the artist deliberately intended to portray the subject in mystery and obscurity. The man in the portrait is in a three-quarter turn position. His hair is black and brushed back. The eyes are deep set and shaded so you could barely see them. The bridge of the nose is straight; the cheekbones are square. The mouth is a thin straight line with no smile or obvious signs of displeasure, as if the man refuses to declare himself as warm or cool.

The suit is nearly black, perhaps mixed with a touch of indigo. The tie is a small knot against a white collar, but even the white seems to have been dirtied with a touch of umber, as if the artist is saying that truth about this man has been filtered. The background is gray and smoky, with a hint of something like a curtain behind him, as if he stepped out of a stage he had built for himself and refused to leave. The frame is dark wood. Beneath it is a brass plaque:

DAVE MOLL
1941 - 2019

At the near end of the table sits a well-dressed, middle-aged man, with mildly graying black hair. His hands are placed on an opened laptop in front of him. When we enter, he rises in a smooth, courteous motion.

Next to the man is a woman who appears to be in her fifties. Her hair is obviously colored dark as it gracefully falls to her shoulder. Her makeup and lipstick are flawless for her skin tone and features. Her charcoal business suit and pumps give her a distinct air of confidence and authority.

Across the table are two elderly women, each dressed with the quaint elegance of Cynara. Their hair is arranged with the same practical grace. One has her glasses folded atop a stack of papers; the other holds a coffee mug resting on a perfectly centered thin cork coaster. They feel familiar to the room, like fixtures who have always belonged here.

"Kiva Sheppard?" the man says, holding out his hand. "Thank you for coming. I'm David Moll Jr."

"And I'm Davidia Moll," the dark-haired woman says. "But you may call me Vi."

"Of course, our father was Dave Moll, who you see here in the portrait," the man says.

 Some ego, I'm thinking - naming a son and daughter after yourself.

"You've already met Cynara," he continues. He points to the two older women. "This is Denise...and this is Molly." We nod and exchange pleasantries.

"Ms. Sheppard, you're probably wondering why we called you here" the man says.

"Is it the gym membership," I ask.

"Well, yes. You will receive an access card to use any time you are in New York. It will also include use of our gym in Los Angeles. But there is more we'd like to discuss with you. Please sit down."
 
Cynara directs me to a chair at the table as she seats herself next to me.

"But before we start, we see you live in Texas. What brings you to the Big Apple?"

"I'm here for a nursing conference," I answer.

"You're a nurse?" he asks with raised eyebrows.

"That is correct."

"Excellent, excellent That's wonderful." I notice each of them nodding enthusiastically, looking at each other with half smirks as if to say, "We just hit the jackpot with this one."

"So, Kiva...may we call you Kiva? While you were waiting at the gym, we had a chance to review some of your fights through the catpin website. You're an excellent striker, still a little green with grappling."

"I'm working on it," I interject.

"Very good...Kiva, we would like to make a proposal."

I look at him intently.

"Are you familiar with the term 'Apartment House Wrestling,'" he asks.

"I've heard of apartment wrestling," I reply. "Isn't that just a slightly milder form of catfight in an apartment or a living room?"

"Well, yes," he answers. "That term gets used widely today, but it was all started by my father over fifty years ago right in this city. You see, Dad didn't just promote apartment wrestling. He invented it. Do you recognize these photos on the wall?" He asks.

"I think I saw them on the internet," I respond. "Didn't they come from some old pro wrestling magazine in the '70s?"

"You are correct," David Moll replies. Sports Review Wrestling covered Dad's matches. "Look up there," he says pointing at the photos on the wall. That's Tiffany vs. Marguerita...over there is Barbara vs. Susan...and that one is Cynara vs. Jenny."

"That's you?" I ask the old woman.

"It sure is, Dear," Cynara smiled.

"So, let me get this straight," I say. "Your father was a wealthy man who recruited women to fight in bikinis in apartment buildings?"

"They were high-rise penthouses," Moll answers. "And he didn't always recruit them. Sometimes the women came to him."

"Our father was a great man," Vi adds. "He was a man of vision. In many ways, he was far ahead of his time. It was much different in the 1970's. Women fighting was taboo. Even Dad never dreamed female boxing, wrestling and MMA would become mainstream like it is today. You see, Dad was fond of saying, "There is a fighter in every woman."

"And boy was he right!" she continues. "In his day, when female combat was repressed, Dad offered them a way they could follow their natural instincts and go toe-to-toe. He gave them a environment where they could let out their aggression and fury and not worry about being judged and stigmatized.

"Women from all walks of life competed in the apartments. There were models, aspiring actresses, teachers, socialites, hair dressers, secretaries, musicians... just about anyone. Some wanted to test themselves. Others had grudges to settle. Some fought over men. We've had wives vs. mistresses, an heiress against a gypsy; some fought over modeling contracts and film roles, employees fought former bosses, I could go on and on."

"My point," says Vi, "is Dad gave women an opportunity to give expression to what was already there. Women came here very freely and were never coerced."

"Why were the women always in bikinis?" I ask. "Weren't they topless or nude sometimes?"

"That's a very good question," David replies. "You see, Dad recognized the connection between fighting and sensuality and felt it should be explored. Again, he was ahead of his time. Look at the WWE where women wrestlers are almost naked. He knew since ancient times that art depicted the eroticism of the female form locked in a combative struggle. Women fighting has always been mixed with sexuality."

Vi joins in. "People who don't understand say Dad was a sleazy misogynist. That's far from the truth. Dad gave both men and women what they wanted. Let's be honest. Men are turned on by women fighting and many women love the added excitement of male spectators."

"So," I ask, "Has apartment house wrestling been operating since the 1970s."

"Well, not quite," David answered. "By the early '80s, it slowed down considerably. Matches were less frequent. The magazine stopped covering it. Dad's time was taken up by other concerns. Occasionally, he'd arrange a match at the request of two women who wanted to settle it on the carpet or he would sporadically arrange an event."

"It never went away completely," Vi explains. "Over the years, many producers tried to replicate what my father had done. They even called it 'apartment wrestling. But none ever came close to what he created. Imagine two women in bikinis locked in a primal furious struggle in an empty carpeted room in a penthouse suite high above the city in front of rich and powerful elite men. There was never anything like it before or after."

"Dad didn't realize that what he started was historic and iconic," David informs. "Over fifty years later, people still talk about the matches, photos can be found all over the internet, the magazines are now collector's items, and countless production companies and works of art have been inspired by it."

 "Dad was very influential in the finance world and had many powerful contacts. At the height of the '70s, Dad's clients of spectators included corporate leaders, high ranking government officials, foreign presidents, members of royal families, giants in the entertainment world. They'd sit side-by-side in the penthouse watching the ladies battle."

"So, when he passed away," David continues, "we received cards, letters, and emails from people all around the world saying how much apartment house wrestling meant to them. Many begged us to hold regular matches again. Women contacted us asking to compete. People realized that nothing matches the Dave Moll brand of Apartment House Wrestling."

The conversation switches back to Vi. "So, several years ago, David and I decided to resurrect regularly scheduled matches here in this building. The original building no longer exists but we've replicated the apartment rooms. Wrestlers usually wear bikinis. Same loose rules. Most matches end in submission or inability of one wrestler to continue."

"We have updated the operation to the 21st century digital age," she continues. "Our events are held live in front of spectators, but paying clients may watch on a livestream."

"What happened to the elite powerful men?" I ask.

"Well, David answers, "We reached out to Dad's original clients who are still alive and invited them back. But through word of mouth and our current contacts through Moll Enterprises, we now have a large and growing list of clients. We don't mean to be snobby elitists but membership to view the matches both online and live must be approved by us and carries a steep fee. Although the world has changed a lot in fifty years, some of our clients could get into serious trouble with their families, careers, or culture if they were found to be associated with us. So, we place a very high premium on privacy and security. We need to keep our standards for membership high."

"There's been one other major change," Vi adds. "Let's face it. Dad ran a Boy's Club. His clients were entirely male. That's because he was a product of his time. Women's Lib was just getting started. The Equal Rights Amendment was new. Well, today, women are heavily involved in the production of Apartment House Wrestling. We have a Board of Directors with eight members: four men and four women. Cynara, Denise, and Molly were among our original wrestlers. Cynara is our match coordinator and talent recruiter, Denise runs our West Coast branch, and Molly is head of our IT support. And...I'd like to add that a third of our clients are now women and that number is growing."

"So, Kiva," David says with all eyes in the room looking at me. "In addition to the gym membership, we'd like to offer you a spot on our roster of apartment house wrestlers. We know you live in Texas, but whenever you can work it out, you are welcome to come here to compete. Of course, we will pay for your travel expenses.

"Just think," he continues. "You will part of a very rich and storied tradition. You will be part of a linear link with these three great women. You might meet some extremely influential people. But most of all, you will be competing against other women who will test you to your limit. Haven't you ever wondered what it'd be like to ground some woman into the carpet of a high rise so tall that the people on the street looked like tiny specks?"

I wasn't about to tell him that I was once grounded into my own living room carpet for six hours.

"Well...um...OK," I tell him. "This gives me something to think about. It sounds...interesting. I think I might try it."

"Very good," David replies. "Now, we have a special favor to ask of you."

My heart pounds. What favor could they possibly want from me?

"Is there any chance you could fight here in two nights?"

Holy Crap, I was not expecting that? "Saturday night?" I'm thinking, remembering I have a date with Craig.

"Yes," he replies. "You see, one of our wrestlers had an accident and broke her wrist and we need a replacement. We realize this is a lot to ask on short notice."

He explains. "We planned a match between two women: Courtney and Jennifer. Jennifer is a nurse like yourself. These two competed in a bikini wrestling match for a production company. Courtney won the match, though under controversial circumstances. Her husband Bill refused Jennifer a rematch. Two other nurses, both colleagues of Jennifer, challenged Courtney to avenge their friend and colleague. Courtney defeated both of them as well."

"Cynara found out about it. So, we've been trying to get Courtney and Jennifer to settle it once and for all in the apartment. It took a while. Courtney's husband negotiates for her and frankly, he's a pain in the ass. The fight was set for Saturday, but Jennifer is out due to a freak accident while training. Courtney and Bill are here in town, but we don't have an opponent for her."

"When we heard you were a nurse," Vi says, "we thought...perfect!"

"Just think about it," David adds, "The Nurse Killer vs. The Killer Nurse. Imagine how that will sell."

They all smile and nod enthusiastically.

Oh great, I'm thinking. Another nurse stereotype to promote a fight.

"Um...I don't know," I said. "I have plans for Saturday night. I'll need some time to process this."
"We understand," Vi says. "We're giving you temporary access to our website, like our members. It's good for 48 hours. You can view some of our recent matches and look at the profiles of the wrestlers. You will find some information on Courtney. Look, David is right. Her husband is obnoxious and he's been accused of being a distraction to Courtney's opponents. So, he will not be present at the match. He will not be permitted in the building. He will be watching on his temporary livestream."

"We just need your final answer by noon tomorrow," David informs me.

"Fine," I reply.

We all rise and shake hands as Cynara leads me out of the boardroom and back to the elevator. I descend back down the 78 floors. I'm physically and mentally exhausted. I'm too tired for walking and marveling at the city, childhood memories and Craig.

I take a yellow taxi back to my hotel.

Overwhelmed with fatigue, I quickly change and crash into bed. I awake several hours later - 11 p.m. I pour myself a Chardonnay and turn on my lap top and log onto the Apartment House Wrestling website.  Now where is that access code? Here! The website homepage appears with a montage of bikini fighters past and present locked in primal struggles. I begin to watch some of the taped matches.

Melody, an apparently affluent blonde, takes on the Latina Ava, her former housekeeper. In the pre-match interviews, Melody claims Ava was a lazy bum who lied about the amount of work she did and Melody is about to execute justice with a good whooping. Ava counters that Melody was a temperamental mean-spirited bitch who constantly abused her verbally. Melody is bigger, but Ava looks intense.

The fight is wild. Melody, in her gold-colored bikini, comes out aggressively, and uses her size advantage to control Ava on the carpet. The blonde traps her with a body scissors hold but Ava manages to squeeze out of it and escapes using a hair pull. The fight is low on technique and high on release of aggression as both women slap, kick and trade positions. Finally, with both women exhausted, Ava has Melody exhausted in a side headlock. Melody desperately thrashes, using what energy she has left. Ava hooks her leg around Melody's and sends them both crashing to the floor. Ava lands on top of the blonde's chest, pinning her arms to the carpet. Melody squirms and struggles, then goes limp in surrender. As she lies on the carpet, sobbing and her chest heaving, Ava spits, "Consider this my official notice!"

The next match promises to be even more intriguing. Vanessa, a tall thin brown-haired woman with a ponytail stands in a graceful straight posture in her blue bikini. She is a ranger with the National Park Service. Opposite her, Riley is a younger but smaller rough looking unkept brunette woman with an intense expression and black bikini that matches her hair. In the pre-match interviews, Vanessa seems calm and analytical, saying she is there to test herself and step out of her comfort zone. She claims she is accustomed to handling wild animals, especially bobcats, and she is well prepared for Riley. Riley says she grew up in poverty and wants to make a life for herself. She adds Vanessa is standing in her way and will pay the price.

The match starts. Riley lunges furiously with her hands clawing. The park ranger stumbles as Riley shoves her against the wall. The younger woman lands several blows, before slamming Vanessa's head against the dry wall. The taller woman absorbs the assault and manages to grab Riley's wrist and apply a wrist lock.

Vanessa moves away from the wall, taking Riley with her by the wrist. However, Riley twists free, drops and tries to sweep Vanessa's legs. However, the ranger sees it coming and steps out of the way. The next several minutes are cycles of Riley's furious bursts and Vanessa fending off most of the damage. Both women look fatigued and it appears to be a battle of attrition. Vanessa seems to be changing her strategy and is keeping distance from Riley rather than meeting her attacks head-on. As Riley charges again, Vanessa sidesteps, giving her a shove that sends the aggressive woman sprawling on the carpet.

Riley rises, breathing hard, frustration on her face. She launches a final desperate attack aiming for a hair-pull and a takedown. This time, Vanessa catches her in a clinch, wrapping her arms around the neck and head in a well-placed sleeper hold. She slowly, methodically lowers Riley to the carpet with an air of quiet strength, not rage. Riley fights, bucking and twisting like a trapped bobcat, until movement seeps out of her. Vanessa looks like she's speaking softly to her, like she's quieting a wild animal. After a moment, Riley stops moving. Vanessa releases the hold and looks down on her panting, groggy defeated opponent. She graciously, offers her a hand. Slowly, Riley accepts it as Vanessa helps her up. It was a great fight and at least one person at the event shows class.

I look for information on Courtney but I can't find much. She's younger than me at age 25. We're both the same height and weight at 5'7" and 128 lb. She's been described as both a beginner and well-versed in judo. So, which one is it? I see the announcement for the fights on Saturday. There's a notice that the Courtney vs. Jennifer match has been cancelled and further information will be pending. I find a new short video posted under Courtney's account. I click it to see the image of a young thin woman with black hair and an overside hoodie sitting next to a balding middle-aged man.

That must be Bill, I tell myself. He looks at least twice her age. I click the play button.

Oddly, Courtney does no speaking. She sits quietly while Bill rambles.

"Well, it's no surprise that Jennifer chickened out again," he starts. "She even faked an injury this time. Well, I don't blame her. She knows my Courtney will humiliate her again. She keeps sending her nurse buddies to do the job she failed at. And how did that turn out? Those nurses left with their tails between their legs and their dignity in tatters."

I pause the vid. I'm still not sure I want this fight. I know nothing about Courtney or any of her opponents. Were these nurses any good? Perhaps I should just spend a quiet evening with Craig hoping an old gaping wound might heal. But what if it doesn't. I restart the video and listen to Bill's grating voice.

"And now, I hear there's a nurse from Texas here in town and she might want to fight my Courtney. What's her name? Kiva or something like that? Well, if Nurse Kiva knows what's good for her, she'll take the next plane back to Texas and stay the hell out of the Moll building. If she shows up, she'll be next to lie flat on her back with her toes and tits pointing up after Courtney gets done with her. She'll go back to Texas as a tearful little girl, back to her job wiping asses and emptying bedpans, and getting banged by doctors inside the call rooms. Yeah, we know what nurses really get paid to do. When Bill Hughes says something, you can guarantee it."

I try not to get upset, but my blood is boiling by the second.

Tomorrow, I give a talk to a ballroom full of ICU nurses. I read through my notes:

"At the bedside, the nurse manages veno-venous ECMO as a temporary lung replacement, maintaining circuit integrity and gas exchange minute to minute. Verify cannula position and securement (e.g., dual-lumen right IJ or femoral-femoral configuration), monitor pump speed (RPM) and resultant blood flow (L/min), and titrate sweep gas flow and FiO₂ across the oxygenator to target PaO₂/PaCO₂ while minimizing ventilator-induced lung injury with ultraprotective settings. Continuous assessments include pre- and post-oxygenator pressures to track transmembrane pressure (delta-P) for early clot detection, mixed venous saturation trends, hemolysis markers (plasma-free hemoglobin, rising K⁺), and anticoagulation via anti-Xa or aPTT to balance thrombosis versus bleeding risk. Inspect for circuit chatter, tubing kinks, and heat-exchanger performance to maintain normothermia, manage volume status to preserve venous return and prevent suction events, and coordinate gas sampling from the oxygenator pigtails to validate effective CO₂ clearance. During mobilization or imaging, stabilize the circuit, alarms, and cannula sites, keep emergency clamp and hand-crank protocols ready, and collaborate with perfusion and intensivists to adjust parameters in real time--each intervention aimed at sustaining adequate oxygen delivery (DO₂) and carbon dioxide removal while protecting fragile native organ function."

I stare at Bill and Courtney's image on my laptop.

"You motherfuckers!"

Slowly, I grasp my cell phone and hold it face up in the palm of my hand. My fingers begin the text.

"Craig, there's been a change of plans for Saturday night."

To be continued

The story of Courtney and Jennifer appears here:
https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=120905.0

[peregrine]

Can't wait for part 2!

[MikeHales67]

Love the mash-up!

[Tiberius J.C.]

Wonderful set-up. The awkward, poignant reunion with your old flame. The situation developing with your ex's new woman. And now, stung professional pride - and it's a profession of which you are (rightly) proud. Inordinately proud, but, I repeat, rightly. I've seen the professionalism, kindness and intellectual qualities of nurses close-up in recent years, and I have massive respect for the whole profession. I love nurses. Go get her, Kiva! Make her grovel. Make her cry. Make her recant.

[Tiberius J.C.]

BTW - do any of the older women in the club still fight? I have to ask. That would be something. 

[bigfan877]

Another Great Kiva story,

I realize reading you are a true writer, sadly I write like the play by play announcer and bit color commentary. Though I do wonder if Joining Moll Productions will that be an issue getting into the Valkyrie's Palace back in Texas. I would think those could be two rivals.

[Silent Watcher]

After years of reading the Journal I think I know where this is going. And I absolutely love it 
It's good to have you back Kiva, I hope you teach Courtney a painful lesson about disrespecting the health personnel.

[Silent Watcher]