Junkyard smell, junkyard sights, a junkyard sky, junkyard sounds.

Gulls overhead, shiny white in the morning sun, circling, crying. A clear blue sky: no clouds
Diesel oil in the wrecks, in the yellow dirt., pungent in the heavy air.

Stacks of crushed cars, 10, 15 feet high: olf Hyndais, Chevs, Pick ups, Pontiacs, Fords. Here am engine block, there an axle: watch your step, ladies.

A clearing in amongst the stacks, a rusted out charger up on blocks—there’s a good 30-40 square feet in which to work. Debbe sucks on a water bottle, swirls her mouth, rolls her head side to side. Scruffy ponytail and long bangs down either side of her face: pink sweat shirt, three buttons at the top (undone), pink cotton panties, bare brown legs ending in tan hiking boots and thick white socks rolled down. Standard junkyard attire. On her hands: Tan work gloves, shirt at the wrists, grimy from years of use. Look close, you can still see a little of Jenny McCarthy’s DNA at the knuckle.

“What’s your name again?” Debbe asks, squinting one eye AT HER OPPONENT. It’s a tall, wiry-fit girl like herself—all tanned limbs and tom-boy, rangy athleticism. Orange sweat shirt with a faded picture of a beach on the chest, pale blue panties, dark brown hiking boots and rolled down white socks. Short tan leather work gloves, maybe a size too big. She’s even got the same scruffy, this’ll-do ponytail as. It’s the third time Debbe’s asked her that question this week,

“Lake Bell,” Lake Bell says , with a hint of annoyance. It’s the third time Debbe’s asked her that question this week. “You know: the ‘new’ Debbe Dunning.”

“Oh, you’re one of those,” Debbe smirks, nods. She puts her water bottle down on the hood of the Dodge, grabs her left elbow and twists her torso out. “You know, this ain’t no apartment. It’s not like your boyfriend’s going to come rushing in when you start quitting.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Bell shrugs, stepping forward. “I don’t want you to have any excuses.”

“That’s good to know, I…” Debbe reels to her right as Luke steps into a clouting right cross. Junkyard brawl is officially on.

Bell’s well-balanced, stepping into Debbe with walking lefts and rights—fists cracking out loud against Dunning’s cheeks and chin. Debbe gasps, stunnned. Head tossing side to side as she backs up—a final lusty right hand spins her ‘round, sends her staggering to brace herself against the charger: both hands on the door, Glaring, Deb wipes her lip with the back of her hand, turns, blocks an opportunistic overhand right with a high left and immediately guts Luke a pumping right hand flat to tummy. Music to Deb’s ears: that breathy, surprised little grunt/whimper that comes from a gut-shot beauty catching leather.

Deb’s left hand immediately takes hold of Lake’s sweatshirt at the right shoulder, anchoring the girl for right hands in the body. Thick, thudding shots, muffled by Lake’s top and Deb’s glove. But the impact is unmistakable. Bell shouting out as she’s doubled forward—butt back, slender legs jerking up on her toes as Deb digs up and in. Dunning just jamming away. Stepping-forward slightly, tugging at Lake, slugging her. Suddenly, Bell reaches in around Debbe’s waist—taut legs, stamping at the dirt to propel Dunning backward. Debbe’s back hits the door of the Charger and her head flings back: Debbe’s turn to groan. Snarling, Lake braces Deb with a left in the chest, then levels her a drifting right across the mouth, swiveling Debbe’s staring face. Lake braces with her right in Debbe’s top, then drifts her a swinging left, driving through with her body to toss Debbe’s head aside. Great lusty blows, unhinging Debbe’s knees. The kind of punches Debbe Dunning used to throw.

Tasting blood from a cut in her mouth, Debbe grabs Lake’s top as Bell’s loading up for another clout Dunning lifts her thigh up between her foe’s legs and immediately hobbles Lake. Gasping, Lake leans in, open-mouthed, eyes shut tight. Debbe steps off the car, tugging Lake and turning her, pulling her forward as Dunning steps back into space. Top-tugging Lake in, Deb lifts her right thigh and puts it hard into Lake’s ribs, laying it in there thick as Bell sobs in shock. “That’s got her softened,” Deb, and she goes to work in earnest.

Dunning braces Lake with a left in the chest, reaches back and belts her a fine, strapping right hand on the mouth. Bell’s head tosses to the right, then lolls back, eyes all distant, staring. Deb clutches at sweatshirt with her and rams a right firm to paunch: Bell pitches forward into Debbe’s arms, groaning. Staring put over Bell’s back, Deb thrusts another right hand up into the body—Dunning’s lips a hard-working line on her face. “Can’t let up on this kid,: Debbe senses and jams in another right. Another.

Lake drops to her hands and knees, kicking up soft yellow tendrils of dust. She’s wheezing and grimacing, Debbe struts away, picks up her water bottle, takes a swig, Swirls water around: spits it put. “That’s one round kid,” Debbe says, wiping her mouth with her shirt sleeve. “You want to go home?”

Lake snarls up from her knees, eyes blazing clear with hate, “Home?” Debbe, I’m just getting warmed up.”

Dunning’s mildly surprised to see Lake Bell push up off her knee, cock her fists and come wading forward.

Looks like it’s going to be a long day at the office.

****

Gena Lee Nolin whimpers like a little girl when she’s hurt. Close your eyes and she weighs 110 pounds.

Same junkyard, half a dozen rows over, Here, there’s a run-down little cinder-block shack that used to be a concession stand that used to be here: windows and doors long gone. There’s a broken porcelain toilet out front.

Charlize Theron’s backing Gena up with straight left jabs, just walking Nolin down. Punching her in the mouth, stepping after her. Both girls keep those short-gloved hands at their chests: both faces all lumped up from hard give and take all morning, Gena’s in black t-shirt over a black one-piece tank suit, black work gloves, black hiking boots and white socks. She’s started the fight in a working-woman’s-ponytail, but it’s long since come undone—hair in her eyes, trailing into the corner of her mouth. Charlize in pale blue t shirt, tan work gloves, white terrycloth Adidas trunks that fit like wrestler’s trunks, tan hiking boots and white socks, HER ponytail’s still intact. She’s got a nice fat shiner under her left eye, but she’s unconcerned. It’s all about rolling Gena up now.

Nolin sobs, throws a desperation right, telegraphing it from a mile away. Charlize ducks in comfort, fists tight sat her chest, and she digs a short left hook in underneath, gouging Gena in the ribs and cramping her up with that little-girl whine. Theron straightens, hands at her chest, tongue pink between her lips—she steps right while spreading Gena out with the fingertips of the left hand in Nolin’s chest and CREAMS her a lusty right cross on the mouth. Nolin’s legs bend, her head tosses, then she flounders forward. Charlize steps into Nolin’s breadbasket with a hearty right hand, burying it deep, hoisting G up onto her toes and pitching her forward. Gena’s arms reach hurt around Theron: a gentle, don’t-hurt-me-anymore embrace. Pushing Nolin’s torso upright, Charlize can see the vacancy in Nolin’s eyes, see the helplessness in those fluttering eyelashes. She rares back and strokes Gena a swinging right hand fat on the chops, steps in and fetches G a belting left, steps in and drives in another right to finally drop Nolin to her back in a cloud of sickly yellow dust.

Gena’s panting, sobbing—reaching her hands up while she’s on her back: a begging gesture. Theron not in a charitable mood, strides in, standing a-straddle over Gena, reaching down both hands to tug her up by the chest of her t-shirt. Nolin sniveling, fusses at Theron’s forearms, but nothing’s going to stop the rain now.

Right hand.

Right hand.

Right hand.

Nolin going out, mouth open, face relaxing…

Right hand.

Right hand.

Right hand.

Charlize is stooped over, holding a seated Nolin’s t shirt in both hands. Nolin’s head lolls back., baring her throat. The backs of her hands rest on the dirt. Charlize licks grimy lips and tosses what’s left on Nolin down—battered blonde lying on her back, out.

Charlize steps away, suddenly dizzy as the weight of all Nolin’s punches comes hurtling back to haunt her, Steadying herself on a nearby wall of crushed cars, Charlize closes her eyes, feels the sun hot on her skull and shoulders.

In the distance, she thinks she can hear someone shouting. The kind of shout a girl gives when something—usually another girl—hits her hard in the body.

***

Debbe’s on hands and knees, panting, trying to rally. Left shoulder of her lucky pink junkyard beer-shirt’s been torn at the seam. Lake Bell staggers slightly, just off Debbe’s left flank, then steps back into Dunning’s ribs with a swinging right boot—Lake’s hands high as she lifts her foot into Debbe’s toned undercarriage. A dull thump, a ragged groan—Dunning soaks it up shuddering, then rolls to her back, hugging her throbbing ribcage, knees up and cringing together.

Lake reels back a couple of steps, head spinning with punishment, then she comes forward with purpose. Stepping across Debbe—Lake lowers herself to her knees, takes Debbe by her top and hoists her up off the dirt, Left fist twists into pink sweatshirt, holding Debbe firm: right hand reaches back as Lake’s glaring down—Dunning doesn’t even see the first punch land. Bright cracking blow—Deb dropped back into the dirt, then tugged up as Lake shifts her weight, reloads and drives in again. “It can’t end like this,” Debbe thinks, dazed and foggy with punishment. “I’m not going out.”

Debbe reaches her hands up past Lake’s shoulders, spoiling the next right hand and now the girls are fumbling. Bell’s got Debbe by the wrists, trying to wrestle her arms out of the way--Dunning’s bucking and gulping her hips. Lake topples to the side and now they’re rolling in dirt, getting dirt on long thighs and ground into small kneecaps. Pink’s on top, now orange, now pink. Breathy sobs and groans from both women: both are desperate to catch a third wind at this point. In a tight rolling embrace, girls take turns cramming thump, thump, thump, thump of work getting done.

Finally, they disengage, lying side by side on their backs, blinking up into unforgiving sunlight. Chests heave, wheezing for air. Booted feet push mindlessly at dirt, hands rest at weary sides. Both girls are shattered with pain--numbed and stupefied by it. Long ago, both realized that the other wasn’t going to be saying “I quit” today.

Eventually, Debbe sits up. Shakes her head, hands in her lap. Gingerly she rolls up off her right hip, stumbles over to the Charger, grabs her water bottle and takes a swig, Lake’s still on her back, knees up, backs on her hands against her eyes and forehead. That’s the scene Charlize comes across as she staggers ‘round the corner of a crushed-car wall.

“Who’s this sack of shit?” Charlize says, looking down at Lake while resting her hip on a nearby Volkswagen.

“I’m not sure,” Deb says, wiping her lips, “No point learning her name until she wins.”

“Good point,” Charlize grins, then winces. “Mind if I watch?”

“I think you’re a little late,” Deb says, eyeing the wreckage of Bell. “I think she’s done.”

“You wish!” Lake spits, still on her back. “You wish.” Achily, sloooowly, Lake rolls over her left side, struggling up onto her hands and knees. She’s up on her knees, plants her left foot on the ground ready to stand all the way up when Dunning strides into her with a sweeping right, catching Luke on the left eye and scattering her into the dirt again. Debbe staggers, but keeps her balance, tottering on the spot as Lake struggles to get off her back again.

“Good one,” Charlize says.

“Thanks,” Debbe breathes. Lake groans, rolls over her right side, gets to hands and knees. Debbe moves in from behind, reaches down and pulls the girl up by her arms, standing in behind Lake as Bell sways ashen-faced on the spot. Left fist grans sweatshirt at Bell’s shoulder blade to anchor her, then Deb grunts as she pounds her right fist into Lake’s lower back. Charlize winces—now for Lake’s pain more than her own. Bell sobs out, too hurt to do anything but stand there and take Dunning’s work.

Debbe puts a few good right hands in there snug, then turns Lake around. Bell’s ruined, head lolling, mouth open. Nobody’s home in those pretty blue eyes, the lashes fluttering shut, beckoning her to sleep. Still Bell reaches for Debbe’s sweat top, looking to tie up, looking to hold and slug to Debbe’s body. The girls stamp and stagger on the dust, each trying to boss the other into compliance. Finally, Debbe walks Lake over to the Charger, pushing her up against the door: Lake’s head does a slow whiplash, back and forth.

Charlize hears a sound, turns her head: it’s Ashley Scott, in shabby shape, staggering up the aisle. Royal blue sweatshirt in tatters, sleeves ripped and dangling from her wrists, hot pink bra exposed. She practically blunders into Charlize, dimly recognizing her, then suddenly growing alert as she recognizes Dunning from behind. Filled with purpose, Ashley steps forward, only to be stopped by Charlize’s hand in her chest.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Theron asks. In the distance, Debbe’s fist sounds out against Lake’s face, methodically, deliberately.

“That’s Debbe,” Ashley says, right eye badly swollen, lower lip cracked. “I have to get in there.” Debbe lifts her right foot, her hands up above her head and push-kicks Lake in the chest, stacking her up against the car with a dull CHUNK
!
“You look like hell,” Charlize says. “Why don’t you sit this one out?” Debbie's heavy booted foot swings and kicks at Lake’s left thigh, buckling the slender limb, drawing a fresh sob of anguish from her opponent.

“That’s Debbe,” Ashley says, cheeks flushing with growing fury. “You know about me and Debbe.”

“Yep,” Charlize acknowledges. Debbe and Ashley had fought some legendary scraps. Even a few junkyard tussles, and things had gotten way, way out of control. Ashley had been on those “new” Debbe Dunnings not so long ago “Yeah, I know about you two,” Charlize continues. “You’re sitting this one out.”

Ashley purses her lips, sizing Charlize up, Scott had win her fight, left that b###h lying in the dust, but it had taken every last drop of Ashley’s heart and soul to get it done. Fighting her way through Charlize to get to Debbe isn’t an option. “Atta girl,” Charlize says, reading Ashley’s face, withdrawing her hand from Scott’s be-grimed chest. “Just enjoy the show.”

Bell stares stupid into punishment and Debbe cracks her brawny right on the mouth. Lake pitches to her right, her left arm draping around Debbe’s shoulders, just hanging on. Deb struggles to push Lake off, re-stacking her against the car door, then with the left gripping seat top, Debbe clangs home another right. Bell pitches to her right again, out on her feet, so Debbe peels her off the car, turns her around.

Debbe takes a moment to arrange things. She pulls the front of Lake’s sweat top over head and folds it in behind the girl’s neck: the top itself now wrapping Lake up in a limp full nelson. Lake’s full breasts are exposed in a black klace bra: such an apartment look for a junkyard. Debbe’s left hand now grips the thickness of the top looped around Bell’s neck and shoulder: it’s a good sturdy thing to hold on to. Lake’s just sick about it, lolling there in front Debbe, knowing what’s coming, but unable to do a damn thing about it at this point.
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A right hand shakes Lake in the stomach, She droops forward, mouth open, eyebrows high, her right hand trying to clutch to Debbe’s left shoulder. Derb jostles Lake slightly, prepping her, bracing her with the left on that sweat top, then tugging her-to the right hand can land thick and flat against washboard abs. Bell’s breath bursts past her lips in weepy “OHH!” and “UHHH!”s. Satisfied, Deb tugs and twists Luke around, just to get her steppin’, then spreads her out arms-length, measuring her fir the coup de grace. Debbe POURS home a stroking right to the chin: bleary-eyed Bell looking the punch all the way in. Lake’s head tosses back and around, her torso spins and she twists out of Debbe’s grip to sprawl face-first in a cloud of sick yellow dust. Lake Bell lies still, swollen lips parted, right cheek in the dirt, her sweat top all bunched up behind her neck. The latest in a long line of new Debbe Dunnings lies out cold at the old Double D’s feet.

Dunning reels, legs suddenly numb; it’s all she can do not to sit down in a fog of hurt. Then she sees Ashley with Charlize and knows she dare not show weakness.

“You want a piece?” Dunning says, eyes seeking out Ashley’s.

“Hey,” Charlize says, lifting her hands. “I’m out of here. Seriously, you guys should just lick your wounds and come back another day.”

“That what you want?” Debbe to Ashley. Both girls shopoworn, ramshackle, barely able to walk a straight line.

Heartless gazes travel up and down either body; girls checking legs for signs of collapse, faces for signs of quit.

Charlize exits the clearing limping, right hand at her lower back, Gulls cry overhead. Sun beats down. Ashley cocks her fists in worn leather work gloves. Debbe grins though it hurts her face.

If Gena Lee Nolin were awake, she’d juuuust be able to make out the sounds of fists thudding on flesh, and the tired, hate-driven wails of women in combat. She’d be able to hear the odd shout, the kind of shout a girl gives when something—usually another girl—hits her hard in the body. If Gena were awake, she’d be able to stumble on over and see a mindless last-woman war of attrition taking place around an unconscious brunette lying on her face.

But Gena’s asleep on her back in the dirt. Only the gulls know what’s going on, and they aren’t telling.

Reposted by Archer 6/6/15.