[Vanessa Marsh]

Jacqui--

It's 110 in Gila Bend. In Buckeye it's 102.... Heat Stroke, the Dusty Chaps.

All summer long it's always 110 in Gila Bend. Even if it's not 110, they say it is. A matter of pride. Gila Bend thumbs its nose at Buckeye.

Despite the scorching heat, people in Gila Bend are friendly folks. Most of them, anyway.

The large sign at the edge of town says:

Gila Bend

Welcomes you

Home of 1917 Friendly People

And 5 old crabs


Elwood Hempstead wasn't one of the old crabs. He didn't ask much from his life in Gila Bend and that's what he got. Sold some pretty rocks and Old West junk to the few tourists who stopped in town. Most just sped by on Interstate 8, barely blinking as they dreamed of California to the west and Phoenix or Tucson to the east.

Elwood loved to watch wrestling on television. Especially the women.

Then one day inspiration struck.

He could do that. He could set up a ring among the cactus and lizards on the few acres of desert he owned just outside of town. Four old truck tires filled with concrete, a pole stuck in each tire, a long stretch of ranching rope wrapped around the poles. Tight enough to twang.

He could sell tickets and beer.

The Hottest Show in Wrestling!

110 degrees.

Elwood knew a guy who knew a guy. And that guy knew another guy. By the time all the guys got known, Elwood had wrestlers. They were really all-purpose fighters because Elwood had expanded his horizons.

His ring would be bigger than other rings. Think obstacle course. A cactus here, a cactus there. Snakes were welcome. Tarantula spiders, scorpions. Even Gila monsters. Why not? There should be Gila monsters in Gila Bend.

Out in the middle of the ring, the symbol of the desert, a saguaro cactus. The centerpiece.

Elwood's ring was a thing of beauty and hazards galore. He dubbed it Hell's Half Acre.

Only for the brave.


***


Vanessa--

Gila Bend: What fresh Hell is this?

I’ve been in town 36 hours now, and so far, the Hell in question is just….Arizona. Over a hundred thousand square miles of nothing but sand and grit, the occasional scorpion. I was prepared for all that, of course, you don’t come to the vast, tractless southwest for faultless azure waters and fresh seafood. What I wasn’t prepared for, was the smell.

It stinks in Gila Bend, a sour reek of sweat and body odor that permeates every inch of the cheesy “Space Age Lodge’’ in which I’m staying. It’s hard to blame them, the locals I mean. 110 degrees, 102 in the shade, they tell me, though if there’s a living tree anywhere in this dusty hamlet, I haven’t seen it. So for roughly the last 35 hours of my trip, I’ve been holed up in my room, having subpar room service meals and a steady stream of Tecate (in the bottle, mind, never the can. On some points, I refuse to yield.) sent to me, while I sit on the edge of the mattress that I’ve dragged as near the sputtering, leaking A/C unit as possible.

Holding a sweating, half drained bottle of beer to my cheek, I glance over the contract for what seems the 100th time, still trying to make sense of it. Elwood Hempstead, whom the locals described to me, upon my arrival, as either a ‘’harmless old coot’’, or, perhaps more charitably, as simply a man “slow in his process’’, is going to pay me $5000 to participate in a wrestling match. And just to participate! The winner’s share of the purse is a full 10K, more money than I’ve ever made in one shot, and I’ve been doing this a long time, in places foreign and domestic. It seems too good to be true, seemed that way when I first read the letter, (sent Certified AND insured, Mr. Hempstead was apparently taking no chances.) and It still seems that way now, as I sit alone in a subpar hotel room, a comfortable 5pm beer buzz beginning to take hold, the alcohol almost frantic in its efforts to numb my senses before the ungodly heat sweats it back out again.

“I’m half melted, drinking cheap Mexican beer in a town that looks like it's the last waystation on the high road to Hell. All on the promise of payment from an eccentric old man who probably had his senses flash fried in the heat half a century ago. Goddamn, ‘Nessa. How did you ever get yourself into this?’’


***


Jacqui--

Fired?

Me?

The best bartender at the Broken Banjo Saloon in Santa Fe?

Rusty growled when he gave me the news.

"You can't slug a customer!"

He has owned the bar for 10 years. Used to be known as Rusty's Retreat. One cold winter night a juiced-up customer objected to the music kickin' out from the live band. He preferred electric guitars to banjos and angrily ripped the banjo out of the picker's arms and smashed it over the startled musician's head.

Broke it into two pieces. The banjo, not the head.

Rusty had a better sense of humor in those days. He gave the banjo player $200 and free drinks for life in exchange for the mangled banjo and hung it on the wall behind the bar. It gave the bar a rough and tumble edge. Character.

He changed the name of the place to Broken Banjo Saloon.

Rusty loved to tell the tale. His green eyes sparkled as he came to the moment when the banjo landed on its target. "CRAAACK!!"  The same sound effects each time. The same laugh. He thought it was the best moment ever in his bar.

But now you can't even slug a bitch without getting fired.

Like most bartenders, I've got an unfinished novel collecting dust. I grew up in Albuquerque, majored in English at UNM. I was a writer in waiting. But I knew I needed more life, more salsa, more time behind the bar listening to the crazy stuff that bartenders hear every night.

I took my Lobo self to the city of my dreams, Santa Fe. Teeming with offbeat people, artists, musicians, writers.  I banged on a few doors, convinced Rusty I knew booze.

Three years later, the novel is still mostly a dream.

Maybe I needed a push.

A redhead with a big mouth walked up to the bar, shooting from the lip.

Maybe she needed a shove.

So I shoved her.

We battled on the barroom floor til the redhead was draped over a pinball machine, the lights still flashing, bells ringing, especially hers.

I was out of a job but the talk of the Banjo. I showed up the next night and the night after that and didn't have to buy any drinks.

Word spread like a desert dust storm. Badass bartender at the Banjo.

On the third night, I walked into the bar and Rusty waved me over and thrust an envelope into my hand.

"You know anybody in Gila Bend?"


***


Vanessa--

“Well? Ain’t she a beaut?!’’

Elwood’s beaming as he swings his arm out, a grand gesture towards what he had been calling, for the entire five mile ride from my hotel, ‘’his ring.’’ But what I find myself staring at is just more desert, distinguishable from the surrounding landscape  only by four metal stakes, sunk into the hard, barren ground via post holes, connected to each other with coarse hemp rope in a crude approximation of a traditional wrestling ring.  “Of course, I know it ain’t exactly what you're used to,” He continues, perhaps sensing my skepticism, “But once we get the bleachers set up and this place is full of people, it’ll be one hell of a scene! Just you wait!’’

“Oh, yes. I’m sure it’ll clean up nicely.’’ I answer, forcing a smile. What other choice do I have? I’ve come halfway across the country for this, and as dubious as the whole thing looked, from afar AND in person, the money Elwood’s offering remains very real.

I pace off the distance between the posts with Elwood on my heels, pointing out where he hoped to put the grandstand and the beer tents, ‘’Just as soon as that damn nephew of mine can get them here from Phoenix. I expect he’ll be along this evening, so we can have everything ready by the weekend.’’ This ‘’ring’’ of his is a big one, far larger than any wrestling ring I’ve ever stepped inside. About thirty by thirty, and covered in Creosote and Cacti. “I don’t know that it’s so much a wrestling ring, Elwood.’’ I venture, running a hand through my hair. ‘’But it's a hell of a place to have a fight.’’

“Don’t you worry about that! I couldn’t find one of those pretty wrasslin’ gals to come out here, anyhow. I almost had to call the whole thing off, but just last week I heard tell of this little spitfire in Santa Fe. Got herself fired from a bar there for puttin’ one hellacious whoopin’ on a customer! I doubt she’ll mind if you two just tear into each other, but you can ask her yourself when she gets here!’’

***


Jacqui--

I don't know anyone in Gila Bend. But I'm willing to change that. Especially if the price is right. The letter was from a guy named Elwood and he offered me big money to fight in the Arizona desert. He heard all about the brawl at the Banjo. Big money? Enough to forget about finding a new job right away. I could work on that novel.

Arizona is calling me. A challenge. Adventure. Money. Just what an unemployed bartender needs. Suddenly I thirst for saguaros.

I gave Rusty a big hug and waved goodbye.

Elwood's letter provided all the details. I called and said yes. I packed what I needed and left on a jet plane for Tucson. The flight was short, the drink a bit shy of my standards, the landing sweet. Everywhere I looked, saguaros.

I headed to the train station and got on the 3:10 to Yuma.

I let the conductor know I'd be getting off in Gila Bend. Don't let me sleep through it.

I was bright-eyed as the first several thousand saguaros went by. I love them and was amazed to learn it takes a saguaro about 10 years to grow the first inch. They can grow to 50 feet tall and weigh six tons.

Eventually the novelty wore off and I was half dozing when the conductor tapped my shoulder. The train rumbled to a stop.

Here I am. Somewhere I never dreamed I'd be. Gila Bend.

As I step down from the train, there to meet me is a fiery blast of desert air. And Elwood.

I had pictured him in my mind and I wasn't far off. I just knew he'd be lanky, older with a white scraggly beard, skinny ass, cowboy boots and hat, a turquoise and silver belt buckle. The hat was not of this century. It was dirty, scratched up, and sported a 50 mission crush.

He greets me warmly and points to a faded red Chevy pickup. I drop my stuff into the bed between an unlocked metal tool chest and a large red and white Igloo cooler. I shake some of the Arizona dust out of my hair and step up into the passenger seat, smiling at the large crack across the middle of the windshield. That will go in my novel. Somewhere, somehow. I'll make it happen. I didn't know how old the truck was, but I guessed the crack at about 20 years.

"You're gonna love it!" Elwood shouts over the clunking and clanging of the truck. "Coming together today! Tents and bleachers nearly up! Long wait, but today's the day!"

Only takes about 10 minutes to get there. A beehive of activity as Elwood brakes hard, kicking up sand.
 
Guys waving, hollering obscene greetings. In a good mood despite the heat. I think I'll like Gila Benders.

"Beautiful!" I nod as I take it all in.

I immediately focus on the saguaro in the center of the ring.

I'm home.

***


Vanessa–

You could hear Elwood’s Chevy before you could see it. Even in the vast, tractless and barren outskirts of Gila Bend, the arrival of that dilapidated old pickup was heralded by the rumble of a faulty muffler and a dust cloud that grew in scope and intensity with each passing yard.

When the truck screeched to a halt in a spray of dust, I was leaning against the far end of one of the recently erected bleachers, taking what shelter I could from the sun. Tilting back the brim of my dark brown Stetson, I glanced quickly past Elwood exchanging pleasantries with a few members of his crew, before settling my gaze upon the dark haired woman in the passenger seat. I didn’t know much about her, nobody did. Some out of work bartender from New Mexico, with a fiery temper, and, if the gossip was to be believed, a pretty decent right hook.

“Amateur.” The word floated around my brain as I eased my back from the shady spot on the bleacher and began walking towards the gathered crowd. I’ve faced opponents of all kinds, different disciplines, body types and levels of experience, and amateurs are always an adventure. Some sign up for a thrill, others do it for money. Still others because they’re considered pretty tough in the circles in which they travel. And some of them just want to mess you up.

“Best try and get a read on her early. I can handle a psycho, but surprises are never welcome. So why not go meet the worthy opposition and see what manner of gal I’m dealing with?”

Such was my thought process as I pressed past Elwood’s construction boys, my ostrich skin Tony Llamas kicking up dust with every step. I leaned forward into the open window of the pickup, extending my hand across the center console.

“You must be Jacqui. What do you think of our canvas?’’

***


Jacqui--

Her boots are the first thing I notice.

Ostrich skin. Yikes! She's prancing through the desert in ostrich skin boots.

Rhinestone cowgirl. Getting letters from people she doesn't even know. Like Elwood.

I learned about boots from Rusty. He scoffed at my college girl Justins. He said it's Lucchese or nothing. He wears the Rusty model. He said he knows people at Lucchese. He said they named the model after him. I just smiled.

And bought a pair of Luccheses. Mad Dog Patsy. I liked the name. Cost me a week in tips. Made of goat, not ostrich.

I know nothing of my opponent and I suspect she knows little about me. Just two chicks in the desert. Two hot chicks because, well, it's 110 in Gila Bend. I study her as she approaches the truck. She's taller but has blonde hair. Seems like a wash there.

She offers her sweaty hand as she reaches through the window. I take it with my own sweaty hand and grasp it firmly. A slippery bond.

She wants to know what I think of our arena.

I give her a smile, the least I can do. Then an honest opinion.

"I love it! Couldn't be better!"

A slight pause.

"Saguaro showdown!"

***


Vanessa–

“She don’t lack for enthusiasm, I’ll say that for her.’’ I said, as I slid the empty bottle of Tecate over to the other side of the bar. “For someone in the kind of financial straits that makes fightin’ a stranger amongst the cacti and scorpions of podunk Arizona seem a wise business strategy, she’s downright bubbly!”

Roscoe raised an eyebrow as he scooped the dead soldier from the bar with his left hand, and replaced it with a new recruit. In the days since I’d arrived in Gila Bend, Roscoe and I had become friendly, as friendly as I get, anyway. I’ve always gotten along well with bartenders, I suppose when you’ve wrestled in as many dive bars as I have, that’s no surprise.

“I wonder if she knows just what she’s in for.” Roscoe said, a touch of concern in his voice. “Elwood heard about that scuffle she had in New Mexico and just had to sign her up, but just how much her told her about this match, about you…’’

I shot him a grin as I picked up the beer. “Well, now! I never would have picked you for a bleedin’ heart!” I could tell from the look on his face that Roscoe didn’t give a tinker’s damn about whether or not Jacqui was going into the match tomorrow with eyes wide open, he was just worried he might be cheated out of a good fight. “Don’t worry,” I said, tapping the neck of the bottle lightly against my temple. “I’ve had plenty of experience breakin’ in rookies. If she can’t handle the deep water, I’ll make sure we put on a good show on the shore.’’

***


Jacqui--

Pleasantries exchanged, Vanessa and I part ways, she off to town in her Avis rental as Elwood treats me to my first closeup view of his desert oasis. Lots of eyes sizing me up as we walk the sandy terrain. I can see he's very proud of his creation. He points out the various spiny plants. The prickly pear, ocotillo, cholla.... "It jumps, so don't get too close."

Finally we stop at the saguaro. A majestic sight with two arms branching off from the main trunk. The show.

"Protected plant," he says. "Anyone who messes with these, we just take 'em out and shoot 'em."

I nod and pat the beast between the ridges. Avoiding the spines.

"Big day tomorrow and you need a good night's sleep,'' he says. "Booked you in a decent place. Let's head to town."

I smile once more at the crack across the windshield and then lean back in my seat, relaxing as Elwood rambles on about the glories of Gila Bend.

He hesitates a moment.

"I ain't taking you to the murder place."

My ears perk up.

"Murder?"

"Some think so. A dead man in the room. Lots of blood. That sound like suicide by pills to you?"

I give it a moment's thought but don't render a verdict.

"No charges ever filed. Famous people, movie stars. Was the talk of the town 50 years ago. I was just a kid."

"Go on," I tell him. He doesn't want to go on. The whole thing still spooks him.

"The movie was "The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing,'' he says out of the side of his mouth in a conspiratorial tone. Like this is just between the two of us. "The cast stayed in the hotel. The stars were Burt Reynolds and Sarah Miles. All I've got to say."

He pulls up to my place, escorts me inside, shakes my hand.

"You're in room 211,'' he says, handing me the electronic key. "I'll pick you up. Fight's at high noon."

I plop down on the bed and pull out my iPhone. Read all I can find on the Cat Dancing saga.

Double check the bolt.

***



Vanessa--

It’s 101 degrees when I slip inside the raw, sagging hemp and put my boots inside Elwood’s creation. A dry heat, they kept saying. Like an oven. I remove my hat, sailing it casually through the unrelenting sunlight and watching it come to rest atop the slightly corroded steel ring post behind me.

I don’t dare test the ropes, so I settle for a few stretches and a last minute inspection of my outfit  as I await Jacqui’s arrival. If Elwood had the pageantry and flair of TV wrestling in mind, he was goodly enough to mask his disappoint in the fact that I choose function over form: a well worn pair of Daisy Dukes and a sleeveless black half tee, a bit ripped and stained with old speckles of dried blood. My hair was pulled back in a tight, dirty blonde braid, and I’ve tied a bandana tight and low across my forehead.

When Jacqui pops out of Elwood’s old truck I’m crouched like a jungle cat in my corner, my eyes following her every move, I’m always on edge before a fight, and intense heat does nothing to moderate my temper. I rise slowly to greet the cock-eyed, dark haired optimist as she stepped into our ring, my eyes narrowed, my skin glistening with a healthy mix of sweat and SPF 80.

***


Jacqui--

"Nice outfit," Elwood says as we walk to his truck.

"Thanks."

I know I look good. That's half the game. My denim shorts, frayed and ripped, show off my legs, always a strong point. I chose my Jack Daniel's tank top as a nod to my bartending history. And the Luccheses, Lord, the Luccheses. Mad Dog Patsy. Yes!

"Good night's sleep?" he asks.

"Pretty good, considering. Cat Dancing and all. One thing's for sure. I'll never watch another Burt Reynolds movie without thinking of Gila Bend."

Cheers erupt from the eager throng as Elwood's truck pulls up to the site and I quickly pop out and wave, my long raven hair unharnessed as I stride swiftly to the ropes and slip inside Hell's Half Acre, the place to be today in Maricopa County.

Elwood steps between us, raises the two nearest hands and makes a brief introduction. I can tell he had practiced in front of a mirror.

"Good luck and Godspeed!" he shouts and drops our hands.

I look Vanessa in the eye and smile.

"Hey, ostrich girl. Don't bother sticking your head in the sand. I'll take care of that!"

***



Vanessa--

Clearly Jacqui’s kept her spirits up, that’s always a concern with these inexperienced girls. It’s one thing to be hyped up in the build to a match, quite another to be standing face to face with your opponent, seconds away from pain and bruises and the possibility of suffering the most public of ass whippings, and STILL manage to keep your smile.

“You’ve got a keen eye for boots, babe. Don’t you go plannin’ too far ahead, though. You might think you can put my head in the sand, but I KNOW I can put these size 10s right up your perky little ass!”

We haven’t heard a bell, I’m not sure if Elwood even bought one. No matter. Jacqui’s got the underdog status and the local angle workin’ for her, so that casts me pretty squarely in the ‘’heel’’ role. And I’ve played that part too many times to not take advantage of its perks, namely, carte blanche to cheat.

“Just as soon as Elwood gives the signal, I’m fixin’ to dog walk you around all co…” Without warning, my left knee rockets upward, aimed squarely at your stomach. THAT ought to rile up the audience!

***


Jacqui--

Elwood has imagination. More than I imagined.

He created the duel in the desert with little more than sand and thorns. He enticed two fighters from other states to come to Gila Bend. A crowd magically appeared. There was beer on ice.

The only thing missing?

Music!

Elwood loves old western movies. He loves the music. So many theme songs and he knows them all.

Do not forsake me, oh my darling.

But his favorite western and the music needed right now in Gila Bend involves spaghetti.

Elwood gives a signal.

The loudspeakers come alive with unworldly sounds. Haunting sounds that no one ever forgets.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

Everyone is startled. No one expected music.

The Bad wastes no time sending a kick toward my stomach. I'm already a moving target as the coyotes wail over the speakers. The kick leaves little more than a sandy boot print.

I brush the sand away and raise both arms. Ready and willing.

"You know what happens to the Bad in this film? It's not good."

***


Vanessa--

With all due respect to a genuine master, the music is cliche. I didn’t expect anything more from Elwood, not really, but a small part of me hoped he’d at least use a relative deepcut from Morricone. The watch chimes from ‘’For A Few Dollars More’’, or even the rising, epic score from Frank and Harmonica’s ultimate showdown in ‘’Once Upon A Time In The West.’’

But no matter.

Soundtrack aside, there’s work to be done here. And business, as they say, has just picked up. Jacqui nimbly slips my attempt to unsettle her stomach, showing more speed and instinct for fighting then I’d expected. I stumble forward about a half step, planting my left boot down firmly to steady myself, and pivoting to face her, my guard raised.

“You’ve seen too many movies, clearly. You might be the heroine to these sun addled crackers, but in real life nice little girls finish last. Or to put it in terms a cinephile like you might better appreciate, you’re Silence, and I’m Loco. Just a little something to keep you occupied during your convalescence.’’

I shoot Jacqui a wicked little grin, starting to move around her in a wide circle, my eyes probing for the first sign of weakness, the first opening to strike.

***


Jacqui--

She thinks she's Loco.

Loco, the vilest villain in the history of western films. Loco, who kills for money, for fun and out of sheer sadism.

And in the end kills Silence, who never draws unless drawn upon. As in self defense.

This is the matchup Vanessa sees?

Is this what it comes down to in the harsh, blazing desert of Gila Bend? I smile as the eerie howls of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly ring out over Elwood's ring, Hell's Half Acre. It's a showdown in the sand as we circle each other, eyes glinty, hands high. Tiny sweat bubbles glistening on our skin.

The focus of hundreds of unblinking eyes. Transfixed by the spectacle of two warriors facing off. On alert.

Twitching.

One thinks she's Loco.

I suddenly lurch to my left feinting a left hook to the chin. As my right sneaks in quickly, firing a hard, fast blow toward the area between your breasts that I hope will be heard over the speakers. All the way to Ajo.

I'm not Silence.

***


Vanessa--

It’s not a bad tactic. In fact, It’s a little bit of deception that I’ve used countless times before when feeling out an opponent. It usually fools the novices, but a seasoned fighter will sniff out that feint a mile away, and I’m nothing if not seasoned.

“Didn’t Elwood clue you in on who you were facing?’’ I grin, closing my guard to let your fist thump harmlessly against my forearms. Knuckle on bone is a good way to fracture a hand, a painful lesson that hopefully you’ll learn all too well. “This ain’t last call in bumfuck New Mexico, you’re going to have to do better than that!”

Before the last syllable of my taunt has died away in the dry desert air, my left boot is on the move. It arcs upward, the grit encrusted heel targeting the tanned expanse of flesh beneath the ripped and frayed denim, intent on knotting up your thigh.

I hope you enjoyed your last meal, ‘cause from here on out? You’re eating sand.

***


Jacqui--

Ajo must wait.

The thunder of my right, the punch I hoped would jolt not only you but also residents of Ajo just settling in for their siestas, was deflected by a mishmash of elbows and forearms, stinging me more than you.

I shake my hand out, casting the pain aside, my eyes of coal boring in on yours as you insult the Land of Enchantment. Bumfuck New Mexico? Apparently you're a bit behind in reading Conde` Nast Traveler, which ranks Santa Fe No. 2 on this year's list of best cities in the U.S.

Don't forget the Lobos. The University of New Mexico. Nobody messes with the wolves. I graduated with honors. Majored in snark.

I spot it! An ostrich boot headed for my thigh as I quickly twist and slap at it, hoping to have you hopping on one leg, the price you pay for taunting before you kick.

Old Lobo proverb. Kick first, taunt later.

***


Vanessa--

What SHOULD have put you down? It doesn’t. Showing off the speed that (I assume) has been gained through long hours hauling empty bottles and pint glasses to the trash or scullery, you metamorphose neatly into a dust devil, spinning away from my rising boot and allowing me only a glancing blow, the sole scraping across one denim clad hip.

As such, the entire enterprise fizzles, resulting in one awkward overstep that sends me staggering off kilter, steadying myself after a few clumsy steps, though my guard never lowers. ‘’Slippery little thing. Elwood told me you were some badass desert bitch, and here I find myself tanglin’ with a greased pig!’’

It’s obvious bait, of course. I don’t THINK you’d really be so thin skinned as to bite on it, but what the hell?! The sooner you let pride or overconfidence, or just the simple desire to play to the crowd, convince you to come in and stand up to me? The sooner I can get to the fun part: battering you into a quivering, black and blue submission.

***


Jacqui--

As a bartender, I'm a connoisseur of wobbles and admire a good wobble, sometimes even whistling under my breath in appreciation of the best ones. I pride myself in knowing when a wobbler is about to collapse onto the barroom floor. Preferably face first.

My slap of your kick had the desired effect, upsetting your balance, throwing off your kilter as you staggered awkwardly, allowing me a smile as I nodded at the quality of your wobble.

A fine wobble but not a great one. Maybe I can offer some help.

With a gleam in my eyes and a sheen of sweat on my forehead, I take a quick step forward and grab your right wrist with both hands. Planting my boots in the sand as I spin, then release your wrist, hoping to propel you with malice aforethought toward an especially unfriendly cholla. Eager to jump at any unsuspecting trespasser.

"Watch out!" I shout. "Cholla!"

***


Vanessa--

I’ve just about recovered my balance when you seize hold of my wrist, jerking me forward roughly. I stumble towards you, a frustrated look on my face that becomes one of slight bemusement, even as you launch me past you with a full body Irish whip.

‘’Cholos? Here?!’’ I breathe a silent sigh of relief, remembering my wallet and purse are locked up safely in the hotel room. But the sight of the dangerous looking cacti awaiting my arrival brings that uneasy feeling back with a vengeance.

“Oh! Cholla! Crap.”

Unable to stop, I manage only to turn my racing body, treating the towering plant like a turnbuckle. I slam into it backfirst, my tank top doing little to defend from the spines that bury themselves into my skin from my shoulders to my backside. Howling like hell and cursing a blue streak, I squirm violently, trying to wrench free of the plant, my eyes watering.

***


Jacqui--

Cholos?

Cholos you wish. How seriously can you take someone who runs around in baggy pants and oversized flannel shirts? What are they going to do to you? Smack you in the face with a Pendleton shirt?

No cholos, all chollas. And teddy bears they aren't as they take offense at your trampling through their slice of the sand.

Who is this girl? An intruder with no manners.

I watch in awe as your back slams against the teddy bears. Wincing at the collision. I don't have to see the pain. I hear it. The curses, the howls.

You really should have thicker skin.

Maybe a quick kick will knock some of the cholla biscuits free. I'm helping, I'm helping. As my right Mad Dog Patsy rises toward your squirming, twisting belly.

***


Vanessa--

I don’t know when Gila Bend last saw rain, but the cracked and sere earth under my feet seems mighty parched,judging by how greedily it sucks up the tear droplets spattering around my feet. I’m stuck fast to the cholla, the spines lodged in what feels like every inch of my back, making a ruin of my top. For the moment, I’m paralyzed, too scared to wrench loose, though every second in my present position is agony.

Leave it to the service industry to come through.

Through my watering eyes I see your heavy boot come arching up towards me, my naked, writhing midriff presenting a juicy target. I don’t even have time to brace myself before your heel hammers home, burying itself deep into the open, vulnerable flesh between navel and waistband.*

“NNGHHHHH!!!!’’ I wheeze raggedly, expelling a hot gasp of air as your kick doubles me over, forcing my aching back free of the cholla spines, but leaving me rubber legged. Doubled over, my ripped top barely clinging to my back, I stumble out from the wicked plant and drop hard to my knees. Coughing hoarsely, trying to catch my wind, staring down into the vast, stoney desert as your shadow looms over me.

***


Jacqui--

So rare that a foe begs to be kicked. She would have begged, but she didn't have that much foresight.

I had to save your sorry butt with a quick kick from a Mad Dog Patsy as you hung helpless in the clutches of the stinging cholla, your tears spilling onto the desert sand, your moans scaring a nearby chuckwalla to skulk away from the rock where it lay basking in the blazing sun and hide in the nearest crevice, gulping air to become fatter and hard to extract.

But you have nowhere to hide, no saving crevice. You are exposed, gasping for air, staggering.

Then collapsing to your knees, coughing as you see a shadow looming.

Yes, I'm the groundhog of the desert and you have six more weeks of torture to endure. It will seem like six weeks.

I reach down and grab what's left of your top, yanking it harshly away, bits and chunks of cholla flying in the air as I toss it aside, leaving your back reddened and scratched as if you had been attacked by a wildcat.

The cholla has had its fun and now it's my turn as I grab you by the hair and jerk you back toward the heel of a Mad Dog Patsy.

You've already met her?

***


Vanessa--

You may be every bit the novice fighter, (though I’m starting to have my doubts) but you’re proving yourself a natural when it comes to showmanship. Maybe when I pictured your place of employment, I should have thought more ‘’Coyote Ugly’’ and less ‘’Double Deuce'’.

I’m still nursing my aching abs as the tattered remnants of my top are yanked off my body, taking along the last few stubborn cholla spines. I let out a howl of discomfort as I slump back on my heels, my lament drowned out entirely by the hooting of Elwood’s customers, as you reward them with an eyeful of my now half naked form.

“Fuuuu……..!!!’’ I groan, my cheeks burning as I come to a full realization of my present state. Instinctively clamping my hands across my naked breasts, I preserve my modesty, but abandon any chance of resistance. This instantly proves a mistake.

With a firm handful of steak slicked blonde braid, you jerk my head back, forcing my watery eyes to contemplate Brother Sun for a pained, lingering moment, before the heel of your boot drives home against my spine, pitching me forward with a helpless grunt.

Sand and rock does little to soften a fall. With a stony “THUNK!’’ I crash to earth, my cheek and breasts smooshed painfully into the unforgiving desert floor. I try to blink away the spots dancing before my eyes, the heat radiating up into my prone body the least of my worries now, I’m afraid.

***


Jacqui--

As the attack of the teddy bear cholla is followed by a Mad Dog Patsy to your spine, the roar of the crowd drowns out The Good, the Bad and the Ugly from the loudspeakers. Gila Bend is alive with high fives, Corona Beer spilled in excitement and the aura of good times in the desert.

Hell's Half Acre has never been so wickedly hellish.

Elwood beams in delight as his show is a huge hit. Everyone is happy. Waving their cowboy hats, reveling in the view of Vanessa's breasts, barely covered by her hands before she slumps face down in the sand. Who would have guessed she was so modest?

Everyone seems to be having such fun. Well, maybe not everyone.

Damn near unanimous though.

I'll have to ask Vanessa. She may be the sole holdout in my quest for unanimity. Leaning down, my mouth next to your ear, cupping your chin with my right hand. I lift your head up slightly and ask oh so sweetly.

You happy, Vanessa? Anything I can get you? Maybe a sip of ice cold Corona?

***


Vanessa--

My eyes flutter open as you lift my face off the desert floor, blinking away a few stinging particles of sand and emitting a groggy moan. I’m desperately thirsty, now that you mention it, my sweat soaked body and grit caked face ought to make that fact blindingly obvious.

‘’Who IS the bitch?!” The thought again forces its way to the front of my addled brain. I’ve been in too many scraps to count, both as an amateur and a pro, and I’ve taken my fair share of ass kickings. But never from some random bartender in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. I’m starting to suspect a set up job, but even if I am being played, so what? I’ve got two options: get up or get wrecked. I’ll take door #1.

“I’m just….peachy, you sawed off little redneck skank.’’ I rasp, flashing you a defiant snarl as I try to push myself up onto scraped and stinging knees. Drawing my left hand back with bad intentions, trying to let fly with a punch that wants to bury itself between your exposed navel and the waistband of your shorts.

***


Jacqui--

It would have been so much smarter to simply submit. Admit the jumping cholla was too tough. And I would have smiled, shaken your hand and said, "Good fight."

We would have walked together to the nearest cooler of cold Corona, grabbed a couple of cans, shaken them up, then popped them open and sprayed ice cold beer all over our sweating bodies. I'd have peeled off my sweaty Jack Daniel's tank top and set off a riot by tossing it out into the crowd.

Both of us bare-breasted with sweat and beer dripping down our chests.

We'd have signed autographs, gleefully accepted tips from the raucous crowd. The sweethearts of Maricopa County.

That's how every desert brawl should end.

But you chose the road less traveled. The low road.

Calling me a "redneck skank."

Throwing a punch well below my navel. A punch that annoyed me more than hurt me and fell far short of the lofty goals of the puncher.

I respond to your punch from your knees with a palm to your face as I hurl myself against your ribs in an effort to push you back to where you started from. Face down in the sand.

This time with my knees straddling your back and both hands going for a hammerlock, working to hold your left arm tightly against your upper back.

You need a nose full of sand.

***


Vanessa--

The punch lands flush, my knuckles thumping dully against your exposed skin. It’s a good start, backing you up and doubling you over will give me time to get my head clear, to plan another strike. You’re fixin’ to learn the real hard way that nobody messes with Vanessa Mar….

“THUD!!!!”

The impact of your palm strike rocks my head back, leaving me teetering momentarily. My eyes rapidly regain their previously glassy character, fluttering in a parody of coquettish seduction, before you slam my face and chest down violently into the desert one more time.

“Mmmmmpppghhhhhhhh………….’’ My wheezes and groans are barely audible, growing less so as you drop heavily onto the back of my head, scrubbing my nose and mouth into the unforgiving ground by the seat of your shorts. I drum my boots slowly in protest, being suffocated under your scrawny backside as you torque my left arm cruelly, forcing it further and further up my back.

But there’s no escape, and not even the ache in my arm, shoulder, chest, or face is enough to ward off the inevitable. I jerk weakly a few times, my hips bucking against the stone desert in a final, futile effort to dislodge you before I melt weakly into unconsciousness, my prone body splattered beneath you in undignified defeat.

***


Jacqui--

You're defiant ‘til the end, punching, spitting out insults, yakking about how I've yet to see the real Vanessa Marsh.

And yet my buns of steel are sitting comfortably on the real Vanessa Marsh's head. Grinding your nose into very real sand. Pulling your arm harshly high on your back in a vicious hammerlock that makes sure the real Vanessa Marsh is going nowhere. An occasional buns bounce for emphasis. Each bounce bringing a new volley of cheers from a raucous crowd that senses this fight is nearing its final moments.

Til finally I feel your body go limp.

And I smile and rise to my feet with both hands high in the air, my face glowing with desert sweat, the crowd cheering wildly as I plant a boot on your cheek and press down.

Lying unconscious, defeated, helpless in the sand is the real Vanessa Marsh.

"Don't go away,'' I smile wickedly and head off to the ropes to meet the fans face to face for a celebration.

Leaning over the top rope, I shout, "Any of you cowboys got a lasso?"

Turns out they do. My wish is their command and within moments I'm holding a rodeo lasso.

And I'm off to see the real Vanessa Marsh with my lasso in hand. Kneeling at your side, I pull your arms together over your head and tighten the lasso.

"Let's go, Vanessa," I shout as I start dragging you across the desert of Hell's Half Acre.

Til we reach the saguaro.

I look like a rodeo girl as I fling one end of the lasso around the lower branch of the saguaro and then pull hard enough to prop you up against the cactus, your arms high, your breasts on display, your boots dragging in the sand.

"Looking good, Vanessa. But you don't really need these Daisy Dukes, do you? I'm sure I can find them a good home."

And with enthusiasm borne of joyful triumph, I grab the blue jean shorts you've already ripped and torn in pursuit of sexy style and rip them apart til they come off in my fingers. Leaving your bareness behind. And a crowd absolutely bonkers, screaming in the desert.

All eyes on Vanessa Marsh. The queen of the silver dollar.

Adorning a saguaro.

She looks so good in boots.

Boots only.

***


Vanessa–

You’re long gone when I awake, but sadly, you seem to be the only one. No sooner have I started blinking the sleep and sweat from my eyes, and begun to comprehend the utterly helpless position I’m in, then company arrives.

“Alright, folks!’’ Elwood hollers, stepping in beside my bound, aching, still semi-conscious form, ‘’She’s ready for the photo session!’’

It’s amazing how quickly the right words can revive a girl. I shake my head furiously, yanking on the thick hemp holding my wrists in place, and snarling a slightly slurred oath to cave in the testicles of the first rotten piece of desert trash to come near me. That is, until Elwood thrusts the contract into my face.

Fine print. The bane of my existence.

I remember something about a photo op, though I was picturing signing a few 8x10s, not spending the better part of the evening trussed naked to a cactus, while the shuffling, leering, WAY too friendly denizens of Gila Bend queued up right orderly, each one just pleased as punch to get his picture made besides the bruised and battered Vanessa Marsh, wearing her trademark boots and nothing else.

By the time the last paying customer has driven off, the sun is down, and I’m shivering in the desert air. I don’t even have the energy to cuss when Elwood finally unties the lasso holding me in place, allowing me to practically ooze from off the saguaro and into the musty old horse blanket that’s offered. ‘’Sorry about your clothes, darlin’, in the excitement of the photo session, someone must've run off with ‘em.’’ Elwood shrugs casually, half supporting and half dragging me to the pickup. ‘’But hell! With the money you made tonight, you can buy yourself fancy new duds, sure as shootin’!’’


Back in my room, I’m bent over the bathroom sink, downing the last of the beer as the elderly housekeeper plucks cholla spines from my naked back. There was a surfeit of locals who were ‘’kind’’ enough to offer their services gratis, but I’ve had my fill of the good folks of Gila Bend.

When the last spine has been plucked, and I’ve been wrapped with gauze from ass to shoulders, like the world’s sluttiest mummy, I toss the housekeeper a handful of $20 bills.

“Send up something stronger, will ya? Oh, and I’ll be needing directions to Santa Fe.’’

THE END

[The Goddess]

Magnificent! Very well done!