★Memorable Author: [The Gov] Stories~collected

[Kuner]

Stories in this collection:

Big Ugly

Sally's Revenge


Big Ugly
by The Gov

Part 1
At 35 years of age, I pretty much knew that I’d never make it to the bigs.  I was the third baseman for the Davenport Cyclones, the Boston Red Sox AA farm team.  God, I’d once made it as far as AAA, but only for a couple of weeks to fill in for their regular who was injured.  You occasionally hear of someone getting a shot at the bigs late in life, maybe even at my age, but it’s rare.

I just happened to love the game.  I hadn’t much thought of what I’d do when I wasn’t able to play anymore.  My off-season employment had been a long string of dead-end hourly gigs that I generally had to pretend I never went to college to get.  The game made it all worthwhile.

But the game was changing.  More players than not were doing steroids, the idea of sportsmanship seemed foreign to most, and I just felt like I didn’t fit in anymore.  This would probably be my last year.

It was a cold day in Davenport, Iowa, March 27th to be exact.  We were about to play our third game of the year and were 2 and 0 so far.  We were scheduled to play the Omaha Oaks, last year’s doormat.  This year they were also 2 and 0, seemingly on the strength of one player.  A walk-on at that.  A walk-on already known throughout the league as Big Ugly.

I had to wonder if Big Ugly was just an elaborate hoax, someone making a deal with the press to build up a story.  For openers, She was a woman, Mandy Sorento.  Mandy had four official at-bats and had four home runs.  No measurements were available for home runs in double-A ball, but all were said to make the longest hit by Mark MacGwire look like a pop fly.  The other 6 times she got to the plate she was walked, promptly stole second and third (twice on the same pitch!) and scored either by tagging up on a fly ball, a ground out or by simply stealing home.

The Oaks were supposedly playing only two outfielders, Big Ugly covering the ground normally reserved to both the left and center fielders.  More than once she had caught a ball jumping well over the top of the fence and threw a runner tagging from third without her feet touching the ground.

She was listed at 5 foot 7.  No one had asked her weight.  No one dared.  500 pounds?  600?  More?  She was said to be 5 foot 7 in any direction you might measure her.  Huge gut.  Always kept her body covered with loose clothing, but this time of year this could be said of just about everyone.  How could she run that fast with all that bulk?  Nobody knew.  It was said she had a surly disposition, kept to herself.  Her face was painful to look at.  Somehow scarred and disfigured beyond belief.  Probably a burn victim, but nobody knew.  Nobody asked.  Nobody dared.

She just showed up at game time, took her position, and left right after the game.  She would sit on the end of the bench, talk to no one, and leave.  So mysterious.

Or so the legend went.

At least I stayed in the game long enough to see the legend in action.

The crowd was bigger than usual that day, which wasn’t saying much given the cold weather and the fact that, well, this was double A ball.  News of Big Ugly was getting around already.  The National Enquirer was there.  The Globe was there.  A few other papers I took to be rags like the Globe and Enquirer were there.  A couple of other papers that were probably more legit were there.  Two minutes before game time, I saw a baseball player the likes of which I had never seen show up in the Oaks’ dugout.  Big Ugly was there.

She was unmistakable.   Out team’s collective jaw dropped.  At least her appearance was no hoax.  It was hard to look at her, but hard not to.  The only ones seemingly not in awe were Steve Slucker, out pitcher, and our catcher John Markley.  Steve was being groomed for the fast track and would probably not last the year with us; he’d go Triple A long about June or July unless he screwed up.  He was immature, cocky, and had a 105 mile-an-hour fastball as well as a great curve to set it up.  All he needed was a bit more control and a bit more maturity and he’d have a great career.  But for today, it was “Get a load of that ugly bitch!  Nine pitches, three strikeouts for her.”

I took my spot at third.  Steve was in rare form.  The first two batters looked like little leaguers trying to hit Roger Clemens.  Then came Big Ugly.  John Slucker chortled to himself.  He threw.  The radar gun read 103.

The left-center field fence in Davenport is marked with a sign reading “350” as in feet.  The owner of the farm on the other side was a baseball fan with a sense of humor.  The fence where his property began had a sign of “650”.  It had been measured and was correct.  The fence on the other side read “947”.  Like I said, a sense of humor.  Beyond that, the Mississippi.

We saw the splash.

As Mandy rambled toward third on her way around, I could only say, “nice hit”.  A curious thing happened.  Through the hideously scarred face, she managed a warm smile that belied her reputed surliness and said “thanks!”  Slucker was less than appreciative and muttered “Fuckin’ bitch!”

He got the third out no problem, and when he got to bat in the bottom of the third it was 1 to 1.  He was not only our best pitcher, but probably our best hitter as well.  Batting him ninth was more a formality than anything else.  With Mike Ackerman on third, he launched what appeared to be a homer to left center.  We could only guess, but Big Ugly must have caught the ball a good 20 feet above the fence.  When the ball arrived at the plate about the time Mike was only halfway there, he just stopped as the catcher trotted out to tag him for the third out.

Big Ugly was no hoax.  Steve Slucker was livid.  Top of the fourth, one out, Big Ugly at the plate.  Markley called for the beanball.  I knew it would be 100+ mph of possible career-ending heat.  Hell, possible life-ending.  I knew this was part of the game but I never agreed with it.  I touched my head as a signal to her as to what was coming.  She’d done nothing to deserve this.  I didn’t think she saw me.  In came the pitch.  She didn’t move except to quickly, calmly, put her hand in front of her face and catch the ball.  The radar gun said 105, and she caught the ball.

Mandy looked at Steve with an expressionless glare and proceeded to crush the ball like she was dealing with a soft stick of butter.  She turned and gave the ball to a dumbfounded John Markley, turned back to Slucker and calmly took the two ends of her bat, one in each hand, snapped it in two like a twig, and trotted off to first base.  Steve, clearly shaken, threw the next ball to the backstop and Mandy cruised into third.  There was no exchange of words or any acknowledgment of my ti© Saradasf during her brief stay there.  Another wild pitch and she was home.

Steve regrouped and we got out of the inning with no further damage.  I went to the dugout to be greeted by our manager, Dirk Melstrom.  He was new this year, and as I saw it, represented everything that was now wrong with the game.  He said just two words to me.  “Get out.”  If Mandy hadn’t seen my signal, he had.  I knew in an instant that I was finished.  I’d been fired.  Not benched, fired.  The equipment manager told me by bags would be at the hotel desk.  I left the field, never to play the game of baseball again. 

I wandered around trying to think of my next step in life.  I’d never gone to college, had no family to speak of, no ideas if life after baseball.  I eventually made my way to the hotel about 6:00 or so, long after the rest of the team had packed and gone.  I asked at the desk how the game had turned out.  It seems that in the fifth, Slucker came to bat again and Big Ugly came in from the outfield just to pitch to him.  She threw one warm-up pitch which hit 200 on the radar gun.  That’s as high as it would register.  The pitch sailed about ten feet to the left of the catcher.  Steve was in no mood to dig in for that at bat.  Mandy threw the ball at his head, and he went down, messing his pants in the process. 

The radar gun registered 75.  Slow curve, called strike.  She went back to the outfield, Slucker left the game, perhaps with a sense of humility he had never known before.  Final score, Oaks 5, Cyclones 2.  Big Ugly was too much for Double A and probably would be too much for the Majors.  Too bad I wouldn’t be around to see it.

Part 2
Back to more practical matters.  I asked for my bags, figuring my next task would be to see if I had enough money to buy a ticket to who-knows-where.  To my surprise, the desk clerk said “Charles Winslow?  You’ve been booked into room 47B for the night, compliments of a friend.  Your bags are there.”

As perhaps the most unpopular man in Davenport, I didn’t think I had any friends, but was in no position to argue.  I took the keycard and made my way to room 47B.  I was curious about the “B” in 47B.  It turns out that my room was half of a suite that they often gave to a family, and had a door directly adjoining 47A.  The kids get their own room, but mom and dad can look in on them.  No family?  It’s two separate rooms.  I didn’t really care about that.  I took a rather long shower, got into my robe, and sat down to watch some TV.  I was tired as Hell.

I hadn’t even figured out what I was going to watch when there was a knock from the door of 47A.  “Charlie Winslow?”  The door opened and an amazingly pretty face with dark hair peered in.  She looked to be Asian of some specific origin I couldn’t place, her skin dark and clear, her eyes clear and bright, and a smile that could melt an iceberg.  I was in love.  “Could you come over here for a minute?  I want to talk with you.”

“Well… I… if you don’t mind me asking, who are you and what do you want?”  Not that I really cared.  She was stone gorgeous but I just was curious.  I entered and realized as I did that the woman was fucking HUGE!  She smiled and said “Don’t you remember me?  Amanda Sorento?  Big Ugly?  Oh yeah, I guess you wouldn’t.  My face and my gut are over there!”  She smiled and pointed to a corner of her room where hung the hideous mask that had been the face I’d seen earlier.  Attached to it was some scraggly hair, and below it hung some very elaborate padding which I took to have been her belly a few hours before.

Mandy was dressed in a full length heavy robe which managed to conceal what seemed to be a tank underneath.  The face which had been hidden beneath the mask was one of flawless beauty.  Her skin was dark and soft, radiating a glow of warmth and sensuality, but her bulk was unmistakable.  She no doubt asked me into her half of the suite because she couldn’t get through the door into mine.  That she was as wide as she was tall was true, at least at the shoulders, and she was every bit as deep.  The smile grew on her face and in a somewhat deep but unmistakably feminine voice, Amanda spoke.

“Thank you for coming, Charley.  I’m really sorry you lost your job today.  She looked into my eyes, reached out, lifted me up and over her immense chest, and brought my lips to hers.  She had to lift me, as I couldn’t have reached her mouth if she hadn’t!  She softly kissed me.  Her breath was sweet, her lips were soft and she somehow radiated a femininity that belied her size.

And what size!  My feet couldn’t touch the ground, draped as I was over her immense bosom.  The upper part of my body was parallel to the ground and my arms couldn’t begin to find the lower part of her back.  It just seemed to continue in every direction I reached. 

She whispered in my ear,  “I appreciate you tipping me off about the beanball, although it was hardly necessary.  I expected Slucker would do it.  Just the same, I’m really grateful for your help.  You put your career on the line to do the right thing and there’s not too many who would do that.  I’m truly grateful.”

“Hey, I was on the way out anyway.  I guess I’m kinda glad it’s over…” and with that, she cut me off.  She simply looked me in the eyes, let me down, and tucked my hands inside her robe, each on the outside of her breasts. She gently pressed them inward, her robe opening to reveal cleavage to put a world-class ultra-enhanced stripper to shame, but it all hers.  Soft and firm. My hands must have been a yard apart or more.  H-cup?  J-cup?  I guessed she easily eclipsed the alphabet.  Any alphabet, and ancient Sanskrit has 49 letters!

“…and I can be very… very… grateful…” and with that, Mandy lifted me up again, and kissed me with a warm, passionate kiss the likes of which I had never known to exist.  I could tell she had lost the robe.  With no robe in between, my hands, again on her back, felt the muscles roll and bulge this way and that.  My God, there didn’t seem to be an ounce of fat on her!  Contrasting to the hardness of those muscles, her breasts now began to heave up and down, first her left, then her right, then her left again.  I felt  like a piece of driftwood bobbing on the ocean waves!

I found myself inexplicably enjoying the sensation - feeling (groping, really) a female body possessed of muscles larger, harder, and more defined than any muscles ever gracing planet Earth in its history.  To my sudden horror, I found myself enjoying it to the point of sprouting an erection that I’d normally be proud of, but I was afraid of utterly pissing of this woman who had just hours earlier hit a baseball well over a thousand feet on the fly!  And I wasn’t even sure it was her furthest shot!!

But just as I felt my face go flush, Mandy gave out a low moan of satisfaction, removed her tongue from my mouth, and whispered in my ear.  “You like my body, don’t you.  I was hoping you would, I like the way you touch it!”  With that, she gently lowered me back to the floor, and took a step back so I could take her in.  Okay, she had to take a couple of steps back.

I could only gasp.   

She was wearing a silken purple bra which did a remarkable job of holding her immense globes in place, but she quickly displayed the rolling motion which had aroused me moments earlier; one breast rising, then the other, then both to the point where they obscured the lower part of her gorgeous face.  I could only imagine the pectorals underneath causing this.  I didn’t have to imagine for long as  she let them fall and with a sudden bounce, they leapt out of the bra and into freedom!

In sheer disbelief, I watched as the orbs parted, displaying a pair of pectorals underneath which defied description.  With a sexy, playful smile, she made one jump up and out, then the other, then the first, then both at once causing her breasts to shimmy and dance.

She then made a crease about a foot deep appear near the bottom of each and rolled them up to the top and back down again, first slowly then faster and faster, each taking the attached breast with it until I nearly got dizzy just looking at them.  WOW!

Mesmerized as I was, I found my attention diverted to what I had once thought was a grossly obese midsection.  Now without padding, she could make each proud member of the six-pack stand out on its own or flex them all to make them into a mighty fortress - six cannonballs ready to fire at anyone foolish enough to attack!

Then, she tipped my chin up so my eyes met hers and then led my gaze to her right arm.  With a dramatic flair, she stretched it outward.  Even in this position and relaxed, the biceps was a massive basketball-sized globe whose top was level with her eyes, the triceps underneath counter-balancing it perfectly.  She slowly bent her arm.  Up the biceps rose, as though David Copperfield were levitating it off the rest of the arm.  I gasped when as the bend got close to 90 degrees I realized the muscle had risen to where it was peaking well above her fist.  I couldn’t believe it and placed my shaking hand out to touch its immensity.

[Kuner]

Mandy whispered, “Sweetheart, relax!  I’m not done yet!  I’m just bending my arm!  Now let me really flex it for you!”  My mind was racing.  Far bigger than any arm ever imagined, I had of course assumed she had already made it as big and hard as it was going to get.  But she brought her hand down, made a fist, and suddenly her forearm bulged out and the her biceps now took on a bigger, harder shape, veins and arteries springing forth, pushing through the darkly tanned skin as she began to put her true power into it.  Up went her fist and it was like the first muscle had sprouted a second!  It pushed up several inches over her head and over MINE, for God’s sake!

I could go on and on about Mandy’s colossal body.  Suffice it to say that each muscle was as huge, cut, and exciting as the next, and she was more than willing to show each to me and let me explore.  I remember feeling her left hand under my butt, effortlessly lifting me up and setting me upon her gargantuan right biceps.  She then gently bounced me up and down on it.  After a few seconds of this, she gave one mighty final flex of the muscle and caught me as I came down. 

She laughed as we both went to the floor, me atop her, she atop a large bean bag (she’d long ago learned that no hotel bed could reliably hold her weight).  By now the only light was a dim glow coming from the TV in my room.  I was still in my robe, but the belt was long since undone. I’d never considered the sexual desirability of a muscular woman, let alone a magnificent beast like Amanda, but the passion was unparalleled and the stamina unending. 

Somehow I knew she wouldn’t crush me in her massive arms or between her incredible thighs.  Remember how tired I said I was?  I didn’t!  Muscles everywhere, massaging me with her pulsating pecs, gently but firmly squeezing me with her massive arms, letting me fondle and squeeze any and every square inch of her beautiful body as she flexed it to my deepest desires.  From time to time we’d pause and I’d just stare into her dark brown eyes, my failed career as a ballplayer a distant memory quickly fading into the past.

I don’t know exactly when, but I fell asleep on that massive body.  I awoke the next morning alone in 47B with the door to 47A closed.  I thought to myself, “Shit.  Just a dream.  But DAMN!  WHAT A DREAM!”

But as I got up, feeling refreshed and satisfied, I heard Mandy’s voice from the room next door.  “Sounds like you’re awake.  I hope I didn’t wear you out TOO much last night!”  My heart started pounding all over again.  “Can you come over?  I need some help.”  Like I was going to refuse!  I entered to see the muscle-goddess naked, with her feet in the air doing one-arm pushups, one with her right arm, one with her left, then repeating. 

“Just finishing up my morning workout!” she said as she did a one-armed handspring, and landing gracefully on her feet.  “Makes it even bigger than last night!” she announced as she made a muscle that was indeed noticeably bigger than what I had seen previously.  “G-G-Good Lord, Amanda, just how big is that thing?” I stammered as it seemed to leap off her arm. 

“Hell if I know!” she smiled, shrugging her shoulders.  “I’m kinda curious myself now that you ask.  Can you get the tape over there?”

She had a tape on the desk across the room.  I draped it over the massive bulge (hers, not mine!) and Mandy, with a bit of sweat on her brow from her morning workout, took her right arm and with all her awesome power bent it upward causing the enormous bulk of her biceps skyrocket upward again.  Ducking underneath, I pulled the ends of the 60-inch tape downward.  I was already pretty sure they wouldn’t touch!  Mandy was continually flexing her mighty arm expanding the muscles slightly larger with each push.  “Okay, now!”  She let out a moan and I felt the tape go taught in my hands.  It wasn’t even close.  A sixty-inch tape and it didn’t reach.

“Well, Mandy, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’re over five feet of arm.  Well over five feet!”  As I emerged from below her arm to her back side, she flexed it yet again and my jaw dropped in utter disbelief.  Was it my imagination, the angle, or did she now have a peak on her peak on her fucking peak? 

I felt it and it was as hard as it was big.  As I pressed it, Mandy turned her forearm this way and that, causing the muscle to bob and bounce and continually reshape itself.  She seemed to be able to move any muscle of hers this way and that.  Not only was it erotic as hell, it was the only way she could keep them from getting in the way as she gracefully moved about.  She let out a contented moan and I felt her left hand on my throbbing manhood.  She gently squeezed and I could no longer control myself.  Just in time, she twisted and we both hit the floor.

As we finished our morning joint exercises (if you catch my drift!), Amanda rose.  “How much more tape do you think we need?” she asked.  I could only guess.  “Oh, at LEAST another foot or so.”

She suddenly put her hands on her hips flexed her pecs and her back, and observed “Then I guess measuring my chest is out of the question!”

Part 3
Mandy suddenly turned.  “Oh well, I have things to do today.  It’s my big tryout.  I’d really like it if you’d come with me to Pac Bell Park in San Francisco.  I’m leaving in 10 minutes.”  As sudden as the invitation was, it’s not like I had anything else to do.  No job, no family, no future that I could see.  So it was that I found myself in Big Ugly’s van (there was no way she was going to fit into a car!) on our way to the airport.  She had indeed once again become Big Ugly, and even having seen the truth it was hard to imagine the beauty underneath.

“Why the deception?” I asked.  She replied, “I really don’t want people getting close to me.  So many questions, so many rude remarks, I just want to get past my tryout and be done with it.  So I put on a mask to make my face look hideous, add some padding around my waist to make me look fat, slump over and act like a surly bitch - hey, nobody wants to come near me!  That’s the way I’ve wanted it for now.  Well, except for you, of course.”  She turned and smiled - even made up in this guise, the radiance was unmistakable.  “Besides, it’s how I need to negotiate.  You’ll see!”

It was apparent she wasn’t going to go beyond this for now.  At the airport, I found that Mandy had her own private plane.  She flew us to SFO where we met up with Charles Egan, who turned out to be her agent in this operation.  We drove out to Pac Bell and were on the field by 3:00.  It was empty except for a small group of some of the great ballplayers in the game (Randy Johnson, Pudge Rodriguez, Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, and Nomar Garciapara) all the owners, GM’s and commissioner Bud Selig.

Charles introduced himself and us (me as Amanda’s personal trainer - what a joke!) to the others.  They were a cordial bunch (except Bonds, who simply looked at Mandy’s gut, then at me and said “Looks like you’ve got serious work to do!”)  Then the commissioner said, “Well, we’ve heard some remarkable things about you, Sorento.  We’re all anxious to see what you’ve got.  We’re also curious about why you got us all here together.  It’s not how things are usually done.”

Egan said, “We’ll deal with that later.   What do you want first?  Hitting?  Pitching?”

George Steinbrenner took charge.  “The Unit’s warmed up now.  Let’s see her hit, and this better be good!”  It was.  Pac Bell Park, now named after some other company that could pay more money) is known as one of the best in baseball.  It’s noted for having no stands in right field because over the wall (and a fairly wide walkway on the other side) is an arm of San Francisco Bay called McCovey Cove.  Barry Bonds has hit an amazing number of balls into the cove, far more than everyone else combined. 

He was out in right field now as Big Ugly set up to bat right-handed.  No way could she pull a Randy Johnson fastball.  “Put one into the Cove off this guy!” he yelled in.  Johnson chuckled to himself.  He’d heard the rumors, but didn’t believe them.  But he was getting paid for this little demo, so the pitch came in high and hard, much as Steve Slucker’s had the day before.  With about the same effect.

This time there was no splash, at least in McCovey Cove where, if the rumors were true, they would be looking for it.  Mandy’s shot went over the left field wall, still majestically rising as it did so.  A murmur was heard among the owners.  The stadium was closed to spectators, but a couple of members of the ground crew stationed in the arcade between the field and the Cove lost sight as the ball soared toward San Francisco Bay.  There were no sailboats out and Mandy didn’t have to worry about accidentally hitting anyone.  That’s why she chose this venue.  It was thought that it probably traveled over 2,500 feet.  In a sport where a 500 foot home run is legendary, this was about half a mile.

The next pitch was a re-run.  Mandy switched to hit lefty, a harder task against the Unit.  If anything, this went farther.  Curve ball?  Into the water.  Slider at the knees?  Into the water.  Slow curve?  Into the water.  A visibly shaken Randy Johnson left, and a lately arrived Roger Clemens came in.  Into the water.  Out of the strike zone?  Into the water.  15 pitches later, she pointed out to Garciapara who, up to this point had been enjoying the show.  She hit 5 consecutive shots within easy reach, none of which could he move his glove fast enough to touch.

Mandy then yelled out to the shortstop, “Try to catch me at second!”  The pitch came in and she hit a kinder, gentler ground ball.  By the time he caught it, Mandy had rounded first and easily beat him to second.

She took the ball from the bewildered shortstop and strolled to the mound.  She looked at Clemens and said “I think you’re done for the day.”  Yeah, that said it all.  He gave a bewildered nod of respect and appreciation for her performance, shrugged his shoulders and left.  Barry Bonds came in to hit.  Well, he came in to swing.  Of course after the first warm-up, “Pudge” Rodriguez wanted no part of catching her.  For the demonstration, Stanford University physicists had sent up a more accurate radar gun that wouldn’t max out at 200 m.p.h.  It registered 327.  Steinbrenner said “CHRIST, DID YOU SEE THAT!”  Oakland GM Billy Beane said jokingly “Yeah, but does she have a change-up?”  Egan broke the news, “That was it.”

With no catcher, the balls went to the backstop after crossing the plate.  Barry just shook his head and said “No way I’m going to hit anything she throws.  Hell, there’s no way ANYBODY’S going to hit it.  One more pitch came in and Barry did something he rarely even thought of let alone did. 

He bunted.  It was perfect down the third base line.  Mandy picked it up and beat Bonds to first by perhaps 40 feet or more.

End of demonstration.

The other players left.  The owners, GM’s, Charles, Amanda, Selig and I went into a room beneath the stadium.

Charles said, “Well, let the bidding for the pennant begin.”  But as the bidding began it became apparent that emotions were mixed.  It wasn’t just negotiations for a player.  It was negotiations for a player who would indeed single-handedly guarantee the World Series.  There would be no pennant race, only a one-team, one-player demonstration of female superiority.  And then the genius of Big Ugly became apparent.  They couldn’t even market her.  At least Anna Kornakova could sell endorsements.  Nobody would want to see a sport dominated by a woman as flat out grotesque as Big Ugly.

Nobody wanted to make offers, but nobody dared not to.  Arguments broke out, alliances were established and broken, promises to only play her every fifth day were made but everyone knew how far that would go.  Egan and Sorento suddenly broke out laughing.  Seeing a demise of baseball far more outrageous than free agency, Bud Selig shouted at us “OKAY, JUST WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT???”

Charles started in, “The stock market has taken some rather unfortunate changes of late and Ms. Sorento has been…”

“Half a billion dollars from you all and you’ll never see me again.” Amanda cut in.  She wasn’t one for small talk.

The deal was signed and, true to her word, Amanda Sorento was never to play baseball again.  Neither was I, of course, but I wasn’t paid so well for not doing it. 

Why Mandy let me into her life was still unclear.  From time to time I’d ask her, and she’d just give me a warm smile, a soft kiss, and a quick flex of one of her gorgeously impossible biceps.  $5 million found its way to my bank account, no strings attached, just in case I ever wanted to leave her.  She wanted me to stay of my own desires, not because I didn’t have many prospects.  Not that I could foresee wanting to leave, mind you.  Hell, the prospect of finding a tape measure big enough to encompass her mountainous biceps was enough to keep me interested for some time to come! 

As it was to turn out, Amanda Sorento and I were to share quite some time together, making me happier than any man has a right to be.

For now, we got on her plane and headed for a short vacation in Hawaii.  She was now out of her Big Ugly outfit and back to her pulse-quickening self.  I noticed, however, she had carefully packed the disguise away.

“Mandy, now that you’ve got your money from Major League Baseball, why do you think you’ll ever need your Big Ugly outfit again?”

“It’s hard to say, darling.  But can you imagine how  much I can earn not playing football?”

[Jeremy Lightning]

k+! I have always been a fan of stories where a woman shows her superiority over males in any kind of sport. My question would be, who wants to write the sequel where she does in fact try out for football and humiliates every single one of them?

[The Gov]

I suppose if anyone should do it, I should.  She really wasn't out to humiliate anyone (okay, maybe the guy who threw the beanball at her), she just wanted to make a little money.  I did football with "Strong Safety" anyway.  I miss the drawings that Scoundrel did for that and a few others I wrote.  I have no problems if anyone wants to do another Big Ugly.  Maybe someday I'll get off my backside and write another story...someday.

[Jeremy Lightning]

I had no idea you were on here, Gov, I hope you do write more, I am a fan of your stories, from Big Ugly to Strong Safety, to Nothing but Net, the way you describe the muscle and strength feats are great to me. I K+ed you just because you're so awesome.

[The Gov]

Sally's Revenge
(1 of 3)
by The Gov

The story of a rather large martial artist.

Sally Kim made quite an impression the day she entered my dojang that cold, late November afternoon.  I was about to celebrate my 50th birthday, and my lifetime of dedication to the martial arts had taken their toll.  Though most would say I was in excellent shape for my age, the “for my age” part was becomming more and more telling.  My jumps weren’t as high, my punches not so fast, my techniques not as precise as back in the day. 

I’d be transitioning management of my studio to my senior black belt who was a far better businessman than I, and taking a job with the regional Council on Fitness, I’d be out of teaching altogether within a year.  I’d loved teaching as much as I’d loved practicing the art of tae kwon do, but trying to make a living with it was just too much.  I’d had an open ended offer from one of my former students who had done well at the Council, and a steady paycheck was looking better all the time. 

I’d taken her call, “Josh Wilson Martial Arts, this is Josh Wilson.” but quickly explained “Ms. Kim, I’m sorry but I’m not taking any new students.  I can refer you to any number of great instructors, many of whom I trained myself.”

“You don’t understand, I have some special needs and I need someone of your calibre to get me off to the right start.  If I could just come in for maybe half an hour... I’ll be happy to pay you double your usual rate for your time.”  Ah yes, my calibre.  Well I do have a reputation.

There was an intreagueing tone to her offer and I was now curious.  “I’ll be in my dojang tomorrow at three.  Mind you, I’m not taking on any new students, but perhaps I can point you in the right direction.  And there’s no charge.  I’ve never taken money for an introductory lesson before and I’m not going to start now.”

“Oh, thank you.  I’ll be there at three tomorrow.”

When Sally said she’d be there at three, I had no clue how much of Sally would be there at three.  She met me at the familiar wooden double doors of the studio I’d been renting which was located off the lobby of the two story Mason-Forsythe building in this fairly upscale Chicago neighborhood.

Dressed in loose workout sweats which covered a fairly short but positively humungous frame, Sally was literally wider than she was tall, yet her broad Korean face (I’d correctly guessed Korean from her name) showed not a trace of fat.  It was an attractive face, probably mid-thirties, darkly tanned with shoulder length typically stright, silky black hair, all quite attractive, and for a moment she looked a bit familiar.  But I’d have certainly remembered her if we’d ever met.  She was simply enormous, and where she could have gotten garments to fit, I’ll never know.  I unlocked the doors, removed my shoes and entered.  She copied me in removing her shoes and we entered.  “It’s an act of respect to the dojang and the art.  My office is on the far side of the floor, and one always removes one’s shoes before setting foot on the floor.” 

“You called this a ‘dojang’”, she observed about halfway across.  “I thought the term was ‘dojo’”.  I answered, “Ms. Kim, I teach tae kwon do, a Korean martial art.  Dojang is the Korean counterpart to the Japanese dojo.  You may have heard the japanese term ‘kata’?  Here the term is ‘poomse’.  Don’t worry, I tend to use them interchangably.  I’ll often use the English ‘studio’ and ‘form’ as well.”  She acknowledged that despite her Korean heritage, she spoke not a word of it, being third generation American, born and raised in Pittsburgh.  She struggled through the door to my office, where I motioned for to have a seat, but she showed better judgement.  “Thank you but I’d better stand.  I don’t think your chair would last too long under my weight!  By the way you can call me Sally.  Ms. Kim sounds a bit formal.”

“No, I’d prefer ‘Ms. Kim’, at least here at the dojang where we have a student-teacher relationship.  I don’t mean to sound stuffy, but I’d prefer you address me as ‘Mr. Wilson’ or ‘sir’.  It helps the overall process.  Besides, I’m big on tradition.”

Ms. Kim then turned toward the trophy wall opposite my desk.

 “Wow, seventh degree black belt.  You must really be able to kick ass!” she marvelled.  Flattered, I had to admit “My ass-kicking days are long gone.  I won my last major tournament as a second degree over twenty years ago.  It’s a misconception that promotions are based on fighting ability.  It’s more one’s contribution to the art and the community.  Maybe a little more about myself is in order.”  Or perhaps living by myself all these years I just needed to recount the good parts of my career.

“You see these trophies for tournaments I won?  These are only some of them, and while I’m proud of them, I’m much prouder of my students.”  Not just the champions, though I’ve had more than my share as you can see, but all those who accomplished more than they ever thought they could when they first came in.  Men, women, kids, some wealthy business men, doctors, and professors, some from the poorest parts of the city, some gifted athletes, others who could barely put one foot in front of the other.  They’ve taught me far more than I could hope to teach them.

I called her attention to a placque.  “This is my greatest achievement.  It was given to me by the city for having established a martial arts program for inner-city kids who were “at risk”.  The first year’s class saw 34 of 40 participants graduate from high school.  The next year we went to 36 of 40.  The program continues today, run by three of my students, two of them from that program, and it’s serving as a model throughout the midwest.  If I’m remembered at all, I really hope it’s for that.”

“Very impressive.  But what this black belt for ‘Lyle Sanford’?”  I always hated that question.  My wall displayed a belt with Lyle’s name embroidered on it in typical fashion.  “Lyle was a student of mine who died a couple of years ago.  His wife asked that I display it here and I’m very honored to do so.  He was an excellent martial artist, and an even better human being.  Everyone who knew him...”  I stopped short.  Delivering his eulogy had been the hardest thing I ever did.  “I’d rather not discuss it now.  Maybe some other time.  Besides, we need to move on.  What brings you to Wilson Martial Arts?”

“Well, Mostly, I need to be better able to control myself better physically.  I can be a bit clumsy and I hoped that I could learn better balance and coordination.”

Not a bad objective.  We talked another five minutes or so and I offered to give her a month of private lessons, three a week for an hour each, then she would, if she wanted to continue, move on to another dojang.  Well, that was the plan. 

After handling some administrative details, Sally struggled out of the office doors, twisting her torso so as to squeeze through and start the workout.  Despite her doctor’s sign-off, I didn’t want to rush things.  With her bulk I didn’t want to risk straining her heart.  “Ms. Kim, please jog around the dojang a couple of times.”  As she did so, her steps caused the room to shake with an loud “BOOM!  BOOM!  BOOM!  “LIGHTLY Ms. Kim, LIGHTLY!  Land on your toes and absorb the shock with your legs.”

She quickly made an adjustment to her stride and the noise subsided greatly, though it was still fairly loud.  We’d work on it.  After a couple of laps, Sally seemed to be holding up well, moving the great bulk with surprising ease if not grace.  I upped the ante.  “Okay, now run backward.”  She did so but in a few steps, “KA-BOOM!”  Right on her keester!  I felt like laughing as her dark-skinned face turned a surprising shade of red, but I fought the urge.  Surprisingly, she then put her feet beneath her ample frame and effortlessly lept a foot off the ground, landing upright.  Mot possible for someone of her size?  Seeing was believing.

“Uh, okay, enough running.  Without bending at the knees, I want you to bend over and touch your toes.”  I didn’t expect her to get too far, but she leaned over and touched her toes, not with her fingers, but easily with her palms!  Further, the stretch had raised her sweatshirt at the waist which was, well, damn small!  I expected to see her back then follow the curve of her spine, but instead I caught a glimpse of the muscles in her back exploding upward from even that position.  Finally, in that hunched position, her lats had flared out to proportions that dwarfed even her previous dimensions.  She then straightened up as quickly as she’d bent over, leaving me to think it was all just the trick of an odd angle.

“So what else do you want me to do?”

“Uh, can you do any push-ups?” I requested.  To my surprise, Sally went to the nearest chair, parking her feet on it as she then stretched out face down, parallel to the floor.  Down she went.

One – two – three

Perhaps a minute later, 147 – 148 – 149.  Do the math.  She wasn’t slowing down.  Of course, she needed this angle because with her feet on the floor, her chest being as thick and massive as it was would get in the way.  But it also meant a harder than normal push-up.

Somewhere around 200, I’d seen enough.  My heart was racing from just looking at her.   “Okay, you look warmed up!  Let’s see your body mechanics.”  We walked to the corner of the room where a heavy bag was suspended from a reinforced bar.  In front of it sat a barbell with 500 pounds on it.  It was a challenge I’d given to two of my students, each strong as a bull, who had been having problems getting along.  Each was to pick up one end and then carry it the length of the floor ten times as fast as they could.  Somewhat difficult if they worked together, impossible if they couldn’t!  They’d apparently forgotten to put it back in the small weight room the night before. 

Sally reached down and, with seeminly little effort, picked it up with her right hand.  “Where do you want me to put this?”  With that, she started curling the weight up and down as casually as if it were a five pound dumbbell.   With each rep, her oversized sleeves stretched as the outline of what appeared to be a bowling ball where her biceps was supposed to be appeared, challenging the material that I thought would be able to comfortably hold a good-sized microwave oven!  Then, r-r-r-r-r-r-r-ip!

Sally then stopped, her arm bent at a right angle and looked at her now partially exposed skin, her biceps had swelled beyond human imagination.  Suddenly realizing that I was staring in disbelief, I moved my gaze accidentally meeting her eyes.  She gave a knowing glance back, but “Oops” was all she said.  She trotted off to the weight room, returning as quickly as she’d left.

As best I could, I gathered my composure.  “Thank you Ms. Kim,  Now I’d like you to punch this bag.  I positioned myself behind it, bracing it with my weight as was common practice.  As she wound up, I suddenly realized that perhaps I hadn’t thought this through.  The punch then came. 

Utter disappointment.  There was a slight “puff” sound and I scarcely felt any vibration at all, let alone power.  “Ms. Kim, I didn’t say ‘tap’, I said ‘punch!’  Now do it again!”  She had no sense of body mechanics whatsoever.  She readied herself to punch with her right hand with her right foot forward.  She swung her fist like, well, like the stereotypical schoolgirl throws a softball.  She hit the bag.

I came to a couple of minutes later having been driven about six feet though the air (heavy bag and all) and halfway through the wall at the back of my beautiful dojang.  I found myself in the incredibly massive arms of my new student.  “I am so sorry Mr. Wilson, sir!”  I was surprised to feel the back of my head cushioned by a softness in her upper body.  If her bulk had been awesome before, being held by it was simply overwhelming.  Sally was gently stroking my brow.  “This is the problem.  All this muscle is so new to me and I have to learn how to control it!”

Somewhat reluctantly lifting my head from her more than ample bosom, I rose to my feet.  I’d figure out how to explain the hole in the wall to my students (and landlord) later.  For now, my main concern was Sally Kim.  She was downright dangerous and... wait a minute...

“New to you?”  As I faced her I saw that she had removed her sweatshirt and was now sporting what looked like a homemade, incredibly huge, incredibly tight sports bra.  She too stood and I had to step back a few feet just to get her into my field of vision.  Taking as much of her in as my eyes and my brain could, I continued.  “Ms. Kim, how could those muscles possibly be new to you?  I’ve seen some strong athletes before, hell, I’ve trained some strong athletes, but you... I’ve never seen anything like you before.  Men have spent lifetimes trying to put on muscle and none have come close to what you have!  Not the biggest.  Not ever!  They couldn’t have just come to you in your sleep!  Or did you get a visit from the good muscle fairy?”

Her reply was almost as startling as her appearance.  “Well, kind of.  I head a biochemical research team trying to find a stem cell substitute.  I found one substance that seemed to do a great job with muscle regeneration.  I couldn’t resist and gave myself what I thought would be a small dose.  I guess it worked a little more on me than on our laboratory rats.  This all happened in about a week.  Pretty gross, huh!”

I suddenly realized that her unearthly proportions were anything but gross.  Without thinking, half to myself, and half out loud I replied “You’re magnificent!”  As the words came out of my mouth I realized that they might not have sounded quite right.  “I mean... er... you’re very attractive... no, I mean... oh, y-y-yes you’re attractive, but I... er...”  Man, I was babbling.  Most unprofessional, but you’d have babbled too.  Whatever my fighting skills, whatever her lack of coordination, I did not want her mad at me!

[The Gov]

Anger was about the furthest thing from her mind.  She broke into a wide smile, closed the distance between us, gently (thank God) wrapped her arms around me and whispered “You sweet man, you’re blushing!” and with that I felt a vast tsunami of muscle motion lift me off my feet.  Sally was flexing her gargantuan pectorals!  They had to be over a foot thick, no, more like a foot and a half!  She gave me a soft, lingering kiss and I somehow managed to forget that she was a student.  I couldn’t break her bearhug embrace if I’d wanted to, and I didn’t want to.

She bounced those incredible pecs a few times, my body bobbing up and down, before she placed me back on the ground.  “Just so you’re sure you like it...” she said, and turned, placed her hands on her hips, and spread her lats to a never before seen width.  Sally had undone her bra before doing so, or it would have snapped like an old rubber band.  My arms couldn’t have reached across, though the attempt would have been fun! 

Then, with one quick motion, her sweatpants came off as she exclaimed “I really can’t afford to lose any more clothes today, I’m not that good of a seamstress!”  As she balanced on one foot to remove the other pantleg, her calf burst upward and outward into a pair of gyrating boulders that would take a steam shovel to move if they were found on the ground.  The display was riveting as her lack of balance caused her weight to shift back and forth causing the two lobes to go into kind of a super-muscle do-si-do!

She then turned to me and said rather matter of factly, “You’ll probably think I’m silly, but I was so fascinated by my new body, I went to You-Tube to see how professionals show off their muscles.”  Yeah, I could see where this was going, and I couldn’t wait for the ride.

She started with her right leg, her quad ballooning out like three intertwined tree trunks, totally obscuring her kneecap.  Then she flexed it.  I had no idea it was going to get any larger, but damn!  No pantleg in the world could contain that behemouth.  Not even the ones that the Big Boy wore in front of his restaurants!

Then came the abs.  Slabs of abs.  Has a nice ring to it!  Relaxed, they were an impregnable wall of rock.  As she hardened them into something approaching a diamond-like density, veins as thick as my thumb became prominent on each of the six abdominals, not to mention her obliques.  I could only imagine the pain inflicted on the poor soul who tried to administer even the best of side kicks.  Kicking a bronze statue of Rodan’s “Thinker” would be about as effective.  Sally then started swaying her hips back and forth, it had to be the sexiest thing I’d see for about, oh, a few seconds.

A few seconds?  She then flexed her pecs.  I thought she’d send her substantial breasts into orbit!  My earlier guess of a foot and a half of thick pectoral muscle was about right, but seeing them roll up and down was entertainment the likes of which I’d never imagined!  I reached out to touch but caught myself.  Sally playfully giggled at my quandry and grabbed my hand, placing it on her left breast.  Though surprisingly soft, it was firm and perfect.  “Mmmmm, I like the way you touch me!”

Part of me wanted to stop.  This was a dojang, I was a teacher and she was my student.  This was inappropriate.  This part of me was losing.  This was MY place and I was going to ENJOY IT!  As the saying goes, my spirit was willing but my flesh was stiff.  Okay, that’s not really how the saying goes, but you get the idea.  As she gently moved my hand off the breast and on to the pec itself, she flexed it a few times just for good measure.  I’ve never experienced and earthquake, but this must have been close, a 7.0 at least.

“I’m not real good with my pecs.  Some people can move them really fast!” she apologized.  I wanted to tell her she was doing just fine, but my mouth wasn’t working too well at the moment.  She just winked and said “This is my favorite.  I think I’m pretty good at it!”  With that, Sally extended her right arm.  In that position, the massive lump that was her biceps seemed to overspill its boundaries, buoyed by its partner beneath.  She slowly raised her fist and the muscle started to rise and split, taking a shape that reminded me of Mount Gibralter.  Actually, the size was beginning to remind me of Mount Gibralter. 

I could feel my jaw drop as I watched her peak soar above her wrist, above her fist, and finally above her head for God’s sake!  I felt like a zombie as I shuffled my feet toward the towering mass of granite-like flesh through no will of my own.  I just couldn’t help myself.  I reached out and put my right hand on top, then tried to push down.  Futile.  I put my left underneath.  I simply couldn’t believe how far apart they were.  It was like a fisherman talking about the one that got away, but she was right here.  Sally began to rotate her fist back and forth, causing the peak to continually reshape itself.  She finally dropped her forearm and brought it up again with one final exertion, sending the muscle soaring still further upward.

I let go and staggered back to take it all in as Sally brought her left arm up to match the right.  It was like the most creative works at Saradas or © Saradas had come to life.  Then, with a big smile she went into a crab flex like none I’d ever imagined.  Muscle after muscle after glorious muscle just kept popping out of her 5 foot 4 inch frame.

And to think I’d been concerned about her heart!  Somehow in the midst of my euphoria I had an odd sensation that I knew this woman.  A vague familiarity seemed to settle at the edges of this unbelievable display.  Hardly.  No way.  I collected my thoughts.

“Well, Ms. Kim, I think we can dispense with the strength training part of the program.  We can probably both spend the time working on our self-discipline!  As for training, I can see you have a special need.  If you don’t learn how to control your strength, you’ll kill someone.  You won’t mean to, which would make it so much worse.  I’ll train you until you’re ready to deal with your great gift yourself.  I’ll need you here four days a week, take your pick, at three o’clock sharp for an hour.  And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but please Ms. Kim, put some clothes on!”

Knowing that there would be no uniforms her size, I waived that requirement until I could order one special for her.  I took her measurements over the phone for the custom martial arts supply house.  Chest: 124 inches, upper arm: 49 inches, waist 32” (although I’d seen her suck it in to more like 26, I didn’t think she’d want it that tight!) thighs, 78 inches, my God I was getting turned on just writing them down!  Of course we had to start over when she realized I needed her measurements when flexed if she didn’t want to run through another sleeve.  In explaining the idea of an arm well over 60 inches around to the supply house, I simply told them it was a gag gift for an overachieving student.

As much as it hurt to do so, I emphasized the need for a greater sense of decorum and propriety, and Sally was a model student for the next several months.  I gave her numerous drills to improve balance and coordination, and she turned out to be a truly gifted athlete, demonstrating great control of her now mechanically near perfect kicks and punches.  Her poomses were both powerful and fluid and I felt comfortable having her as a light free-sparring partner.  Within a year she surpassed my best blackbelt students in skill, agility and even understanding of the art.

She refused to go to regular classes, however, and always left before anyone else arrived.  I was able to convince my landlord to let me replace the hole in the wall with double doors so she could enter straight from the parking lot without causing a scene in the summer.  She had her own key and I would sometimes arrive to find her using the weight room to warm up.  Of course the standard weights wouldn’t help much unless she got creative.  As I’d seen her do on the day we met, she would use barbells as dumbbells, loading them to over 700 pounds and then curling them. 

To work on her legs, she’d use one behind her neck (what neck there was) and do squats.  For her abs, she’d place my whole stash of 100 pound plates on her chest, holding them in place by flexing her pecs just enough to secure them, then do her crunches.  Early on she messed up on this one, losing track of how much power she had in those marvelous pecs and bending some of the plates out of shape, but she was easily able to simply bend them back.

I loved to watch her work out, largely because she wasn’t required to wear her uniform when not on the main floor.  The sight of her curling those incredible weights and the resulting expansion of her arms was simply astounding.  She’d often catch me watching her and smile, flexing whatever body part she happened to be working on.  Then she’d put on her gi (uniform) and we’d get to work.

It was early September when Sally brought to my attention an upcoming mixed martial arts tournament.  “I’m ready to compete.  I can do it without hurting anyone.”

“Well of course you can.  You’d win the national championship without breaking a sweat, let alone breaking an arm!  But what would you gain from that?”

“I just want to prove to myself how much I’ve learned.”

“But you’ve spent the last several months keeping your body under wraps.  You know that once you show off that body the world won’t give you any peace.  Photographers, reporters, tabloids, they’ll all be after you.”

“I’ve given that alot of thought and, well, I’m going to have to show myself sooner or later.  I might as well make a show of it.  Besides, it should do wonders to help fund the next phase of my research.”

Oh yes, the research.  Something about the research, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.  As for the tournament, it was a mixed martial arts tournament.  Because MMA can be dangerous even for the most seasoned combatants, this particular tournament required either a special waiver (for some of those known to the MMA community) or the approval of someone like me.  I’d always been successful deterring my students from this tournament, but Sally was hard to resist.  In the end, she caught me on a day when, after pumping up her biceps to dimensions I thought impossible even on her.  She asked if I’d massage them for her and, well, my weak knees became a weak will and, against my better judgement, I signed off.

One of the entrants was Mike “Mangler” Murphy.  “Mangler” might have been a nickname.  Perhaps his parents had had a premonition.  At six foot five, and 268 pounds, Mike Murphy was not only powerful and skilled, he was also known as the dirtiest fighter in Chicago.  In last year’s competition, he’d put six of his opponents in the hospital, and two of them out of competition permanently on his way to placing second in the nationals.  He would have easily won, but was disqualified in the finals for deliberately striking his opponent in the jaw with an elbow.  He then shoved the ref and, attacking his opponent from behind, broke his arm before he was pulled away by no less than five other entrants.  For his behavior he’d been barred permanently from future fighting, but was reinstated with a six month suspension after litigation.

And he’d done worse.  Far worse.  Assuming victories, Sally and Mangler would square off in the fourth round.  This was an unlimited contest and, not wishing to go to court again, this time on a sex discrimination charge, Sally would be allowed to compete.  I obviously had no fear for Ms. Kim, but asked of her that she show respect for and protect her opponents.

Though she could hardly conceal her 300-plus pound frame, Sally dressed conservatively, giving no display of the awesomely chiseled cuts of her physique to which I’d been treated so often.  I say “300-plus” because that’s what she’d filled in on the application.  I knew her to be 300 plus about 600 more.  As she stepped into the ring for her first match, if you could call it a match, all the onlookers went silent.  Her opponent, a twenty year old rookie, was a like a deer in the headlights.

Sally simply bowed and whispered to him “relax”, giving him a reassuring nod.  She threw a couple of harmless taps his way to help him get settled, and he did the same in return, though his weren’t intended to be harmless.  Sally just easily slipped them and, when he went for a takedown, countered and gained a quick submission with an arm-bar.  Twenty-two seconds.

Murphy also fought a rookie and chose to toy with him, embarassing him for the better part of three minutes before breaking his jaw.  Perfectly legal, perfectly unnecessary.  He smiled as he was booed heavily.  His reputation was well known and he revelled in it.

When Sally came out for her second fight, the area around her ring, one of five set up for the day in the large gym, was packed.  News travels fast.  This match featured a far more experienced opponent, Danny Outland, very popular in the martial arts community.  Upon seeing Sally, his eyes nearly popped out, but he’d done well against people much bigger than he.  Just not this much bigger.  Or stronger.  Or faster.  She delivered a quick roundhouse kick to his midsection, then a sidekick to his jaw.  A surgeon couldn’t have done better, both blows making contact, neither doing serious damage.

She allowed Danny to back off and he bowed in respect of her technique.  He then moved in but was quickly countered with a hip toss.  Sally followed him to the mat, putting her helpless victim in some strange hold whereupon he tapped.

After the victory I asked her “what the hell was that?!”  Very mater of factly she responded “I think it’s called a camel clutch.  I saw it on professional wrestling last night.  Pretty effective, huh?”

I just rolled my eyes.  “Just don’t try to crawl up on the top rope and jump off.  If you don’t break the ring first, they’ll throw you out of here like last week’s garbage!”  She laughed and we went to another ring where Murphy was pummelling another poor soul.  The referee hadn’t seen the illegal head-butt, and had to eventually stop the match due to the bleeding.  Sally whispered to me that someone should do something about him.  As she did so, I noticed a glint in her eye I’d not seen before.  A disturbing glint.  “Sally, don’t even think about it.”

[The Gov]

As it came time for the third match, Mike was apparently a bit disgruntled that his drew very little attention.  He just visciously assault his opponent who had gotten a bye in the first match and had delivered a lucky punch in the second for his two wins.  He really didn’t belong in the ring against someone like Murphy.  Less than thirty seconds later, he wasn’t.  As the Mangler quickly mangled enough any five matches, the ref stopped it. 

Murphy let out a stream of obscenities, some directed at his opponent for, as he put it, being such a pussy, the rest at the ref for stopping the match before more punishment could be given.  The ref didn’t admonish Murphy in the least.  He simply smiled and said “I’d throw you out right now, but I know who you have next.  You better hope she’s as nice to you as she’s been to the others.  You wouldn’t want to upset her.”

“You mean nobody’s taken that bitch out yet?  I don’t know who she thinks she is, but she’s gonna bleed and bleed bad!”  The ref left the ring chuckling and to nobody in particular said “yeah, right.”  He’d reffed Sally’s first two matches and was by now hearing the cheers from the next ring.

Sally’s match was, again, a kinder, gentler fight, though every bit as one-sided as Mike’s.  She blocked a couple of punches and kicks, the last of which was a spin kick.  She deftly timed it to step inside, swept the other leg, and, faster than anyone there could really follow, applied a firm ankle lock.  Submission followed instantly.

Half an hour later, it was time for now anxiously awaited semi-finals, the Murphy / Kim matchup.  Sally had secluded herself in a nearby closet, meditating in lotus position as I had often seen her do in the past.  She had told me she had been doing it since before she had experimented on herself.  The features on her soft face were generally the very picture of serenity when she did this, but this time was different.  More somber and reflective.  I summoned her to her match, my unfocused apprehension growing with every step we took.

About half way to the ring it hit me.  Lyle Sanford, my student who had died.  I was supposed to referee at a tournament but was called away at the last minute and asked Lyle to fill in for me.  He’d never had problems refereeing before, but that night one of the contestants was some unknown punk by the name of Murphy.  Mike Murphy.  After a low blow, an illegal elbow and an obviously intentional head butt, Lyle stopped the match in a DQ.  Murphy vowed revenge.  Lyle never made it home that night.

They found his body dumped by the side of a road maybe three miles away, bludgeoned head to toe, but amid all the publicity, police botched the investigation and Murphy was let go for lack of evidence.  The mere mention to him of Lyle’s name still brought a smirk.  Everyone knew the story.  All but a handfull of suck-ups hated him for it.

I have only one picture of Lyle, a group shot of he and some of his science students from the University of Chicago.  And in that picture of twelve people was an Asian woman with the same broad smile as Sally Kim.  Remove about 800 pounds and it was Sally Kim.

She knew.

When we reached the ring, Mike was already there, boasting and bragging that woman or not, the “slimy bitch” was going down.  He gave the onlookers a decidedly unwanted posing routine, and shouted to one and all, “I don’t care how big and fat the bitch is, she can’t deal with THESE!” and flexed what on any other day would be considered a mighty double biceps pose.

On her approach, Sally ignored the steps that led up the four feet or so to ring level.  If Mike “Mauler” Murphy was stunned when he finally saw firsthand the size of his opponent first hand, it was nothing compared to his reaction when she suddenly took off her top revealing only the sports bra she’d worn that first day I met her and the pulsating mass of unstoppable muscle it adorned.  A tank was never so imposing.  She flexed those incredible pectorals a couple of times and then, her steely eyes never leaving his, lept from a standstill over the top rope landing gently on her feet. 

Before she moved to the center of the ring for final instructions, I whispered, “For your sake, Ms. Kim, don’t kill him.”  She said nothing in return.  As they met in the center of the ring, Murphy towered over Kim, but otherwise looked tiny by comparison.  When directed to touch gloves, Mike slammed his down on Sally’s in a show of force.  Sally didn’t budge.

Mauler started quickly, throwing a series of punches to Sally’s face and midsection.  She easily flicked those directed at her face harmlessly aside.  She was less concerned with her midsection, letting the blows there land harmlessly. She then pointed to her abs welcomming him to try there again, but as she flexed the impregnible mass that was her six-pack, the sight was so intimmidating that he thought better of it and tried to take her down with a tackle. 

Not a smart move.  He’d have had as much success trying to tackle a Sherman Tank.  He’d tried to grab her right thigh but she simply threw him off like a Raggedy Andy doll.  He landed in the far corner of the ring, her eyes fixed on him, her face expressionless.  She then raised both arms in her own double biceps pose.  The crowd gasped as one.  Sally whispered at her victim “Lyle Sanford.”

That name now sent a wave of terror through Murphy’s body.  Seeing the display of unfathonable strength focusing all its malice on his own helpless body, he now realized just how overmatched and alone he was.  The referee for this bout was Sam Goldburg, a longtime friend of Lyle’s and well aware of the history.  He gave no look of compassion, only a look like Sally’s.  Mike’s few friends weren’t going to help him now.

“Come on, girlie, that asshole Lyle had it coming!  He screwed me... I’m... I’m...” Apologies were obviously not in Murphy’s repretoire.  As he tried to get up and bolt from the ring in a pitiful display of cowardice and self preservation, Sally was far too quick.  With a quick leap across the ring she grabbed him by the neck and snarled “we have some unfinished business now, don’t we?” and slammed him to the canvass.  Pulling him up by his greasy hair, she slapped him four or five times in a display of contempt to the delight of the onlookers.  Now it was time for business.

She quickly landed two serious punches, one to the face and one to his gut before letting him drop.  On his way down, the once student now turned demonic she-beast delivered a classic roundhouse kick that sent Murphy flying into the ropes.  His desperate submission fell on the deaf ears of the referee Goldburg.  A few well placed kicks and punches later, Mike was allowed to fall to the canvass, a bloody, quivering lump of worthless nearly unrecognizable flesh.

Sally looked at Goldburg and, after a moment of reflection, said “I suppose you’ll disqualify me for this.”

He smiled.  “I didn’t see any illegal blows.  Besides, he’ll live.  I doubt he’ll never fight again, and with what you just did to his face he should be ugly for the rest of his miserable life, but he’ll live.  It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.  On behalf of the greater Chicago martial arts community, I thank you.”

“My pleasure.  But if you’re not going to disqualify me, shouldn’t you at least officially stop the fight?  As much as I’d like to continue, I don’t think he could survive any more of a beating.”

“Oh, I suppose you’re right.”  Sam replied.  With that, referee Goldburg waved his arms, officially stopping the massacre at one minute fifty seven seconds of round one.  The silent onlookers broke into a chorus of cheering and the classic “Na-na-hey-hey-goodbye”.  We do love our sports anthems.

On our way from the ring I had to confirm my suspicions.  “Ms. Kim, I’m guessing that you worked with Lyle and, like most people, were quite fond of him.  I’m also guessing that you knew about his murder and have spent the last year or so plotting this revenge.  You even risked drinking the formula to make it all happen.  Lyle had mentioned me in conversations so you naturally looked me up.  You never cared about tae kwon do at all, but just needed my authorization to get into the tournament.  How’m I doing?”

Sally smiled at me.  “Oh, pretty good so far.  Lyle brought me into the project and later turned it over to me shortly before his death.  We all not only admired him but liked him as well.  Drinking the formula, though, was done out of impatience, and actually five of us did it.  I was the only one affected, though.  We’re trying to find out why.  When it did what it did to me, that was when I set out for some payback.  As for you, well, Lyle and his wife spoke very highly of you.  I’m so glad all these muscles” she paused to put my arm around as much of her’s as could reach, “didn’t scare you off!”

“Not nearly so much as your performance today.  Tell me Ms. Kim, when I asked that you not kill Murphy, you didn’t answer.  Were you considering it?”

“You know, I’d thought about it for some time, but when I finally got in the ring it just didn’t seem that important anymore.  Besides, that asshole won’t be bothering anyone for a long time.  One thing about my biochemistry background, I know quite a bit about anatomy.  He’ll need reconstructive surgery on his face, a hip replacement, and probably a kidney removed.  They can save his spleen and pancreas, but he’ll never walk properly again, and he’ll always have impaired vision.  And if he even thinks about fighting again, well, I’ll hear about it and, shall we say, I think I can discourage him.  But now I have a favor to ask of you.”

“And what’s that, Ms. Kim?”

“Do you always have to call me ‘Ms. Kim’?  Sally is fine.”

“So long as we’re at the dojang or other martial arts location, tradition and respect dictate that I do so.”

“And what about that first day when you crawled all over my muscles.  What about tradition then?”

“Come on, I lost control.  Besides, your muscles are hardly traditional!”

“Well now that business is done, how about you come over to my place this evening!  It’s not a dojang, I’ll make you an untraditional dinner and we can be as untraditional as we want!  I bet I’ve got some muscles in places you never imagined!”

I was looking forward to discovering them.  Then I remembered.  “Hey, you still have one more match to go for the Chicago championship.  Are you going to go conservative or dress like you are now?”

“I think I’ll pass.  After all that’s happened, I’m just not really up for it.  Besides,” she flexed her arm as I held on for dear life, “I want tonight to come sooner than later!”

The crowd was quite disappointed at not seeing my supersized sweetheart one last time.  All but one who, hearing the announcement of Sally’s withdrawal, sighed a very audible “THANK GOD!”

It was Tony Robinski, the other finalist.

[Jeremy Lightning]

Hey Gov, good to see you posting your stories here, I enjoyed this a lot, your description of Sally's muscles is very nice. k+

[The Gov]

 

[The Gov]

'The Gov" wrote several stories illustrated by ScOuNdReL.