"Land of the free, my arse," I thought, sitting on a barstool sipping a diet fucking coke.
Twenty-one
Twenty-bloody-one!
Twenty-bloodyfucking-one!
That's the drinking age in this country! What the fuck is this, something out of ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’? I'm twenty years old, back home, I've been drinking alcohol legally for two years; the drinking age is eighteen, sixteen if parents accompany you, and you can be in a pub from the age of five! Obviously, if accompanied by parents, you can't walk in by yourself. But in freedumbland, as Sam, my boyfriend, calls it, it’s twenty-bloody-one! I'm trying not to take it out on the bartender; it's not her fault, I know. She, Lisa, according to the nametag, seemed nice enough when we’d had 'The Conversation', I'd had it a few times. I was getting the hang of it.
"Are you Australian?"
"No, English".
"Oh, love the accent!".
I did feel like pointing out that no, you’ve got the accent. I speak the language. But no. I’m English, I'm polite.
Then the questions. A summary.
No, we don't live in houses like that on Downton Abbey; only very rich people and those related to royalty.
Yes, some parts of Yorkshire look like "All Creatures Great and Small".
I live in Manchester, Manchester City? David Beckham? Oasis? It is 100 miles north from Stratford-upon-Avon, which is a long way.
If you live in England, 100 miles is a long way, and 100 years is not a long time. Yes, I live in a house that’s over 100 years old. No, it doesn’t look anything like Downton Abbey. Sometimes I tell ‘em about a town called Newbridge, so-called because they built a new bridge there...in the fifteenth century. I like watching their jaws drop.
No, I have never met the King or the Queen. Yes, she seemed nice.
I slurped some more on my Diet Coke, waiting for Kiva. I was dressed in my red tank top and denim shorts; it was twenty-six degrees Celsius outside. And of course, I wore my newly-acquired Stetson. I looked around; unusually for a bar, it was full of women, maybe it’s normal for America. Sam woulda have stuck out like a sore thumb. There were a couple of people around my age: a blonde, a redhead and a dark-haired girl, which sounds like the start of a joke. They seemed to be having an animated discussion about something. Most were older, making it look like a Yummy Mummy Convention. Everyone was casually dressed, none were exactly glammed up. I don’t know if it’s my paranoia, but a few of them, especially the young girls, seemed to be looking at me, some approvingly, some seemed pissed at me. I hoped Kiva would explain once she got here. I'd corresponded with her over the internet, ever since I'd beaten up the poison Dwarf, Amber, and Baywatch-Babe, Tory, but I'd never met her. She'd promised me a drink, and since I was in San Antonio, I planned to collect.
Things had been going okay until now. We arrived at San Antonio International Airport and cleared immigration relatively quickly. We’re children of the twenty-twenties. In the olden times, you would do something stupid, and even if someone took a picture, it was only on a piece of paper, and it could be hidden away in a drawer. Nowadays, it’s all on social media, forever, and if employers want to look at your profile... So, Sam and I have a job social media profile and a friend's social media profile. So, my job profile is under my name, Sally Whitaker, and the stuff with my friends is under ‘SallTheHoople’. Carl, my cousin's husband-to-be, the company he works for does a profile checking service, which will run your profile and warn of any issues. We both came back clean, the only thing we couldn’t do anything about was Sam’s skin colour.
I sailed through immigration fine, then it was Sam’s turn. The officer looked at Sam’s passport. Trouble is, Sam is more political than me, he’s been on marches, and he makes smart-arse remarks. I held my breath, please don’t make a smart-arse remark, please don’t make a smart-arse remark.
“It says here you're British, you don’t look British”. The officer barked.
They meant white.
“No, my dad was from India, my mom was from Birmingham”.
“Alabama?”
“Nah, BirminGUM…”, he helpfully pronounced it like the natives, …“
Please don’t say Black Country, please don’t say Black Country…I prayed. It’s named the Black Country because of all the soot from the factories, which used to cover the place during the Industrial Revolution.
”…West Midlands, England”. Phew!
“So, you’re Indo-British?”
“No English”.
“You don’t identify as Indian?”
“No ‘cos I’m English. I was born in England”.
“You were born in England?” Yes, not in Bombay, fuckwad!
Sam, bless him, just kept smiling. I marvelled at the way that he handled it. Then I realised he'd probably had to deal with it all his life, with a lot worse. And all he does is make smart-arse remarks.
“Yeah, Selly Oak Hospital...”
"...Which, as everybody knows, Can Always Handle The Occasional Accident. ‘SOH-CAH-TOA’...". He smiled.
"...It’s a Maths mnemonic..." he explained. And yes, it’s bloody Maths ‘cos the subject covers a multitude of subjects.
He started drawing triangles and angles with his fingers on the immigration guy's desk.
"...Sine equals Opposite divided by...". He never got to finish as the guard waved him through. His mathemaphobia overcame his racism.
Gaining our freedom, we hit the shops, and I got my Stetson. I'd always wanted a proper Stetson, just like Timothy Olyphant on 'Justified' (be still my beating heart!). Then we got a hire car and drove to the hotel. In England, I can't afford the car insurance, but here I could, and the car was massive. We asked if they'd got anything smaller, but were informed it was a sub-compact! I don't think this would even fit on an English road. It was a tank and so fucking simple; two pedals, brake, and accelerator. And this automatic transmission, I've never driven one ever in my life. Wow! I was worried about having to change gears with my other hand, but no problem, it does it all for you. Slowly though.
I accelerated onto the motorway, freeway and then wondered why everyone was zooming past me. Sam looked at me and we both went ‘oh yeah’, the speed limit’s 85!! So, I hit the pedal, warp 10 engage. The rest of the drive was so bloody easy; all you do is put the car into drive and press the accelerator, and you drive in a straight line. I've never seen a road that ends in a vanishing point, but they all do here. They have driving tests in this country, but what do they test?
Let me explain. Take maybe ten, fifteen strands of spaghetti, boil them in water for ten minutes, then throw them on a plate. You now have a close approximation of an English roadmap. You are constantly turning, changing gears on your manual drive. But here you just drive towards that vanishing point. Once you figure out how to use it, you put it on cruise control, and then you can put your feet up, literally, the car's big enough to do that. It's fucking fantastic! And the half-price petrol, it's not 'gas', take it from me, I'm a Physicist, it's not a gas.
Got to the hotel, a posh one on Riverwalk, it's a canal which runs through the city. It's full of bars, shops, and scenic views. Like a cross between the Northern Quarter and Salford Quays back home, cept ‘cos it’s American, it’s bigger and newer. Did you know Texas has green plants and water? I always pictured it as a desert with these giant cactuses and Indians on horses looking out from the hills with drums going bar-bum, bar-bum. But no, it seems to have almost as much water as Manchester, without the drizzle.
We ate at the Texas Roadhouse to try some proper Texas food. I created a bit of a kerfuffle when I ordered my steak well done. Like I’d do at home, nice and brown, no blood. The waiter looked like I'd just taken a dump on the table.
"I'm sorry, miss, the cook will not guarantee the quality of the steak if you have it well done".
"Oh", weird.
"What do you recommend?". I asked.
"Medium rare". He said.
"Okay, I'll try that". When in Rome, do as the Romans do.
The steak came, pink, and I swear it had never seen a grill, let alone been on one. Sam smiled as he chewed on his ribs. He’s Hindu like I’m a Christian, i.e. only weddings and funerals, but he’s not a big beef eater, and yeah, he was quite happy about his decision when he looked at my steak. I looked at it hesitantly, expecting it to start mooing any second. When I finally got the courage to eat it, it was fucking delicious! It melted in your mouth. Like wow! I will order my steak medium rare when I get home.
We were both lagged from the flight and well-stuffed. We ended up paying by cash, we shoulda have just used a card, but they didn't do contactless! Y'know when you just tap your card on the reader and you've paid, like everywhere in the UK does, nobody has any money anymore. So, we had to scramble around with the money. I know it's normal to see foreign money as Mickey Mouse money, but this green, paper stuff, really is naff! Look at the English notes, each one is a different colour and a different size, made of a polymer, not paper. These dollars, frayed, dog-eared, worn paper, all the same size, same yucky green colour, how do you tell them apart? Cheap paper shit! They don't even have dollar coins!
The next day, we went to my cousin's wedding. Which was the excuse for the jolly. She's Catholic, so it was a Catholic wedding, which was...weird. The church, if you can call it that, was all clean and modern, made from wood. Not brick, but then it looks like all the houses are made from wood. It looked like it had been made last week instead of 300 years ago, which is normal for most churches. And the priest spoke with an American accent! I thought all catholic priests were Irish; it was a papal edict or something. And he looked like Kenny Rogers, I swear! It was a nice enough ceremony, but I wasn't convinced it was a proper Catholic one. Maybe they’d have to do a civil wedding, like they’d have to do at home.
In England, because we have the Church of England, CofE, we call it; I think the Americans have the Anglican church, which is similar. It's the official state religion. It was founded in the 500s but didn't split from the Catholic church until the 1500s, good old Henry VIII did that.
There's only two ways of legally getting married in England, civil wedding or a CofE wedding. Any English citizen has the God-given (geddit?) right to get married in a CofE church, but you have to have a CofE ceremony. So, if you're any religion other than CofE, and we have a lot of them in England, you have to have your own religion's wedding, followed by a civil ceremony. So, weddings drag on for ages.
Charlie, King Charles, is the head of the CofE, 'cos he's the head of state. But the real boss of the Church is the Archbishop of Canterbury, why Canterbury, I dunno. So, as the head of state, he doesn't do anything, 'cos he's not the head of the executive or legislative branch of government. All he has to do is leave his mace in parliament, and that gives them the authority to make laws. If someone were to nick the mace, they couldn't make any laws. Which Charlie has to sign to make them official laws. This is why we don't have civics classes in England 'cos it's all too bloody complicated!
At the wedding reception, we’d had to pretend my cousin’s parents were our guardians so we could be served alcohol. My cousin June's husband-to-be, Carl (I never had the nerve to ask if he had a sister called Claire), had done some guardianship certificates for us at work. As he explained, ‘It doesn’t have to be a proper guardianship certificate; you just have to open your mouth and hold this up. It’s got pictures and a crown, so it must be official English; they won’t argue with it. Indeed, they didn’t.
I had a mini-panic when they asked us to request a song for the DJ. I wrote 'Stumbling In by Suzi Quatro, 'cos I'm a softy. But Sam? After his experience with immigration, I was scared of what he would request, something really political. 'America Idiot' Green Day? 'John Walker Blues' Steve Earle? Something worse? He scribbled on the card with a smile on his face. He must have sensed my anxiety because he showed me the card.
"Stumbling In by Suzi Quatro and Chris Norman”
"I know how much this wedding means to you, I would never ruin it for you".
"But I didn't even think you liked the song"
He smiled, "It's corny schlocky nonsense and every time I hear it, I think of you..."
"...how could I not love it?" Then he looked at me with those big brown eyes of his, and my heart skipped a beat.
He kissed my lips. Later, we danced to 'Stumblin' In' and there may have been a load of snogging involved.
All was well and good until I had a run-in with a policeman over my crossing the road to get to the bar. Sam wanted to go to Copperhead Road, y'know the Steve Earle song, while I was meeting with my 'six-armed friend' as he called her. When I first saw the name ‘Kiva’, I thought she was Indian, y’know, like Shiva. Sam pointed out he knew all the gods, and he’d never come across a Kiva. After a bit of research, I realised she was Kiva, as in ‘Caoimhe’ as the Irish would spell it. Don't get me started on Irish spelling; it makes the Americans, with their love affair with the letter 'Z', look literate. Did you know 'Dun Laoghaire', which is the name of an actual place, is pronounced 'Done Leary'? How?
Anyway, the plan was for him to drop me off, and he would go off on his travels and pick me up later, but the bar was on the opposite side of the road. They don't seem to have roundabouts, so there was no place to turn around. I said if he dropped me here, I'd just cross the road. There were just three lanes one way, three lanes the other, with an island, a median they call it, in the middle, but not much traffic, so easy. Do it all the time in England.
When I was a kid, we used to run across the two-lane roads like this to get to the islands in the middle to get all the conkers which had fallen on the ground. Of course, I never used to throw sticks up into the trees to get the conkers down; that would be really immature and stupid.
I looked at the island. I was told later that the medians in Texas are normally immaculate, short-cut grass, very picturesque. This one wasn’t, maybe it’s the neighbourhood; uncut grass, up close to my ankles at some points, loads of weeds and a shallow ditch with mud, maybe water in it. The ditch wasn’t very wide, I figured I could jump over it easily, save getting my sandals dirty. I do it all the time at home.
“Good luck with Mary”. He said as I got out of the car.
“Mary?” I queried.
“Yeah, the Catholics worship Mary ‘cos she’s the mortal side of God and Jesus, who are unknowable beings”.
“So, like Fyrecracka is Jesus, you can’t imagine her doing anything other than kicking arse. Bet she came out of the womb, catfighting the nurse who delivered her!”.
"She probably won as well", I agreed. He did have a point.
Encouraged by my agreement, he was warming to this now. This metaphor had been in his mind, maturing, all worked out in his head. He's always been big on the philosophical stuff. I study Physics to make cool shit, he does Physics to understand reality. That is how we met, discussing whether we were all in an AI simulation. Well, actually, it was about whether you could design an experiment to show whether you were in a simulation or not. We got as far as reckoning it was something to do with Planck's constant and the need for a Heisenberg Compensator. Then the rest of the conversation got really nerdy.
He was still talking. “Kiva is someone that we mortals can recognise in ourselves. You’ve seen her go from a normal person to that kick-arse character you’ve grown to love, like you did. So, we can ask to intervene for us…”.
He stopped mid-flow. He’d seen the ‘thank you so much for psycho-analysing me’ look on my face.
“… and I bet you don’t want her to see you chaperoned by your boyfriend, do ya?” he asked.
I blushed.
No, I definitely didn't want to meet Kiva accompanied by my boyfriend; I'm supposed to be a rough, tough scrapper who does not need to be chaperoned by a boyfriend.
Sam smiled at me.
“I get ya”.
I looked over the road at the place we said we’d meet, ’The Cat Bar’. It’s a strange place to put a pub, with no buses, a taxi rank or anything. I guess they're not so bothered about drunk driving as they're only driving in straight lines.
I stood at the curb. I knew my Green Cross Code, ‘Look right, look left, look right again’. Oh Shit! They drive on the wrong side. ‘Look left, look right, look left again. ’ Got it.
So, I waited for a gap in the traffic and ran across the three lanes to the central reservation, through the unkempt grass, and jumped across the ditch. When I got to the other side, I was stopped by a policeman. What the fuck is 'Jaywalking'? I was just crossing the bloody road. What's the problem? Don't pedestrians have the right of way in this country?
I learnt later that no, there is no pedestrian right of way in the land of the free. In the UK, pedestrians have the right of way, you can cross the road anywhere you damned well like, and the cars have to stop for you. Though a word of advice from Aunt Sally: don’t run in front of moving cars, it’s not illegal, but it is stupid. Apparently, in Freedumbland you can only cross the road in permitted places.
Then I saw the massive fucking GUN!!!!
He had a GUN!!!!
He had a real fucking GUN!!!!
Look, I'm English, I've seen guns on the telly, but that's it. His gun was still in its holster, but it was still a gun, and I'd heard all the stories about American policemen. Automatically, I raised my hands as high as I could reach, standing on my tiptoes.
"Excuse me, officer, what seems to be the problem?"
"Are you English?"
Ha! My secret weapon, the English accent! Honestly, why do these drug lords bother with guns? Why don’t they just teach their people Received Pronunciation? You'd disarm cops in seconds.
"Yes"
"Oh, love the accent!"
The officer lost his shit at that point and sprayed me with questions, not bullets, thank fuck. Then we had 'The Conversation', see above. Before he left, he offered me some advice.
"You want to be careful crossing the medians, ma’am".
"Why?"
"Lucky for you, the alligators only live in the eastern part of Texas, but the medians are home to snakes".
WHAT!!! Alligators. ALLIGATORS! In the water. Like in the fucking water outside my hotel.
Hang on. Did he just say snakes?
"What snakes?" I asked.
"Round here we have copperheads, rattlesnakes and cottonmouths", he replied.
I wouldn't know any of the snakes if you dropped one on my head. Don't drop one on my head, please. In England, we have one snake, the Adder, and it’s a protected species; it’s so rare. But I knew the names from the Western movies. They're fucking lethal! You have to shoot them with a gun, but I thought they only lived in those deserts with big cactuses, which cover all the middle bit between Los Angeles and New York, the bit which isn't cornfields, anyway.
“But you better beware of the fire ants, dressed like that”. He looked down at my bare feet in my open-toed sandals.
“Fire ants?”.
Did I want to know about this?
“Yeah, Fire ants, they sting pretty bad!”
My mouth dropped. What the fucking fuck! Mutant poisonous ants! Insects are a nuisance; they’re not supposed to be deadly! I come from a place where the apex predator is the house cat! This place is full of nightmare creatures.
Is this place fucking Australia?
"Thanks", I said, "I think you've just scared me straight there". Indeed, he fucking had! I swore I would never set foot in a median ever again! I had thought they were nice green patches of land, but now I realise they’re full of deadly creatures out to kill any innocent traveller.
Satisfied with the job he had done, chuckling to himself, the Policeman let me go.
"Have a nice day", he said. Shit, they actually say that!
"Sally?"
I turned; it was Kiva. Not blue with six arms, but a pretty woman. Old, Late twenties? Early thirties? With long, dark hair and a pretty face. She was just dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants.
"Kiva? Pretty name". I complimented her.
"Yes, it's of Irish ancestry. It means beautiful, grace".
So not the goddess of vengeance and destruction that will lay waste to all of humanity, then?
She shot a look at my Coke. She seemed surprised.
“I’ve been legally drinking at home for two years. I come here and…” I pointed at my Diet Coke.
She said something to the bartender and slid a beer over to me and winked.
"If anyone asks, I'm your guardian. That's what I told the bartender".
So, I had my American beer, and at the wedding we stuck with wine and spirits. I know why now, it was the colour of a pee sample and tasted like sparkling water, I get it, it's nice in hot weather, but it’s still crap.
I think she must have picked up on my lack of enthusiasm.
"You oughta try 'Sam Adams', I used to drink it back in the day, there are places that do craft beers, but not this place". It was weird; she sounded a bit like a character out of a Stephen King novel. Eh?
"Like my hat?" I asked. “I got it at the airport".
“She looked unsure about what to say. "It looks good on you. But it does make you look like a tourist"
"But they all wear them in 'Yellowstone'", I protested.
"But that's Montana, it's a different state", she pointed out.
"But it's near here, right?"
"No". She said it with finality. It was the tone I used when somebody asked me if something they'd seen on Dr. Who was possible. It indicated I'd better stop digging the hole I'd dug for myself. That maybe I should have done a bit more Googling about the place, instead of assuming I knew everything about it from TV. I put my Stetson on the table.
"Anyways, how'ya doing?" I asked.
"Fine", she said, a very non-specific answer that would make any Englishman proud.
"I read your last adventure...cool!..."
"...I loved the 'Will and Grace' bit at the end".
I was going to say the guy out of the time-travel series 'Travelers', but I didn't want to reveal myself as a total geek so early in the conversation.
"Will and Grace bit?"
"Y'know when you and..."
"Calvin”, she supplied.
"Yeah, Calvin, went the full Meg Ryan in their guest room...".
"...I thought it was something out of Will and Grace. Y'know, they stay at a friend's house, then through a series of improbable events, have to pretend to have wild sex".
She smiled, "I get you...".
"...I underestimated how horny victory makes you...". She smiled sheepishly.
"...used to do it a lot with Tom". She said that with a tinge of sadness.
"Yeah..." I said. I could feel my face turning red, she noticed.
"You've done it too...spill the beans!" She leaned in, making it look like we were conspiring.
"My current boyfriend..." God, makes it sound like I've had loads, instead of my one and a half.
"...after I beat this fat slag Melissa at my audition. We made...fucked for the first time".
"Was it good?"
"Yes".
"Bet you've done it a few times since". She flashes me with a really dirty grin.
Yes. But I’m not gonna compare my fumbling sexual experiences with an experienced older lady, too much like discussing it with my mum. Yuck. I changed the subject quickly.
"How are you doing without Tom?"
That Tom, what a wanker! She’s moved to the other side of the USA to be with him. He’d lumbered her with a kid and then just fucked off. When I read it in her journal, I thought it was that tosser Frank framing him, but no, it was him saying that stuff, all along. He really did write all those horrible things about her. I don’t understand, where did it come from? There must have been signs.
"It's hard sometimes..."
And now the million-dollar question.
"Did he give any sign of what he was going to do?"
I wanted to know she was okay, but I also wanted to know that Sam wasn’t like that, like Josh, who started out nice but turned out to be a piece of shit. Like Tom. How do I know?
"No...". Shit.
"I...". She seemed lost in thought. I cursed myself. I let my insecurities make me drag Kiva through the failure of her marriage.
So, I thought I'd change the subject. Again.
"What is this place?"
“This is a new place, used to be the Crow Bar, it’s getting renamed the ‘Cat Bar’. The manager, Tara, is looking to open it for us, Catpiners. She's a catpiner too, so it'll be run by catpiners for catpiners. I think she's going to clean up ‘cos Billy, the guy who runs the other fight venue round here, is a money-grabbing arsehole. This is a social for us. Show us around the place. Sign up for some fights when the place is fully open. I think we’ve got all the Catpiners in the state here…”
"Hey, Luanne!" She waved at a blonde with a ponytail, jeans and a sweater. I recognised her at once, the sports mom. She looked over at us and smiled. A part of me did wonder how she could wear a sweater in this bloody weather; it must be at least 26 Celsius outside!
"You're the mysterious Brit who handed those annoying twats their asses. Pleasure to meet you". She held out her hand. I took it.
OhmyGodthisisLuanne!
She looked at the Stetson on the table and smiled.
“I’m being ironic!” I protested.
"Hey, Kiva!"
I turned to look at the figure. The lights were behind her, her body was bathed in a glow, but the blonde hair, the stars and stripes bikini top, the shorts, the sunglasses...Fyrecracka!
"You must be the Brit I've heard so much about". She held out her hand. “You've got to be one of the most intelligent unskilled brawlers I've ever seen in action".
OhmyGod was that a compliment from Fyrecracka? Unlike Kiva, she spoke like a proper American, like John Wayne.
Shit! My impostor syndrome started going into overdrive. I was sitting there with Kiva, Luanne and Fyrecracka. And they were interested in me! Me! It was weird; I knew so much about them from their journals, but they knew nothing about me.
Eventually, I went to the bar to get another round in. There was someone in my way. Destiny, I recognised her from Kiva's journal. She was a blue-eyed blonde with a ponytail and pale skin covered in tattoos. She was the chav, white trash, I always imagined her to be. She came with a posse, a weather-beaten blonde who might be her mum in a white T-shirt too small for her, and jeans, an outfit she might have looked good in twenty years ago, but now just looks sad. Next to her, a redhead in jeans and a tank top with a confederate flag on it, a couple of years older than Destiny. Next to her, a dark-haired woman in shorts and a check shirt, tied at the waist. They all seemed to be egging her on.
She was right in my face. "Kiva's your babysitter, ain’t she?" I assumed that she meant guardian, but it was probably too big a word for her. What was I supposed to say? If I said 'No,' Kiva would get done for supplying alcohol to a minor, not a good look for an ICU nurse. So,
"Yes, I'm from England. Kiva adopted me".
“Is it true you English have bad teeth?”. She demanded.
I smiled at her, showing her my white teeth, go fuck yourself.
“What’s it like living in Londonistan?”
How did a dumbfuck like her learn a big word like that? She was parroting all the talking points from the Telly station I’d listened to last night. Christ, we just wanted to watch the news, and we got this woman going on about our communist leader, our police state and how our cities are overrun by Sharia law. We watched this so-called news channel for about ten minutes, open-mouthed, before we couldn’t take anymore and changed channels. Are they allowed to spout this rubbish? I never realised how much I loved the BBC.
“Dunno, I live in Manchester”. I smiled sweetly.
“Don't y'all have to wait five years to get a boob job in your health system?
Fuck, she said ‘y’all’, I thought only John Wayne said that! I looked at her. I know she’s trying to anger me, but all she’s doing is annoying me.
“Well, generally, the NHS does not routinely fund breast enlargement surgery. It's typically considered a cosmetic procedure and is usually paid for privately. However, there are exceptions like reconstruction, if they’re deformed”
I pointedly looked at her breasts. Pushing out my own bigger, perkier pair.
“Huh, you should qualify”.
Zing. Even some of her friends sxxxxxxxed at that one. Her face went red, and you could see the steam coming out of her ears.
I gave her time to steam while I considered my next move. She’s the same height as me, muscled tatted arms, dressed in a blue sports bra, shorts, and easily removable open-toe sandals. She wasn’t dressed casually like everybody else; she came dressed for a fight. With me? Why? Make a name for yourself by beating the new girl, Kiva’s friend. I never considered option C; she's been paid by Billy to disrupt the opening of the new place. However, her motivation doesn't matter. She’s not gonna stop until she gets her fight. Fuck it, I was going to have to oblige her. But on MY terms. This bitch was trying to provoke me. Make me attack first, angry, and careless. It ain’t gonna happen, I’m trying to stall while I get myself ready and remember the Destiny story from Kiva. She's a boxer; she's fast, and it took a lot of effort for Kiva to put her down. Shit. Oh, and she fights dirty. Double shit. I have a plan, but it's nasty. I'll see how it goes.
"Didn't y'all invade Ireland and take it over. When Y'all gonna give it back?" She demanded. I never thought I would wish for someone to ask me if I was Australian.
"Probably when you lot give America back to the Native Americans?". Just saying. She fumes, more pissed off by my lack of giving a shit about what she said rather than what I said. I didn't have her down as a Native American rights kinda girl.
“My dad said, If it hadn’t been for us, you’d all be speaking German!”. Jeez, she was still going with the insults.
“Danke schön”. I replied, I could have answered her in Swahili and it woulda have had the same effect.
"You've been scared of us ever since we kicked your limey asses out of our country years ago". Nobody cares! Behold the field where I grow all my fucks. Lay thine eyes upon it and thou shalt see that it is barren.
"Yeah, and two years later, we torched Washington to the ground".
"Do What?". What a surprise, dumbfuck American doesn't know American history.
"Google the Burning of Washington". I told her.
She looked puzzled over at a redhead, who I assumed was her friend; she had to have some. The redhead looked up something on her phone. She looked surprised, nodding at Destiny.
"Did you miss that in history?" I asked.
“Y'all been stealing from us for years. Now we got a real man, Donald Trump, in charge. How do y'all like them tariffs?”
Who the fuck cares?
“Well, you were awfully grateful when we sent you all that cotton”.
“What cotton?”
I do my best schoolteacher.
“Well, during the Civil War, the South cut off Lincoln’s supply of cotton. Now, the good people of Manchester got together and provided the North with all the cotton they needed. To thank us, Lincoln sent us a statue..." I looked over at the Redhead,
“…Lincoln Square, Manchester”
Ginger looked it up and nodded. I know it’s true ‘cos I passed it for weeks, wondering who it was until I finally stopped to read the plaque. It’s a statue of Lincoln, but without the top hat and beard that every picture I’ve ever seen of him has.
"What do you think of our president?". She was challenging me to say something nasty, wasn’t she?
I took my glasses off to show her how serious I was, also distracting her from the fact that I’d removed my sandals. I handed my glasses to Kiva, who had come over to see what was happening, to witness this battle of wits with an unarmed person.
I was ready, but I couldn't resist...
“Actually, in our country, your president’s standards of careful argumentation, respect for truth, social grace and above all his staggering humility are held out as a role model for all of us. When I was a child, the phrase ‘Be a Donald’ was heard repeatedly when I was acting out”.
That fucked her. I could hear the gears grinding in her head from here. The poor dear knows she’s been insulted, but she can’t quite figure out how. The word ‘Sarcasm’ is not in the American vocabulary, is it? Dumb fuck, she’s trying to provoke a tribal culture war with a culture that doesn’t do tribal, we tried it once with Brexit and see how that turned out? We fucking invented sardonic detachment. My lack of anger was driving her mad. Good. Step one, now for Step Two. She paused, and I jumped in.
“And what’s this about the founding fathers and ‘religious freedom’?” I held up my hands in air quotes. “Yeah, they left for religious freedom – they didn't like it! Let me tell you about them. They were Puritans. Oliver Cromwell ruled over us for ten years; we had the full fucking Puritan, and he banned dancing, Christmas, and joy. When he died, we went straight out and got ourselves another king, and after that, we made sure that any fucker that mentioned religion never went near power ever again; we didn't need any 'Separation of Church and State'! No matter what the fucking bald mango Mussolini says”.
I know what you're gonna say, 'What if someone said that about your leader?' Well, I'd probably join in, and I voted for him! I have never owned a Union Jack and never had to make a creepy Hitler Youth pledge of allegiance every morning. Listen, are we perfect? No. Did we do some really shitty things in the past? Yes! But I love my country. I know that it is the best country in the world. But to say so…yuck! Countries that have to keep telling people how great they are, they're insecure. Like people who drive a big flashy car to compensate for their little dicks. It's better to be modest about your country and leave the more perceptive to appreciate its greatness for themselves.
But I had done an excellent job on her, if I do say so myself. I’d managed to slag off the Founding Fathers, religion, and the president. Light the blue touch paper and stand back for the fireworks. That ought to provoke her.
Just for good measure, I added,
”Fuck, we sent our criminals to Australia and the religious nutters to America…
“…Australia got the better deal!”
I beckon her towards me with my hands. I have a plan, I'm ready.
The dumbfuck doesn't need any encouragement, but she's fast. I barely get my head out of the way as her blow flies past my head. There’s a low murmur of excitement, and with the practiced ease of a Busby Berkley dance troupe, the crowd clears a circle for us.
I look up, and Destiny’s charging towards me. My foot in her gut stops that; she flies back.
Not taking the hint, the bitch charges towards me head down, this time.
I go to swing a haymaker at her head when someone grabs my hand. Fuck.
“It’s between them!” I hear a smack, then my hand is free. I turn round, and it’s Kiva. She punches the face of the blonde with a weather-beaten face. I think that was the blonde who put a cigarette out on her back when she boxed Destiny.
“I’ve got your back”. She tells me.
I know.
It’s weird. The last time I fought as part of a team, there was one girl I didn’t know and one I hated, not much of a team. Now, I've only known these people for an hour, but it feels like I’m part of a Team.
IDON’TFUCKINGBELIEVEIT! I'M IN TEAM KIVA!
Taking advantage of my distraction, the dumbfuck’s head crashes into my stomach. I almost gag. My head’s bent down as I clutch at my stomach.
Dumbfuck swings at my head. She connects, fuck, she hits hard. I fall to my knees. As she comes towards me, I swing my legs, she trips, crashing to her knees.
I grab the ponytail at the back of her head, and her hairband goes flying. I pull her head down and send my fist up. I hear the crunch. She moans.
I pull her head down again. My rising fist hits an eye, and I feel it squish.
The next time, my fist hits her mouth.
I pull her head back, twisting her neck so she’s facing the ceiling, ready for more pounding.
Blindly, she shoots out a jab, hitting me square in my breast. I yelp, falling back.
The bitch is getting up, holding her nose as I rise, rubbing my breast.
I move towards her.
"BITCH!"
The fact-checking ginger minger flies between us. Furiously followed by a blonde, it's Luanne. But Luanne gets sucker punched in the face, her hands get to it, while Ginger moves into attack. Pivoting on her leg, Luanne does a sweeping kick to her body. Ginger staggers. With both hands, Luanne grabs the hair at the back of her head and swigs her into the crowd. Ginger hits the crowd, and they roughly push her back towards Luanne. Luanne swings a fist to welcome her, Ginger ducks, firing a shot into Luanne’s belly. Luanne gasps, bending over, and Ginger pulls on Luanne’s ponytail, pulling her for a volley of slaps to her head and back.
Head down, Luanne grabs Ginger’s legs and yanks hard. Ginger flies back, landing with a splat on the floor.
Blondie and Kiva are circling. Kiva has her hands out like a wrestler, ready. Blondie puts her head down and quickly charges into Kiva’s stomach. Kiva is sent back into the crowd, who propel her back towards Blondie, like she's attached to an elastic band. Kiva’s out of control, and she runs straight into Blondie’s fist. Her head snaps back, and she stumbles, but stays on her feet.
Blondie hisses and grabs Kiva’s head, wrapping her up into a headlock, swinging punches into her face. And jumping on the spot, sending shocks through Kiva’s body.
Break time over, I move in to attack, someone grabs my foot. I fall flat on my face.
Shit! The thought that maybe some of the things that I said to dumbfuck haven't exactly endeared me to the audience.
Dumbfuck's up, kicking at my ribs, I moan.
Then she jumps on my back. I feel her hands reach for my mouth and then pull back hard, fish hooking me. My neck wrenches back at an impossible angle. Fuck I’m trapped. Before she can make the most of it, someone crashes into her. It’s the redhead, again. She crashes to the floor, the dumbfuck falls to the side as I buck her off.
I see Luanne dive on top of the ginger, banging her head onto the floor. Ginger pulls on Luanne’s hair, yanking her to the side. She follows through with a fist to her mouth. Luanne is knocked back. She grabs the ginger’s top and pulls her in for a punch to the jaw, her head slams back. Still holding her by the tank top, she pulls her in for another pounding. Then again.
Ginger’s lying back in Luanne’s clutches. Then suddenly her open hand grabs at Luanne’s face. She digs her fingers in, going for the eyes and squeezing Luanne’s face. Luanne screams, grabbing at Ginger’s hands. They start grappling, arms tangling.
Kiva stamps her feet on Blondie’s, who releases her headlock, and Kiva goes to work repaying the pounding. Go Girl!
The dumbfuck crowds into me. Her fists start pounding my breasts. She starts with some straight jabs, flattening them, then moves on to left and right hooks, sending them flying from side to side. She doesn’t care about a knockout; she just wants to inflict pain.
"Splat!"
"Splat!"
"Those tits aren't gonna be so purty when. I'm finished!" She promises.
The punches are mechanical, merciless. I feel like my breasts are being hit by an iron bar. I scream. I'm in agony, I don't know how much more of this I can take. Frantically, I kick, my shin crashes into her crotch, and she gasps. She backs off, rubbing at her crotch while I try to get feeling back into my agonised breasts.
She starts dancing on her feet, blowing on her fists.
"Want some more?" She asks, mockingly.
I stumble back, trying to get some distance, gather my thoughts, and I hit the crowd. I feel the hands, then a punch. I hear Fyrecracka’s voice behind me.
“I told you!”
Then I heard a slap.
Kelli, can I call her Kelli? Too informal? Swings a roundhouse slap to the cheek of a shorter Chinese girl. Is she that tart Grace, who beat Kelli up when Candace injured her? The dark-haired woman in the check shirt rushes to help her, but she’s intercepted by a Milf with auburn hair, jeans and a red American football jersey, who pulls her back by the hair.
Kelli’s slap cracks with a sharp, vicious sound, snapping Grace’s head around and bringing a squeak of pain. She responds by whipping out one hand and then the other. The explosive smacks of her palms against Kelli’s face ring out loud like rapid machine gun fire. Eager to follow up, Grace crowds forward, arms flailing. Taken aback by the onslaught, Kelli retreats. Excited yells rise from the crowd. I'm not sure if Kelli's doing this for me or to show that Grace's previous victory was a fluke, while Grace wants to prove that she deserved that victory.
Blondie is slugging it out toe to toe with Kiva. Bad decision by Blondie, Kiva’s boxing experience is showing as my girl knocks Blondie from pillar to post. She starts with body shots to disorientate her, I'm figuring later she'll move on to the head. Blondie's hand, not her fist, sails out. The fingers plunge into Kiva's eyes. Kiva screams. I hear an edge of panic in her voice. Kiva staggers away, trying to clear her eyes. Blondie growls and leaps on Kiva's back. One hand yanks her head back by the hair, the other reaches for Kiva's left breast. Blondie's bare teeth go for Kiva's ear.
Shit.
Kiva staggers under the weight of the blonde as she's savaged. She falls flat on her face with the blonde still on her back. Kiva starts throwing elbows behind her. She looks desperate. An elbow hits Blondie's eye, Blondie still has her teeth in Kiva's ear, and I can see the flesh stretch. The next elbow hits Blondie's nose, there's a crimson explosion, and it's Blondie's turn to scream. Get her girl! Kiva scrambles for Blondie's hair and pulls her off. Kiva rises first and slams a foot into Blondie's head. She falls back, and Kiva stomps Blondie's belly. Blondie rolls, the next stomp hits the floor, and Kiva curses. Desperate to escape, Blondie keeps rolling.
Kiva's stomping is interrupted by Grace, who crashes into her. Kiva is about to thump her when she sees Kelli in hot pursuit. Kiva relaxes and looks for Blondie, who is now up.
Luanne is in trouble. They’re on the floor, and the ginger has her legs wrapped around her waist, pulling her head back by the hair and using her other hand to squeeze Luanne's left tit like a scrunched-up piece of paper. Luanne is twisting frantically, sending her elbows back but not hitting anything.
Determined to give her some more, I charge back into dumbfuck, she swings, and I duck. Missing her blow, she spins around. I grab the back of her sports bra and twist. The material digs into her soft mounds. Then I start swinging her around, firing slaps to her face with my other hand.
Then I pull her sports bra up, but only halfway; her breasts are bare, all wobbling about, tempting targets, so the cups of her sports bra cover her face.
I go to work. A left hook and a right hook to her covered face. Drops of blood start appearing on her sports bra. Then an upper-cut to the tits.
I force her back into the crowd. Hands push her back towards me, but one of those hands removes her sports bra, her arms are free, and she can see me. I look at the number I did on her face, her nose gushing blood. Oh, she wants payback.
I launch a kick, she grabs my leg in both hands, grinning. She thinks she has me, as I spin, my kick with the other foot wipes that grin off her face. She drops my leg, and I fall to the floor, landing on my hands. I lift my feet and mule-kick her stomach, driving all of the air from her lungs in an explosive gasp. I roll and push myself to my feet with my hands and give a quick bow to the audience. Yes, there is some applause amongst my fans. I would think so, it took hours of practice, that!
Dumbfuck’s eyes look fearful. I’ve taken her best shots, and I’m still standing. I’m not the pushover she thought. I was. She should be fearful. She doesn't know what's coming next, but I do. Did I ever mention that I'm a vengeful bitch?
Suddenly, the Milf with auburn hair stumbles between us. She looks like an older version of me without the glasses and the dye job.
“Hi”, she says, “My name's Sally” She ducks. “I thought you could do with some support”, she punches the woman with dark hair. There’s that cornflake crunch as her face explodes in blood.
“Thanks, Sally”, I say.
Sally and that dark-haired woman grab each other by the hair and again start pulling. Knees lash out at thighs, hoping to strike the other’s crotch. Occasionally, a hand lets go and slaps the other's face.
Luanne snaps her head back. The ginger minger wails, releasing her scissors as Luanne goes for her own titty twister. The minger screams as she paws at Luanne’s hands.
Blondie reaches for Kiva’s hoodie and starts swinging her around by it. She trips Kiva, so she’s on her back. The Blonde whore winds her leg up for a kick, but Kiva’s too quick and pulls at the foot still on the floor. Blondie falls on her back. They both rise.
Desperate to halt the stinging slaps, Kelli suddenly entwines her fingers into Grace’s dark hair. She moves back, hauling Grace’s head down into her raised knee. Yeah, but Grace knows what to expect; she folds her arms in front of her face, and Kelli’s knee strikes them. Although she saved herself from serious hurt, the impact snaps her erect, and Kelli retains her hold on Grace’s hair, so her upward motion is forcibly stopped. Strands of hair are in Kelli's hair as Grace screeches with the pain caused by the halting of her head. Letting out a scream, Grace sinks both hands deep into Kelli’s blonde hair. She jerks and twists at the ensnared locks with deliberate fury, only to have Kelli respond in kind.
Lurching from side to side, their heads bobbing and shaking with the violence they’re putting into the hair-yanking, they stagger back and forward, clinging determinedly to each other’s hair, looking to scalp each other. Forehead to forehead, they pant and grunt, striving to keep their balance on spread-apart legs.
With a final wrench bringing squeaks of agony, they free their hands and go into a clinch. Faces, chests, and hips pressed together, they struggle against each other. Then Kelli manages to twist away and drags Grace over her arse. Turning a somersault, Grace slams into the floor. However, she clings to Kelli, grabbing her bra and pulling her over. Curling over in midair, Kelli crashes down on her back. Leaving her bra in Grace’s clutches.
Kelli starts to stand, her back to Grace. Grace snarls, holding the bikini top in her hands. She leaps up and wraps the bikini top around Kelli’s neck and pulls. Kelli cries out. Grace is shorter than Kelli, so she’s hanging down on the bra with all her body weight. Her legs waggling, kicking Kelli’s back. Kelli tries to bend forward, trying to throw Grace, but the little turd hangs on. She starts wrapping the bra around Kelli’s throat, and her face starts to turn purple. Still trying to shake the little shit off her. Then she kicks up, the kick is almost vertical like she’s doing the splits. Fuck, it’s one thing to read about a move like that, but to actually see it in real life! Her foot slams into Grace’s face. Her nose explodes. She screams, releasing the bra, slipping down Kelli’s back.
Kelli spins round, launching a haymaker at Grace, her mouth spews spit as she careers back to the floor.
I shoot a punch, dumbfuck blocks it, really pleased with herself. I shoot another punch, but she blocks that one as well. This time, I smile. I grab the extended arm and twist.
I have her arm out, and I high kick into her stomach. She unloads another mouthful of spit as her feet leave the ground. I twist harder. She sobs. I’m twisting with all my might now. I feel something give, lucky for her, I'm trying for dislocation, not breaking it.
She starts to say something, "I s-"
My kick flattens those dangling breasts, cutting off her words, payback bitch. Oh no, this is not going to go to a simple submission. Even if she does. I’m not going to accept it. I am gonna wreck this bitch, hard. Only one of us is walking away from this, and that's me.
I drop to my knees, pulling her down with me. She lands, splat, on her face. I’m getting a bit disturbed by my knowledge of the sound a face makes when I smash it in. I kick her away, and we both get up. Out of reflex, she tries to swing with her right arm, the one I just twisted and screams.
Heh, the fucking fucker’s fucking fucked!
Sally is the first to hit paydirt. Her knee crashing into the dark-haired woman's crotch. Her eyes go wide like saucers, her hands reaching for her injured crotch. Sally pushes the woman onto her back.
The ginger lets go of Luanne’s hands, swinging her hands out. She claps them together with Luanne’s head in the middle. The minger follows this up with a head-butt. Luanne stumbles back dazed.
"Give up, Cheugy", the Redhead crows.
"Imma gonna fuck you up!"
Blondie manages to block a couple of Kiva’s blows. Then kicks, hitting Kiva in the belly. Blondie swings, but Kiva’s head moves gracefully back.
Jumping on top of Grace, Kelli wiggles until she straddles Grace’s stomach. Bending forward, the blonde thrusts her fingers into Grace's breasts and squeezes with all her strength; the flesh extrudes through her fingers like so much putty. With the pain knifing into her, Grace reaches up and pulls Kelli's head forward, into her fist, then thrusts up with her hips and the two women roll apart.
Grace turns just in time to meet the blonde’s diving attack. There’s a wet smacking sound as tit to tit, fingers ripping hair, they pitch full-length to the floor. A sudden, heave brings the brunette on top, tugging at Kelli’s hair with both hands. Kelli tries to bow her body upward. Her hand loses its grip on Grace’s hair, and scrabbling for a fresh hold, she grasps the front of Grace’s shirt. Buttons pop, and the shirt splits open down the front.
Angered by this, Grace releases the hair. Wriggling until her knee is rammed against Kelli’s stomach, she slaps the blonde’s face with a hard left, and then she puts her right hand on Kelli’s face and holds her head to the floor. In a flash, Kelli braces her feet, curves her body with a force that flings Grace away. Grace lands on her hands and knees, and Kelli plunges onto her back. With her thighs squirming to hold down Grace’s legs, the blonde hooks her left arm around her throat while her right grabs Grace’s breasts under the open shirt.
Screaming and struggling with the intensity of desperation driven by rage, Grace tries to roll onto her side. Kelli's arm is still on her neck, and the blonde’s legs are still wrapped around her hips. Giving up on the roll, Grace pulls Kelli’s hair with one hand and tears away at Kelli’s breasts with the other. Both are naked to the waist.
Grace gets free of the chokehold and sits up. As she does, Kelli moves to clamp her legs around her waist from behind. Gasping as the legs crush her, Grace claws at Kelli’s thighs in a futile attempt at escaping. She then twists inside the vice-like scissors so that she's facing the blonde. Tilting sideways on her elbow, Kelli slams her right fist into the brunette’s face. Mouthing croaks of pain, Grace takes her hands from Kelli’s thighs and puts them to better use by grabbing her naked breasts. The flesh oozes around her fingers as she squeezes. Kelli’s scream rings out loud. She shoves her tormentor with her legs, and both women crawl away, glad to escape.
My one-two punches slam into dumbfuck's torso, sending her staggering back. I crowd in, but she’s desperate; she knows she’s toast, doesn’t she? Her left hook spins my head and sends me reeling. I curse, reminding myself that wounded animals are the most dangerous.
She throws her left arm around me, trying to clinch with her one good arm. She starts pushing me back. I think she's stalling, trying to delay the inevitable. Tough. I join my hands together and pound the dumbfuck’s back. Her hands shoot out, and her legs stumble. I turn, my hands still joined together. And swing. Her head goes flying, along with a gobful of spit. She stumbles back away from me while the crowd pushes me towards her.
With the dark-haired woman under her, Sally starts to raise herself, lifting the dark-haired woman up with by her by the breasts, twisting to get a good, firm hand-hold, they stretch painfully. Just as quickly, she slams her back down hard on the floor. The woman’s stunned, and her hold on Sally loosens a bit. Sally repeats the lift and slam. The dark-haired woman has the air forced out of her and lets go of Sally’s hair. She reaches out and wraps her arms around Sally and pulls close, trying to prevent another lift and slam.
Kelli and Grace are circling each other, and nearby, Kiva and Blondie are circling too. By chance, Kiva and Kelli back into each other. They jump, surprised. Spinning around, they turn to face their new opponent, then stop, recognising each other. Then Kelli says something, and they dosey-doe, swapping partners. Kiva swings an uppercut into Grace’s gut, her eyes go wide, and spit flies out of her mouth, spraying several audience members. Kelli grabs Blondie’s head and slams it into her knee. Blondie staggers in circles, legs barely keeping her up, her nose streaming blood.
Smirking, the ginger moves in to finish off a stunned Luanne. But she’s the one who gets floored as Luanne slaps the shit out of her with a vicious backhand to her face.
Luanne's kick to the stomach has the redhead gasping. She blindly lashes out with her fists. Unperturbed, Luanne tilts her body, and the punch hits the air. Luanne puts both her hands on the minger's head and pushes her down onto her raised knee.
The thunderstruck ginger starts staggering in circles, trying to regain her balance. Luanne doesn’t give her the chance, slapping on a rear chokehold.
Feckety, fuck, fuck. I was only going for a quiet drink with Kiva, I said.
No, don’t stick around, Sam, I said.
Just a few quiet drinks, I said.
Look at me now, I’m in the eye of a catfight hurricane. My purple bruised breasts hang sadly out of my broken tank top, and I’ve got a black eye forming; I can feel it. Like I can feel the blood from my nose and lip running down my face. I’m rather glad I went to the wedding BEFORE I met up with Kiva.
Sally forces the dark-haired woman’s legs apart and slams her knee hard into her crotch. The woman's body jerks. Sally does it again and again, each time, the dark-haired woman's body convulsing like she’s being electrocuted.
Also convulsing is the ginger. She’s hysterical now; she knows she’s losing. Not even trying to mount a coherent defence, she's just pulling at Luanne’s arm that's wrapped securely around her throat. Every so often, just to fuck her up, Luanne bends back, lifting her off the floor. The minger’s legs thrash wildly. The thrashing gets weaker, and the pulling at the arms starts to turn into caresses. Her eyes start to flutter. Stick a fork in her arse and turn her over, she’s done.
I know I look bad, but the dumbfuck looks worse. She’s down to her shorts, and her battered boobs glow red. Her ponytail is long gone, and her matted, sweaty hair is stained red with the blood from her face. We surge together with all the grace of two drunken gorillas.
Kiva looks at Kelli, and they both smile. They grab their opponents by the arm and swing. Their heads crash together with a crack like two billiard balls. They slowly turn round from the impact, eyes glazed. Blondie into Kiva's right hook, sending her to the floor. Grace into Kelli's spin kick. They both lie on the floor, poleaxed.
Sally’s finished pounding her opponent's twat to pudding. She stands up, her opponent has her hands in her crotch, wailing, probably reconsidering the life decisions that have led her to this.
Kiva and Kelli are standing triumphantly, hand in hand over their opponents with their feet on their stomachs.
Luanne is idly kicking her downed opponent, looking for signs of resistance. There aren’t any.
Her face is red, she's breathing hard, but still she's happy. She mutters as she prods the redhead with her feet.
"Sugar, you're not woman enough for me...".
She looks over at the dark-haired girl, crying freely now, rocking on her side with her hands over her crotch.
Luanne smiles.
"Y'all hat and no cattle".
Just me and dumbfuck now. Everybody in the audience seems to have moved in closer; they wanna see how this will end. I swing a right hook at the dumbfuck. She blocks it with her left hand. But she has no defence when my left hook nails her in the stomach. She gags and stumbles back a step, bending over, gasping. She's wide open now. I swing a right hook, putting the whole of my body behind the blow. My first seems to travel in super-slow motion. I can’t understand why she doesn’t block it. My knuckles smash into her cheek. Her face distorts around it, her mouth forming a distorted circle. Her head bends to the side, and she falls to the floor, softly moaning.
I sit on her belly, my knees pin her arms, and my hand holds her head up by the hair. Then I remember Susan Ivanova from the show Babylon 5. I have always wanted to say this.
"I am the right hand of vengeance...", my right-hand pistons into her face. That eye is gonna have one hell of a bruise.
"...And the boot that is going to kick your sorry ass all the way back to Dumbfuckville, sweetheart!...". My fist jackhammers into her other eye.
"...I am kickass incarnate..." I mash her face again, her lights go out, she's done, but I'm not.
"...And the last living thing that you are ever going to see". With finality, I backhand her head. I drop it to the floor. Like a brick.
I rise. I want to deliver the final line above her unconscious body to the audience. My arms raised high.
"God sent me!". Fuck yeah!
I look at Kiva, Kelli, Luanne, and my namesake, Sally. They’re all standing over naked opponents, brandishing knickers, looking at me and dumbfuck. The crowd hushes with expectancy.
I look down at my victim, with her tongue hanging out of her mouth, drooling on the floor. What to do next? I guess...when in Rome.
I bend down, undo her belt and slide her shorts off. Next, the knickers, God, they’re sweaty, I hope it's sweat. Please let it be sweat. The word ‘Skidmarks’ echoes around my brain. I hope the painters aren't in. I'm not gonna look. I believe they keep the knickers as a trophy.
Yuck.
I peel off her wet, soggy panties and hold them aloft, making a mental note that the first rubbish bin I pass, these knickers are going straight in it. No way am I trying to take home this sweaty, skidmarked piece of rag!
I wave the knickers above my head with fake enthusiasm. When in Rome…
Kelli, Kiva, Luanne and American Sally and I look at each other. There are scratches and bruises, but we look okay.
I looked up and noticed for the first time the big video camera. I gave Kiva a puzzled look.
“Oh yeah, they’re videoing all this”, Kiva informed me. “It’ll be uploaded to the catpin site with our names on it, so we’ll all get full credit”.
"What about residuals?" I asked. Her eyebrows furrowed. The question had never entered her head, bless her.
"We don’t do it for that, we do it for the glory", she replied.
Oh, that doesn’t pay the bills.
“You okay?”
I turned, and it was Sam. Here!
“I thought you were going to Copperhead Road”, I asked.
“Turns out, they got sick of people nicking the road signs and they’ve changed the name of the road, it's Copperhead Hollow Road now…and it’s in another state, Tennessee”.
“So?” I said.
“That’s over a thousand miles away”.
“Oh”, I said.
“You knew all this all along. So don’t tell me, you dropped me off, found somewhere to turn around and waited for me…”.
“…in case I got into trouble?..."
"…You never had any intention of leaving me alone here, did you?”
“No”. He admitted sheepishly.
I threw my arms around him and gave him a big, sloppy kiss.
The circle was starting to dissolve. Kiva was going around, checking on everybody. Since this was supposed to be a social, not a fight night, all the medics were off.
Just then, a man and a very pretty lady, a tall brunette, walked towards us.
"Brett, Tara, I'm sorry, we busted up your social". Kelli said.
"Yeah, you did..." The brunette started, looking serious, but then she started grinning.
" ...but it was fantastic publicity. When word gets out about what you, Kiva and the Battling Brit... " She paused, waiting for me to supply a name.
“She’s S…”, Kiva started to supply my name.
"Susan", I broke in, "Susan Ivanova, my mum and dad, Sophie and Andrei, came over from Russia".
I held out my hand. I didn't want my real name plastered all over the internet.
"Well, Susan, welcome to the Catpin".
“Y’all hungry?” Kelli called out.
“Yes”. Everybody answered.
“Yeah, I love Texas food. We went to the Texas Roadhouse a couple of days ago…” I started.
“You went to the Texas Roadhouse for Texas food?” Luanne stopped me.
“Yeah, it was lovely”.
They all shot me pitying looks. Oh God, what did I do wrong?
I found out later, it's a Philadelphia, which I guess isn't in Texas, restaurant chain.
“Well, that settles it”, Kelli declared. “I know where we’re going…”
"...We'll hit the showers and change outta these rags, everybody got a change of clothes?".
I looked at my torn clothes. Shit. I can't go to a restaurant with my tenderised tits hanging out. I felt a nudge; it was Sam.
"I packed some spare clothes and your make-up bag in the boot of the car, in case you might need them". He whispered.
I kissed him again. And yeah, I left my Stetson in the car.
I have no idea where we went. It was some backstreet place in San Antonio. I could never find it again in a million years. I had a Chicken Fried Steak, I was a bit nervous 'cos y'know, chlorinated chicken. But I was told it was grown on a local farm, and Sally knew the farmer.
While we helped ourselves to the fried okra, Sally explained her theory of American food. If it's American, it's crap. If it's local regional, it's probably very good. American food is the stuff sold to the whole of America and abroad, designed by committee, cheap products, loaded with chemicals. She continued,
“It’s like comparing Whataburger and McDonald's”.
Eating the local food placed in front of us, I had to agree, it was dead yummy, and then Sam and I were commanded to have Pecan Pie under pain of death.
After the food, we sat and talked. We started on fights we’d had and then on to life, the universe, Cabbages, and Kings, the usual.
Eventually, Kiva and Luanne had to go, babysitters, and Sally had a long drive back. Christ, I didn't want to ask if an American says it's a long way.
“I’m not off now until the weekend, but Luanne’s free; she could show you around”, Kiva said.
“That would be lovely”.
Then I had to say it. I had been thinking it all day. I promised myself I would be cool. I wouldn't act like a twelve-year-old. I would act mature. I would...
Aw fuck it.
“OhmygodKivayou’resofuckingawesome!”.
There, I said it.
She was taken aback a bit, blushing a deep shade of crimson. She held out her hand.
“Er, thanks. You’re pretty awesome yourself”.
Kiva said I was awesome!!!!
Just me, Kelli, Jake, and Sam now.
Yes, I did feel like a little kid next to her, fully aware she could beat me up with just her little finger. Kelli looked at me with absolutely zero nervous energy, while I could feel myself dissolving in a puddle of sweat.
"I heard you were a student. What are you studying?"
"Physics"
"Cool"
"What's your plans for the future?"
"Win a Nobel prize for my work at CERN". I beamed.
"Lovely Jubbly!" Kelli said, with a great big fuck-off grin on her face.
"Y'see I know some English...". She said proudly when she saw my jaw drop.
“…that one with Batman and Robin, that’s my favorite”
“But when he falls through the bar…” I added.
“Take it cool…take it cool…” she muttered.
I giggled. Shit, if you had told me yesterday I would be bonding with Fyrecracka over ‘Only Fools and Horses’, I woulda told you to put that joint down. But here we are. We swapped stories of our favourite episodes. Later, she asked.
“I heard your fella waited for you outside”.
“Yeah, he was worried about me”.
“Y’know, he kinda reminds me of Jake. Y'know, you can't do it alone. You need someone who has your back. I'm lucky I have that with Jake. I think you have that with Sam”.
“Yeah, I'm starting to realise that myself”.
The restaurant turned us out; they wanted to go home. It turned out that Kelli and Jake were staying in the same hotel as us, so we hailed a cab and went back for a nightcap.
Sam and I stumbled back into our hotel room sometime in the morning and slept until midday.
Later in the afternoon, Luanne took us both around San Antonio; it was great. Even the Alamo, their equivalent of Dunkirk, a total arse-kicking that has become a symbol of victory. Didn’t look anything like the movie; there was grass! We met her daughter, Madison.
Kiva joined us for the last couple of days; she’d got some leave due, and she quite proudly told me how, as an ICU worker, she got twenty whole days of paid holiday. She asked what we got in the UK, and I really did not have the heart to tell her (it’s twenty-eight days paid leave, that’s the minimum, plus eight bank holidays all paid ), so I changed the subject quickly.
We played with Clarissa and Madison. Demonstrating various regional accents. I did a heavy Mancunian accent,
"Right then, 'ave you seen me Salfords?" Translation: Have you seen my socks? Salford Docks, socks. They'd never heard of rhyming slang, and we had a lot of fun with that. I promise they never heard about ‘Jeremy Hunt’ from us.
Sam did a bit of Brummie "Ow am ya?... Fancy a Kipper tie?" Translation: ‘How are you, fancy a cuppa tea?’
And then I really buggered them with the Welsh,
"Heb ei fai, heb ei eni". Translation: ‘He who is without fault is not born’, but you figured that out, didn’t you?
It made them laugh; they couldn’t understand a word!
And yeah, Kiva did take us to a nice microbrewery, I take it back, they do make decent beer. They even took us to a proper chocolate factory. They have these small artisan places that make delicious MILK chocolate, not the over-processed shite like Hershey's, they don't sell abroad, no, they keep all the good stuff for themselves.
As we closed our eyes and said goodbye to gypsy angel Row, Kiva, Luanne, and their daughters waved us off. Then we went home, kissing the sky, back to reality. It was a wonderful place to visit, the upside-down world, but I missed the grey skies, drizzle, and decent builder’s tea. Oh, and that policeman never mentioned the fucking great big fuck-off tarantulas, did he? Had to find that one out the hard way! Yes, I did scream louder than when Destiny was pounding my breasts to pudding, but then so did Sam. How anybody can sleep in this country, knowing you even share a continent with these things?
It was a great place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there. I think every culture is insane, but in its own particular way. Like a frog in boiling water, you get used to your particular strain of insanity. And yes, I do love my own country's insanity.
A couple of days later, in the post, I got a box with a note.
Sally,
You’ve earned it.
We’ve created an account for you under the name Susan Ivanova, as requested.
There is a UK branch of the Catpin. We’ll WhatsApp you the link.
You can review your victory any time you want. We know you'll add some more.
Love, Kiva, Kelli, Luanne, and Sally
Inside was a Catpin. My Catpin. I held it in my hand, watching it sparkle in the light. It was nice, I felt honoured. I was gonna get it framed.
But I'm never gonna use it.
Kiva, she's got a kid, is divorced, and her family, her support network, is over the other side of the bloody continent. The eighty-five miles to my parents' house seems so far away. I can't imagine two thousand miles, I can't imagine being that far from home. Kiva, she’s stuck like a fly in one of those vinegar traps, not waving but drowning. For her, this is her release, her family, but not me. I get it: the glory, the exhilaration, but…
I'm a student, and when I get my degree, I'll be submerged in debt. My little part-time job has paid for a week in Ibiza, my trip out to Texas and some money to spare. I get to live like a human being, not like a cash-strapped student, but I don’t want to be doing this when I’m old like Kiva. One day, when I receive my Nobel Prize for my work at CERN, I do not want this showing up on my CV when I’m interviewed on the Six O’clock news.
I love Kiva, but the idea of me being an old lady, in my thirties, trolling the internet looking for a fight while pleading with my gay friend for a fuck, scares me. In my thirties, I want to be retired, looking at my Nobel prize on the wall. With Sam? Will we still be together? Will he have left me?
It was a thrill kicking Destiny’s arse, but after I couldn’t wear a bra for a week! And I didn’t get any prize money! At least, as I learnt later, the bitch got paid. The idea of fighting for free so loads of anonymous scumbags can get their jollies watching you fight. Nah. If I'm gonna get the bruises, I'm gonna want my cut. Show me the money!
God save the Queen,
We mean it, man!
The Sex Pistols.
