BETSY KANE (44) VS TANK JOHNSON (19)
Betsy Kane looked at her boss with total disbelief.
“I don’t understand, I mean, why me?” She was close to tears.
John, her manager struggled to find the words he needed.
“I’m sorry, Betsy, it’s a tough time for all of us. You’re not the only one you know, I’ve had to lay off a few good lads from the machine shop so don’t go feeling all sorry for yourself.” He stood up and came from around the large desk.
“Fifteen years I have given you and this company, you prick. A lousy two thousand is all you offer me.” She was starting to get angry.
“Hey now, look, no need for that. Take me for example, I am down to only three cars right…..”
He didn’t see it coming and it took him off his feet and into a filing cabinet. She shook her head and walked out of the office.
She felt good, she had wanted to punch him for years but she worried that he would call the cops. Nah, she had enough on him and he knew it. His faithful secretary and PA for years, she knew all his dirty secrets.
She walked to her car and stood there. What the fuck was she going to do now, she wondered. She had a mortgage to pay and debts that she had run up with various store cards.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…..shit.” She banged her fists on top of the car. She stopped and looked at her fists. It had felt good to hit him, really good. She tried to remember a conversation she’d had a few months before. Janice, a friend of hers from London, had mentioned that good money could be made in some of the gentlemen’s clubs, all she had to do was step up and fight another woman. How hard could it be. She had no idea.
She got in the car and drove off.
For a few days afterwards it was all that she could think about. She kept looking at her fists. She was in good shape, she thought, as she checked herself in the mirror. Very good shape. She ate carefully and didn’t drink…too much. Fuck it. Why not, she thought.
She flicked open her mobile and scrolled down her contacts and came to Janice’s number. She called….
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A few days later Betsy met Janice. She had asked her friend to travel the fifty miles or so to meet her. Now they sat in a relatively quiet pub, drinks sorted, she took a deep breath and nodded.
“Are you completely sure about this? You will get one chance to prove yourself, if you back out or fuck it up then my name will be shit. Don’t you dare do that to me or I will smash your face in. We are friends but this is my living, I won’t let you….”
“Easy, Janice, relax. I want this, I need the money.” Betsy put her hand on the top of Janice’s.
“Alright, I’ll set it up. I just hope you know what you’re getting into. These girls are not the local pissheads and idiots outside the pubs, these girls are pro fighters and brawlers, they fuck people up for fun.”
“I’m ready, trust me, I want this.” Betsy hoped that she actually believed the words she was saying.
Janice looked at her friend and wondered if she would be alive for too much longer.
--
Three days later and Janice drove her friend to a high class and exclusive club in london. An immaculately tailored doorman came out and guided them around to the service entrance. No women had ever been permitted through the front doors in nearly three hundred years, that tradition wasn’t about to change.
They drove into a small alleyway, two large and armed guards. Janice told Betsy not to look directly at them, they don’t like it and consider it threatening.
Betsy wondered what kind of men needed that level of protection.
They were shown through to a small room. Betsy put her bag down.
“This is it. Make or break.” Betsy said.
“Yeah, it’s the break part I’m worried about, this girl you’re fighting, she’s young but she has smashed the fuck out of eight other fighters, one of them can no longer eat solid food.
“How do you know that?” Betsy said, opening her bag.
“This is a small world, the fight world. Trust me, I get to hear things. Now get ready, these are not the people to be kept waiting.”
Betsy changed into black shorts and a small black top, she felt good in this outfit. She threw some punches and warmed up.
A loud knock on the door….Janice looked at Betsy.
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The Forston Halls Gentleman’s Club was a place of elite and high placed people, they were the richest and the best of the best. At least two members of the royal family came here to drink and do whatever else in complete anonymity.
The stage for this event was a small ring, about 2/3rds the size of a normal ring. Chairs, stalls and benches surrounded the ring, you got the impression that these events were commonplace. The place was packed to capacity. The current Prime Minister rubbed shoulders with an African warlord and they both left their differences behind to focus on the evening’s entertainment.
Tank Johnson came in first. 19 yrs old and already a brutal and experienced fighter. She was dressed in camo gear and that was her gimmick, thrown out of the army during basic training for punching the teeth in of her female drill instructor she now wore it as a reminder of her ability to fuck people up. She climbed through the ropes and shadowboxed around the ring. The audience had seen her fight a few months before and it was on that night that she had pulverised the jaw of a lovely young woman who wanted a thrill in her life. She was now on liquid foods for life.
Johnson stood and waited for her opponent….
She didn’t have to wait long..
Betsy came through large double doors and into the massive hall, applause and cheers, boos and jeers….they wanted blood and Betsy could sense that they wanted hers. She looked at the ring, she saw the young woman smiling and waiting for her to arrive, like a lamb to the slaughter….
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