Here is story #2. The least read Sandbridge story ... ever. I don't know why. Maybe it's because it's pretty much a continuation of Meet the Monforts: Marcia But it is an important one because it introduces who will be a central character to the whole series ... "The Cajun Sensation", from the bayou town of Gonzales, LA, Carly Boudreaux Monfort and the future ... well I don't want to give it away. Read and enjoy, and comments are always appreciated.Welcome to Sandbridge 2 – Meet the Monforts: Carly
“Everyone has a dark side. I mean everyone.” - Nick Sebastian, 1987
A Sandbridge Saga Tale 2
Intro
For those of you who might have missed my first report, I’m Nick Sebastian – age 41, divorced, father of two, former newspaper reporter, former private investigator and former town drunk. I hit the lottery when my fourth or fifth screenplay caught the attention of TV and film producer Drake Coburn and now here I am on the books as his assistant producer, head writer, friend and Guy Who Does Clandestine Shit for His Boss, or GWDCSfHB for short. Every Hollywood big shot has one or two of those.
Drake loves catfights. So do most guys I suppose, but Drake *really* loves them. So do I. My most recent assignment has been to set up shop in the LA suburb of Sandbridge which seems to have a “history” when it comes to our passionate interest, do research and send him reports. There’s a lot of mythology about the catfighting women of this town, but I’m finding plenty of evidence to back it up.
For example, last time I discussed the infamous Brookside Brawl of 1974. But the legends go back further than that. Many towns have a statue of their Town Father somewhere. Sandbridge has one of its Town “Mother” – Fightin’ Frances “Frankie” McGuigan, Pioneer and Saloon Owner whose epic battle with outlaw and Confederate sympathizer Red Mary Callaghan in 1863 is part of town lore. Two iconic blond bombshells, actress Jean Harlow and fellow movie legend Carole Lombard, supposedly engaged in a fantastic brawling catfight before filming “No Man of Her Own”, partially shot here in 1932, over the lead role and a Hollywood leading man – some guy named Gable. Drake told me about that one. He said powerful Louis B Mayer effectively covered up the story, but Lombard won the role – and Gable eventually – so I guess we know who won the fight as well.
It seems Sandbridge is building new legends. The name I kept hearing is Monfort – Carly and her daughter Marcia. Action seems to follow these babes everywhere in town. I needed to know more, and it didn’t take long.
I hit a grand slam when Marcia Renee Monfort walked into my office yesterday and blew my shorts off, figuratively and almost literally, with an incredible story that I was able to substantiate with some actual evidence. And once again as promised, the 18 year old bombshell has returned.
The young stunner came in and greeted me with a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. She was in a red blouse and tight white shorts. Big hoop earrings accentuated her thick dark brown curls, and she was in the same CFM sandals she wore yesterday displaying her dark red toenails. Yes, I remember shit like that. Like Drake Coburn says, in film-making “it’s the details, Nicky Boy. Always the details”. I like feet anyway, and trust me, Marcia’s somehow figured that out already. She didn’t need to stage another slap fight with her girlfriend to get *my* attention (see the last story).
Her grin was like sunshine breaking through the clouds after a rain storm. At 5’2”, 125 and a set of 38Ds, she was a real hardbody. And believe me, she knew it. I offered her a Coke from my small fridge in the office I’d set up in town – she didn’t drink anything stronger. Good thing I suppose – I’d hate to see this wildcat under the influence. Then I whipped out my favorite tool ………….. my tape recorder. Second favorite actually.
“Ready for the next story, Mr. Sebastian?
“Ready when you are, MR. Fire at will …”
Based on Marci’s interview, as well as what I’d heard around town, a special interview a few days later and a little “creative license” on the minor stuff, here’s what I’ve put together. Welcome to Sandbridge … Nick Sebastian, May 1987
1
Carly’s Story
At 43, Carly Danielle Boudreaux-Monfort was proud of a lot of things. Proud of the fact she had what she had - a decent paying job as a medical technologist, second shift supervisor at the medical lab of Sandbridge General, a nice house in a clean neighborhood and some respectability at work. She was proud that she had friends, male and female.
It came easy for the former. A big sports fan, she lived for the Saints and the LSU Tigers. She could talk football, NASCAR and boxing with any of the guys. She’d been an athlete herself and just missed the Olympics in diving back in ’64. She loved fast cars – and fast men. And they loved her. Carly was still a knockout. 5’3”, 130 with a 25 inch waist, 38C chest and a nice tight ass. She wore her black mane in tight curls down past her shoulders and her hair framed a face that wasn’t exactly beautiful, but was certainly handsome. Carly had a big wide smile that displayed strong white teeth and that grin would flash every time people mistook her teenaged daughter and her for sisters.
Women were a little different. She got along great with most of her female coworkers, the gals working at the Sandbar where she liked to hang with friends and a few here and there around town who admired her spirit and “reputation”. When a woman took the time and effort to befriend her, she had a girlfriend for life. But most women were just jealous. Others were intimidated. The “reputation” …
Carly’s best friend and the true love of her life was her 18 year old daughter, Marcia. The girl adored her Mom and wanted to be just like her. That worried Carly a little – it was that “reputation” thing again. A real double-edged sword. But there was also a big part of her that delighted in it. The Monfort “sisters” would do anything for each other and everybody knew it.
She took pride in her ability to raise this child. Coming from rural Louisiana, Carly’s folks were so poor that as they say down there, they “couldn’t even afford de las' two letters of de word. Dey was jes' ‘po’”. She married her high school sweetheart and had a beautiful little Cajun princess in 1969. Jean Paul Monfort was a sergeant in the 101st Airborne Division and left for his second tour in Vietnam the year after she was born. Carly and little Marcia would patiently for him to come back like she’d done once before.
Then came the Battle of Fire Support Base Ripcord in July of 1970. SSG Monfort came home for the last time – in a sealed aluminum casket draped with the flag.
Carly’s world turned upside down, As they lowered the casket, the young Gold Star widow, dressed in black, child in her arms, vowed to never depend again on a man … she would make her own way.
And she did. She used her survivor’s benefits to put herself through college and graduated with honors from LSU with a degree in Medical Technology. She applied for jobs everywhere during the recession of ’75 until she got a positive response from Sandbridge General in California. The Cajun girl from Nowhere, LA was going to the Golden State under the shadow of Hollywood. Business in Sandbridge was about to pick up, because Carly quickly re-established her “reputation” in her new home.
2
The Reputation
Yes, about that “reputation” thing. It had to do with her second passion after the one for her daughter. Everyone has a dark side. I mean everyone. Carly Monfort loved to fight other women. She always had. She got into her first serious catfight in junior high, winning it against a bigger and older girl. Her second was a year later against a younger, smaller one – and she got her ass handed to her. She thought it strange that she seemed to enjoy the second experience almost as much as the first. She was hooked. Carly had thrashed sexy cheerleader Marie Bujold in a wild one for the heart of Jean Paul in her junior year in high school and had to beat her up again the next year to keep him. She fought her way through high school and in Army post housing as a young wife. She fought her way through college. Mostly over guys. Sometimes over a lot less.
“Sorry, honey, I guess I’m just a catfight junkie,” she told her daughter after coming back one night all beat up after a terrific 20 minute brawl with big Katie Pirelli, “mixologist” at the Sandbar. Her coworkers got used to seeing their lead med tech come in with a black eye, scratches, a bandage or an occasional limp from time to time and they’d just laugh about it. She’d laugh with them. It never affected her work, except she could never accumulate much sick leave or vacation time. She never picked fights, other than for a man she really wanted. She never fought for pay or fought a gal who didn’t want to fight her – that would mean jail time. Except for a handful of “arrested and released – no charges filed” reports written and forgotten, she had never been in trouble with the law. When it was apparent Marci shared the catfight passion with her Mom, Carly sighed and accepted it, but insisted that she follow Alfred Hitchcock’s four word motto (and her own). “Stay … out … of … jail”.
Carly Monfort brought her two worlds of science technology and catfighting together. Call it “Catfight Science” She was a toughie and didn’t mind taking a beating to hand one out. But she would experiment, keep what worked and throw out what didn’t. She would use every body part to dish out punishment and knew all the weak spots and pressure points on a woman’s body. Carly would study an opponent quickly and thoroughly, looking for strengths and weaknesses. She worked on her arms, legs, stomach and conditioning. She used her razor sharp wit, a wide vocabulary in two languages and the cant of the street to be a Trash Talk Queen, able to provoke a potential opponent into stupidly issuing a challenge or throwing the first blow, thus absolving her of any legal responsibility for kicking some bitch’s ass, even in public. If she lost a catfight, she would, as they say in football, “study the game film” in her head to discover what went wrong.
But on this Friday afternoon, she was not worried about herself. She was waiting for her daughter to come home and there were knots in her stomach. Marcia had called her at lunchtime to say this was the day she would settle accounts with her classmate and longtime enemy Miss Jillian McCall after class in the town park … once and for all. Carly wanted to be there in the worst way, but Marcia told her no. Marcia rarely told her Mom “no”, but when she did, she meant it. Carly understood, but prepared her first aid kit just in case. She called work to say she’d be at least running a little late, then sat and waited.
“Oh Jesus, girl!” groans Carly as Marcia walked through the front door. Even with advance warning, this didn’t look good except for one thing – her daughter was grinning from ear to ear. She didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or take her to the ER. “Look at you!
Marie, Mère de Dieu !”
“I won, Mom! I beat up Jillie and knocked her … the fuck … out! I made her …”
“Not another word, Marci. Not until I check you out. Sit down before you fall down! God, look what she did to you. I’d hug you but I bet your body … let me get that shirt off.” Marcia winced as her t-shirt was removed. Carly got a good look at the bruised ribs, breasts and stomach and scratches all over.
“I feel better than I look, Mom. I think my body is just bruised. Nothin’ broken. I’ll wear her little footprints on my ribs for a while, though.” She’d had a rib broken before. The pain now wasn’t what it was then. “My belly’s aching and I thought I’d shit myself. God, that girl can work a bitch downstairs …”
“And you won? Jillie must be a real mess.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“Let’s see that face. Marcia Renee, you tried to fist fight with her didn’t you? Girl, how many times have I told you, never box …”
“I know. Never box with a boxer. I fucked up …”
“And then she fucked *you* up.” Carly examined her eyes. “The right eye is ok, but you need ice on that left one. They’re all bloodshot. Can you see all right?”
“Ow! Damn. Yeah, I can see fine. She gouged the shit out of my eyes, Mom. She was tougher that I thought she’d be. Meaner too. Great little fist fighter. She about knocked me cold in the first few minutes, then I started to …”
“You can tell me all about it later. I’m so proud of you … the little witch has had it coming for a long time. But let me get some ice and some ointment for your scratches. I want you to protect those bleary eyes with sunglasses until it gets dark and keep the lights low. I’ll fix you something to eat if you …”
“Oh … my … God! Nooo,” groaned Marcia, holding her queasy stomach, trying not to laugh.
Carly did laugh as she went to the kitchen. She’d been where Marcia is right now. Plenty of times. “I’m just glad that you’re okay. And that you won the fight. Good job kid!”
3
Barbara and Jillie
“I’m going to call the police! She’s not a kid anymore, that low-born Monfort tramp! I’ll call the police and have them arrest that Whore of Babylon she calls her mother, too! On Monday, I’ll have your father pull her mortgage on that bawdyhouse they live in and throw them back in the street where they belong! Both of them! I call our attorney – we pay him a lot of money to do nothing! I’ll have him file …”
“Mom!” cried Jillie. “Marcia didn’t attack me. We had a fight. A fair one and I lost! I hated to see that cute boy Jack with her and I challenged her to a fight. It’s not Marcia’s fault. It was mine, Mom! Me! I threw the first punch. She threw the last one. I wasn’t good enough. I picked a fight with Marcia and she beat me up!”
Jillie McCall was screaming at her mother. Why wouldn’t this frigid bitch listen? She was broken. It was almost too painful to even stand on her bruised legs after walking home from the park barefooted, but she did. Her face, chest and stomach were all scratched up, her hair was all over the place and she had a self-applied bandage over the two bleeding bites on her forehead.
She’d emptied her bladder once and her stomach twice on the walk back that evening after they had left her lying there. Someone had taken her shoes – probably that Savoy bitch. Her body was killing her – it hurt to pee, it hurt to throw up and it hurt to breathe after the beating Marcia had put on her down there. Her left jaw throbbed and then there were those nasty bites. Yet, no sympathy or concern. Not even an “Are you Ok?” All her mother could do was threaten the Monforts.
“And who is this ‘Jack’ anyway? How well off is his family? Where did he come from and what made him think he is good enough to …” Barbara McCall stopped her rant. It finally sank in. “You started the fight? You challenged this cheap Cajun piece of trash to roll around on the ground with you like two strippers on the corner of Hollywood and Vine? I knew those boxing lessons were a bad idea. I’ll have to speak to your fath …”
“Yes Mom, Yes! I wanted to fight her. She wanted to fight me. We’re both 18 – we can do that. I challenged her, she accepted, we had a fair fight. Sure, it was brutal and bloody but it was fair. I fought hard with everything I had. I almost beat her. But she was better than me. Does it bother you at all that I lost? That I’m all busted up and hurting all over? Cause it sure as fuck bothers me!”
“Watch your language young lady!” scolded her mother. I don’t care who wins or loses such a cheap and tawdry contest. Neither does Our Lord Jesus. Young ladies of our breeding do not engage in such lower class activities such as brawling with a common whore like that Monfort creature. We are Penobscot women, and our family … come back here missy!”
Jillie had heard enough and climbed as quickly as she could, sobbing openly, up the stairs to her large bedroom.
“Wait until your father gets home!” shouted her mother. And where is he? She thought. It’s Friday – the bank closed hours ago …
(Pretty much when the bars and whorehouses opened? Just a guess. – Nick)
Barbara Penobscot McCall was the wife of Patrick McCall, vice president of the Second National Bank in Sandbridge. They owned the largest house in the neighborhood. It was expensively furnished and had a small army of Mexicans to cook, clean, and maintain the landscape. Barbara (never Barb or God forbid Barbie) performed her “wifely duties” for her husband once a month like clockwork and with all the passion of the same.
She spent six of her days each week working out at the Country Club, playing tennis and horseback riding and her Sundays at the House of the Lord. After all, the 5‘8”, 128 pound blonde had to look good and be physically and spiritually strong for the social events she hosted. And at 44, she knew she still did and was. But tomorrow, tennis would have to wait until after she drove to the sinful address of those Monfort women and gave them both a piece of her mind. They would listen because she was one of the Boston Penobscots and she was used to being obeyed.
4
The Lesson
(OK, once again … here’s Marcia, my favorite fight time commentator. In her own words. - Nick)
So, thank God it was Saturday. No way I could have made it to class today looking and feeling like this. I dragged my sorry self out of bed, ribs still sore and looked at myself in the mirror, first time since before the fight with Jillie yesterday. Holy shit, she’d done a number on me. Look at my tits! Bruises may feel better the day after a fight, but they look worse. Same with scratches and bites, scabbing up and stuff. I was able to do something about my face with makeup, but my left eye was hopeless. That shiner was going to be around for a while. I took a shower and managed to put my hair in order despite my scalp still smarting. I love to catfight, but man this part always really sucks …
And I was starving. No way in hell I could eat anything last night with my stomach still feeling Jillie’s fists in there. No dinner and I was lucky I didn’t puke up my lunch, too. But I could smell Mom cooking breakfast in the kitchen and I couldn’t wait to have at it!
My Mom is the best. She stayed home from work last night just to be with me and I know it had to cost her a day of paid vacation. I bet Jillie’s Mom wouldn’t do that for her. Of course, Rich Bitch doesn’t work, but I was jealous that Mrs. McCall could stay home all day today taking care of her for free after I kicked her bitch daughter’s whiny little ass like a bad girl yesterday. As awful as I look, Jillie’s gotta be a real fucking mess.
Mom was in a black tank top, denim shorts and bare feet, scrambling eggs. I was dressed pretty much the same, except for a cut-off grey t-shirt – I couldn’t stand to have anything touching my lower ribs and belly right now. She smiled at me asking how I felt. I told her like shit. But that was better than last night when I felt like fucking shit. I thanked her for staying home to take care of me.
“Honey, that’s what real mothers do!” Her smile faded. “Besides, I have a bad feeling about today and I didn’t want to be sleeping if … well you know, after you beat up someone in a catfight, sometimes relatives, they get a little crazy and well, I want to err on the safe side.”
“Come on, Mom! Jillie’s Dad is too busy with his money and his whores to care. And her blue-blood Mom is to dignified to roll around on the floor, pulling hair with either one of us.”
“I’m not worried about Patrick. If he barges in, I’ll run his cowardly Irish ass off with my shotgun and accuse him of breaking and entering. He’d make lots of new friends in the jailhouse and he knows it. But Barbara is a different matter. If she does, I’ll have to fight her for my own dignity (that damn “reputation” thing again – Nick). She’s taller and probably stronger than me. I’ve seen the bitch’s legs. With a woman’s dignity comes the need to keep it by not getting the floor mopped with her once a catfight starts. She may be tougher than she looks. Trust me, little girl, the worst ass kicking I’d ever gotten was from an officer’s snotty rich wife back when I was married to your father. Remind me to tell you about it sometime.”
As we sat and ate breakfast, I told Mom all about Jack and gave her every detail of the fight, or at least the ones I remembered, since a good part of it I spent all fucked up. We went over what I did right and what I did wrong. She was proud of the fact I was hurt bad early but took it and came back. She especially was interested in the part where I threatened to cxnt the bitch next time, but showed her some mercy yesterday.
“You know, of course, if you fight her again you’ll have to do it. And if she beats you, you can bet she’ll do it to you now.”
“Yeah, I know. I just don’t think there’ll be a next time. I saw it in Jillie’s eyes. I broke her, Mom.”
We cleared and did the dishes, and just as we finished there was a hard knock on the door.”
“I’ll get it …”
“No you won’t, Marci! I will.”
Uh oh. Bad vibes. Mom looked through the peephole, turned to me and in a glance told me to get the fuck out of the way, a little Mom’s “I told you so” smile on her face. Aw hell, it’s showtime.
Mom opened the door and Barbara McCall pushed her aside and stormed into the living room. She was in a white t-shirt and shorts, carrying a big bag into which she stuffed her sunglasses and car keys. I could see her silver Mercedes in our driveway.
Barbara! What’s the meaning of this?
“You know what the meaning of this is, Carly!” she spat, all full of piss and vinegar. “Your little tramp of a daughter beat up my Jillian yesterday and hurt her bad! How dare she put her hands on my defenseless little girl!”
“Defenseless? Why you …”
“Quiet, Marci!” warned Mom and I knew she meant it. I shut the fuck up. “I’ll handle this. Take a look at Marci’s face, Barbara. Look at it! Look at her ribs and stomach. Your ‘little girl’ gave as good as she got. It wasn’t a mugging that’s for sure. They beat the hell out of each other in a fair, even fight. If Jillie had won, and she nearly did, you wouldn’t see me in your house right now. And even if I was, the first thing I would say is ‘Is Jillie OK?’ Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down, you wicked backwoods witch! You’re the reason this one is the class slut. Everyone knows it. She sleeps around and beats up any girl that stands in her way. You are both contemptible gutter tramps and I’m going to make sure that’s where you go – back to the gutter where you both belong!
Dude, my ears were on fire. I wanted at her so bad, but I knew I wasn’t in any shape do it. Mom on the other hand …
“Listen to me, you dried up old piece of shit …”
Barbara gasped, a look of shock on her face. “Oh! You low-class whore! How dare you talk to me that way! Don’t you know who I am?”
Mom was in her face now, just daring her to do something. “I know who exactly you are and I’m going to tell you. You are a tight-assed, bleached blond cxnt, that’s what you are. You are a fucking nothing, a worthless, jobless slug with a corncob up her tired ass and with a husband who has fucked half the women in this town. Don’t look shocked, bitch. You know it’s true. He even asked me to suck his pencil dick once. I told him to go fuck himself, which I figured he’d rather do than to fuck the pile of loose shit he married.”
Mom had slipped into the Cajun accent of her younger days. Man, this was never good. I know this from personal experience, Mr. Nick. And once she starts speaking in French, well look the fuck out. “Language of Love”, my ass.
“You don’t believe me? Why the hell does he work so late at the bank so often” Or go on those long business trips? I’ve seen him at the Sandbar, trying to convince the girls he’s ‘Dave’ and he sells insurance. Anything to keep from going back to the worthless
chatte stupide (stupid cxnt) he drunkenly married!”
There it is. French. Take your earrings off, Mom, I thought. And to no surprise, she did and tossed them to me.
“Well! You really are a foul-mouthed old whore aren’t you, you God-forsaken street tramp! And if you think I’m going to fight you like one of your bar-hopping skanky friends, you forget I’m a Penobscot! We do *not* roll on the floor with your kind.”
Mom laughed with contempt. “Oh we’ll do more than roll on the floor, sweetie. I’ll bald you top and bottom and
Je vais gratter tournée chatte (I’ll scrape out your cxnt). I doubt if you’re really even a Penobscot, because I’ll bet the real ones had to fight to get to the top. Not like you, you
lâche putain de salope (cowardly fucking whore). Your daughter … now there’s a real young woman. She fought mine like a tigress for what she wanted. She put her body on the line, damn the consequences, with no thought to her image or her upbringing. I bet you didn’t have one kind thing to say to that poor kid when she came home last night all busted up after trying her heart out. You probably chewed her out for not behaving like a fucking “Penobscot”. Well I don’t think you’re a Penobscot. I imagine the best part of you dripped down your Mommy’s leg.”
All red-faced, Mrs. McCall rared back and slapped Mom right across the cheek. It was mainly with her arm, not enough hip action, but it was a good clean slap and it rocked Mom’s head to the side. Mom faced the tall blonde again and smiled “Good girl, Barb. How about another one?”
Mr. Sebastian, I can see from that picture on the wall with you and Tommy Hearns, you’re a boxing fan. You know that ring announcer, you know the kinda cute one? (Michael Buffer?) Yeah. And he says “Let’s get ready to rumble!” Well, that’s what he would have said when Barbara whacked Mom’s face a good one. I immediately went to the center rug – we have hardwood floors – rolled it up and started pushing furniture to the walls, Mom isn’t going to want anything broken.
“Felt good didn’t it, Barbie Doll? Standing up for yourself for once in your miserable life.” Mom spit on Barbara’s sandaled bare feet.
“Whore!” snapped Mrs. McCall. She dropped her bag and let Mom have it with her left hand and it was a real good face slap. This lady probably had never slapped anyone like that in her life, not even her pussy-whipped husband. Mom really rocked with that one, and she was bleeding a little from the right corner of her mouth. I could see the surprise in her eyes – I just learned this gal could hit hard with either hand, and I knew Mom knew it now too. You have to learn shit like that, sometimes the hard way.
“My turn,” snarled Mom, and she gave the tall blonde a fucking huge bitchslap, “Ohhh!” groaned Barbara as she stumbled back and sat down in one of our easy chairs. Jesus, I felt that one myself. Barbara sat there gaping, holding the left side of her face. “Now that’s how you do it, blondie!”
Maybe I thought Mrs. Mac would start bawling and run out the door. But something must have snapped in the well-bred Boston lady. She kicked off her sandals, tossed away her earrings and glared as she sat there. Mom was right – she was going to be in for a real fight. But before she could get up, Mom walked over, grabbed her expensive hairdo with both hands and made her yowl, yanking her out of the chair. “Come on Barbara, dig in and let’s go.”
The other woman responded with an unladylike growl, plunged both hands into Mom’s black curls and they went at it big time.
Dude, there is something about a mutual hair pulling match between two in-shape middle-aged ladies. We young ones have a lot to learn. I mean I love to pull hair and I’m pretty good at it, but these older chicks put us to shame. Back and forth until they’re tired, then forehead to forehead, resting a while, still twisting and cursing, then back at it again. We young chicks scream and cry when we’re doing it and go wild, wasting all this energy, but the middle-aged bitches are more deliberate, really interested in making it hurt and they mostly just groan, gasp and cuss each other and they just hate to let go. I fucking love it.
They went to the floor a couple of times, each lady getting a takedown, both times they got back to their feet, never letting go of the hair. Barbara had the advantage as she was almost a half a foot taller than Mom in their bare feet. Tall women always have the edge in a hair pulling match. But Mom had her bent over to her height and had the leverage. Barbara’s grunts were becoming more like desperate long moans of real pain now, but Mom was hurting, too. I could tell from the “God”s and “Ow”s and the “
Merde”s she was gasping that this much less experienced gal was killing her up there. Like I said yesterday – hair pulling is an instinct and every woman can do it.
I was shouting my encouragement to Mom, but it looked like she was losing. Barb was kicking at her legs and stepping on her feet and she was standing a little more upright. Mom was groaning louder and longer and cursing in two languages. She looked like she was losing her grip in the sweaty blond locks, while Barbara’s big hands were still buried deep. I could see the muscles standing out in Mrs. McCall’s arms – all that time in the gym was paying off. Shit.
“Not so tough now are you, you fucking cxnt”, managed Barbara. I’d never heard her cuss like that before. “I’m tearing you up! Say goodbye to that black rat’s nest up there, Cajun trash!”
But Mom had been around the block a couple of times. She released her enemy’s hair with one hand, grabbed the back of her sweaty shirt and started pulling it up her back and over her head. The short shirt sleeves restricted Barbara’s strong arms and weakened her grip. Mom latched onto the shirt with the other hand too and with a mighty yank, the hands came free from her tortured hair and the shirt from the blonde’s back. The high-born Mrs. Barbara McCall was half naked and Mom was free. I cheered.
Barbara stood there in shock, gaping stupidly and instinctively folding her arms across her bare tits. Mom tossed me the torn and sweaty t-shirt, then hauled off and whacked her open face with another brutal slap. Barb’s ass hit the deck and she sat up on her elbows, shaking the stars from her head. Barbara had a nice suntan, but those tits were lily white, just like Jillie’s – and they were much smaller. 34As at best.
Mom and I both laughed at her. Mom was gasping for breath, weeping a little and massaging her scalp, her hair a real fucking wet mess. She grinned “Thought she had me there, huh, babe? So did I.” She peeled off her own top, revealing her 38Cs – I’m sure just to intimidate the flat-chested blonde, who was struggling to get to her big bare feet, and wiped the sweat and tears from her eyes with her shirt. “There Barbie, now we’re even. Sorta,” she taunted. She threw the sweaty wadded top at Barbara and followed with a ringing slap across her face that sent hair and spit flying. She caught the stumbling woman by the hair, twisted it to open up her face, and slapped her again, making sure her sharp red nails made impact and took a little skin.
You told me last time, you’d boxed Golden Gloves, Mr. Sebastian, but have you ever been slapped? I mean really hard? (by someone other than my ex-wife? Not really). Funny guy. Guys wonder why you’d slap a woman rather than punch her in a catfight. Fists do more damage right? Well they do more to you, too. We’re not wearing gloves, man. Nothin’ like a pair of broken knuckles. If I’m punching a chick’s jaw, it’s meant to finish the bitch. But if you want to just want to hurt her, wear her out, mark her up, humiliate her … and stun her, then slap the bitch shitless.
When you slap a woman’s face, you’re saying I hold you in contempt. You are beneath me, the jam between my toes. I own you. I could knock you out, but I want to hurt you some more. And believe me, it hurts, too. Your face is on fire, even if she doesn’t use her nails. And if she does? Shit, I’d rather be punched in the face than slapped around by some long-nailed skank. It’s so fucking humiliating to get your face slapped by another woman. Mom and I love shaming a bitch with slaps and save our fists for the soft stuff like bellies and tits and shit.
So anyway, Mom is slapping this rich bitch all around the living room, and her snooty old face is showing it. Her face is all red, lips are puffy and there’s ouchies on her cheeks where Mom’s nails are marking her up. Mrs. McCall fought back and slapped Mom pretty hard a couple of times but Mom was having fun bitchslapping the make-up off this slag and the spit from her mouth.
She got a little tired wearing herself out on Barbara’s face, so she put her in a headlock and pulled her hair hard, as in fucking hard. She was saying “
Je vais tirer vos cheveux, puta!” or something like that. I think it means she’ll going to pull her hair out. My girl was really pissed about losing that hair pulling contest to this first-time catfighter. Barbara was screaming bloody murder. “My fucking hair! You cocksucking whore!” Man, it was so funny hearing this dignified Boston church lady swearing like a Monfort! Mom kept twisting and shaking, yanking hard on that sweaty blond shit until a big fistful of it came out in her hand. It was like, Holy shit! I mean a big fucking haunk of it! Black roots and everything! The noise that old Barb made was really something, especially when Mom released her headlock and laughed at her, shaking that hairy trophy in her face. Pain, shame, rage. It was all in that scream, baby. Dude, to have another woman take your hair like that. Mom and I both have been there ourselves. But Mom was gloating before her opponent was done fighting. Big whooping mistake …
Ask anyone in town about who is the pound-for-pound toughest, smartest and most experienced catfighter they know and most who know of any will say: Carly Monfort. But I know even she fucks up once in a while. She’s a little too cocky. No, a lot too cocky. With guys, what do they call it Mr. Nick? (Tripping over your dick?) Yeah, that’s it. Well this time, if she’d had a dick, she’d tripped over it, and you betcha I gave her shit about it after the fight with Mrs. Mac.
Mrs. McCall had gone to her knees in pain after Mom took her hair. Mom was holding her trophy over her head and beaming at me, leaving her whole half naked body wide open. Her bare belly was right in Barbara’s face and the way-pissed blonde hauled off and punched her is the stomach. I don’t think that old bitch had ever hit anyone in her life with her fist, so it was sort of a girly punch, but she’s strong and Mom wasn’t ready. It smacked in there loud and deep.
Mom croaked like a frog in pain and surprise, bending over blondie’s big fist and gasping for air. Now, her big sweaty tits were swinging in Mrs. McCall’s face, so the whore latched onto them with long-nailed fingers and sank her perfect teeth to the gums into the left one. That’ll leave a mark big time, man. Mom nearly shattered the windows with her scream. Barbara released her bite, got back to her feet using Mom’s boobs for leverage, scratching on the way up. She slapped Mom’s face, spit in it, then turned the smaller gal around by the shoulders, kneed her in the ass and slowly raked her finely-manicured fingernails down her bare back.
Shit.
I’d rather get kicked in the cxnt than have my back clawed like that. You get scratched anywhere and it hurts. But not for days. We’re talking fuckin’ days with a back. Mom says something about a lot of nerve endings and sensory receptors back there and all that medical shit. All I know is that a back rake like Mrs. McCall gave Mom will stay with you for a long-ass time. Even if it doesn’t break the skin. And hers did.
People think real long nails are what you need in a catfight. That’s bullshit. Those long, squared-off beauties that rich women, nail salon ladies and Hollywood stars have are good for one real hard and painful scratch. Then they break and hurt you more than you hurt the other chick. We Monforts keep nails like these – just a little beyond the fingertip, lacquered with polish to strengthen them, and filed sharp. We work our toenails like that, too. You can cut a bitch all day with these babies – the gift that just keeps on giving. Mrs. McCall had those movie star nails which will tear you up bad, but just once. Unfortunately for Mom, that once was right down her sweaty back and it was going to stay with her for a while.
Mom screamed and fell to her knees, arms behind her trying to put out the fire back there. Barbara shoved her to the floor, grabbed her shorts and yanked them off. She stomped her burning back, then pulled her panties off as well. She hauled Mom to her feet by the hair. Barbara McCall had stripped my Mom naked right before me and began giving her a beating.
I haven’t been too worried until now. Mom had beaten some big, tough and experienced broads like Katie Pirelli and Texie Morgan, her best friend and one time enemy. There was no way she’d lose to some country club drag queen like Barbara McCall. The closest thing to a catfight she’d ever even seen was probably when two of her house kitties at the mansion got into it. But here she was tearing Mom’s naked self the fuck up. She slapped Mom’s face again, yanked her back by the hair and gave her another short little uppercut downstairs. Maybe Jillie had been giving her some pointers after all. I was screaming for Mom to get her shit together and fight back, but I know what it’s like when you’re getting your ass kicked - you don’t hear anything but the ringing in your ears.
Barbara was even taunting her now. “What’s the matter, Frenchy? (jab) Can’t talk shit any more? Nothing to say, you tired old swamp rat? (slap) Like having your little girl watching her naked old mother get beat up by a Penobscot lady? (slap) Here’s what I think of you, whore! (spit)”
Mom just let Barbara shake the sweat out of her black curls for a while until the tall blonde was tired. Then it happened as I hoped it would. All that Louisiana fire saved for one big shot. Mom lurched forward, ignoring the extra pressure on her scalp, took Barbara by the shoulders and kneed her as hard as she could - right between the legs.
If Barbara Penobscot McCall had never been slapped in the face before, I guess getting kneed in the twat was out of the question. (D’ya think? Miss Monfort was beginning to adopt my own sense of sarcasm. I’m so proud – Nick) Barbie bellowed in wide-eyed pain and sank to the floor in sections, clutching herself and groaning. Guys think getting kneed in the nuts hurts, and I’m sure it does (yep), but getting cxnt-busted is no fucking joke either. Damn, even I felt some sympathy for the bitch. Not so much Mom.
She slugged Barbara a couple of times in the ribs down there, and stripped her of her shorts and panties. I knew that was coming. Not exactly a natural blonde, was she? Thump – another fist to the ribcage. A big wad of spit to the side of her red face. She flattened the groaning gal out on her belly, mounted Barbara’s back facing a bare ass that was as lily white as her little tits, and looked at me.
Mom’s hair was a ratty mess, her cheeks were red and her tits were scratched and one was bleeding from a bite. Her back looked like a road map. She was drenched in sweat and there was blood was trickling from both corners of her open mouth as she gasped for air. But her eyes were smiling.
“Had me worried, there for a while, old lady,“ I said with relief.
“I don’t … fuck up too often … but when I do … it’s a doozy.
Doux Seigneur Jésus.”
Mom bent over, brushing the hair out of her face and planted a big bite on each pale butt cake of the lanky blonde. Mrs. McCall shrieked with each bite and pounded the floor cursing. She hollered again as Mom slowly clawed the back of her thighs and ass with those sharp girlfighting nails.
Mom was still out of breath, so I spoke for her. “Oh, shut the fuck up skank! Jillie didn’t cry out like that when I scratched her all up. You’re right, Mom. Jillie’s twice the woman this dried up old bat is.”
Mom was getting her wind and senses back after her beating. “Only twice? God, Barbara, you can hand it out pretty good, but you can’t take it. You disgust me. I haven’t even started on your face and belly yet. Your tits are hardly worth it. How about your cxnt?”
“No! Not my vagina! Let me up! When I get up I’m going to kill you Carly!”
“Well that makes a shitload of sense, Blondie,” snickered Mom. “Okay, you’re on. I’ll let you up so you can kill me. I need to work those abs and that ugly face of yours anyway. Let’s go …”
Mom got off of Mrs. McCall, letting her get painfully to her feet. Then the beatdown began. Mom just took Barbara apart – jabbing her nose and puffing her eyes. She gave Barbara a brutal punch just below the navel where she guessed her fairly tight 44 year old-belly was the softest and from the sound she made and the way she folded up, I figure she had it right. Every part of the other lady’s body and face was targeted with fists, feet or slaps. She shook her hair like crazy, gave her flat chest a pair of tittie twisters, bruised her ribs with kicks, raked nails across her face and really gut-busted her with a series of fists to the stomach. By the time Mom let Barbara slump to the floor, she’d beaten Mrs. McCall to a pulp. Mom loves a good sexy catfight, but there was nothing sexy about this one – it was just raw.
Mom dragged the beaten and sobbing Mrs. McCall by what was left of her dyed hair to a corner and propped her up in it. She knelt down over her hips until tits and bellies and noses were pressing, and they had a little whispering one-way discussion. Mostly Barbara only nodded or shook her head weeping and whimpering. Mom summed it up later what she had to say.
“I told the hag what I expected of her – to start treating people with a little more respect, starting with Jillie. Start practicing what her Good Book preached. Stand up to that loser of a husband and make it clear that if he didn’t fly straight, you’ll take your Penobscot money and leave his sorry ass. Find one of those skanks he’s been fucking and do to her what you nearly did to me today – that will send a message. Start being a Mom and a woman and stop being a fucking Penobscot. I said I was going to tear her up a little more to make sure she got the message and to remember me by, but if you or I was harassed in any way by the bank or the law, I would find her and cxnt her completely. I’d scrape out her fucking eggs and carve my initials on her cheeks with my fingernails. And I meant it. Something like that.”
After the “conversation” finished, Mom took Barbara by the hair and make her wail with a nasty bite under her swollen right eye, making sure it bled, scratching it up a little to help it along. Then she got a finger between her legs, worked it into her asshole and reamed it out pretty good until the broken blonde passed out from the pain and shock. We then called her estate and had a couple of her Mexicans to pick up their naked, bruised and bleeding employer and haul her sorry ass out of our house, taking her Benz with them (yes, it was a good day for Pedro and Miguel after all – Nick). I kept the bitch’s sunglasses – my eyes were still sensitive after the thumbing her daughter had given to me yesterday. That’s only fair, right?
Mom and I spent the rest on the day moving furniture, cleaning the floor of blood and stuff, and sweeping up all the loose blond and black hair from all over the place. All except for one big handful of blond hair with black roots. Mom kept that for herself.
5
The Wise Man
I suppose it was a week or so later. I’d finished my report for Drake on Carly and Barbara’s big brawl and was packing up for the day when an excited Marcia Monfort broke into the office all smiles.
“Guess what happened to me today?” she beamed.
“Don Johnson called and asked you for a date?”
“No silly. I ran into Jillie McCall today in the park!”
“Wait. Let me look. No bruises, no scratches, no …”
“We didn’t fight – we talked.”
“Ok, when and where’s the fight. Let me know. I’ll get one of my boss’s camera crews. I’ll be making my directorial debut. I see an Oscar …”
“Oh will you shut the fuck up and let me tell you what happened?”
Yes ma’am. Here’s Marcia again … Nick out
So I’m walking home from school. Jack was going to be late because of track practice, so I stop at the park and feed the pigeons for a while. Then I hear a familiar squeaky-ass voice. “Hi Marcia.” It’s fuckin’ Jillie! Dude, I hadn’t talked to her since our catfight. And after Mom beat her Mom’s ass, well I really, really wanted to stay away from her. I said, ”Hi, Jillie. Look, I don’t want to fight …”
“I don’t want to fight either, I just want to talk.”
“I don’t know what we have to discuss. About what happened to your Mom, I’m sorry …”
She waved her hand. “Don’t be. Mom acted like a real bitch storming into your house like that. I tried to tell her our fight wasn’t your fault. I started it. You just finished it. I don’t blame your Mom for beating her up - she needed it.”
“Jillie I don’t know what to …”
“Please let me finish.” She sat down next to me. “A few days ago, a wise man told me about this relationship you have with your Mom. God I was so jealous. The way you two take care of each other without smothering, you know? You come home all beat up and your Mom is there for you. I come home torn up even worse and mine is concerned only how this will affect her reputation. Meanwhile, Dad is out fucking his secretary or something.”
Dude, I had to choke back a laugh.
“Anyway, You and your Mom defended me after mine burst into your house last week. You both said you admired my spirit. I won’t forget that. Thanks. And Mom is better now, too. She listens to me now and even Dad is home more often. Sure she’s still a Penobscot, but things have improved. It’s just that I still envy you Monfort gals. Always have. Even more since that wise man talked to me. We may never be friends, but all that shit is over between us as far as I’m concerned.”
“Me too. We beat all of that out of each other last Friday.”
“Great, but tell that bitch Jenny Lee Savoy that she owes me a pair of shoes! Her feet are too big for them anyway. It’s the shoes or it’s her ass. Tell her that.”
“Want me to referee?”
“Like … hell. Say, do you want to take boxing lessons with me? Maybe I can teach you something!”
“I don’t know bitch. You taught me the first lesson last Friday at the Ballpark!” And for the first time ever, Jillie McCall and I laughed together.
Epilogue
“I have a question for you Mr. Sebastian. Who is this ‘wise man’ she’s talking about.” Marcia’s eyes narrowed. “How could Jillie have known about what Mom and me said to each other when nobody else was there at our house Friday night?”
“Well you see my dear, Ol’ Nick here used to be a newspaper guy until I drank myself out of the job. And one thing every reporter learns is to cover his ass with multiple sources”. I reach into a drawer and pull out a cassette tape labelled ‘Jillie McCall – Interview’ and show it to Marcia.
“Dated three days ago! You sneaky bastard.” And she laughed. “Wise Man? More like Wise Guy!” But thanks. From Jillie and from me. And yes, I do believe you’re right. You do need to meet my Mom. Maybe she needs to meet you, too.”
And she gave me a little kiss. Made my fucking day.
The End
//Braveheart
© 2013 by Braveheart. All rights reserved. TXu 1-910-919
