My fourth Sandbridge story reposted. It's a stylistic departure for me ... a tribute to one of of favorite pre-internet cf writers. I also wanted to display a little ethnic diversity. As Big George says ...
"‘Bout time you put a little ‘color’ in yo’ stories fo’ sho’!” Enjoy ...Welcome to Sandbridge 4 – Denise and Sheree
A Medical Affair
A Sandbridge Saga Tale 4
Intro
I’ve been doing research in that catfight hotbed, the community of Sandbridge for a little while now and I’ve learned that the old adage is true at least here – “Nothing travels faster than bad news and gossip”.
My name is Nick Sebastian. I’m a writer and assistant producer working for TV and film producer Drake Coburn, who happens to be as big a fan of catfights as I am. I’m here because this otherwise quiet suburb seems to be a nexus of activity for some arcane reason. It’s been my job to put some of these stories together and send reports to the boss.
Having been a private investigator and newspaper reporter, I was used to having to dig for info and that’s what I had to do at first. Now, however, the nature of my job has changed thanks to the powerful suburban gossip machine. I’m finding that as time progresses and more people know who I am and why I’m here, all I have to do is sit with my thumb up my ass somewhere, and the stories find me.
I get recognized in the street by folks like I’m friggin’ Clint Eastwood or somebody. “Hey, it’s Mr. Hollywood! The Catfight King!” and the like. Then they tell me their stories. Some of these are incredible, some are mundane, and some are clearly bogus. Everybody sees Hollywood dollars in their dreams. My task now is sort out this mess, find that diamond in a huge pile of shit, and present only the good stuff for Drake and his mysterious “project”. Man, do I need an assistant.
One thing I always do is consider the source. Some drunk in a bar? No. The manager of that bar, maybe. Someone I’ve gotten to know and trust? Most definitely. Multiple sources regarding the same “incident” seal the deal. The classic brawl between 18 year old SHS seniors Marcia Monfort and Jillie McCall, as well as the pair between Marcia’s Mom Carly and nightclub manager Katie Pirelli were perfect. More of those and fewer, “Dude, I saw these two chicks fighting on the beach. How much money do I get?” stories.
When I started hearing rumors from multiple people about a brutal and bloody female brawl between a doctor and an administrative assistant at Sandbridge General at the latter’s townhouse … that’s right, a doctor for Christ’s sake … over one of their husbands, it at least got my attention. Then I heard the same story from a trusted source who had known one of the participants for a long, long time. An unlikely source indeed.
I had stopped into The Sandbar to hand over my latest finished report to the manager there, Katie Pirelli. Carly Monfort had already read and approved. I wanted to make sure neither had any changes she wanted me to make: and to make absolutely-damn-certain I hadn’t stepped on the dicks of any of the wiseguys Katie knew. I had enough trouble in my life already without getting involved with these bozos. As I passed through the front door, there was big George Hendershot, professional ass-kicker. The former defensive lineman with the Rams had an official title – “Greeter”. A friendly 6’4” black man with a big grin, he was also capable of “greeting” your face with a ham-sized fist if you caused trouble in the mob-connected Katie’s joint.
“Hey George! What’re you up to?”
We both say in unison “about 285” and laugh. Just our private joke.
George then gets this serious, almost conspiratorial look on his big face and whispers, “Good, Nick. Glad you’re here. I need to talk to you about somethin’. You hear stories about some doc at the hospital mixin’ it up with an administrator’s assistant?”
“Well as a matter of fact, I’ve heard some rumors … but nobody at Sandbridge General either knows or will say shit, not even Carly (a medical lab tech there). Security won’t even let me go in and interview anybody in that joint.”
“They ain’t just rumors. I’ve known one of these girls almost since I’ve been black. They true!”
My heart rate goes up a little. Finally, a break. “How well do you know this woman, George?”
“Pretty damn well, I’d say ….. she’s my sister!”
He shoots, he scores! Time to rock … and welcome to Sandbridge.
Nick Sebastian, June 1987
1
The Hendershots
“So I went over to her house a couple of days ago, and man, when she told me what happened the week before, I about shit myself. She was pretty well healed up, but without make-up, she still looked like hell. This after a week, dude! Must have been a helluva brawl fo’ real. And know what? Never seen her happier! Her man was one excited cat, too. They only were sorry about one thing – nobody else had been around to record it. I couldn’t believe that shit! Yeah, it was a big turn on for them! Now you know I like a good catfight, but man, this was my sister! Now she said she’d love to write a story about it, but that she can’t write shit – reports and everything, but not writing like this.
Well, I get this idea. I mean, like I said, you my sister and I ain’t crazy about it, but you know that dude from Hollywood I told y’all about? Catfights are his thing. That’s why he’s here … and he writes for a livin’. Boy she can’t wait to meet yo’ sorry ass now. Wanna have her come over to your office sometime?”
“Sometime, George? Anytime! How about yesterday? I’ll do my best to do it up proper. My tape recorder awaits, big guy.”
“Yeah. ‘Bout time you put a little ‘color’ in yo’ stories fo’ sho’!”
George dropped Sheree off at the office the very next afternoon after she got off work, sexy red dress and all. She was a fine looking long-legged babe, maybe 29. She was athletic with a dancer’s build – about 5’8”, 122 or so. I would have been surprised that a big bear like George could have been this chick’s brother, but he had told me when the Lord was making the Hendershots, He’d given him all the beef and saved up the looks and brains for his baby sister. Sheree looked to be a 36C with deep chocolate skin, shoulder length dyed brown hair with blond highlights and polish on her nails the color of her dress. She greeted me with a wide, white-toothed smile and excitement on her face.
“Mr. Sebastian, I’m a little nervous. I’ve never talked about … um… catfighting before to anyone outside of my close friends and family, let alone to a Hollywood screenwriter.”
“Outside of my job, neither have I, my dear. And Mr. Sebastian is my father. Please call me Nick. You’ll do just fine. A glass of wine?”
Here is Sheree’s story, blended with interviews with a couple of other folks.
2
From Compton with Love
The best thing that had ever happened to Sheree Lynn Hendershot was her mother getting herself and her two kids out of that shithole Compton when the girl was 12. Drugs, gang warfare and nightly killings were the norm in this infamous community. Her Mom had finally completed her associate degree in business at a nearby community college and gotten a job in the much nicer neighborhood, working as a bank teller in the Second National Bank in Sandbridge. No, they didn’t have much money and being black in a mostly white community was no picnic, but compared to Compton, it was heaven. Sheree’s big brother George became a star on the high school football team and with her own athletic skills was on the cheerleading squad three years later.
In 1974, she was one of the Sandbridge High cheerleaders the night of the legendary Brookside Brawl, celebrated in Sandbridge lore to this day. A conflict between the cheerleading squads of SHS and its bitter rival Brookside High during a Friday Night game resulted in an arranged multi-girl brawl under the football stands. The Sandbridge squad beat the daylights out of the Brookside girls that night, and sophomore Sheree was in the thick of it.
“Man, I was so scared. I’d never been in a real fight before and there I was, beating the living shit out of this big blonde like she owed me money. After the fight and seeing we’d won, I was just flying! Bleeding a little but flying. What an amazing feeling!”
Sheree had plenty of boyfriends, but she wasn’t like so many of the teenaged girls she knew back in Compton, who had multiple kids by multiple boys and had dropped out of school. Her mom had been an unwed mother herself, and Sheree wasn’t going to follow that path. She received her BA in Business six years later from UCLA and went back to the town she called “home” – Sandbridge. Sheree went to work as a secretary at Sandbridge General Hospital and had been working there ever since, being promoted to administrative assistant to the Director of Finance three years ago. She had never married - never met the man she wanted to spend her life with. That was important to her.
Yet, she’d never forgotten the “Brookside Brawl”.
Five years ago, she was on vacation, visiting some old college friends in Westwood, and she was on a date with one of her old boyfriends, dancing up a storm at a nightclub called “Chico’s” in East LA. Dancing wasn’t just something she did on Saturday night. It was her passion and she’d developed a real talent for it. Sheree and been taking dance classes ever since she left Compton and her long legs were limber and strong. She was wearing a flashy little red dress (similar to the one she wore to my office – Nick) and high heels to show off those legs. Her hair was curlier then and accentuated it with pendulum earrings.
The dance floor was crowded that night and next to her, a Mexican chick in a low-cut black dress and straight dyed platinum hair lost her balance, probably due to too much tequila, stumbled and bumped into Sheree, who apologized even though the collision wasn’t her fault. The other girl, apparently a regular there, was 5’5” about Sheree’s weight with big enhanced tits and about her age. “
Stupida! What you doing! You very clumsy, no?” she spit out in a bad accent. Things might have still been okay except that this
chica just had to tack on a
puta at the end. Sheree didn’t have to know much Spanish to grasp the meaning of that phrase and suddenly memories of the Brookside Brawl flashed into her consciousness.
Four handfuls of sharp-nailed fingers sank into expensive hairdos and the screaming began – not just from the two women, but in cheers from the excited crowd. It didn’t take long before four muscular guys fought through the mob like a well-drilled unit, reached the girls, tore the struggling screamers apart and unceremoniously escorted them out the door still screaming into the well-lit parking lot followed by quite a few patrons. The bouncers stormed back into the club. The small crowd formed in a circle around the two young women who stalked each other like panthers, claws extended and teeth bared. Most of them were Mexican dudes who were cheering for their “Elena”.
“I had never had a rush like that in my life, in the middle of that crowd mostly hollering for that cheap wench to beat me up. And when we came together, like, it was show time, baby!” explained Sheree. “We were two wildcats - scratching each other’s hair out, snapping at each other’s faces with teeth, rolling around on the pavement and screeching like animals. We just tore each other up, too. I had Elena all bloody and her dress half ripped off. Mine was ripped too, and each of us had a tit hanging out. We’d both lost our shoes and bitch had torn my necklace right off my neck. She’d scratched one of my cheeks and bitten the other really deep. But I had moused up one of her eyes and blood was streaming down her face from a head butt and a forehead bite. I’d clawed her up real bad. I wrapped Elena’s shitty white hair in a fist a couple of times, then yanked out a whole handful of it by the nasty black roots. She was crying and cursing in Spanish. But before I could finish the bitch or really humiliate her … that’s when the cops showed up. I had to spend the whole night in jail. And know what? They didn’t let me keep the bitch’s hair! I had earned that shit!”
Sheree didn’t know how she had transitioned from a pleasant medical administrative secretary living in suburbia to a primeval hellcat. But for the second time in her life, she had reveled in it. This wouldn’t be the last time.
It was just last year, a man came into her life who would change it forever. Damon Tolliver, MBA was a Texan and had graduated from the University of Houston. The 38 year old had come over from Brookside Hospital to become the new Director of Finance. He inherited a new administrative assistant named Sheree Hendershot. The girls around the water cooler thought he was dreamy and none more so than Sheree. He resembled Lionel Richie, he was smart, educated and knew his job. He also knew and loved ladies. Always a gentleman, he seemed to always know just what words to say, could make them laugh, and remembered his staffers’ birthdays and the names of their kids. He was a great boss …
And married.
Sheree adored him.
She’d never fallen for any man like this before, let alone her boss. Damon would always compliment her on how she dressed, bring her flowers unexpectedly and tell her funny stories about his school days, his time as an Army officer and his work life. Once in a while, he’d mention Denise, but not often. Once, however, she overheard him mention to a buddy, “my future ex-wife” and heard them laugh about it. Denise Tolliver frequently called him at work. “Frequently” as in “constantly”. Often, it was Sheree who took the call and Denise was cold if not downright unpleasant to her. She’d transfer the call and hear her boss through the door as he spoke to her. “Yes, dear.” “No, dear.” and the like. It seemed to her that more times than not, Damon would be in a rare foul mood after he emerged.
What made matters worse was that husband and wife worked in the same building. Dr. Denise Tolliver was a staff Gynecologist at Sandbridge General. She also clearly thought having her husband working just on floor below her gave her the right to just drop in and walk back into his office any time she wished – almost like she was trying to catch him at something.
Sheree disliked Dr. Tolliver from the moment she met her and she could tell from the condescending tone in the older woman’s voice every time they spoke that the feeling was mutual. They would be civil to each other, but the too frequent “dearies”, “sweeties” and “be a good girl and tell me where he is” comments in that Texas drawl, accompanied with that hard-eyed, frozen smile of contempt told Sheree just what Dr. Tolliver thought of her. Every time Denise left her boss’s office and left without even acknowledging the assistant’s presence forced a hissed “bitch” from Sheree’s lips.
It would get worse.
(Nick here again. I like getting both sides of a story. Miss Hendershot may be a *little* biased. Getting the other side from Denise was not possible. So I did the next best thing - a couple of days later when Mr. Damon Tolliver paid me a visit. Of course, he wasn’t exactly neutral himself but at least he had more insight into Denise. After all, he was married to her. Here’s my take on what he told me with a little creative license on my part …)
3
Denise Tolliver, MD
Dr. Denise Ann Tolliver was a good physician and she knew it. It hadn’t been easy for a woman to make it in a man’s world, and for a black woman to do it was even harder. You could find more females in the gynecology specialty than you could most others, but it was still an accomplishment and she was proud. At 35, she had respect, a good deal of money and a handsome husband who was in an important position at Sandbridge General. She had to work hard to get what she had and she expected to keep it.
She re-read the letter she’d received from a major medical center in San Francisco accepting her position application there. More money, more prestige, more everything. She’d had a huge fight with Damon about moving upstate, even though Denise was promised by her future medical director she could get him a higher-paying position there as well. He says he actually likes it in Sandbridge – imagine that! She doesn’t believe it for a second. “I know why he doesn’t want to leave … it’s that bitch! He’d even dropped the ‘D-word’. We’d gone through that divorce nonsense before. He’d change his mind.” Denise will make sure of it - she’d come too far from where she had started to stop now.
Not that Denise had ever been exactly underprivileged. Her father was a successful Houston attorney and her mother was a well-known civil rights and women’s empowerment activist. One thing her mother had taught her was to fight for what she had and what she wanted and fight harder to keep it. There would always be those who wanted what you had, and you had to defend your rights by whatever means was necessary. She’d learned that last part from her defense attorney father. Now she wanted that position in San Francisco and she wasn’t going alone.
Her skill as a medical professional had endured that she could keep her respect at work, as well as her monetary success. Keeping her trophy husband was more difficult … his looks and natural charm drew women like a magnet. Their love had faded over the last twelve years, but he was and would be forever … hers. But she had to work at that as hard as she had to get professional respect and Denise was willing to do what she needed to keep her man at her side.
Part of that work involved keeping herself looking fine. She was 5’9, 134 and still with a trim 24” waist. With a bra size of 32B, she wasn’t very big up there, but she had nice tits. Flawless light brown skin and short wavy black hair. She had spent a lot of money on that hair, manicures and pedicures at the spa, where she also worked out. Those workouts had helped her develop strong arms and legs, and had tightened her belly and fine ass.
Yes, she was indeed a fox, Denise thought. Why would Damon ever look at another woman … especially at that tired-ass, skanky piece of ghetto trash who called herself “his assistant”. Glorified servin’ wench really. Shaking her booty at her man everywhere. Damon is infatuated with the bitch – Denise could see in his eyes. At the staff fundraiser dinner tonight, she’d show Damon and everyone else how fine she was herself and he’d come to his senses and it will be San Francisco, here we come! We, not I. He’ll drop all that nonsense about a divorce, and just like he did after that bout of temporary insanity when he’d met that loose African wench back in Houston. And if he didn’t, Dr. Denise Tolliver would do to the Compton whore what she did to that girl …
It had been six years ago, and Denise relished the memory.
4
Ward 5A
Her name was Lisa Mwangi from Nairobi. She had graduated from the Baylor College of Medicine in Houston and was doing her internship at the East Texas Medical Center in Houston where Denise was completing her residency. This girl with the high cheekbones and flawless, ebony skin was tall, lanky and gorgeous – looking more like a fashion model than a doctor. Damon’s jaw nearly hit the floor when he met her, and don’t think for a moment Denise didn’t notice. The 29 year old resident loathed the 26 year old African beauty for her haughty demeanor towards her and her obvious interest in Damon Tolliver who was working in the finance department of the same hospital. Denise had dropped into her husband’s office one day unexpectedly and there he was, chatting it up with Dr. Mwangi.
He told his wife they were just talking about Kenya where Damon had spent a summer during his college days. Denise didn’t believe it. The couple had an enormous row over it. They’d been having problems in their relationship anyway, and a week later, he asked his wife for a divorce. Like hell she would. He was hers! It was the bitch’s fault. Had to be. Dr. Tolliver would write a prescription that would cure that. The skinny African savage would pay …
There was a ward that wasn’t being used. Ward 5A. It was kept up fully equipped as a contingency ward in case there was a disaster. Denise Tolliver would ensure there would be a disaster tonight … at least for Lisa Bitch Mwangi. Both were working late and clinic was closing for the evening.
“Oh, Dr. Mwangi? May I have a word with you, please?”
“Certainly, Dr. Tolliver.”
“Dr. Mwangi, or should I say ‘bitch’, I would ask you to keep your filthy hands off my husband if I thought it would do any good. But a cheap whore like you needs to be told, not asked. So wench, I’m telling you ...”
Lisa’s eyes were on fire. “You arrogant bitch! Daughter of a jackal! How dare you speak to me in the way of a street prostitute! You are not woman enough for a fine man like Damon. I descend from kings! You are nothing more than a
pamba mtumwa!”
(Damon had told me that he’d spent 3 months in Kenya and had learned some Swahili. He assured me that the worst insult an African can lay on an African-American is this one. I will not translate. Rules are rules. - Nick)
The charge nurse came by, hearing harsh words between the two. “Is everything all right, doctors?”
Denise composed herself. “Everything is fine, Paula. Dr. Mwangi and I were just about to make our rounds up on 5A.” The two steamed physicians turned and stalked quickly down the hallway.
Paula wondered why they would be making rounds on an empty ward. She must have meant 5B not 5A.
They made their way into the elevator and to the fifth floor hissing curses and threats constantly. If Denise had any doubts the African bitch would fight her, it was clear that Lisa had been waiting for this as long as she had. The bitch was Denise’s height, but weighed about 120 or so with a flat 33A chest. As they passed the double doors of Ward 5A, they began stripping off clothes and Denise could see now that while the girl was skinny, she was wiry with big hands and feet. In their bras and panties only, the two stopped the trash talk and tore into each other. (Damon said his wife had described it something like this …)
5
Denise’s African Adventure
I slapped her face and slapped it hard. It felt so good, baby! She slapped mine right back. Harder. That wasn’t so good. I saw stars and almost fell, but she caught me by the hair and shook the hell out of me. Bitch! Her hair was up in a bun and I had to work it out of there. Meanwhile, she was just killing me. My scalp was on fire! I got her stringy black shit out of that hairdo, but I couldn’t take any more. I pressed her hands into my scalp to ease the pain … and believe me, it was intense. I was kicking her shins and stomping her bare feet, screaming right in her face. Then the bitch rared back with her head and butted me like a goat right between the eyes.
My knees buckled and I couldn’t see straight as I stumbled back. She was snarling out curses at me and flailing with her hands, scratching my arms and hands up with her long nails as I tried to protect my face. The skinny whore kicked me in the ribs twice then spit right in my face like a street skank when I brought my arms down. Honey, I’d had enough of this girl. I hauled off and slapped the rest of that spit out of her foul mouth. I grabbed her hair and started to wear her out. I yanked that bitch all over the hallway and into one of the rooms. Then I worked her over but good.
She was fighting back and slapped me hard twice. Her nails scraped my cheek with one of her slaps and when I felt for blood, Lisa grabbed my other forearm and sank her nasty African teeth into it. I screamed and clawed her right across the eyes like a wildcat. I’d known I was going to tangle with Miss Kenya earlier, so I’d spent my free time sharpening and polishing these fingernails just for her. She squealed like a little girl and grabbed her face. Then I doubled up a fist like this and slugged her skinny ebony belly as hard as I could.
She made this gasping “Oooof!” as all her breath escaped. Lover, I don’t know what it’s like to have another woman punch me down there like that, but I know how good it felt being the puncher. I let her have it down there again and she made this big croak and a long groan of agony that was sweet music to my ears. She bent over my fist and I just left it in her guts, twisting it around in there. I then chopped her to the floor with a left to the eye. And just stomped the shit out of that girl.
I dragged that pile of shit around the floor by the ankles, mopping the floor with her. Then I hauled Mwangi by the hair onto the room’s bed. Mounting the half conscious bitch, I slapped her face raw. Then I stripped her of her top and bottoms, leaving her naked as she could be, stretched out on the bed. Then went to work on that scrawny African body with my fingernails. I scraped her belly and tiny tits until she ran red with blood and there was all this stuff under my nails. I sat between her legs, held her hands and got my feet in her face, rubbing it and digging her eyes, lips and up her nose with my toes. I just shamed the bitch.
All the while, wench was screaming and shaking her head. Then I got right in her face and let her know what I thought of her and what I wanted her to do. “Listen, girl. I’ll say to the staff you had a crisis and had to go on emergency leave. Then after you’re all healed up, you will request a transfer to anywhere you want and I’ll accept it with the highest recommendations. So will the department head. In other words, scarecrow, I never want to see your skanky ass again. You dig?” Blinded with tears, she nodded her head. “Oh, and one last thing …”
“It’s only fair I give you one last gynecology lesson before you leave, Dr. Mwangi. And if you start clawing my back, you’ll never fuck again.” I reversed myself and sat on her little boobs. She was screaming something in Swahili, I couldn’t tell what it was, her big hands on my hips and all over my back, but not scratching. I worked a finger into her vagina and past the labia, getting way up there, then a couple more. With my other hand, I found her rectum and screwed my middle finger as deep in as it could go. Then I started scratching my way out of both openings to the sounds of her bawling. I would describe each part of her as my nails found it in medical terms, finishing with her clitoris. I don’t know when she passed out, but I had thoroughly enjoyed myself.
I dragged what was left of the bleeding bitch to the floor. Washing up at a sink, I put my clothing on, removed the bloody sheet from the bed and stuffed it into a laundry bin sitting outside the ward. I don’t know how long Mwangi stayed on the floor on 5A and I don’t care. I am a civilized woman from a good family. I suppose I should have felt ashamed of what I’d done to another woman. But I wasn’t. I’d do anything to keep you, my man … and I have to admit …
I loved it.
6
The Last Dance?
(Now where did we leave off? - Nick)
Every year, Sandbridge General holds a staff dinner at the country club for charity. The ballroom there is pretty spacious and has booths and tables for dining and a decent sized dance floor. The food is excellent and many staff members attend. There is a live band, a charity auction and lots of people-watching: everybody wants to see who is with who and what the ladies are wearing.
Dr. Denise Tolliver in a sexy designer dress was there with her dashing husband, Finance Director Damon Tolliver. Lead lab tech, the notorious Carly Monfort was present – Carly never missing a chance to hit a dance floor – with her date, a Marine Corps officer in full dress blues. Some wags assumed the Marine just had to be married to someone else … and hopefully she wasn’t here tonight. Many Country Club members were there too – Second National Bank CEO Patrick McCall was checking out ladies’ asses when his wife Barbara wasn’t looking. She often wasn’t. She was busy staring daggers at another woman, an editor with the
Sandbridge Examiner. But there was one lady, arriving alone, who really turned heads, including Patrick who nearly wrenched something in his neck as she entered.
Sheree Hendershot was amazing tonight. The Finance Department administrative assistant looked like a movie star and a few of the guests who didn’t know her assumed she had to be a celebrity of some sort. Her sparkling royal blue dress slit on the sides nearly to the waist highlighted her long legs and barely contained her ample chest. Hair, make-up, nails, jewelry and shoes were just perfect. Lab tech Alice Gellman asked her friend Carly, “Oh … my … God! Who is that?”
“That’s Sheree from Finance. Sweet gal. Her brother works at The Sandbar. Word has it she has this thing for her boss, and judging from the look on his face, that’s what a man looks like when he’s trying to keep his dick in his pants. See his wife’s expression? That’s what a woman looks like who’s trying to keep her nails out of some other bitch’s hair. Trust me … I know both looks. Been there.” replied Carly.
“Oh, yeah, I just know what you’d do if you were Sheree …”
“For a dreamboat like Damon? Sure! It would be worth all the cuts and bruises, darlin’. If I was Sheree and his wife gave me the look that the Doc is giving her, I’d make this night really one to remember. But she’s just too nice of a girl. Too bad. Look at those legs! I’d put my money on Sheree by TKO or knockout. Excuse me, Ali - I think the Lieutenant Colonel wants to dance. Semper Fi, baby …”
Sheree loved the attention, but now it was time to go to work. Daman had told her today that he had no intention of leaving his job and following Denise to San Francisco like her private boy-toy. He had seen his lawyer at lunchtime yesterday and had the divorce documents drawn up. He said she wouldn’t sign the papers. What would he do? Sheree didn’t know, but she knew she’d have to find a way. She sashayed over to the booth where the Tollivers were sitting and Damon, gentleman that he was, stood to greet her. Denise, sitting across from him, just glared.
“Sheree, I am so glad you could make it! Good Lord, girl! You look just magnificent … “
“Thank you sooo much! As handsome and gallant as always. Hello Dr. Tolliver.”
“Miss Hendershot.”
“Oh please,” said Damon. “We’re not at work. It’s Denise and Sheree, okay? Please, have a seat with us …”
Sheree sat next to Denise, surprising the other woman, and went hip-to-hip with her in the booth with the wide tablecloth, making sure she shoved her against the side of the booth a little. “Oh, sorry, Denise” she smiled voice dripping with sarcasm. “That’s alright, sweetie,” smiled Denise, her eyes flashing lasers.
After dinner, a waiter brought a big bottle of wine to the table and the three made small talk with Damon and Sheree doing most of it. The two women had little to say to each other. As Damon was telling a story about his childhood and Sheree listened enraptured, she felt the side of a high-heeled shoe clip her leg and scrape down her ankle. She gasped and gave Denise a sideways glance and the older woman laughed – ostensibly at something Damon had said. Sheree kicked out herself a little harder and felt her foot connect with the bitch’s shin and dragged it down her leg. “Oh!” said Denise, her eyes widening. Damon looked at his wife. “Oh sweetheart,” recovered the wife. “Tell Sheree about the time your father …”
As he began his next story, Sheree thought she heard a shoe fall somewhere, then felt something soft and warm feeling at her bare calf. Then a sharp pain the length of it. The bitch had clawed her with a nasty toenail! “Gawd! I mean, God, this wine is really good! Don’t you think, Denise?” “I love it,” replied the wife. “Not too ‘sharp’ for you dearie?” “Not at all, sweetie. Just sharp enough.” Sheree felt for Denise’s calf with her own bare toes and scraped them up and down with polished nails, doing a number on her enemy’s calf, ankle and instep.
Denise had her face in her hands until Damon cracked the punchline at the end of his story. She laughed way too heartily and dabbed tears from her eyes with a napkin. “Oh honey, that story always makes me laugh until I cry.” Laughing too was Sheree … laughing at bitch wifey-poo’s discomfort, knowing those tears were from pain, shame, rage or any combination. She found the woman’s empty shoe on the floor and with her toes, flung it out from beneath the table and into the aisle. Everybody around the booth turned to look.
“Oh, Denise sweetie! You seem to have lost your shoe!” giggled Sheree.
“I’ll get it,“ said Damon gallantly. He got up and handed it to his embarrassed and red-faced wife. He continued, “Would you do me the honors?” Sheree moved out to let Denise join her husband and the troubled couple headed to the dance floor. She was quite pleased to see the painful-looking boo-boos on the side of the bitch’s right calf and a bit of a welt on her shin. She checked out her own left calf – it had a red scrape along the side, but Denise’s looked worse. “First blood to me!”
Sheree watched them on the floor. Damon was a marvelous dancer. Denise wasn’t terrible but a little clumsy in Sheree’s opinion Maybe her right leg and foot were hurting a little. Ironically, the song playing was Donna Summer’s “Last Dance”. Enjoy it you cow, it’ll be yours, too. She would be next. She saw her enemy’s half-finished glass of wine on the table. Well, why not. Taking the glass and turning to the side do no one could see, she worked up a big mouthful of spit and dropped it into the wife’s drink. She emptied each nostril into the glass, then stirred it up with a spoon. “Drink my spit and eat my snot, you Texas cxnt!”
Sheree got up and went to the dance floor. Again everyone stared as the stunner walked by. She stepped between the Tollivers and after an “Oh, Denise dear! What did you do to your leg?”, she asked an enchanted Damon for the next dance. His wife sulked back to the booth, looking down at what the younger woman had done to her calf and the top of her foot, and angrily sat down to finish her “enhanced” glass of wine.
And naturally things got worse for her. Damon and Sheree captivated everyone on the dance floor drawing the attention of the entire party. They seemed a natural couple out there and received a warm applause as they finished. Carly Monfort seemed especially amused for some reason and talked with Sheree for a minute. Denise was no longer in the booth. She had seethed as she watched her man and the slut on the floor. Even the wine tasted like shit to her now. Then to top it all off, her pager lit up and buzzed. Not tonight of all nights. It was the hospital. The ER. With a curse, she rose, feeling at her still burning right calf and headed for a phone.
Sheree had hoped she’d shamed her rival so badly she’d gone home in tears. No such luck. Dr. Tolliver returned, saying one of her patients had been brought to the ER with severe cramps and bleeding. She’d have to return to the hospital immediately. “You can drop me off and …”
“No, dear. Here are the keys. Drive there yourself and don’t worry about me … I can find someone to take me home.”
Denise frowned, but realized this was not a request … it was a statement of fact. Sheree stifled a grin. “Alright then.” Denise gave her husband a kiss on the cheek and glared at his assistant. “I’ll see you soon, Miss Hendershot. Real soon …”
Sheree knew it wasn’t a threat … it was a promise.
7
The Doctor Makes a House Call
(This is my account based on Sheree’s interview, with commentary by Sheree and special guest analyst, Carly Monfort. Carly had talked me into letting her read the draft and add a couple of things. Well, not exactly “talked” … let’s just say she did me a “favor”. It was her idea, not mine. Really. - Nick)
Last night had been the most amazing of Sheree’s life. At her place, Damon Tolliver had been as great in bed as she’d hoped he would be. Afterwards, she had taken him home. Denise hadn’t returned yet. He had handed Sheree a briefcase – important papers, he said, and told her to take it to her place - he’d come back for it later. He didn’t want his wife to get to them. She’d driven back to her townhouse and collapsed in satisfaction and exhaustion.
It was Saturday morning and Sheree was stretched out in her favorite chair, reading the paper and drinking a cup of coffee. She was bare legged, wearing only panties and one of her big brother’s old oversized #78 Rams jerseys. Oversized for Sheree, not for George. The doorbell rang. “Who could that be this early?” she asked herself rhetorically.
It was Dr. Frigid Bitch Tolliver.
Denise was wearing a green tied-off blouse, black shorts and sandals. No jewelry or earrings. A baleful stare was on her face. And somehow, Sheree was glad to see her. “Dr. Tolliver,” she said flatly. “Your husband is not here.”
“I know. He’s playing golf this morning. It’s you I wanted to see.”
“I’ve wanted to see you, too. Please come in. She led her lover’s wife into the living room and turned. “If I didn’t know already, why did you want to see me?”
“Sweetie, I’ve come here to whup your, street-peddlin’ ghetto ass and send it back to Compton where you belong!” growled the gynecologist as she dropped her bag and kicked off her sandals.
“Well you’ve come to the right place, you fat ass Texas bitch! I’ve been waiting a long time for this …” Sheree stepped up and slapped Denise hard across the face. It was on …
They dug right into each other’s hair and began that instinctive primeval dance. Flailing, kicking, and pulling hair, they screamed and cursed in each other’s faces, trying to snatch each other bald. They were pretty even – Denise was stronger and her enemy’s hair was longer. Sheree was faster and more athletic and she was six years younger. They went to the floor, rolling until they met furniture or a wall, then would roll back, cursing and yelping.
Carly: I love watching two black chicks fight. I hate to stereotype. But I’ve never seen one between two of them that wasn’t exciting. Lots of “girl” and “bitch” and head butts, fists and feet and shit. Lots of energy and raw emotion with nails and teeth flashing. They don’t seem to care about how much punishment they take so long as they dish it out. I knew both of these ladies professionally, maybe Sheree a little better. They both have bitchin’ bodies. Dude, I would have paid to see this one …
They broke apart and got to their knees. “Street whore!” spat the doctor and she slapped Sheree’s face with a loud smack. “Ohh! You fucking bitch! She replied and delivered one of her own that rocked the older woman’s face to the side. Denise let Sheree have it in the cheek this time with nails curled and Sheree’s cheek burned as the nails scraped skin. The strong Texan used her left hand this time, swinging from the floor. It connected with a thwack, causing the younger woman’s eyes to cross and glaze over, her hands dropping to her sides.
“Slapped you stupid, girl,” gasped Denise as she knotted her fingers in Sheree’s highlighted light brown hair and dragged the stunned woman back to her feet. She kicked Sheree’s hard left thigh twice, spit full in her face, and then yanked her jersey over her head, making sure her black-painted nails scraped her back in the process. Sheree, yelped and covered her naked tits as her wobbled on rubbery legs. “Let’s see those big udders, wench!” snarled Denise. She slapped Sheree’s face smartly again, caught her hair with her left hand before the woozy girl could fall and sank her big right fist deep into her bare stomach below the navel. “WAUGHF! Shit!”
Sheree: I’d been in a couple of catfights, but I’d never been punched in the belly like that before. Seriously, man, I saw her fist just disappear to the waist in there. She just sickened me. I wanted to throw up and I couldn’t breathe. Denise had been kicking my ass so far and that was bad enough. But slugging another woman in her child-bearing years that low in the stomach is as dirty and cruel a thing you can do her. I felt it up in my womb.
Sheree sank to her knees. All bent over and coughing. “Aw, poor girrrl!” taunted Denise. “Does your cute little belly ache?” She stripped off her wide open blouse, got on her knees in front of Sheree and yanked her upright by her disheveled hair. She latched onto a right tit and started working the nipple with her thumbnail as she squeezed. She fastened her mouth to the other and sucked hard, trying to see if she could get something out of there. Sheree was crying in pain. With one hand in the older woman’s hair and the other trying to pull her hand off of her other ample breast. Then she screamed even louder as Denise sank her teeth into the left one. Releasing the right tit and spitting out the other, the vicious doctor wrapped her strong arms around Sheree’s sweaty bare trunk and gave her a crushing hug, breast-to-breast.
“Oh Jesus! Fuck!” blurted a wide-eyed Sheree as she suffered wrapped up in those well-conditioned arms supported by a strong back. Denise made her take the Lord’s Name in Vain again by chewing hungrily on the younger woman’s right shoulder as she squeezed. At least Sheree had her arms free. Gasping for breath and with her body aching, she tangled her left hand in the short dark brown curls, yanking hard. She was rewarded by a little “ow” from that and a longer, louder one as she reached her long right arm to the base of Denise’s lower back, sank in her red nails and slowly dragged them up the sweat-drenched back not once but twice. The second rake really hurt. A yowling Denise let her go and reached behind her to put out the fire. Sheree took her hair by both hands, threw her own head back and snapped it forward, butting the older gal hard in the forehead.
They rose wobbly-legged to their feet – Sheree’s ribs were arching and Denise was panting from the long tiring hug. Both had been knocked a little goofy from the head butt and Denise was bleeding a little from the forehead. They stood there shaking the fireflies from their scrambled brains for a few seconds, hands on knees, heaving for breath.
“I’ll cxnt you, bitch. I’ll make you shit yourself. I’ll take your hair and give it to my new man as a wedding present,” gasped Sheree.
“Bitch, I’ll peel you raw, inside and out. I’m making a house call. I’ll give you a fingernail hysterectomy right in your own home,” growled the gynecologist.
The conditioned dancer recovered sooner than the older woman. She whacked a big roundhouse kick into Denise’s ribs, and a spin kick that thudded into her shoulder. Denise surprised the dancer with a hard side thrust kick of her own which landed flush in the big sore tits of Sheree. She stumbled back into a wall, but came back with a charging front snap kick which almost missed. I say almost because it clipped one of Denise’s smaller 32Bs and clipped it hard. Denise cried out and clutched it, allowing the better athlete to come across with a nice overhand right which smacked Dr. Tolliver full in the eye. Denise sat down hard in Sheree’s favorite chair, all scrambled up. With a shout of triumph, Sheree yanked her out of the chair by the hair and delivered two big left hooks to the woman’s naked belly.
Denise was devastated by the hard body shots. Like Sheree, she’d never been slugged down there before. Her solid belly muscles took the first one fairly well, but the second just pounded the air right out of her and she was wracked with pain and nausea as she announced her pain and suffering with a croaking groan. “Girl, I’m gonna fuck up that old body … Compton-style,” gasped the winded Sheree. She held her gagging enemy by the shoulders and drove her knee in there again. Getting behind Denise, the pissed-off babe raked her back again with both hands this time, then clawed her across the shoulder blades. Denise’s back looked like a roadmap of downtown LA and combined with the sweat, all those avenues were burning like crazy.
The physician straightened up with a howl. Still behind her, her husband’s lover reached around, grabbed both small tits and gave Denise a mauling.
Sheree walked the screaming woman around the living room, working her over with both hands and talking shit. “You’re so small, I can barely find you! What’s wrong girl? Ittie-bitties can’t take it?” Denise was weeping and pressing those sharp-nailed fingers into her small breasts trying to ease the pain. Every once in a while, Sheree would stop walking the older woman so that she could bite a shoulder blade or the trapezoid muscles, scrape toenails down a calf or knee a nice ass. All the while, those horrible fingers kept twisting, pinching and scratching.
Carly: I can’t say for sure if little boobs hurt worse than big ones or what in a catfight. But I know that the flat-chested ones tend to scream and cry more than we full-figured gals. Maybe more nerves per square inch? Or maybe the titless wonders are just big babies. <laughs> Who the fuck knows?
Denise finally got some separation. In desperation, she kicked back with her heel and caught Sheree square between those long legs. “Ongh!” blurted the younger gal. The kick didn’t have a lot of power behind it, but Sheree had never been kicked down there before and it scared her shitless. She released Denise and clutched herself. Denise came around and plastered her cheek with a wild right-handed slap. Sheree rocked her with one of her own, slapped her belly and missed an off-balance left hand swipe. Denise made her pay for that with a tit slap and one that just grazed her right cheek with her nails, leaving her with a mark.
The two half naked brawlers were tired and gasping for air. The slaps were wild, but neither was making any attempt to block anything – they were just concentrating on slapping the spit out of each other’s mouths and the sweat off of the other’s face. Eventually, open hands clenched into fists and became like a fistfight between two drunks in a bar – not much science, kind of slow and no defense. No more trash talk – they were too winded for that. Both of Denise’s eyes were red and swollen. So was Sheree’s left one and her nose was bloody. Both sets of lips were puffy and Denise’s lower one was bleeding. A hard exchange of stomach punches sent them into each other’s arms, hugging like lovers with heads resting on each other’s shoulders. They sank to the carpet like that, still clinging and still wanting to destroy each other.
For a while both were content to maul bodies, Sheree wanted to mark up the older woman’s ass and upper legs. She had stripped Denise stark naked and clawed furrows in the sweaty light brown butt cheeks as her enemy groaned and kicked weakly. An enraged Denise stopped the pain by rolling Sheree over and sinking her teeth deep into her rival’s dark brown belly, enjoying the desperate cry she made. She pulled down the younger woman’s soaked panties, and hoping to finish her like she had that African bitch years ago, inserted two working fingers past her labia. But the howling Sheree fought through the fear and pain to bring a knee into the Texan’s jaw knocking her onto her back moaning. Sheree crawled over slowly and climbed onto her enemy, entwining legs with her and struggling against the bitch on the floor.
Each pair of legs wrapped around the others, fighting for the advantage as they rolled slowly on the carpet, hands buried in hair. Denise’s legs were aching from the exertion, tangled hopelessly with Sheree’s younger and stronger ones. But her upper body strength was still greater than Sheree’s and the Compton girl’s arms were gassed. Their arms were under each other’s armpits, on the other woman’s back and their hands were twisting sweaty mops of hair from behind, bodies and faces pressed together, legs straining. The only sounds they were making were wheezing gasps for air, groans of pain and frustration and whispered curses of hatred. Their fight had evolved into the nearly legendary and dreaded “catball”.
Carly: The catball? Sacré merde. I love catfights. The more up close, hands in hair, in your face, down and dirty they are, the more I usually love them. But not fucking catballs, dude! I fight to hurt a gal, giving and taking punishment. Mess her up some. Shame her. Win if you can, lose if you must, but always hurt her. But not ruin her … and certainly not ruin me. Women get ruined in catballs. I’ve only been in a couple … forget the stories they sell at West Coast Wildcats. They’re not sexy and they’re not fun if you’re in one. Screw that shit. If I think one of my fights is about to become a real catball, I’ll change my tactics and get some separation. Most experienced catfighters will. Once you’re tangled up like that and locked in, then it’s scratch and bite faces. No science, skill or art. That’s about all you two can do. It’s going to be a bloody mess. Sheree and Denise weren’t that experienced, so they sort of fell into a catball. Just glad neither one was me, mister!
Sheree: It was a real nightmare. I was all tangled up with a woman I despised and who despised me even more. Our hands were wrapped in wet hair our faces were together and sweating into each other’s. Every part of my body was touching that of hers – our breasts, bellies, even our hair down below. I hated it. I hated what she’d done to me. I hated how hurt and sick I was, that I couldn’t get free from the bitch. Yet I was loving it too. I loved that I was killing her, that she was crying, that she was losing her man to this naked woman who had her in this hateful embrace. I just loved Denise’s misery. Her shame and pain. And most of all, I loved that I was the one who was doing it to her. I would do even more that day. Damon would be mine.
Hands buried in hair and pushing their faces together, Sheree and Denise were both sobbing and gasping for breath, chests and stomachs heaving in and out. They were bumping foreheads and spitting right into each other’s open mouths. Denise deliberately rubbed her nose against Sheree’s punched and bloody one, causing more tears of pain from her enemy. They bit lower faces – the lips, jaws and cheeks. Sheree had a wider mouth with larger teeth, and her bites were beginning to bust up the lighter complexioned woman, making her bleed from a cheek and a corner of her mouth. Denise squealed in pain and fear as her rival’s teeth tore her up. She hadn’t counted on …. this.
Desperately, the wife gave a two-handed yank to her husband’s lover’s hair, pulling her face and those awful teeth away from her. She let go with her right hand and slowly clawed three black-nailed fingers down her cheek, drawing blood. Sheree cursed and groaned. Denise then jerked the younger woman’s face into hers again and chewed on a head-butted red abrasion on the dark forehead until it ran with blood. Sheree groaned again, feeling wet stuff trickle down her face. She trapped Denise’s nose between her teeth and gnawed on it.
It went like this for several minutes rolling slowly on the carpet and staining it with blood until both women’s faces were scratched and bitten raw. But Sheree was winning. She knew it as Denise must as well. Maybe she was younger, in better shape, or her stronger legs had worn out the older woman. Maybe her earlier body blows had been more effective and a sicker woman had had enough of this. Maybe her character was just stronger, that she’d come from humble beginnings while her enemy had always been privileged. Or just maybe she was fighting for love and a promise she’d made last night. Whatever the reason, Sheree was winning.
Denise didn’t have the energy to even clinch Sheree’s torn hair anymore. Her arms dangled to her sides, hands on Sheree’s flanks. She knew she’d lost the fight – and her man. Her body had gone limp and was wracked with heaving sobs. Big clumps of her hair were missing and she was covered in nasty scratches. Denise was sick and she hurt everywhere. Her eyes were vacant and nearly closed from fists, slaps and gouges. She was running with blood from her hairline to her bruised tits and drenched in sweat. Sheree’s face didn’t look much better – neither was recognizable as the stunning creatures from last night’s dinner party. But Sheree was still trashing Denise. Yes, she was gasping for air and weeping, but she was still pulling hair, spitting in her face and placing bites on the few facial areas that weren’t displaying them. Sheree yanked and pulled until a big sweaty fistful of Denise’s curls came out of her scalp. Dr. Tolliver had been nearly half-balded. Sheree gave her beaten enemy a spiteful butt on the puffy lips and another on the red clown nose just to be, in her own words later, a “mean-ass little bitch”. Then she snapped her head hard into the forehead of Denise with a dull clunk. Dr. Denise Tolliver was out like a light. Sheree had won.
Entangling from an unconscious woman after a catball isn’t easy, especially when you’re exhausted and all goofy from headbutts. After unwrapping, Sheree collapsed on her back and rested, an arm and a leg still draped over the sleeping and bleeding form of Dr. Tolliver. After about a few minutes, Denise was starting to stir, so Sheree knew she had to get to work. She painfully crawled to the beaten woman’s handbag and removed a pen and all the money from her wallet – she needed to get the carpet cleaned now and it was only fair the loser pay for it. She managed to get to her feet, stagger to the bedroom and find Damon’s briefcase. She knew what was in it – the divorce papers. She wet toweled-off her face and saw the blood. She was too scared to look in the mirror.
Walking and breathing better now, she brought the towel, the papers and pen into the living room, she could see that Denise had managed to get up on all fours, shaking her hard and spraying more blood on the carpet. “Look at this naked, whupped-ass quack”, thought Sheree. “Stinking up my house”. She walked over and punted the woman full in the hanging belly. “Awww! Oh, ohhh …” Flat on her face again, the cramping Denise clutched her middle and began weeping once more. Sheree looked down at that welted and sweat covered back, squatted over it and … no. Don’t want any more mess on this carpet. She rolled the woman onto that burning back and straddled her. “Let me explain something to you, Miss Texas …”
Sheree showed Dr. Tolliver the balls of her thumbs, slowly lowered them onto her bleary red eyes and gave them a painful massage. Denise was blubbering like a little girl, too weak to do anything but clutch at Sheree’s wrists feebly as the younger woman rubbed. Removing her thumbs from the aching eyes, Sheree said, “You’ll get the rest of that shit if you don’t mind your manners and do what you’re told. Then the carpet be damned, I’ll pee all over your bloody eyeless face. Understand?” Denise nodded stupidly. Can you still see? Good. I want you to crawl over here and sign these papers. Sign ‘em real good. Then we’ll wait for my man to get here to drag what’s left of your sorry fat ass back to our future home. You’ll leave for San Francisco with what’s on your scratched up backside and that’s all you’ll get from us until we send you what these papers say we must. You agree. Denise nodded gain.
Sheree dragged her on all fours to the coffee table by what remained of her hair. Denise just bawled as she signed the divorce document, not even bothering to read it – she couldn’t see the print very well anyway. Sheree looked at the signature – it was a little shaky, but it was clearly legible. A big uppercut to the jaw of the “future ex-wife” of Damon Tolliver put the Texan’s lights out again. Sheree put back on George’s old Jersey, combed her drenched and torn hair, cracked open a beer, soaked her cut and burning face with her towel and waited for Damon. He’d told her when he’d be back after golf – about 11. That was last night. He was sure his wife would pay Sheree a visit the next morning while he was at the course, and gave his lover his permission to deal with her as she desired. He knew Sheree was woman enough to handle her. So did Carly Monfort as the lab supervisor had told her at the party. He’d be by to pick up his briefcase with the signed papers. Around 11. Then he’d winked. I guess he knew Denise and Sheree both very well.
It’s about 10:30. I guess I’ll sit and watch some TV. At least I have a big soft brown foot stool. Matches the carpet and everything.
8
An Assistant to the Assistant – That’s Hollywood, Baby!
As my hero, Mel Brooks, said in his film History of the World, Part 1 six years ago in ’81 – “It’s good to be the King!” Sometimes it’s even good to be the King’s assistant and personal bag man. I got a call today from Drake, authorizing me to find a bigger office and hire an assistant. Anybody I wanted, and he’d fund all of it. He’s that pleased with my reports and I told him I’d keep ‘em coming.
I also know exactly who I want to hire …
Then Damon and the future Mrs. Tolliver dropped by to say how much they loved the story. He asked how much he owed me. I told him not a damn thing. Like I said, it’s good to be the King’s assistant. I did say this however …
“Just a friendly warning, my man. If you *ever* as in ever with a capital “F” fail to treat this lady with class, love and respect, I know a 6’4”, 285 pound bullet-headed wall of rompin’ fury, a professional arm breaker, who will duly stomp about a size 14 mudhole in your ass.”
Sheree laughed and Damon assured me his parents raised no fool. He said Denise, her looks not quite as striking anymore and in a new wig, has moved to Frisco alone and is even changing her name back to her maiden name of Johnson. She didn’t want to have the same name as the lady who had totally thrashed and shamed her. Sheree was proud of that. She showed me a bracelet she’d made from hair she’d yanked out of Damon’s wife’s scalp by the roots. Nice. Good grief – if Damon ever strayed from this wildcat, there might not be enough of his ass left for George to kick after Sheree was done with him.
Now as for my new assistant, time to make a very important phone call and I know the number by heart now. I hope to never forget it …
“Carly? It’s Nick. Is Marcia home yet? I didn’t think so. Say, I know she graduates in another week and she was looking for a summer job that pays better and is more ‘interesting’ than just making shit sandwiches in some burger joint. One she can continue part time while she’s at college. Found one yet? Well, when she gets home, have her call me at the office. She knows the number. Think I have just the thing for her … You’re very welcome, babe. Talk to you soon. In person I hope. Bye.”
Perfect. It’s good to be the King’s assistant with an assistant. Just perfect.
The End.
I know the ending to this story was somewhat predictable, but I meant it to be a tribute to a largely forgotten catfight writer from the pre-dot com days of the late 80s and 90s. He went by the name of Dante Saks. For this one I borrowed a lot of his story style, complete with a series of escalating catfights, women fighting over a Prince Charming and a happy, if predictable, ending. I have a number of his stories from the old California Wildcats company (back when it was good), found them and reread them recently. It was this which convinced me to quit just lurking here and start writing myself. Thank you, Dante Saks, wherever you are.//Braveheart
© 2013 by Braveheart. All rights reserved. TXu 1-910-919
