"What the fuck kind of choke was that?" Sandy demanded. "I had you mounted."
"Ezekiel choke,"...
"Ezekiel choke,"...
Tournament Arc
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Invitation
"What the fuck kind of choke was that?" Sandy demanded. "I had you mounted."
"Ezekiel choke," Jean replied, trying to convey its intricacies through pantomime with mixed success. Her athletic shirt felt like it weighed five pounds more than usual from cumulative sweat.
"It's a judo thing," Aisling, known by everyone but her family and those looking to bother her as "Ash," chimed in from nearby, somewhat muffled by the forearm worming its way under her chin. "There's this Russian guy who's really mmfffmfmfffff."
"Ash," Jean sighed, "you don't need to flaunt all the shit you know at every opportunity." She watched Ash struggle against the rear naked choke for several moments before frantically tapping. Her grappling partner, a towering kickboxer named Hannah who was looking to transition to MMA, let go and rolled back as Ash petulantly pounded the mat.
"You also," Jean continued, "don't have to exclusive with people bigger and better than you during open mat."
Hannah offered Ash a handshake, which the latter took with a grumble, and then wandered over to get a drink of water.
"The only BJJ classes Carwin offers that work with my schedule are with the gi," Ash said. The intricate braid that kept her tangle of red hair manageable had fallen apart sometime during her last roll, leaving it plastered to her sweat-slick skin in a manner that called The Ring to mind. Or, as Ash would insist, Ringu.
"Then get a gi."
"But gi jiu-jitsu is boring."
"Better than getting your ass choked out five times a day."
Ash harrumphed and followed Hannah to the cooler, and Jean tried to demonstrate the choke to Sandy as its steady glug-glug mixed with the assorted martial noises of Carwin Pankration's student body in the background. It being midway through January, a decent chunk of new blood had seeped in, their new year's resolutions still fleetingly intact. That, combined with the long weekend, meant the mats were packed; they'd had to take down a couple of the heavy bags to make space.
After a few frustrating minutes that saw Jean's arteries remain stubbornly uncompressed, Sandy threw her hands up.
"This shit only works because of your fucking orangutan arms."
"Or maybe you've just got a pencil neck."
Sandy shoved Jean to her back and passed to half guard in lieu of a snappy comeback, only to be interrupted by muffled clapping. Their heads, along with those of everyone else on the mat, swiveled to watch Sensei Tecia Carwin emerge from her office. Sporting her customary brace on her right hand and a serious expression that had every line on her weathered face pulled taught, she continued clapping until she was certain all eyes were on her.
"People. We've got a bowl game going down tonight not ten blocks from here, and that means we're getting a lot of traffic." She gestured towards her studio's front windows, which revealed a gentle tide of pedestrians sporting one of two color schemes. "And that, in turn, means we've got to look good. I want the hot and buff people closer to the window."
The gym veterans nodded and began to adjust themselves accordingly, while the newbies continued to stare at her, presumably trying to figure out if she was serious.
"Question," Hannah said, raising her hand. The newbies adjusted their stares accordingly. "Exactly how hot and buff?"
Sensei Carwin rubbed her chin in thought, looking from one student to another.
"Hotter than Fitzsimmons and/or buffer than Bradley," she said after a short while. The veterans adjusted their positions slightly, then went right back to grappling. The newbies appeared to accept the situation and rearranged themselves with near-unanimous looks of anxiety.
--
The annoying part, in Jean's mind, was that the plan worked. They'd had four prospective members walk through the door and talk to Sensei Carwin in the span of just thirty minutes, and the number of gawkers at the window never seemed to decrease. Jean, who narrowly missed both the hotness and buffness thresholds, watched it all from Ash's back, where she'd been attached for more than two consecutive minutes despite the latter's desperate flailing.
"Just choke me so we can start over," Ash whined.
"You'll never get better if you don't work on escaping from bad positions."
Ash had no reply, instead going for the same rolling escape she'd tried three times already. Jean simply adjusted her hips and let her squirm.
The onlookers outside the window suddenly parted, and Jean took her attention away from the increasingly wriggly young woman beneath her to watch a tall man dressed like a Men in Black agent stroll through the door. His gait was as stiff as his suit, and he had the air of a man desperate for someone to ask him what he was doing so he could reply "it's classified."
"Can I help you?" Sensei Carwin asked, her grin at a new customer instantly metamorphosing into a frown. Rather than answer, the man handed her an envelop adorned with an overcomplicated wax seal. He spun around, seemingly rotating in place rather than actually turning, and marched out the door. It took a few minutes and Fitzsimmons hitting a lateral drop for the crowd to reconvene.
Sensei Carwin moved to tear the envelope open, noticed the seal, and hurried into her office. She emerged a minute later, frown ironed into a grimace.
"Bullock," she said, pointing at Jean. "Torres," she added with a point at Sandy. "My office as soon as open mat ends." She returned to said office and slammed the door shut.
"Weird," Jean muttered as Ash offered various cash incentives for letting her go.
--
Jean and Sandy finished mopping as the last of the students departed, a couple having hung back to ask Sensei Carwin about one thing or another. Confident that they had once again thwarted the eternal nemesis of grapplers, staph, they made their way to the office. Sensei Carwin still held the envelope, tapping it against the desk. Before either of them could speak, she turned to Jean.
"Bullock, how would you like to represent the gym in a horribly illegal and dangerous underground fighting tournament?"
"Ezekiel choke," Jean replied, trying to convey its intricacies through pantomime with mixed success. Her athletic shirt felt like it weighed five pounds more than usual from cumulative sweat.
"It's a judo thing," Aisling, known by everyone but her family and those looking to bother her as "Ash," chimed in from nearby, somewhat muffled by the forearm worming its way under her chin. "There's this Russian guy who's really mmfffmfmfffff."
"Ash," Jean sighed, "you don't need to flaunt all the shit you know at every opportunity." She watched Ash struggle against the rear naked choke for several moments before frantically tapping. Her grappling partner, a towering kickboxer named Hannah who was looking to transition to MMA, let go and rolled back as Ash petulantly pounded the mat.
"You also," Jean continued, "don't have to exclusive with people bigger and better than you during open mat."
Hannah offered Ash a handshake, which the latter took with a grumble, and then wandered over to get a drink of water.
"The only BJJ classes Carwin offers that work with my schedule are with the gi," Ash said. The intricate braid that kept her tangle of red hair manageable had fallen apart sometime during her last roll, leaving it plastered to her sweat-slick skin in a manner that called The Ring to mind. Or, as Ash would insist, Ringu.
"Then get a gi."
"But gi jiu-jitsu is boring."
"Better than getting your ass choked out five times a day."
Ash harrumphed and followed Hannah to the cooler, and Jean tried to demonstrate the choke to Sandy as its steady glug-glug mixed with the assorted martial noises of Carwin Pankration's student body in the background. It being midway through January, a decent chunk of new blood had seeped in, their new year's resolutions still fleetingly intact. That, combined with the long weekend, meant the mats were packed; they'd had to take down a couple of the heavy bags to make space.
After a few frustrating minutes that saw Jean's arteries remain stubbornly uncompressed, Sandy threw her hands up.
"This shit only works because of your fucking orangutan arms."
"Or maybe you've just got a pencil neck."
Sandy shoved Jean to her back and passed to half guard in lieu of a snappy comeback, only to be interrupted by muffled clapping. Their heads, along with those of everyone else on the mat, swiveled to watch Sensei Tecia Carwin emerge from her office. Sporting her customary brace on her right hand and a serious expression that had every line on her weathered face pulled taught, she continued clapping until she was certain all eyes were on her.
"People. We've got a bowl game going down tonight not ten blocks from here, and that means we're getting a lot of traffic." She gestured towards her studio's front windows, which revealed a gentle tide of pedestrians sporting one of two color schemes. "And that, in turn, means we've got to look good. I want the hot and buff people closer to the window."
The gym veterans nodded and began to adjust themselves accordingly, while the newbies continued to stare at her, presumably trying to figure out if she was serious.
"Question," Hannah said, raising her hand. The newbies adjusted their stares accordingly. "Exactly how hot and buff?"
Sensei Carwin rubbed her chin in thought, looking from one student to another.
"Hotter than Fitzsimmons and/or buffer than Bradley," she said after a short while. The veterans adjusted their positions slightly, then went right back to grappling. The newbies appeared to accept the situation and rearranged themselves with near-unanimous looks of anxiety.
--
The annoying part, in Jean's mind, was that the plan worked. They'd had four prospective members walk through the door and talk to Sensei Carwin in the span of just thirty minutes, and the number of gawkers at the window never seemed to decrease. Jean, who narrowly missed both the hotness and buffness thresholds, watched it all from Ash's back, where she'd been attached for more than two consecutive minutes despite the latter's desperate flailing.
"Just choke me so we can start over," Ash whined.
"You'll never get better if you don't work on escaping from bad positions."
Ash had no reply, instead going for the same rolling escape she'd tried three times already. Jean simply adjusted her hips and let her squirm.
The onlookers outside the window suddenly parted, and Jean took her attention away from the increasingly wriggly young woman beneath her to watch a tall man dressed like a Men in Black agent stroll through the door. His gait was as stiff as his suit, and he had the air of a man desperate for someone to ask him what he was doing so he could reply "it's classified."
"Can I help you?" Sensei Carwin asked, her grin at a new customer instantly metamorphosing into a frown. Rather than answer, the man handed her an envelop adorned with an overcomplicated wax seal. He spun around, seemingly rotating in place rather than actually turning, and marched out the door. It took a few minutes and Fitzsimmons hitting a lateral drop for the crowd to reconvene.
Sensei Carwin moved to tear the envelope open, noticed the seal, and hurried into her office. She emerged a minute later, frown ironed into a grimace.
"Bullock," she said, pointing at Jean. "Torres," she added with a point at Sandy. "My office as soon as open mat ends." She returned to said office and slammed the door shut.
"Weird," Jean muttered as Ash offered various cash incentives for letting her go.
--
Jean and Sandy finished mopping as the last of the students departed, a couple having hung back to ask Sensei Carwin about one thing or another. Confident that they had once again thwarted the eternal nemesis of grapplers, staph, they made their way to the office. Sensei Carwin still held the envelope, tapping it against the desk. Before either of them could speak, she turned to Jean.
"Bullock, how would you like to represent the gym in a horribly illegal and dangerous underground fighting tournament?"
Demonstration
The two students gawped silently, Sensei Carwin visibly enjoying the awkwardness. She gave them three seconds of standing like idiots before opening her mouth.
"You have questions."
"We have questions," Sandy confirmed before Jean's brain could finish processing.
"Which do you want to ask about first, the tournament or why I picked Bullock over you?"
Sandy gnawed her lip for a second. "The first one. So I can know how mad to be about the second one."
Sensei Carwin nodded, resting her chin on her steepled fingers. Her desk, which had not been even slightly maintained since the gym's inception, groaned and sagged in protest.
"You know the Universal Forum?"
"That weeklong conference with all the politicians and business heads?" Jean asked. "What, is it a front for a giant underground fighting league?"
"Nah, just the last four days. First three are legit."
"And," Sandy chimed in, speaking slowly as though things would make more sense if taken piecemeal, "everyone just hangs out and watches women fight?"
"More or less."
"Why?"
Sensei Carwin threw up her hands. "Hell if I know. These are rich people we're talking about, the same species that pretends to enjoy croquet and makes their horses do fancy dances. Their ways are not for us mere mortals to comprehend." She straightened up, the top of her desk conspicuously refusing to return to its original shape. "The actual events for the last four days rotate yearly; the last women's tournament was six years ago. "
She opened a drawer, sifted through an assortment of important-looking documents with very large "OVERDUE" stamps on them, and slid the girls a photograph. It featured her doing terrible things to a burly German woman's elbow, both women covered in blood and plastered with bruises as row upon row of spectators bellowed their lungs out.
"That's Sheila Abraham," Sandy breathed. "You beat up an Olympic gold medalist?"
"Damn straight I did. That's how I got the money to buy this place; this hedge fund guy, Bill Reddings, recruited me to represent him at the tournament. He covered the entrance fee, only took 50% of the winnings, and gave me a yearly stipend in return for repping his products and staying on call for any future tourneys."
Jean frowned. Sensei Carwin's insistence on students only purchasing one brand of protein powder, gloves, and technicolor spats on pain of burpees suddenly made a lot more sense. "So how'd that work out?" she said.
Sensei Carwin held up her compromised right hand; she had a never-ending wellspring of stories for how she'd hurt it, ranging from street-rules arm wrestling to attempted fistfights with large wildlife. "Miss Abraham over there shattered every bone in this hand during that fight. I kind of didn't tell Reddings."
"So now you need me to go in your place so he doesn't find out."
"Again, more or less." Sensei Carwin shrugged. "I need the stipend. As long as I tell him that the person I sent is better than me, he'll be cool with it."
"He trusts you that much?"
"I made him so much money."
"So why'd you pick Bullock?" Sandy interjected, having settled on a moderate amount of anger. "I'm 7-0 as a pro and she's a 3-0 amateur, and that's only because the ref didn't DQ her ass for that illegal knee in her debut."
Sensei Carwin sighed. "If I'd known about the tourney ahead of time, I'd have stuck both of you in the underground league a year ago and picked whoever did better. As is, I had to make a choice; your sensei is wise and has foreseen your concerns, Torres. As such, a demonstration is in order." She stood up and walked out onto the freshly-cleaned mats. Her students looked at one another, sharing arched eyebrows, and followed.
"Fight. If you win, Torres, you get the spot. But I think my reasoning will become clear."
Sensei Carwin put her hands on her hips, heedless of the young women staring at her like she'd lost her mind even more than they already expected. "We'll use the same rules as the tournament: you two are free to do whatever you want to each other. Just make sure I don't wind up liable for anything. Meet in the center."
Jean and Sandy, their minds already buckling under the absurdity, numbly did as ordered. As Jean passed by, Sensei Carwin put a hand on her shoulder and leaned in.
"If you lose, I'm gonna look really fucking stupid."
--
Jean flexed her toes, feeling the give of the mat below. Sensei Carwin may have been a miser in most areas, but mat care was one of her few priorities. She demanded deep cleaning after every class and was quick to repair any section that gave way under the daily strain of hundreds of sweaty bodies. Jean knew she had to block everything out, focus exclusively on the woman preparing to kick her ass, but she never could. Her mind rummaged through her surroundings with abandon, plucking out whatever interested it and holding it up before her eyes like an excited toddler.
She watched Sandy shift into the low boxing stance she'd perfected, looking like an illustration out of a pugilistic manual. Jean fell into the haphazard stance that Ash had once described as "MM-eh." The winter sun crept downwards through the windows as they stared at one another, idly shifting their weights from one foot to another. The crowds had vanished, flowing into the local football stadium, and only the ever-malfunctioning HVAC system broke the silence.
"BEGIN," Sensei Carwin bellowed, for a moment the martial great she'd been instead of the asshole instructor she'd become.
Out came Sandy's jab. "Piston-like" was among Jean's least-liked cliches, but there was really no other way to convey the mechanical efficiency of the punch. Jean's head snapped back and she dipped to her right to avoid the expected cross behind it, only for Sandy to instead follow up with a hook that had her teeth rattling. Jean stepped back to make space and winced as Sandy's shin crashed into her thigh.
That was Sandy Torres, "La Maquina." She thought three moves ahead, while Jean struggled with one. She attacked with the same clinical calmness she possessed when tearing up the heavy bag. She marched forward, whipping out her jab and body kicks until she'd herded Jean into the wall. Jean threw a hook of her own as a deterrent, but found herself clinched.
So she drove her forehead into Sandy's jaw. The Machine short-circuited for an instant, and Jean cupped her hands behind her foe's head to drive knees into it. The rebooting sequence wasn't long enough, though, and a pair of forearms intercepted the first knee. Sandy forced her posture upwards, broke Jean's grip, and slammed her to the mat.
Before Jean could even respond to the situation, Sandy took mount and began raining down elbows that probably wouldn't have been so vicious had she not just been headbutted. Jean bucked as best she could, arms extended to parry the onslaught, and Sandy took the opportunity to spin for an armbar. Jean just managed to get a grip on her own bicep to prevent full extension, but as Sandy patiently adjusted her position, she knew it was only a matter of time.
With Sandy's rock-solid technique rendering the standard escapes nonviable, Jean bit the shit out of her thigh.
Sandy yelped and lost her grip. Jean, trailing bloody spittle, launched her hips upwards and muscled her way into top position. Another headbutt crunched into Sandy's nose, forcing her to open her guard, and Jean moved to side control. Blood poured from Sandy's nose and, in her panic, she attempted to stand too quickly, leaving her back open.
She tapped to the rear naked choke seconds later, the pressure of Jean's squeeze sending blood erupting from both nostrils.
--
Jean got to her feet, shaking the cobwebs from the elbows out of her head. Sandy remained on the mat, even as Sensei Carwin offered her a towel.
"What were your options when she got your back?" the latter asked.
"There weren't any," Sandy slurred.
Sensei Carwin frowned. "Bullock, what were Torres' options when you got her back?"
"Eye gouge probably would have been the ideal once I had the choke locked in. If she didn't feel comfortable doing that, biting my forearm so I couldn't get it under her neck probably would have worked, or even just headbutting my nose with the back of her head. She could also have gone for my fingers."
Sensei Carwin nodded as Sandy stared at Jean. "That's why I picked her, Torres. You're smart, you're quick, and you're the best MMA fighter I've had in my gym in ages, but Bullock is a bigger bastard than you."
"You have questions."
"We have questions," Sandy confirmed before Jean's brain could finish processing.
"Which do you want to ask about first, the tournament or why I picked Bullock over you?"
Sandy gnawed her lip for a second. "The first one. So I can know how mad to be about the second one."
Sensei Carwin nodded, resting her chin on her steepled fingers. Her desk, which had not been even slightly maintained since the gym's inception, groaned and sagged in protest.
"You know the Universal Forum?"
"That weeklong conference with all the politicians and business heads?" Jean asked. "What, is it a front for a giant underground fighting league?"
"Nah, just the last four days. First three are legit."
"And," Sandy chimed in, speaking slowly as though things would make more sense if taken piecemeal, "everyone just hangs out and watches women fight?"
"More or less."
"Why?"
Sensei Carwin threw up her hands. "Hell if I know. These are rich people we're talking about, the same species that pretends to enjoy croquet and makes their horses do fancy dances. Their ways are not for us mere mortals to comprehend." She straightened up, the top of her desk conspicuously refusing to return to its original shape. "The actual events for the last four days rotate yearly; the last women's tournament was six years ago. "
She opened a drawer, sifted through an assortment of important-looking documents with very large "OVERDUE" stamps on them, and slid the girls a photograph. It featured her doing terrible things to a burly German woman's elbow, both women covered in blood and plastered with bruises as row upon row of spectators bellowed their lungs out.
"That's Sheila Abraham," Sandy breathed. "You beat up an Olympic gold medalist?"
"Damn straight I did. That's how I got the money to buy this place; this hedge fund guy, Bill Reddings, recruited me to represent him at the tournament. He covered the entrance fee, only took 50% of the winnings, and gave me a yearly stipend in return for repping his products and staying on call for any future tourneys."
Jean frowned. Sensei Carwin's insistence on students only purchasing one brand of protein powder, gloves, and technicolor spats on pain of burpees suddenly made a lot more sense. "So how'd that work out?" she said.
Sensei Carwin held up her compromised right hand; she had a never-ending wellspring of stories for how she'd hurt it, ranging from street-rules arm wrestling to attempted fistfights with large wildlife. "Miss Abraham over there shattered every bone in this hand during that fight. I kind of didn't tell Reddings."
"So now you need me to go in your place so he doesn't find out."
"Again, more or less." Sensei Carwin shrugged. "I need the stipend. As long as I tell him that the person I sent is better than me, he'll be cool with it."
"He trusts you that much?"
"I made him so much money."
"So why'd you pick Bullock?" Sandy interjected, having settled on a moderate amount of anger. "I'm 7-0 as a pro and she's a 3-0 amateur, and that's only because the ref didn't DQ her ass for that illegal knee in her debut."
Sensei Carwin sighed. "If I'd known about the tourney ahead of time, I'd have stuck both of you in the underground league a year ago and picked whoever did better. As is, I had to make a choice; your sensei is wise and has foreseen your concerns, Torres. As such, a demonstration is in order." She stood up and walked out onto the freshly-cleaned mats. Her students looked at one another, sharing arched eyebrows, and followed.
"Fight. If you win, Torres, you get the spot. But I think my reasoning will become clear."
Sensei Carwin put her hands on her hips, heedless of the young women staring at her like she'd lost her mind even more than they already expected. "We'll use the same rules as the tournament: you two are free to do whatever you want to each other. Just make sure I don't wind up liable for anything. Meet in the center."
Jean and Sandy, their minds already buckling under the absurdity, numbly did as ordered. As Jean passed by, Sensei Carwin put a hand on her shoulder and leaned in.
"If you lose, I'm gonna look really fucking stupid."
--
Jean flexed her toes, feeling the give of the mat below. Sensei Carwin may have been a miser in most areas, but mat care was one of her few priorities. She demanded deep cleaning after every class and was quick to repair any section that gave way under the daily strain of hundreds of sweaty bodies. Jean knew she had to block everything out, focus exclusively on the woman preparing to kick her ass, but she never could. Her mind rummaged through her surroundings with abandon, plucking out whatever interested it and holding it up before her eyes like an excited toddler.
She watched Sandy shift into the low boxing stance she'd perfected, looking like an illustration out of a pugilistic manual. Jean fell into the haphazard stance that Ash had once described as "MM-eh." The winter sun crept downwards through the windows as they stared at one another, idly shifting their weights from one foot to another. The crowds had vanished, flowing into the local football stadium, and only the ever-malfunctioning HVAC system broke the silence.
"BEGIN," Sensei Carwin bellowed, for a moment the martial great she'd been instead of the asshole instructor she'd become.
Out came Sandy's jab. "Piston-like" was among Jean's least-liked cliches, but there was really no other way to convey the mechanical efficiency of the punch. Jean's head snapped back and she dipped to her right to avoid the expected cross behind it, only for Sandy to instead follow up with a hook that had her teeth rattling. Jean stepped back to make space and winced as Sandy's shin crashed into her thigh.
That was Sandy Torres, "La Maquina." She thought three moves ahead, while Jean struggled with one. She attacked with the same clinical calmness she possessed when tearing up the heavy bag. She marched forward, whipping out her jab and body kicks until she'd herded Jean into the wall. Jean threw a hook of her own as a deterrent, but found herself clinched.
So she drove her forehead into Sandy's jaw. The Machine short-circuited for an instant, and Jean cupped her hands behind her foe's head to drive knees into it. The rebooting sequence wasn't long enough, though, and a pair of forearms intercepted the first knee. Sandy forced her posture upwards, broke Jean's grip, and slammed her to the mat.
Before Jean could even respond to the situation, Sandy took mount and began raining down elbows that probably wouldn't have been so vicious had she not just been headbutted. Jean bucked as best she could, arms extended to parry the onslaught, and Sandy took the opportunity to spin for an armbar. Jean just managed to get a grip on her own bicep to prevent full extension, but as Sandy patiently adjusted her position, she knew it was only a matter of time.
With Sandy's rock-solid technique rendering the standard escapes nonviable, Jean bit the shit out of her thigh.
Sandy yelped and lost her grip. Jean, trailing bloody spittle, launched her hips upwards and muscled her way into top position. Another headbutt crunched into Sandy's nose, forcing her to open her guard, and Jean moved to side control. Blood poured from Sandy's nose and, in her panic, she attempted to stand too quickly, leaving her back open.
She tapped to the rear naked choke seconds later, the pressure of Jean's squeeze sending blood erupting from both nostrils.
--
Jean got to her feet, shaking the cobwebs from the elbows out of her head. Sandy remained on the mat, even as Sensei Carwin offered her a towel.
"What were your options when she got your back?" the latter asked.
"There weren't any," Sandy slurred.
Sensei Carwin frowned. "Bullock, what were Torres' options when you got her back?"
"Eye gouge probably would have been the ideal once I had the choke locked in. If she didn't feel comfortable doing that, biting my forearm so I couldn't get it under her neck probably would have worked, or even just headbutting my nose with the back of her head. She could also have gone for my fingers."
Sensei Carwin nodded as Sandy stared at Jean. "That's why I picked her, Torres. You're smart, you're quick, and you're the best MMA fighter I've had in my gym in ages, but Bullock is a bigger bastard than you."
Registration
"Then what?"
"Then I spent half an hour apologizing and bought her dinner at her favorite sushi spot."
With the blender out of commission for the last week due to an uncut cantaloupe and a drunken desire for a melon smoothie, Jean stirred the chocolate chip protein powder into her shake by hand while Ash, who flipped aimlessly through the TV channels. Once it reached an actual liquid-like consistency and her wrist started aching, she took a sip and grimaced. Even after a miso soup, three orders of rolls, and two teeth brushings afterwards, everything still tasted like copper.
"Did she order anything super expensive?" Ash asked. "Like, 'fuck you' expensive?"
"Nah," Jean replied. "She was a surprisingly good sport about it."
"Even though you ate her ass?"
"We are not having this 'thighs are just the lower section of ass' argument again and also fuck you."
Their apartment, advertised as a "medium" on the website but more a grower than a shower, featured just enough kitchen to allow for real cooking, but Ash's couch took up most of the living area, forcing Jean to scooch awkwardly around the dining room chairs to find a spot to plop next to Ash. She'd found Spongebob reruns, which Jean found perfectly acceptable.
"Speaking of taking things surprisingly well," Jean said, putting her shake on a coaster she'd stolen from one bar or another, "you didn't seem super surprised by the whole 'death tournament' thing."
"Rich people are weird." Ash shrugged.
"Aren't you a rich people?"
"My mom is a rich people." Ash wriggled into something approximating a human sitting position, hogging their beloved oversized sheep plushie. "I am a normal people who can be a rich people when pushed into a corner. So is it like Bloodsport?"
"More like if Bloodsport got its degree and a job at its dad's company. There's sponsorships and networking and shit."
"Whatever happened to fighting for the honor of ka-ra-tay?" Ash asked, chopping along with the titular sponge.
"In this economy?"
"Fair."
As the show went to commercial, Ash pulled out her laptop. "What was the URL for the registration again?"
In response, Jean handed her the wax-stamped envelope and contained letter Sensei Carwin had given her. "Here. It's super long."
It took her four tries to input it properly thanks to its length, complexity, and annoying tendency to swap Is and 1s, but she ultimately found herself on a bare-bones login screen. Jean hovered over her shoulder, surreptitiously stealing Sheepsly while Ash was busy inputting the provided username and password. A brief load later and the two were staring at an unfilled sheet asking for personal information.
"Alright," Ash said, cracking her fingers. "Name: Jean Bullock. Style?"
"What?"
"It wants your martial art, I guess. Probably for the announcer."
"Wouldn't it just be MMA."
"But you bite and stomp and headbutt people. Let's put Vale Tudo instead. Sounds cooler."
Jean shrugged. Ash submitted the sheet, printed out the bevy of important documents that followed, then paused in front of the payment screen.
"Didn't Sensei tell you that the entrance fee was covered as long as we used that login info?"
"Yeah, why?"
"It says we're short."
"How much?"
"This much."
Jean stared at the number on the screen, blinked twice, then yanked her phone out of her pajama bottoms and frantically dialed Sensei Carwin's number. It connected after three rings.
"Yeah?"
"I thought you said the fee was covered."
"Oh." Jean heard an assortment of anxious-sounding noises through the speaker. "Yeah, I talked to him right after you left and he said he'd only cover half since he doesn't know you."
"And when were you planning to tell me?"
There was a pause. "Three drinks ago."
Jean pressed "End Call" hard enough that her protective screen warped and only narrowly resisted hurling the phone into the floor as hard as she could. There was still a phone-shaped dent from the time she lost a particularly vicious "Words with Friends" game.
"Great," she huffed. "We've got two weeks to come up with..." She gestured angrily at the obscene total on the screen. "...that!"
"I've got it," said Ash.
Jean turned to her, eyebrow raised. "What, you have an idea for how to get the money?"
"No, I've got it. But you have to let me come with you as your coach."
Jean's jaw dropped open. "Seriously? That's way too much money."
"It's, like, a third of one of my trusts."
Jean gawped at her, prompting a sigh.
"Look, I can either do what my mom does and use my vast wealth to undermine democracy, or I can send my best friend to a massive illegal martial arts tournament. Easy decision."
Jean crushed her in a hug so tight one of Ash's bra inserts rocketed free and bounced off the ceiling.
"You're the best."
"Bitch, I know it."
"Then I spent half an hour apologizing and bought her dinner at her favorite sushi spot."
With the blender out of commission for the last week due to an uncut cantaloupe and a drunken desire for a melon smoothie, Jean stirred the chocolate chip protein powder into her shake by hand while Ash, who flipped aimlessly through the TV channels. Once it reached an actual liquid-like consistency and her wrist started aching, she took a sip and grimaced. Even after a miso soup, three orders of rolls, and two teeth brushings afterwards, everything still tasted like copper.
"Did she order anything super expensive?" Ash asked. "Like, 'fuck you' expensive?"
"Nah," Jean replied. "She was a surprisingly good sport about it."
"Even though you ate her ass?"
"We are not having this 'thighs are just the lower section of ass' argument again and also fuck you."
Their apartment, advertised as a "medium" on the website but more a grower than a shower, featured just enough kitchen to allow for real cooking, but Ash's couch took up most of the living area, forcing Jean to scooch awkwardly around the dining room chairs to find a spot to plop next to Ash. She'd found Spongebob reruns, which Jean found perfectly acceptable.
"Speaking of taking things surprisingly well," Jean said, putting her shake on a coaster she'd stolen from one bar or another, "you didn't seem super surprised by the whole 'death tournament' thing."
"Rich people are weird." Ash shrugged.
"Aren't you a rich people?"
"My mom is a rich people." Ash wriggled into something approximating a human sitting position, hogging their beloved oversized sheep plushie. "I am a normal people who can be a rich people when pushed into a corner. So is it like Bloodsport?"
"More like if Bloodsport got its degree and a job at its dad's company. There's sponsorships and networking and shit."
"Whatever happened to fighting for the honor of ka-ra-tay?" Ash asked, chopping along with the titular sponge.
"In this economy?"
"Fair."
As the show went to commercial, Ash pulled out her laptop. "What was the URL for the registration again?"
In response, Jean handed her the wax-stamped envelope and contained letter Sensei Carwin had given her. "Here. It's super long."
It took her four tries to input it properly thanks to its length, complexity, and annoying tendency to swap Is and 1s, but she ultimately found herself on a bare-bones login screen. Jean hovered over her shoulder, surreptitiously stealing Sheepsly while Ash was busy inputting the provided username and password. A brief load later and the two were staring at an unfilled sheet asking for personal information.
"Alright," Ash said, cracking her fingers. "Name: Jean Bullock. Style?"
"What?"
"It wants your martial art, I guess. Probably for the announcer."
"Wouldn't it just be MMA."
"But you bite and stomp and headbutt people. Let's put Vale Tudo instead. Sounds cooler."
Jean shrugged. Ash submitted the sheet, printed out the bevy of important documents that followed, then paused in front of the payment screen.
"Didn't Sensei tell you that the entrance fee was covered as long as we used that login info?"
"Yeah, why?"
"It says we're short."
"How much?"
"This much."
Jean stared at the number on the screen, blinked twice, then yanked her phone out of her pajama bottoms and frantically dialed Sensei Carwin's number. It connected after three rings.
"Yeah?"
"I thought you said the fee was covered."
"Oh." Jean heard an assortment of anxious-sounding noises through the speaker. "Yeah, I talked to him right after you left and he said he'd only cover half since he doesn't know you."
"And when were you planning to tell me?"
There was a pause. "Three drinks ago."
Jean pressed "End Call" hard enough that her protective screen warped and only narrowly resisted hurling the phone into the floor as hard as she could. There was still a phone-shaped dent from the time she lost a particularly vicious "Words with Friends" game.
"Great," she huffed. "We've got two weeks to come up with..." She gestured angrily at the obscene total on the screen. "...that!"
"I've got it," said Ash.
Jean turned to her, eyebrow raised. "What, you have an idea for how to get the money?"
"No, I've got it. But you have to let me come with you as your coach."
Jean's jaw dropped open. "Seriously? That's way too much money."
"It's, like, a third of one of my trusts."
Jean gawped at her, prompting a sigh.
"Look, I can either do what my mom does and use my vast wealth to undermine democracy, or I can send my best friend to a massive illegal martial arts tournament. Easy decision."
Jean crushed her in a hug so tight one of Ash's bra inserts rocketed free and bounced off the ceiling.
"You're the best."
"Bitch, I know it."
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