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“Clint, we have to book some lady wrestlers.”

“We got Debbie Desperado, idn’t that enough?” Clint Bobski drawled.

“We have to have two for a match, don’t we? I, uh, may have promised someone that we would get a ‘lady wrestler’ division going.”

Clint put his drink down and sat up straight. “Lance. What the hell did you do.”

“You sent me to meet with the advertisers!” Lance said, folding his hat in his hands. “Malibu Al can be very persuasive.”

“He idn’t a lady wrestler. He sells cars. What does he care about a lady wrestling division.”

Lance wince. “You remember his daughter? You know, the big gal?”

Clint grimaced and rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

“We’ve got to book her in a match if we want to keep him.”

There was a knock on the office door.

“Hang on, Lance, I have an 11:00 with a lady from some group. Wants to clean up television.”

“We are *barely* television, Clint,” Lance said. “We are literally this close to not meeting the industry standard to count as television.” He held his thumb and forefinger together and squinted through the gap.

“Well, gotta start somewhere. Come in, come in!”

“Good morning, Mr. Bobski I presume?” A slim woman in a mauve skirt suit came in, a clipboard under her arm.

“Welcome, welcome.” He waved her in and she sat down in a wobbly armchair next to where Lance was wringing his hands.

“Say, don’t I know you from somewhere?” She said to Lance.

“Well, I was once a news anchor in Utica,” he said. “Lance Catamaran, eternally at your service.”

“Carlene Dean. I’m with Decency During Television.” 

Lance and Clint exchanged a glance.

“We’re looking for your support for the DDT campaign to clean up local access television.” 

“Well, I’d just love to hear more, but I have another meeting. Lance, can you take care of this lovely lady for me?” Clint stood up and started hustling out of the office, leaving a steaming cup of coffee on the desk.

In a moment, they were alone.

“What…” Lance coughed. “What exactly are you trying to clean television up...from?”

“Oh. Well, filth,” Carlene said firmly.

“Soap is good for that,” Lance said neutrally.

“Oh no, soaps are some of the filthiest things on television.” Carlene blinked slowly.

Lance glanced around the room looking for a change of subject until he got a glimpse of Carlene’s shapely calf muscles, her legs demurely crossed at the ankle.

“Ma’am I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but do you Jazzercise?”

“Why yes, I do believe it is our god given duty to take care of the precious gift that is our body through regular aerobic practice.” Carlene touched her hair.

“Have you ever considered what your...gifts...could bring to the world of regional professional wrestling?”

“Well, I’ve never watched wrestling, myself,” she said. “Is it anything like other sports? Fair competition and athletes giving their all?”

“Absolutely,” Lance said gravely.

“Well,” Carlene said. “That sounds like a wonderful antidote to filth.”

***

Carlene went to a local gym the next day.

“I signed a contract for a wrestling match,” Carlene said, trying to keep her composure.

“Uh-huh,” said the muscular woman with the clipboard.

“And I need a trainer, who can help me. I signed a contract?” Carlene repeated.

They stared at each other, slightly puzzled, slack jawed, in the cold air conditioning of the strip mall gym.

“Well,” the trainer said. “If you’re willing to take a chance on me, I’m willing to take a chance on you.”

“Why would I be taking a chance on you?” Carlene asked.

“No reason at all!” the trainer said very fast. “No reason. My name is Pamela,” she said. “Would you like to see my fee schedule?”

“How much could this possibly cost?” Carlene asked. She had never had to handle very much money. She looked at the mimeographed list of prices and gulped. “Well. If I win the championship, it will do wonders for our fundraising.”

“Sure, of course,” Pamela said, jogging in place and adjusting her sweatband.

“Pamela Forklift,” Carlene said, looking at the top of the fee list. “That’s an unusual last name.”

“Well, my father was a forklift,” Pamela said.

Carlene blinked. “That is so fascinating,” she said. “When do we start wrestling?”

“Give me forty-eight hours,” Pamela said.

***

Pamela called a friend to meet her at the gym after hours.

“Debbie,” Pamela said. She avoided eye contact.

Debbie Desperado shifted her weight. “Pam. Seriously. What’s up.”

“I know we haven’t been on the best terms lately but...I need you to teach me to wrestle.” She looked up sheepishly. 

Debbie’s jaw dropped.

“I know,” Pamela said. “I know I told you it was against my lesbian feminist beliefs, and all that other stuff.”

“There was a lot of other stuff,” Debbie said. She arched a carefully tended eyebrow.

“Can we be friends again?”

“Get your ass in that ring!” Debbie cried. “Oh my god, Pam, is that what this is about?”

“I need to learn by Thursday. I can’t tell you why.”

Debbie rolled into the ring. “We’ll start with lock-ups!”

*** 

The next morning, Debbie rolled in to work at the print and copy center running on little sleep and much adrenaline.

She had just opened the shop when an imposing figure came through the door. 

“Good morning, Ms. Perkins,” Debbie said, greeting a regular customer. 

“The banners you printed last week are crooked,” she said. 

Debbie curled her toes in her shoes to not wince visibly. “Let me pull up your invoices,” she said. She flipped through a drawer of files looking for the Perkins account. She could never remember if it was under P for Amy Perkins, under M for Malibu Al’s Car Emporium, or S for “shit list” for how much of a pain they were. But they bought in bulk, and Al was friends with Debbie’s boss. 

“Daddy says I’m gonna get to wrestle you,” Amy said. 

Debbie looked up at her and blinked. “What?”

“Southpaw is going to start a lady wrestling league. He made them.” She smiled, absentmindedly stroking her second chin.

“Only the best for Malibu Al’s little girl,” Debbie said.

“Better get me that refund quick,” Amy said.

***

Debbie called Clint, who called Lance. Lance and Clint called Carlene, who called Pamela. Clint called Al, who called Amy.

There was going to be a match. Finally, a women’s match in Southpaw! And they were all going to be in it.

***
On the night of the event, the county fairgrounds were bustling, but mostly because of the steer auction in the livestock hall. This show had been hastily booked: some of the usuals couldn’t be reached in the swamp this time of year so the card was a little thin.

Still: the women’s match was the main event. And the women turned out.

It seemed like an interminably long time before it was time for them to come to the ring.

Debbie entered first, smiling and waving and posing for pictures. She reclined against the ropes more casually than she felt. 

Pamela Forklift strode through the curtain, leaving the locker room with confidence she did not feel. She puffed out her chest, hoping her Sisterhood is Blooming shirt would pick up on well on camera.

“Lesbian!” Someone shouted at her from the audience.

“I am a lesbian!” She shouted back.

Carlene entered third, just as the shouting was picking up, wearing a sparkling exercise leotard over leggings and leg warmers. She waved like a pageant queen and walked like royalty, until she got stuck trying to get into the ring.

Pamela came over and held the ropes open for her.

“Are you a lesbian?” Carlene whispered.

“Does it matter?” Pamela whispered back.

“It’s not very decent…” Carlene said doubtfully.

Pamela was about to shout something back about decency when dramatic opera music began to play. Out of the dressing room strode Amy, wearing a fake fur coat and a mean expression.

“In the first corner, weighing in at 135 pounds, she is the sweetheart of Southpaw Regional Wrestling, Debbie Desperado!”

“In the second corner, weighing in at 156 pounds ‘of pure feminism,’ hailing from Mortville, Maryland, Pamela Forklift!”

“In the third corner, weighting in at 120 pounds, from Long Island, New York, former Miss Central New York 1983, Carlene Dean!”

“In the fourth corner…” 

“No,” Amy said. She strode up to the ring announcer and grabbed the microphone.

“My name is Amy Perkins. And..” She looked out at the jeering crowd. “And I am Malibu Al’s ugly daughter.”

There were gasps. She reveled in them.

“That’s right. I know what you say about me. You say I’m butterface. Everything’s good but her face.” She held a hand up in front of her eyes and peered through her fingers, mock-hiding. “Does that help?”

Someone in the front row cried, “Yes!”

The crowd was a mix of cheers and boos, and it gave her the strength to keep going.

“You think I don’t know? You think I’ve never heard each and every one of you laughing behind my back? Most of all you, Debbie Desperado.” Amy whipped around and pointed a finger at Debbie who looked around in surprise.

“I’m not just ugly, I’m Malibu Ugly, and I am here to challenge you for the Southpaw Regional Wrestling Women’s Championship!”

There was a silence.

There was no Southpaw Regional Wrestling Women’s Championship. Not yet. But that did not stop what happened next.

“Ladies, I want a nice clean fight,” the referee said. “Eliminations happen by pinfall or submission. Let’s—“

“You are giving sisterhood a bad name, Malibu,” Pamela growled. She shoved Amy.

“What do you know about sisterhood?” Debbie said. “One day we’re friends, the next day you can’t talk to me, and now we’re in a match for a championship?” 

“There is no championship,” the ref said, but Pamela shoved him aside.

“Keep your hands off him,” Carlene said, horrified. “Aren’t we all here for the same reason?”

“Oh shut up,” Amy said. “When I get my hands on you, you’ll be sweating to the oldies!”

Carlene punched Amy in the face.

“Ring the bell!”

It was a storm of fists and throws. Carlene found her training had not prepared her for the level of violence on display. The crowd was frothing at the mouth and screamed and someone even threw a cup at Amy’s head.

Amy picked up Debbie and dropped her. Debbie kicked up and leapt to her feet. Pamela pushed Carlene into the middle of it and Carlene dragged Amy down to the mat with her as she fell.

They couldn’t hear what the announcers were saying and they could barely keep out of the way of the camera man.

“We should have a camera woman for this!” Pamela said into the camera. “And a female referee—“ before being dragged into a schoolgirl rollup by Debbie. She kicked out. 

Debbie wrangled Carlene into a sharpshooter, but Amy pushed her over and tried to get her into a sleeper hold.

“Depriving the brain of oxygen is not decent either!” Carlene shouted, and head butted Amy.

Basking in the cheers of the audience, Carlene was too distracted to notice Pamela Forklift coming up behind her. “Sorry baby,” Pamela whispered as she lifted her up into a powerslam, and then pinned her.

There was a commotion from the entrance to the building. People in the audience jumped to their feet. Carlene rolled out of the ring without tripping and went to look.

She screamed.

“RUN, IT’S A SEA CREATURE!”

The notorious Sea Creature lumbered into the building dripping water and ooze. He had upgraded to a new pair of trunks with his name on them.

Amy and Debbie were locked in a tangle too intense to look up, but Pamela climbed to the top turnbuckle to get a better look at him.

“What the hell is a sea monster doing in our women’s championship match?” She cried. 

But her cries were lost on the monster. He rolled into the ring and pushed Debbie and Amy apart. Taking advantage of their surprise, he hoisted them both over his shoulders, kicking and screaming, and slammed them both to the mat, pinning both. The referee ran in and counted: one, two, three.

“When was he added to the match?” Debbie shouted.

“I’m telling my father about this!” Amy spat.

Carlene shouted something into an enormous portable telephone that materialized from behind the announce table.

“No man or monster will stop me from becoming the women’s champion!” Pamela cried. And she dove backward off her perch on the turnbuckle, landing on Sea Creature and knocking him over with a perfect moonsault.

“ONE! TWO! THREE! Ring the bell!”

There was no title to present her with, because that was still going to take six to eight weeks for delivery. But the referee raised Pamela Forklift’s hand, and the cameras rolled, and Sea Creature gargled and thrashed, and Carlene sidled over to him to introduce herself, and Amy swore and promised revenge, and Debbie looked around and thought to herself: I love wrestling. I don’t ever want to do anything else.