I know I probably shouldn’t be doing this, but I need the money. Unlike a few others in the group, I don’t have a silver spoon in my mouth (or in the case of a few….a silver foot in the mouth). But here I am. This is a relatively easy way to earn a living. Well, except for having my foot broken by a lunatic. And after that having my head shaved by a freak of nature. And then having my heart broken by the girl I love, and after that have the treacherous bitch try to kill me in a dumpster. Yeah, this is an easy way to make a lot of money.
Oh well, I knew what I was getting into from the start.
I received the details for my next fight late on Friday afternoon. I couldn’t believe my eyes! I have to go to a scary old junkyard and fight in that nasty place? The rules state “no weapons,” but a junkyard is full of potential weapons. This could get scary. To top things off, my opponent is relatively unknown to me, although I think I insulted her once. Maybe she’s forgotten about that. Most likely she hasn’t.
Oh God…..
Since I’m under contract, and I need a paycheck, I drive to the junkyard at the specified time. I hope to be the first one to arrive. No such luck. A beat up 1973 Ford F-100 pickup is already there. Through the Confederate battle flag tint on the rear window I can see a shotgun rack. On the shotgun rack are a fishing pole and a cattle prod.
Oh shit!
I hope the truck has been brought here for junk. No such luck. As I walk by the truck, a rather large dog with long, floppy ears start howling. After I get my heart out of my throat, and I check to make sure I haven’t soiled myself, I see the dog inside a short steel cage in the back of the truck. I look closer and see a manufacturer’s sticker that says, “
Coon Hunter’s Heaven
(423) 291-4628.
A coon dog? Really? Oh. My. God.
I consider getting in my car and leaving. This is just too much. But like I said, I need the money. I take a deep breath and walk toward the junkyard entrance. As I pass by they truck’s cab, I see a bumper sticker stuck on the dashboard. I think it’s holding the radio in place. The sticker says,
Take ur ex out tonite
One bullet outta' do it!
Oh. My. God. What have I gotten myself into?
I grew up playing golf and going to country clubs. Yeah, I’m a Cajun. But I grew up in a big house on the Bayou Teche, not far from The Shadows plantation. Some have even said I lived a sheltered life. Some even call me “spoiled.” Now, I don’t think that’s true, but I could be a little bitch when I wanted to be. Especially if I wanted something I couldn’t have. Fortunately, I had a daddy who would get those things for me. Unfortunately, my mother, a real Cajun from back in the swamps of the Atchafalaya Basin, is the one who usually called me “spoiled.” She always wanted me to learn “the hard way.” Of course I thwarted her every effort. Except when it came to the physical part. I learned to fight by standing toe to toe with my mother and my older sisters in the back yard. I’m not ashamed to say that I lost most of those fights, but I learned what to do to even the odds especially against my bigger older sister. I could actually beat them every now and then, but mom was a different story. To this day she can still kick my butt.
Sorry, I got a little sidetracked here. I mention all this because my rearing is what brought me into what I do now…in a round-a-bout way. Remember I mentioned dear old dad would get me anything? Well, he would. All his little munchkin had to do was ask. Daddy would make sure little “Jonica” didn’t want for anything. He had no “John Jr,” but he had little “Jonica.” I was the apple of his eye.
Well, dear old dad passed away a few years ago. Of course, dear old dad never took the time to write a will. He was always too busy. Too busy getting little Jonica out of trouble, or too busy drinking, smoking weed, and popping pills at the club, or too busy with the club’s young waitresses to worry about such things as a will. Mommy dearest got everything. Poor little Jonica got a meager allowance, and the rest she had to fend for on her own. Poor little Jonica had to get a job.
Well, that kinda brings us to this point. Of course, there is more to the story with me and mommy dearest and my sisters…maybe I’ll share some of those stories with you sometime…but now you see why I do what I do. Fighting other women comes easy to me. Plus, it pays very, very well. I guess I could do just as well taking my clothes off and humping guys on video, or jiggling around a brass pole, but I just hate the thought of drunken men pawing at me. (There is a reason; maybe I’ll explain that some day too).
Anywho, here I am in a junkyard about to fight with some redneck, white trash cxnt who drives around with a fishing pole and coon dog in her truck. We are going to try and smash each other to a bloody pulp, stomp the other into the sooty, oily compacted dirt, and completely dominate the other in a physical manner….all for a paycheck.
I’m 30 years old now, not 17. What the hell am I thinking?
I walk through the junkyard entrance and down a long path flanked by rusting cars, piles of twisted metal, old appliances, piles of car parts, and mountains of debris. The air around me is filled with the pungent odor of gasoline, burnt motor oil, and smoke from a nearby wood fire. The dirt path is filthy and nearly black from decades of oil seeping into it. This place would give an EPA agent a heart attack.
My anxiety nearly reaches a crescendo with each twist of the path. My shoes are soon covered with a slimy mixture of mud, gas, oil, and water from the numerous puddles left after the last storm. Thinking of rain, I look up at the sky, and my mood darkens to match the thunderclouds overhead. That’s all we need in this dismal place, an electric storm.
Finally, the path rounds a corner and I walk into a clearing of sorts. Crushed cars form a round, almost arena-like, area. The cars form walls on each side, except where the path leads into it. It the junk collapsed, I would be trapped here forever. I get am almost claustrophobic feel, but that is soon replace by the feeling I’m being watched. I look around and I see the video cameras which are our only conduit into the real world until this is over, but that’s not it. Someone, or something, else is watching.
“Well, well. I was thinking’ for a minute you ain’t gonna show. I thought you were skeered. But here you are. You ready for the beatin’ your momma never gave you, you smart-mouth bitch?”
The voice and accent send icicles racing up and down my spine. I turn and look straight into the eyes of Robin, my opponent.
Robin is an enigma to me. I have only seen her in photographs…having never met her before this moment. Of course she is one of the group’s rednecks, and she seems proud to be trailer trash. I have heard she just likes to fight. Must be true, given that her self-proclaimed nickname is “The Rebel Bitch.” Her pictures depict her posing in front of the Confederate battle flag. She probably does have to fight a lot considering she is from the Southern US, where many consider the battle flag and words like “Rebel” a challenge.
The mystery of Robin, from my perspective, is, if she likes to fight, why does she lose so much? Also from my perspective…Standing in the middle of a lonely junkyard in semi-darkness, the only light now coming from two 50 gallon drums with what smelled to be a mixture of wood and kerosene burning brightly within them…she didn’t look like a jobber. She looked tough as nails.
Robin looks to be a little taller than my 5’2.” We probably weigh about the same….around 115 to 120 lbs. Her hair is a darker brown than mine and she is wearing it pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her piercing brown eyes stand in stark contrast to her alabaster complexion. She has soft feminine qualities that would be obvious to any observer, but she is hard. It’s apparent that she has worked hard for most of her adult life…if not before then. She is in that mysterious age range where she could pass for 18 or 38. Her shoulders and upper arms are wide and muscular, and her forearms are thick from manual labor. The tank top she is wearing is scissored off just below her breasts and highlights her smooth, flat belly. Her very, very short cutoff blue jeans (Daisy Dukes, here in the South) show every inch of her powerful thighs that taper down to muscular calves. Her bare feet are just starting to show with dirt and oil from the junkyard. Her toes haven’t seen a pedicure in a long, long time. Even with all of this, she exudes a powerful sexuality. I find myself immediately aroused, and a little confused. How the hell is she a jobber? I can usually spot them a mile away.
“So? We gonna fight? Or are you just gonna stand there lookin’ stupid?”
Her question shakes me from my thoughts and I stare at her for a moment. She says, “Well?” I reply by slipping off my windbreaker and jogging pants. I kick my sandals off and turn to face her. My battle attire is simple: White sports bra, short royal blue spandex bicycle shorts and bare feet.
I smile sweetly, and say, “Well, let’s fight then, bitch.”
Robin flexes her chest and a faded tattoo peers out from underneath the neck of her tank top. She has a flower, or something or other, tattooed above her left breast.
I make my first mistake of the fight trying to figure out what the hell her tattoo is.
While I’m staring at it, her right fist catches me flush on the chin. I drop like a rock, my head reeling.
Oh. My. God. She’s a jobber?
Shaking my head to gather my senses, I scramble backwards on my butt as Robin charges at me. Her foot narrowly missing my chin as she launches a wicked kick…like a football place kicker…that would have ended the fight right there had she connected. My bare feet skitter across the filthy ground and I find myself backed up against the cold metal of the junk pile. I fall to my right and start to roll, but this time I’m not quite fast enough. Her knee slams into my side with such force, I’m lifted off the ground.
The air explodes from my lungs with a mighty, “OMMPPPHH!” as her knee slams into me. I drop to all fours, and my opponent grabs my hair with both hands and yanks forward. I fall face first into the oil soaked dirt. A heel to the ribs causes me to cry out in pain.
All I see are shadows now as Robin grabs my hair again and yanks my head up. She straddles my torso and begins slamming punch after punch into my exposed face. I try to cover up with my arms, but her fists slam painfully into my hands and forearms. Soon, I have blood dripping from my nose, lips, and a cut on my left cheek. I know I have to do something quick, or this will be over real soon.
After a brutal barrage of fists to my head, face, shoulders, neck, and arms, Robin sits back and takes a deep breath of air. She must think I’m finished because she has a silly grin on her face. She whispers something as she smiles down at me, but I can’t understand what she’s saying because of the ringing in my ears. She must think victory is at hand, and she probably doesn’t realize how right she is. If she had continued her barrage, it would have been over soon. I couldn’t withstand that. Suddenly, I realize why she is a jobber. She isn’t very smart.
She quickly learns the error of her ways when my fist explodes into her crotch with a savage blow.
My right fists slams like a hammer between her thighs and the smile on Robin’s face goes from one of contentment, to confusion, to sudden, sharp pain. The blow lifts her off me and I take advantage of my newly found freedom to drive my bare heel into her belly button. The breath exhales with a “whoosh” from her mouth and is soon followed by a piercing wail, as Robin drops onto her butt and rolls into a tight ball.
Blood seeps from my nose and mingles with the blood from the cut on my cheek. The bloody streaks mix with tears and oily dirt from the ground. We both look like we are wearing war paint. The fight is only just beginning.
I stagger to my feet and prepare to seek retribution for her initial attack.
My confidence begins to soar. I think I’ve found the key to winning this fight. I think I know why so many consider Robin to be a jobber. I approach my victim, as she lies on the ground, oblivious to my approach. The closer I get, the more confidant I become of the looming end. I bend over her and reach for her hair…just as her fist flies up and catches me squarely in the throat. I gag, grab at my neck with both hands, and stand up straight. Her next punch hits me dead center in my unprotected belly. I double up again as she grabs my hair and pulls me face-first into the hard packed earth.
So much for me knowing her secret.
I spit dirt, oil, and blood from my mouth as I try to push my arms under me. As I try to stand, a vicious kick hits me in the ribs. I grunt in pain, but so does she. I guess she forgot she wasn’t wearing shitkicker cowboy boots. Rolling over on my back, my stomach on fire from the punch it just took, I’m finally able to catch my breath. I watch Robin do a strange little dance as she tries to ease the pain in her toes. Then she turns to me with a look of utter hatred on her face. If I don’t do something, I’m in for a severe beating.
As she storms toward me, I roll onto my back and raise my knees. She hits me full impact and we go rolling over and over across the dirty clearing. Punches skip off my head as I try my best to dodge them and throw punches of my own. Neither of us are connecting with many because of our continued momentum, but soon our rolling bodies come to rest against a junk wall. Unfortunately, she is on top when we stop. Ugh. She is finally able to get across my knees and straddle my belly. In fear and desperation, I writhe and buck wildly until she starts to lose her balance. Reaching up with both hands, I grab the front of her cutoff tank top and yank her sideways as my hips thrust violently. Her body topples into the junk wall as I feel a satisfying rip from her top. I quickly push her off my body and scramble across the empty space away from her to regain my composure.
We are now separated by about fifty feet of oil stained dirt. We are between the two burning barrels and face each other on our knees. Heat from the fire causing my back to like sunburn. I watch as Robin peels the remains of her tank top off and faces me wearing nothing but her cutoff blue jean shorts. Her anger turning her face red with rage, we move toward each other as if from an unspoken command. When we are about ten feet apart, we lunge at each other and try to wrestle the other to the ground.
This is so foolish on my part that words can’t begin to describe how stupid I am to try and wrestle with her. I’ve already described how strong she looks, and her looks aren’t deceiving. She is incredibly strong! I have also taken a pretty good beating in this fight, and she looks like I’ve hardly laid a glove on her. Where I have a bloody nose, mashed lips, puffy cheeks, and an angry scratch down my cheek, she only has one red mark on her left cheek. I’m not going to win standing toe to toe with her. I’ve got to out think her. Unfortunately, brawn is getting the better of brains at the moment.
Robin manages to get both of her arms under my armpits and fling me to the ground. When I try to get back up on my knees, I am met with a barefoot in the middle of my chest. I thump back to the ground, and the air leaves my lungs with a “whoosh.”
If she had moved in to finish the fight at that moment, she probably would have had me. But as I explained earlier, Robin isn’t very bright. Instead of delivering a coup-de-gras, she bends over me and yanks and tugs until she has wrestled my sports bra over my head. Then she drives her heel into my belly and pins me back to the ground. To my horror, she wrestles my spandex shorts down my legs and over my feet, even while I kick wildly. Soon, I am left wearing nothing but a black cotton thong that is soaked with sweat. I feel naked lying in the oily filth of the junkyard.
Anger blooms red in my cheeks, and I shove her foot off my belly. I sit up and try to wrap my arms around her waist, but as if anticipating this move, she steps back and drives her knee at the point of my chin. Fortunately for me, her knee glances off my chest then into the underside of my chin. My head snaps back painfully, and I collapse onto the ground, but I’m still conscious. Why is that fortunate, you ask? Because Robin is dumb. Once again, I am at her complete mercy, but she is too stupid to realize it. Or, perhaps, she thinks her knee made solid contact and I am out. Either way, I let her think I am done for.
I watch in total astonishment as she gathers up my sports bra, my spandex shorts, and then the jogging suit I wore to the junkyard….and my shoes. She casually glances back at me and laughs. “You tore my favorite fightin’ shirt up, bitch. Now I’m gonna fuck up a few of your things.”
I rush to my feet and run toward her as fast as I can, but I’m too late to save my belongings from being tossed into the roaring fire. My clothes disappear into the flames as Robin doubles over laughing. She sees me rushing at her, but it’s too late. I tackle her and we narrowly miss the fifty-gallon drum with the fire. We roll head over heels across the filthy ground until we come to a stop against the junk wall again. Unfortunately, Robin is once again on top.
Instead of punching and throwing wild fists, this time Robin tries a new tactic. Her hands descend over my throat and her fingers tighten against the veins and arteries carrying blood to and from my head. Her thumbs meet over my windpipe and begin crushing it closed. I buck and writhe wildly but I can feel my strength waning. Fear overtakes me when I realize I am lying in a filthy junkyard nearly naked. If she chokes me out, I will be at her complete mercy. That is a something I can’t allow to happen. My fingers dig into her wrists, but they are clamped on too tightly. My hips and legs thrash, but her weight is becoming too much for me to overcome. I feel my strength sapping, and soon I fall back to the ground nearly spent. My hands fall from her wrists and flop limply on the ground. Her face is a mask of hatred mixed with satisfaction, as she feels my body surrendering.
I am almost to the point of submitting when my right hand feels something cool and hard under it. My fingers tighten around it and I feel a metallic object just larger than my fist. It feels round, but bulges in the middle. It feels solid. I lift the object and slam it into the side of Robin’s head with what little strength I have left.
“AAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!”
I hear her scream and roll away from me as if she were on fire. I know I hit her hard, but I didn’t think I had the strength left to hit her hard enough to elicit that kind of reaction. I look down at the object in my hand. It’s obviously an old headlight from a car of a bygone era. It has the glass on one side, and on the other it is conically shaped metal. In the middle of the cone are three protruding medal prongs, not unlike the prongs on an electric appliance plug-in. On the three prongs are dirt, blood, hair, and what may be flesh.
“YOU FUCKING BITCH!!!! LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO MY EAR!!!!!”
I look at what I did to her ear. The one on the left side of her head is ripped and torn as if a wild animal had attacked her. Blood is smeared across her cheek, and is pouring from the wounds down the side of her head and neck. Her shoulder is covered with it.
“I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!!!!”
I have worked my way up to my knees as she comes rushing at me. In desperation, I throw the headlight at her and watch, as if in slow motion, as it slams into her face.
Remember how I said I haven’t put a mark on her face? Well, that just changed. The headlight hits her just above the left eye and opens a gash. Blood pours down her face. She stops and her hands go to the new wound as the headlight skitters away across the ground. I look to finish the fight right then and there. This could be my last chance to win.
I tackle her and we tumble to the ground as the sky rips apart in a flash of lightning, a crash of thunder, and a gust of wind. In seconds sheets of rain soak our nearly naked bodies.
We roll across the sodden ground, both of our feet fighting for purchase of the now sodden ground. The filthy, oily, soot covered yard now becoming a sea of smelly, swampy mire. Our bodies are quickly becoming covered in the muck. It’s instantly obvious Robin is weaker than before….most likely from blood loss….but she is still incredibly strong. After a few moments, I find myself on my hands and knees with her kneeling over me trying to push my face against the side of one of the still brightly burning fifty gallon drums. I can hear both of our grunts of exertion as she pushes my back and shoulders, and I try to dig in with my hands. I can also hear the hissing sound of the raindrops falling into the blaze. I am so close to the drum that I can feel the heat radiating from it. The steel is nearly glowing red. Dread fills my every fiber, and I push back even harder, but my hands are slipping inch by inch closer to the barrel. A sob of fear brings a short, evil bark of laughter from my adversary.
“You ripped my fuckin’ ear off bitch, now I’m gonna fry your fuckin’ face!”
I grit my teeth and try to hold firm, but I slip ever so closer.
Robin leans all of her body weight onto my back trying to push me face first into the roaring cauldron. I am only a couple feet away, one mighty shove and I could be disfigured for life. Her fingers clamp down on my ponytail and push me even closer. I feel my resolve giving in, as well as the mud under my hands. Then, a glimmer of hope hits me. I’m smarter than she is.
I suddenly stop resisting and drop to my elbows. The momentum of her pushing against me suddenly throws her off balance and I drop all the way to the ground and roll. Her shoving works against her and she rolls back first into the red hot fire drum.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!”
I terrifying scream erupts from my enemy as I roll the opposite way to freedom. When I glance back at Robin, she is rolling in the mud, her back almost glowing from the burns on it. My swollen nostrils fill with a terrible odor that makes me nearly gag. My hand feels a smooth, round object under it in the muck. My trusty old headlight. I pick it up, rush over to Robin, and slam it into the side of her head until I feel the glass smash. Or maybe it’s her skull caving in. At that moment, I didn’t care which. My foe isn’t moving, and that is good enough for me.
I sit back on my heels and take in huge gasps of air. When I finally catch my breath, I sigh with relief. I won. My fingers go to Robin’s throat to check for a pulse (I may have a black little heart, but I still have a heart). Thankfully, it is strong. She’s still alive. Standing up, I sway for a moment. When I have my balance, I bend down and grasp Robin’s ankles. I drag her across the clearing to a spot where she won’t cook to death from the heat of the drum fire. I stare at her beaten body for a long time. The blood and muck has been nearly washed away by the rain. I look up at one of the cameras. The people who pay to watch this are in a warm room, safe from the storm, and satisfied after another brutal battle staged purely for their entertainment. An ordinary person would probably have animosity towards them for their insatiable blood lust. But to me, they just feed my paycheck. Winners get paid more.
I place my barefoot on Robin’s chest, smile sweetly at the camera, and raise my arms. Rainwater runs in rivulets down my nearly naked body. The storm washes my body clean. When my fists reach their apex, lightning ripples across the sky, as if saluting me.
