When I Kill You by Michelle Wan

CHAPTER ONE
    I was jogging lightly in place at ringside while Al, the owner of Al’s Roadhouse & Pit, worked up the crowd.
    â€œOur own luscious Lady Lava,” he yelled, pointing at me. “A homegrown talent, five feet seven, one hundred and thirty pounds of dynamite. And does this lady love mud!”
    I pumped my arms. The crowd, mostly men, whistled and cheered. Jimmy came out from the bar to give me a high five. He was the bartender at Al’s and my main supporter.
    â€œGood luck, kid,” he shouted over the noise.
    â€œAnd weighing in at a hundred and forty-five, five feet eight of sheer swamp instinct, from Sarnia, Ontario…Wild… Woman…Wanda!”
    More cheers. Wanda muscled forward and performed a little jig.
    There was a big crowd out, a hundred at least. Most of the spectators were locals from the town and surrounding area. There wasn’t a lot to do in Franks, Ontario, on a hot Sunday night in August. But they came from all over. Windsor, London, Hamilton, Toronto, some from as far away as Sudbury. Most of the guys had never seen female mud wrestling. Most of them were there for the skin. They wanted to ogle two semi-nude girls scrambling around getting dirty. They wanted a bit of titillation and a lot of laughs. A few, like me, took it seriously. I wore a one-piece suit, not a bikini. I’d been district girls’ wrestling champ in high school, and I knew the moves. So did Wanda. That was what made her such a tough opponent. That and the fact that she’d do anything to win.
    While Al gabbed on about the future of mud wrestling in Canada, which was happening here , thanks to him, we climbed into the ring. The ring was outside behind the roadhouse. It was six feet square and the bottom was covered in mud. It should have been good quality bentonite, the kind of stuff they used in spas, but Al was cheap. It was the coarse stuff mixed with other junk to cut the cost. On the other hand, give the devil his due, Al’s was one of the few places, other than one-off events, where you could see real mud wrestling. The sport had never taken off here the way it did south of the border. Too cold most of the year.
    I was now kneeling in my corner, glaring across at Wanda, who was kneeling in hers and glaring back. I wanted to show her I wasn’t afraid of her, even though I knew she was big, mean and popular. I’d only met her once before. She beat me more by acclaim than on points, because the rules of wrestling are pretty loosely applied. Who wins is often who the crowd cheers loudest for. Or throws the most money at. That’s something Al does his best to encourage.
    We both went through the routine of the mud bath. The first few seconds can be critical in mud wrestling. Smearing yourself with mud straight off makes you slippery and harder to grab.
    â€œOkay, ladies,” Al mouthed into the mike. “This is a three-round match. You know the rules. No biting, scratching or hairpulling. You must remain in the mud at all times. You may not rise beyond a kneeling position. And no pulling off each other’s clothing.” Boos from the crowd.
    â€œAre you ready?” He did the countdown. “Mud wrestle!”
    Wanda came out of her corner fast, but I was faster. In mud wrestling it’s speed, not size, that matters. I was on her and we grappled for a few seconds, shoving and sliding. I broke and came back to grapple again. This time I made a neat pass behind her and locked one arm around her neck. I tried to slide the other under her knee in a quick cradle that would tie her up like a package, but she bucked and managed to break my hold. This is where mud really adds another dimension to wrestling. It’s slippery and unpredictable.
    Now we were shoulder to shoulder, pushing and scrambling on our knees. Her weight gave her an advantage. I found myself giving ground bit by bit as she bulldozed me back. One of her well-known ploys was to throw her