The Lionsgate

 

by Belial  

 

Julie said, "How positively tacky! Let's stop."

 

It was 2:30 in the morning. I squinted out the tinted window of the limo at the buzzing neon sign that had caught her eye. 'The Lionsgate Tavern', it read. I had to smile. One of the problems with making it big in the city of your birth was that your past always lurked just a few blocks away at any given point in time. I hadn't even realized what part of town we were in. I hadn't seen this place in years.

 

"Driver - pull in there." Julie said, her voice excited, playful. She was like a kid, always spontaneous, always mischievous. But this was a bad idea.

 

"Forget it. Home Jeeves." The driver's name was Paul, but I always called him Jeeves. My little joke. Back when I tended bar at the Lionsgate, I always figured chauffeurs were named Jeeves - kind of a reverse bigotry. Apparently, money had done little to alter my sensibilities.

 

"Tacky bar, Jeeves." Julie commanded. Paul waited for me to countermand. Going once, going twice. When I said nothing, he signaled to pull into the near-deserted parking lot.

 

"Julie," I said, trying to sound blasé, "I'm tired. I'm drunk. I'm horny. Let's get the hell out of here."

 

"Don't be such a bore - I've got a good feeling about this." Her blood was up. The apartment bout we had just seen at the MetWest's downtown club had really gotten to her - she could barely restrain herself when Michelle had won, thus keeping the collision course between the two of them intact for next month's title match. I didn't know exactly how one could have a 'good feeling' about the Lionsgate, but I knew I wasn't up for a reunion. It's not that I hated the joint or anything, it's just that I don't go back to places. End of story. But when it came right down to it, I couldn't say no to Julie. She took my hand and pulled me bodily from the boozy warmth of the limousine, dragging me quickly toward the nondescript street entrance. It had rained about a half hour earlier and the street had that slick reflective look and ozone-clean smell to it. I took a last deep breath of the cool, fresh air, before entering the bar and ducking into a cloud of cigarette smoke thick enough to hurt your eyes upon impact.

 

Time had stood still in this bar - I even recognized a couple of faces as they turned to stare at Julie. She was a head-turner to be sure, but these people were just as amazed to see a classic black cocktail dress and pearls as they were another pretty face. I was getting my fair share of attention as well in my black and whites, bow tie unstrung and hanging loose around my neck. It's one thing to go slumming - it's quite another to broadcast the fact as you're doing it. Still, I didn't see any resentment per-se, more just a kind of eye-rubbing sense of disbelief. In any event, Julie was having just the kind of effect she had envisioned, and loving every minute of it.

 

The Lionsgate was dark, much longer than it was wide, with a raised section along the north wall for the smokers, although it seemed as though smoking were mandatory in all sections. The chairs were soft, comfortable as I recalled, and mounted on rollers. There were the obligatory sports memorabilia mounted on the walls, large television sets in the corners, and video gambling games beside the entrance. The bar itself dominated the view, stretching the length of the room to the back where an area was clear for darts. It was in all respects, a nasty little sports bar at the back end of a dying shopping mall, in a neighborhood that had seen better days. I, for one, needed a drink. Right. Then.

 

"Oh-my-God. Downtown comes uptown! John-John, for chrissake! How the hell have you been!"

 

The voice was booming, trained from years of bellowing across a happy-hour din, and ragged from too much smoke. Capt'n Jack, Jack Dawkins himself, sole proprietor and night manager of the humble Lionsgate Tavern. Still as withered as an old apple left out in the sun. I smiled as I approached the bar, reached across to shake his battered, ex-boxer's hand. "Jack." I said simply.

 

"Johnny, you sonofabitch. How long has it been?"

 

"It's been a while Jack."

 

"I'll say it has." He paused to look at me in wonder. Basically, this man had put me through University with his crummy bartending job. In some strange way, I got the definite impression that he was proud of me. "So what brings you to our fine establishment this evening?"

 

"How about a crazy woman." I said, nodding in Julie's direction. She was off towards the back end of the room, looking up at a blackboard above the bar. I followed her gaze and read the words, written in thin pink chalk, "Mary vs Trish - Saturday Night". My stomach did a slow roll as it dawned on me what Julie might have in mind. "Actually, we're just leaving" I said, but it was way, way too late.

 

"I want the winner." Julie said. She always wanted the winner.

 

Jack turned and frowned at this 'classy dame' as he would call her. 5'6", maybe 120 soaking wet, with that sculpted, aerobics class physique to go with that fresh, beautiful face. Julie had shoulder length, straight, soft, golden-brown hair, which tonight she wore up in a hundred dollar coiffure, the delicate ringlets of which framed a haughty, high cheekboned, almost Asiatic face. I think her mother was Finnish or something - very exotic. Julie was a well respected broker in town, and actually managed the MetWest Trust, set up to finance the training, prize money and living expenses of many of the club's member-competitors. She was a vibrant, educated, very capable woman - none of which qualified her for a back room brawl at the Lionsgate.

 

Jack turned back to me, "She serious?" He said, jerking a thumb in Julie's direction.

 

"She's drunk is what she is." I said, moving to take Julie's arm.

 

She ignored my efforts. "Yes I'm serious. I'd like to fight the winner of tonight's bout. House rules." Julie's voice was carrying, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman stand in the raised section of the bar and slowly walk towards us. She was a sexy-trashy blonde cocktail waitress, hair cut wild and short around a too-cute face, and she strutted to the bar wearing a brown leather bomber jacket over a pink bikini. She was the same height as Julie, but bigger all over, with very good muscle tone, although the cigarette in her right hand made me question her training regimen. With an exaggerated move out of an old Marlene Dietrich movie, she drew on the cigarette and exhaled in Julie's hair, saying, "What's up Jack?"

 

"I don't know babe. Looks like you might have a challenger."

 

Julie still hadn't looked at her opponent. The waitress gave Julie the once over and smirked. "You gotta be shittin' me Jackie."

 

Jack shrugged, looking at Julie. "What's it gonna be, kid? You really wanna get messed up tonight?"

 

"My manager here has 500 dollars that says I can take your girl."

 

Manager! Jack gave me a sideways glance, "That right, Johnny?"

 

"Yeah," Julie continued.

 

"Oh this is gonna be good." The waitress said, leaving the cigarette in her mouth to pull something out of her jacket pockets, which she handed over to Jack. "Do the honors will you Jackie?" She doffed her jacket, tossing it across the back of a vacant chair and held her hands towards Jack while he fiddled with the wraps she had given him. I noticed that the wraps were stained with blood, no doubt from this evening's earlier entertainment. I flashed suddenly on a few of the bouts I had witnessed during my tenure at the bar, and I caught up to Julie who was making her way confidently to the darts area. The floor was cordoned off with a waist high railing and wall, making for a serviceable, if brutal fighting area. She had already kicked off her heels and was wriggling out of her dress when I grabbed her by the arm and forced her to face me. "Have you lost your fucking mind?" I said beneath my breath.

 

"Language." She purred. "You never told me you had common roots."

 

"Julie, this isn't the Met club. There are no doctors in attendance. There are no pinfalls. This girl is going to fight you Julie, really fight you. You don't know what you're getting into."

 

"I'm surprised at you John. I'm a trained professional." The classic black frock slipped to her ankles, revealing a tanned, well muscled body and sharply defined abs in black bra and panties. Julie had ran in the Vancouver marathon last year and was in astounding physical condition. Somehow, I wasn't comforted. I could hear the crowd collecting behind me at the railing, and I knew we were out of luck as far as a mad dash to the exit was concerned.

 

"I don't have any money," I hissed in desperation, knowing that Jack, old buddy, old pal, wouldn't hesitate to have us both stomped for welching on a bet; cash was king at the Lionsgate. Julie grinned devilishly and kissed me lightly before moving away to loosen up. Exasperated, I left the fight floor to take a place at the rail: one tuxedo amidst a sea of paint spattered jeans, tube tops and baseball caps. In all, there were probably less than twenty conscious observers of this event, easily the smallest crowd to ever witness a Julie Helman battle. I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly thick and dry.

 

Jack entered the fight floor with his girl. She had a mud-wrestler's body, kind of soft, but solid, and her eyes, covered in thick black mascara looked cruel and stupid. This girl was still young and strong, hadn't taken the beatings that would eventually leave her broken and without further prospects. She was filled with the kind of confidence that only repeated victory can give a fighter. And Jack was a fight trainer. His girls knew what they were doing.

 

"Julie, is it?" Jack rasped, a little glint in his Irish eyes, "Julie, meet Trish. Trish - Julie. May the best woman win." The bar itself formed one of the sides of the fight floor, and Jack exited via this route to get an undisturbed view of the action. Trish raised her wrapped hands to her chin. She looked balanced, competent, dangerous. God help us, I thought.

 

Trish moved confidently towards Julie, rolling her shoulders slightly, moving her hands, just the way Jack would have taught her. Julie circled left, that devil-may-care free-spirit suddenly replaced by a cool professional. Trish stepped and popped a left hook that Mike Tyson himself would have approved of, and I felt my heart pound at the sight of the slick leverage of that punch. But just as I started to panic, Julie slipped in under the blow, rushed Trish at the waist and spun her almost like a dancer, trailing her hand lightly across the waitress's belly before separating and circling again. Trish's lips peeled back aggressively - she angered easily, and Julie's pass had all the earmarks of a taunt. Trish rushed in this time, assuming a wide puncher's stance, and lunged wildly with the straight right. Again Julie slipped, the sleek muscles of her stomach bunching tightly as she bent deeply at the waist, and she wrapped Trish up around the belly, getting behind the bigger girl and working in a good bearhug. I think Julie's strength surprised Trish, because she grunted and looked confused at Julie's grappling tactics. Julie kept her head in tight against Trish's upper back, effectively avoiding the thrashing elbows and wild gyrations of her opponent. So far so good, but I still thought that all Julie had done was prolong the inevitable.

 

She released the waitress with a shove in the back, and bounced on her toes, clapping her hands sharply to focus herself. Trish righted herself with a few stuttering steps, sending a thunderous jiggle through her breasts as she turned to face her foe. She moved in quickly and set her body to crank left hooks. The full buttocks and strong thighs of the waitress churned angrily as she whipped her left hand, doubling and tripling the punch, but missing cleanly each time as Julie bobbed with expertise I never dreamed she possessed. In frustration, Trish tried to touch Julie with an awkward right, but again the MetWest contender slipped and slapped contemptuously at the bigger girl's jiggling tummy. A final looping left hand missed as Julie calmly swept the punch along it's own trajectory, neatly spinning Trish in place and putting her back into the bearhug from behind. Julie allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction as Trish whined in helpless rage.

 

I felt Jack sidle up to me as the girls separated. He was intent on the action, not saying anything as Julie continued to mesmerize both the crowd and Trish with her dazzling blocks, bobs and slips. She was diagnosing her opponent, as well as fatiguing her, for it was very unlikely that Trish had ever had a fight go more than a minute before. She was already breathing hard, while Julie, wellJulie could run marathons. And I could see from her incredibly intense blue eyes that she was rapidly summing up the opposition's weaknesses: the lack of a jab; the constant forward motion; the one-punch mentality; the total lack of any concept of technical wrestling. Doubtless one of Trish's strengths was that she could take a punch, meaning that her best attribute was irrelevant in this fight. Everything that had made her a champion brawler in the underground conspired to make her the perfect victim for Julie.

 

Without taking his eyes off the fight, Jack said, "Johnny boy. Ye bring a ringer into my house, and lay off five against me? Is that any way to treat an old friend?" Funny thing about Jack, he never stopped smiling, no matter what the situation, but when he got angry, his voice would regain it's Irish lilt. Right now, his accent was fairly pronounced. At his right shoulder, a menacing figure in a tight black T-shirt was glaring at me, and I figured him for the bouncer or boyfriend or both. Julie had wanted adventure - we were getting adventure. I said nothing, re-focusing upon the action and frankly, not knowing whether to cheer for Julie, or against her.

 

The cockiness that had served as composure for Trish was shattered. She was covered in a glistening skein of sweat, her sexy blonde tousle damp and clinging to her face as she breathed heavily through her mouth, grunting audibly with every punch. She had reverted to a very tentative stance, trying to land her best punch, the left hook, exclusively. She had become dangerously predictable. Timing the girl perfectly, Julie caught one of the punches and wrenched the arm painfully into a standing arm bar, really coming up hard behind the elbow, bringing Trish up onto her toes with a frightened scream. Julie began torquing and pulling hard on the arm, stretching the tendons of the shoulder socket as she jerked and tugged Trish in a circle around the fight floor. Julie was much rougher than I had seen her be at the Met, but then, she needed to put that arm out of commission in a way that wouldn't have been necessary there. With Julie's constant motion, it was impossible for Trish to do anything but flail with her right hand as the rounded meat of her upper arm and shoulder was bruised and stretched into oblivion.

 

Julie used good leverage to pull the bigger girl around, and slammed Trish face first into the wall at the back of the enclosure, holding her in place and pulling that tortured left arm back into an excruciating hammerlock. She was relentless, working the girl's thick bicep, squeezing the upper arm with her free hand, pumping and reworking the hold with savage abandon. From Trish's groans of pain, I could tell she was getting hurt, but Jack's girls didn't quit, not with Jack on the line for 5 hundred dollars, in Jack's joint, with her friends and fans in attendance. Finally, Julie took a rough handful of Trish's left buttock, squeezing hard and hissing "Come on!" into her ear, blowing a tuft of hair out of the way in the process. Julie turned away, adjusting her panties as she walked back to the center of the floor. It was, I thought, a canny ploy, to play to the crowd in their own language, and I felt support for Julie spread through the audience like a charge of static electricity. Might come in handy, that support, if and when we wanted to leave.

 

Trish slowly pushed herself off the wall, and turned to face Julie once again. The waitress's face was contorted into a bitchy snarl of pain, rage, and fear as she rotated her left shoulder to get some of the feeling back in. Again, on auto-pilot, Trish advanced, swung right over top the ducking Julie, swung left, then Julie was inside, head nestled in underneath Trish's cheek, clinching up underneath Trish's arms, allowing the exhausted boxer to flail at her rock-hard body in futility. Julie walked Trish effortlessly back to the wall, pinning the girl to it's wood paneled surface, then deliberately slithering her left arm up around Trish's head to work the side headlock on her. Julie walked Trish back towards us at the rail, slowly, methodically, so that everyone could see the strength in Julie's arms, the control in her stride, and the purple strain on Trish's flushed face. Julie levered Trish's lower back against the cold metal of the rail, bending the girl painfully over the edge, then releasing her. Julie turned her back again on her opponent and walked calmly to the center of the floor, preening and adjusting her bra in the process. Lord knows she could have suplexed Trish to the hardwood floor, or piledriven her, or finished her in any number of ways, but Julie was getting a workout in. I didn't - I couldn't - know exactly what she was getting out of this, but I hoped she was happy. I could feel Jack at my elbow. Simmering.

 

Suddenly, Trish let loose with a banshee scream, the kind of thing I had heard many times before at the Met when a woman was summoning her last reserves, and she came off the railing like a freight train, magnificent body rippling as she catapulted towards Julie. Julie bent at the waist, but couldn't avoid the big blonde, and Trish just bulled her back to the far wall. I gripped the railing with both hands like it was the safety bar on an 'E' ticket ride and held my breath. Trish was going to get her licks in after all.

 

Julie never lost it, not for a second. Trapped with her butt against the wall, she brought her arms in tight to her body, legs out wide, presenting as small a target as she could to the blonde bomber. Trish squared up in front and slugged with both hands to Julie's body, big wide hooks and pawing uppercuts, but she caught mostly arms and shoulders, and there was no zip on her punches at all. Trish's breasts could be seen from behind, swinging out to either side as she punched, and the rhythm of those punches sent a sexy shockwave through her flesh that made me make a mental note to have the MetWest talent scout check out the 'gate sometime. After a few seconds of this barrage, Julie calmly reached forward and clinched and walked Trish back to the adjacent wall, putting her body on the waitress and pinning her once again along the vertical. Trish's head lolled to one side, long fake eyelashes fluttering as Julie soaked up the last vestiges of pride her opponent had to offer.

 

Julie took Trish by the wrists and pinned her bodily to the wall, pressing her flesh against the waitress while the girl's hands limply twitched in their wraps. Julie was drinking in the defeat through her pores, now grinding it out to the finish. Trish was no longer dangerous, but she was still struggling, still trying to find a way to win, so Julie had to be thorough. She continued to clutch and cling and pull at Trish, keeping the action close and sweaty. Reaching around behind Trish's waist with her right hand, Julie pulled her close and pushed her left hand deep into the soft abdomen of her opponent for a standing stomach claw in the corner. I'd never seen anything like it, with Trish's open-mouthed pain, her left arm draped around Julie's shoulders, Julie's soft head in against the girl's neck, Trish's wrapped hand pulling at Julie's vicious grip: spec-tac-u-lar. Many a member would have paid a pretty penny to witness this finale.

 

The last few minutes of the bout consisted of Julie smearing Trish all across the perimeter of the room, constantly keeping the girl pressed hard against the walls, leaning into her, pinning her. Trish wasn't exactly stoic - her moans and exhausted cries filled the intimate space as Julie worked in silence. Occasionally, Julie would press her shoulder into Trish's chest and reach down to pull up one of Trish's legs for leverage, emphasizing just how helpless the brawler had become. Headlocks, full nelsons, hammerlocks, bearhugs - it was all Julie as finally, Trish's sexy thighs began to quiver in exhaustion.

 

Julie took Trish by her bikini top and walked backwards out of the corner, her muscular buttocks flexing sensually as she pulled Trish in obedient tow. Trish was stumbling now, jaw slack, eyes glazed - I think physically she was spent, but mentally she was shocked. She was experiencing a level of defeat here that hadn't really existed in the one-dimensional world of the bar-brawl. With a final jerk, Julie pulled the slumping blonde forward, then nimbly slung her into a standing sleeper.

 

The crowd was getting into it now, clapping and hooting as Trish wanly slugged at the air in front of her, her eyes shut, mouth pouting as Julie applied the coup de grace. I've come to the conclusion that femme fight fans, regardless of the venue, love to see their favourites get whipped from time to time. Trish would never live this night down, and yet she was fortunate: there wasn't a mark on her to announce her defeat. I was pretty sure that the woman she had beaten up earlier in the evening couldn't say the same thing.

 

Trish slowly folded to her haunches, her left arm numb at her side, the right flopping limply at Julie's body-shaper bicep, until finally it ceased to probe and lay delicately across her stomach. Julie drank in the moment, cradling the woman's head in her strong arms as though to caress it, then letting Trish slump to her side, her tousled head thumping into the dust and dried beer on the floor. Julie smiled as she pushed the larger woman onto her belly, standing and winking at Jack with brazen attitude. I winced in spite of myself. Jack just muttered, "I'll be goddamned," and clapped me on the back as he rose to go back behind the bar. Black t-shirt grunted and went to his fallen lady, propping her head up and trying to rouse her. And damned if Julie didn't take a moment to shake some hands and graciously accept congratulations from this motley bunch of new admirers. She honestly didn't care about the setting, as long as she could be its queen.

 

I walked over to the bar, hands in pockets, non-chalant. Jack rang open the till, counted out 500 dollars silently to himself and handed it over. He grinned, not friendly. "That one's on the house, boyo." He said. "For old times sake. And also because I learned a thing or to tonight. But don't come back. If there's any hustlin' to be done at the Lionsgate, I'll be the one fleecin' the sheep." He reached across the bar and squeezed my shoulder, confusing me with the gesture, and then went back to the till. My guess is he gave back much of what Trish had won earlier in the night to the lucky few who had bet on Julie. C'est la vie, I suppose.

 

"Ready?" It was Julie, shit-eating grin and all, dress slightly askew, still glowing with athletic exertion. She slipped her arm in mine and we left as we had entered, to little applause.

I had the window down on the drive back, letting the fresh air run across my face. Julie sat in the seat opposite, bare feet up in my lap, counting her lousy 500 dollars as though it were not the spare change I knew it to be. She caught me looking at her, and must have read my expression. She leaned her head back into the seat and smiled. "There's nothing like winning, John." She said. "There's really nothing more to it than that."

 

"That's not what I was thinking." I lied.

 

"What then?"

 

"I want my management fee," I rubbed my thumb and fingers together, "ten percent."

 

Laugh? I thought we'd die.