The Club Number 4

"Count backward from 100," he said, an old joke.

"99," I said and went to sleep.

"Okay," the voice said, "it's time."

I slowly came awake, for some reason having trouble focusing. Hell, I was having some trouble remembering who I am or where I was.

Jane

, that's my name and then my mind added

Jungle, "You're Jungle Jane."

Okay, that's it. I'm Jungle Jane and this is Girl's Fight Club and yes, the first thing to know about Girl's Fight Club is you never talk about Girl's Fight Club.

"There you are," he said and again there was that odd strain to think of his name.

I gave my head a quick shake to clear it and his name came to me.

"Tommy, that's his name.

" I had an instant to wonder before he pulled me to a sitting position on the bench in the locker room and started the final pre-fight preparations. He taped my wrists to protect those delicate joints and then my fingers to protect delicate bones. Girl's Fight Club is a bare-knuckle thing so each finger had to be carefully taped individually to leave me able to grasp.

My long hair was already up in a tight bun. You only wear your hair down once in a fight. Having your scalp damn near ripped off is an amazingly efficient teacher.

While he was doing my hands I had my

Vicks

inhaler and was taking in the strong

levmetamfetamine

active ingredient and menthol scent to dry out and open my airway.

My hands ready, he sprayed up my nose with the saline-based decongestant, something that would help if I did get hit, something I would, of course, try to avoid, and my nose started bleeding. He sprayed until the liquid ran onto my upper lip and then carefully dried my mouth.

His final move before he had me warm up was to put a thick layer of

Vaseline

across my cheekbones, giving me a bit of lubricant to keep skin from tearing if I got hit there, again, something I would work very hard to avoid.

"Okay, Janey," he said, "win this fight and you are up for a shot at the Championship."

He held my eyes for a few seconds. He fancies himself a master of the pep talk.

Me, I don't need a pep talk. I was anxious to kick this cow's ass.

"Now, on your feet and warm up," he said.

I stood and moved to the mirror wall.

Damn, I looked good.

I'm medium tall for a woman at 5'7", and slender. My fighting weight, which I certainly was right now, is 135 and I was carrying effectively zero body fat. The

cephalic

veins on the outside of my biceps stood out prominently as did the eight-pack of my abs, overdeveloped to be able to take a punch and not have my knees go weak if my opponent was trying for the

solar plexus

. I've never been heavy-chested and since I started training seriously I don't fill my A-cup bras. My nipples, a bit oversized on the small bumps of my breasts, were hard with my excitement, not arousal but excitement anticipating the fight. My body is perfectly smooth from the neck down. When you fight you don't want the added distraction of pain as hair is pulled out so I invested about eighty-five hundred dollars and six consecutive Wednesday afternoons in a dermatologist's office being treated with chemicals and lasers to ensure I would stay smooth.

And yes, that means smooth between my legs too. I frowned as my quick inventory, while I began moving my arms in slow circles to warm, up got to the fork of my legs. My labia dangled dramatically. You'd think I had a half dozen kids the way I hung but it wasn't the result of childbirth that left me looking like that. I got sucker punched a little over three years ago now. As I let my focus drop, celebrating the win, the woman I had just beaten did a knee drop onto my pussy, damn near cracking my pelvic bone when her kneecap hit with her 180 pounds behind it. Once I retire I'll have a labioplasty and get things tidied up down there but for now, it serves as a reminder to me to be fucking careful until I'm back in the locker room.

Arms loose, I began shadowboxing against the mirrors, my eyes open wide, watching my eyes in the mirror but my peripheral vision watching the little tells, the rocking onto the ball of my right or left foot, the subtle motion as I cocked my hand for a punch or my leg for a kick, and my navel, always remembering Joe, the first man who had agreed to train a half-feral girl to fight saying "Wherever her navel goes, she'll follow."

I was bouncing now, looking like Sly Stallone in Rocky Whatever, the one where he fights Mr. T and is being trained by Apollo Creed.

I felt my body start to demand oxygen and break sweat so I settled into slow movements, just keeping my arms and shoulders loose.

"Okay, Slugger," he said, draping the light robe over my shoulders. It was a light

faux

silk material in an old-fashioned military BDU camo pattern.

We moved to the door from the locker room, held open a crack by Frank, Tommy's cut man. Although I had no intention of getting cut he's a good guy to have in your corner.

The ring announcer had already started his spiel.

The music started and Jim Croce's

Roller Derby Queen

started playing over the speakers before the ring announcer, a guy named Fred if you care, started into his spiel that would end with his imitation of Michael Buffer's famous, "Let's get ready to rumble."

"She might be nasty, she might be fat," Fred was saying, quoting Croce's lines.

I didn't watch. No point. I knew what she looked like. I had watched her tapes until I was fucking sick of watching her tapes. I knew her moves and I knew exactly how I would take her.

He finished introducing Olga the Viking, hell, for all I know Olga might be the name on her birth certificate, and then my music started, the gentler, happy,

Lion Sleeps Tonight

.

"She might be small but she is quick and mean. Not the lion, the Cheetah," he started and with Tommy's hands on my shoulders I started moving to the ring.

No, it's not Madison Square Garden. Just a good-sized boxing gym set up to handle Golden Gloves, club fights, and, as I was about to participate, Girl Fight Club some nights.

It was a good crowd tonight. A couple of hundred people, some even looking like they were attending a more traditional event with couples there, men in suits and women in pretty classy dresses and stuff.

As I took the three steps and then vaulted over the top ring rope, my signature entrance, designed to show off my strength and flexibility and maybe strike a little bit of fear into my opponent. Well, in this game I wouldn't strike "fear," but maybe I could make her think a bit.

She was still in her robe and so we followed the proper protocols. She was higher ranked than me, so Tommy held my robe as I shrugged it off, raised my taped hands over my head, and did a slow turn to the whistles from the crowd. Okay, I think I look good and I AM a bit of an exhibitionist.

Olga did the same.

She actually looked pretty good, herself, I thought. She carried her 200 pounds well on a 5' 6" frame. Oh yeah, I knew her EVERY dimension. Her face was kind of cute really in that round-faced way of some big girls. She was a natural blonde, a fact confirmed by the thick, curly, pale brown pubic hair that showed under her big belly. Not a soft fat belly, a big belly like you'll see if you watch professional wrestling. That same thick curly hair showed in her armpits. It was obvious that we had taken opposite approaches to body hair.

The referee summoned us to the middle of the ring. She tried the stare-down thing. I smiled at her.

"You know the rules," the ref said, a ref I didn't know. "Three-minute rounds and you fucking RELEASE at a tap out." The implied "Or I'll MAKE you release," was left unsaid. At his 6'2" and 250 pounds, he didn't need to say it.

We don't do the touch gloves or shake hands or any of that bullshit. I just walked to Tommy and opened my mouth for the mouthpiece.

I'm not like most of the girls. They tend to have a signature move. I think they watch too much professional wrestling, myself. They all think they need a Kurt Angle Ankle Lock or Hulk Hogan Leg Drop or something like that. I work very hard to NOT do that because this ain't professional wrestling and I DON'T want to be predictable.

Olga was predictable. I had watched 20 films and in every one she tried the bull rush opening move that just overwhelmed her opponent.

Tommy and I were ready for this one.

I held his eyes as the bell rang.

I felt the vibrations in the ring as she came for me, not quite a dead run but a fast trot.

I knew she would be a bit put off because she was seeing my back, and I counted on it.

Tommy nodded fractionally and I threw my right leg back in a mule kick. I hoped to catch her right above her belly button and if I surprised her a little it would sink to her solar plexus and the fight would be over.

It didn't work that well. Oh well, it was a trick play anyway.

But I did connect well enough to throw her off balance and as I spun, the backfist whipping, I adjusted my angle a couple of degrees and caught her with the big middle knuckle right on her nose. I could actually hear the crack as her nose broke and there was an instant sheet of blood running down her upper lip, chin, and dripping onto her big tits.

The fight was over, and I suppose we both knew it. In a World Boxing Council match the ref probably would have called it. But this was Girl Fight Club and it was supposed to be to the end.

She stood, blinded by her tears, giving me a second to line up the wheel kick that followed. All of the force of the biggest muscles in my body concentrated in the point where my big heel bone connected with her upper thigh, just below the

gluteal sulcus

, that line where her oversized ass formed a crease with her thigh, and her leg collapsed like I had shot it with a gun.

I mounted her then, hoping she would tap out. I mean, I'm a fighter, not a sadist.

She did. Her hand slapped the mat and the ref started moving forward, presumably to pull me off.

He didn't need to. As I said, I'm a fighter, not a sadist. I looked up, met his eyes, and held up a hand, fingers pointing straight up, the universal signal to stop.

He stopped.

The crowd was cheering as I moved forward, reached down, spread my labia, and covered her mouth with my pussy.

She didn't fight anymore.

Her tongue and lips got busy, drawing more cheers. I helped, my fingers busy.

I was keyed up and my orgasm was quick and powerful. The crowd cheered and whistled as I cried my victory, "YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS."

I finished with my signature move, lifting myself a little to piss in her mouth and on her face.

"Okay, Mr. Morgan, wake up," I heard and reality came back in a rush.

I felt the warm towel wiping the mess from my belly.

When my eyes opened I saw Cheryl, the cognitive android smiling down at me as she used the warm, damp towel to clean up a bit more of my semen from between my pectoral muscles and dry me where I had, as I had in that other persona, pissed.

"I see you liked Jungle Janey," she said in that clinical tone all 'droids in her profession use, "should we schedule her for next time?"

"Hmmmm," I said, "do you have her championship fight?"

Cheryl's eyes rolled up, showing only whites for a second while the computer that is her brain scanned the database of recorded personas.

"Sorry, Mr. Morgan," she said, "That's the only Jungle Jane we have."

"Well, damn," I said, stretching, getting the kinks out of overworked muscles, "I think I'll stick with the shuffle option then. I DO enjoy the variety pack."