CHAPTER TWELVE
                    The mother of all fights...

     The waiting, Mike decided, was by far the hardest part.

     In a few minutes, the match that would define the remainder of
his career was to begin.  He'd won major victories over the
superstars of his sport, and held nearly every belt he'd aimed for.

In only a handful of years, he'd emerged as one of history's all-
time greatest wrestlers.  And despite this, he'd chosen to risk his
professional reputation on a match with almost no benefit to
himself.

     He didn't bother asking himself why.  It was, he knew, part of
the cycle:  the proven athlete welcoming the challenge of the
neophyte.  It went beyond appearances, profits and losses. 
Greatness was the issue.  And Mike knew that greatness did not come
from ducking confrontation or resting on his laurels.  Patricia
Daniels wasn't merely a worthy opponent--she was the best pure
fighter he'd ever seen.  He had to know whether he was on her
level.

     The locker room door swung open, and in walked some of the
male AmaFlix regulars.  Mike recognized Bob, Pedro, Andrew, and Jax
from earlier meetings, and he'd wrestled Crusher on a few previous
occasions.

     "Hi," Mike said, and stood.  They stopped before him.

     "Yeah, hi."  Bob looked to the others, then back to him. 
"Look, we just want to, y'know, wish you luck.  Not that we have
anything against Patricia, but...."

     Mike waved his hand.  "I understand."  He met their eyes with
his own, and saw a need, a hope that Mike, a male athlete like
themselves, could compete with--and perhaps win against--the best
AmaFlix had to offer.  They needed to know that some way, somehow,
men could still credibly contend.  "Trust me.  I'll stand up for
us."

     The door to the arena popped open, and Tommie leaned in. 
Behind her, he could see that the arena was packed to the rafters. 
"Hey, sugar," she said.  "You're on."

     "Okay," he said, shrugging out of his jacket.  "Guess it's
time to take my lumps."


     Mike's introduction was greeted with polite applause, of which
he was only vaguely aware.  His mind was narrowing its focus,
preparing for the intense concentration to be required soon.  he
stepped into the ring and moved to his designated corner.

     "Hey," said Elaine, walking to him.  She was wearing her ref's
togs.  "Lighten up.  You're just about to suffer a humiliating
defeat, that's all.  Why so tense?"

     Mike shot her a "I'm this close to killing you" look.  "Thanks
for the moral support."

     "Anytime."  She leaned close, and whispered, "She'll know your
patterns.  Change your follow-ups, surprise her."  She tugged his
earlobe with her teeth, and said, "Good luck."  Meeting her eyes,
he saw Elaine's concern--and more--for him.  He knew she was
afraid, not simply for his well-being, but also for the possible
shock of seeing her idol toppled.

     Smiling, he reached out and caressed her cheek.  "Don't count
me out just yet," he said.


     The next minute went by in an almost dreamlike way for him: 
Patricia's introduction, the deafening roar of the crowd, the
swirling lights and fanfare as the stunning blonde made her way to
the ring.  He watched as she entered and disrobed, performing the
ritual of displaying her flawless body for the audience and
cameras.  His mind conjured images of her brutal victory over
Maxwell, of her inhuman strength and tolerance for pain, of her
grace and speed.  Part of him wondered if he shouldn't simply run
from the ring and never come back.  Nah, he thought, as they met
Elaine in ring center.  I've never been known make the rational
choice.

     "You know the rules," said Elaine.  "Ready?"

     Mike shrugged.  "Sure."

     Patricia nodded.

     Elaine backed away, and Patricia approached Mike.  She slid
her arms around him and gave him an affectionate hug.  "Good luck,"
she said, her cheek soft against his chest.  She pulled back, and
said, "Let's make this good.  Try not to give in for at least
twenty minutes.  I've got videos to sell."

     "Hey, blondie," he said, grinning.  "This is one video you're
gonna have to sit on."

     "We'll see."

     As if by mutual signal, they stepped back and crouched, and
began to circle.  To his right, a flashbulb went off; Mike glanced
aside for the briefest instant--

     --Patricia's forearm slammed into the side of his head.  The
brute force sent him reeling against the ropes, and off.  She
scooped him into her arms and body slammed him harder than he'd
ever been slammed in his career.  The ring resonated from the
impact.

     Dazed and confused, he offered no resistance as he was brought
back to his feet and then pushed high above her.  Patricia held him
aloft, bearing his nearly three hundred pounds with casual ease,
going through the motions of her usual dominance.  While she held
him, his head cleared enough for him to realize his predicament,
enough for him to act.

     He brought his palms down to the top of her head and pushed;
she lost her grip and he landed behind her.  She spun as he met her
with a clothesline, his huge arm hammering her, and she twirled to
the mat.  He scooped her into his arms and brought her across his
knee for a backbreaker, then spun and fell atop her for a power
slam.  He realized that his main advantage was his mass; he had to
lend it to his attacks as much as possible.  He followed the slam
with a corkscrew elbow drop, then leaned forward and locked her
into an arm bar, stretching her shoulder.

     He managed to keep her down for a few minutes, but inevitably
she returned to her feet, him still controlling her arm.  Her body
tensed, and she fell and rolled back, attempting to free herself. 
He let go immediately, realizing that she could easily acquire the
leverage to reverse the hold.  She returned to her feet, and shook
some sensation back into her arm and shoulder.  He noticed her
slight smile, and realized that she was thrilled to be facing a
competitor that could offer a serious challenge.

     "Hey," he said.  "Let's forget this and go get some donuts."

     "Nice try," she said.  "Come on."

     They locked up in ring center, straining, struggling for
position, their magnificent bodies rippling as they matched power. 
Patricia broke and drove her knee into his midsection, bowling him
over.  Before he could recover, she'd taken his head under arm,
hooked his tights, and suplexed him back to the mat.  He bounced as
the crash reverberated through the arena.

     "Oh, God," he groaned as she cinched in a reverse chin lock. 
"I coulda had a desk job...."


     Patricia dominated the next several minutes, slapping him into
leg twists, arm bars, and head locks, and following them with
brutal slams and saltos.  Mike's body became numb with pain as the
awesome amazon pulled out the stops.  Her chiseled physique
glistened in the bright overhead lights.

     When he felt her legs slide around his waist, he knew she was
moving in for the kill.  She pulled his wrists behind him and
squeezed, her incredible thighs crushing his abdomen and driving
sour bile into his throat.  Breathing was nearly impossible as he
gasped out his remaining air.

     "C'mon, Mike," said Elaine, leaning over.  "You want to give?"

     Patricia snarled, "Do it!"  She intensified the pressure, and
brought his arms up higher behind him.  "It's too much!  Just
quit!"

     This was it, he decided.  He'd taken the beating of his life
from the opening moments of the match.  If he was going to turn
things around, it was now or never.

     "I don't think he can answer," said Elaine.  "I'm stopping
this--"

     "No!"  The ferocity of his growl startled Elaine.  "God damn
it, NO!"

     Fueled by anger and adrenaline, Mike raised to his knees;
Patricia poured on the pressure, hoping to slow him down, but he
was soon on his feet.  He staggered to a nearby corner, then leaned
into it.

     "No break!"  Elaine patted his shoulder.  "Rope contact won't
break holds!"

     That hadn't been his intention.  He put one foot on the bottom
turnbuckle, then climbed to the next one.  Patricia realized what
was to come next, and began to loosen the scissors, but it was too
late.  He came flying off the turnbuckle backwards, driving her
hard into the mat, his full mass adding to the impact.

     He rolled away, realizing that she'd be on her feet in no
time.  Just as she gained her balance, he tackled her and drove her
back into a turnbuckle.  He took the ropes and began driving his
shoulder into her abdomen, hammering at the steely wall of flesh,
desperation adding impact to his blows.  To his surprise, she
slumped over, her hand on her rib cage.

     It was a ruse.  Patricia straightened and landed a solid right
cross to his jaw, driving him back to ring center.  She advanced
and threw a left; he retaliated, and they began a fierce exchange
of blows, the titans abandoning all pretense of defense, raining
fists and knees on one another.

     She loaded for a haymaker, and Mike saw his opening.  He
ducked and her fist whistled by overhead, spinning her around. 
With her back turned to him, he took her around the waist and fell
back, suplexing her hard to the mat.  He rebounded from the ropes
and aimed an elbow at her midsection.

     Patricia was gone before he could connect.  He met the mat
with an unexpected shock, her body not there to cushion the impact.

     He felt his head get pulled between her thighs, her arms
cinching around his waist.  In an up-down motion, she brought
him high, then power-bombed him back to the mat, smashing him
flat.

     Through the blur of his vision, he saw her signal to the
cheering crowd that she was about to end things.  She stepped to
the ring apron and ascended the ropes, pausing to whip the audience
into a frenzy.  C'mon, legs, he thought, urging his body to
respond, to position his knees for the coming bodypress.  Get up
here.  Get up here, Goddammit!

     She leaped, her wet, hard body rising meteorically, gaining at
least fifteen feet in height.  The blonde seemed to hang there, a
silver-clad comet, on a downward, destructive arc, as he tried
desperately to counter the aerial assault.

     As if by divine intervention his legs coiled and rose.  A
moment later, her exposed midsection--intended to deliver the
killing stroke--met his knees with incredible force, driving the
air from her lungs and knocking her senseless.  She rolled away,
curled into the fetal position, pain coursing through her every
fiber.

     Mike mustered his remaining energy, and rolled to his belly. 
He crawled to her, and began entertwining his arms in hers from
behind.  Once set, he launched to his feet and fully locked his
trademark cobra clutch, arching back to pull her from her feet. 
Her legs kicked, her body bucked as pain lanced through her
shoulders, his forearm shutting off her carotid artery.  He closed
his eyes and held on for all he was worth, his strength fading,
barely able to contain her even while stunned.  To his surprise,
Patricia's resistance began to fade, her movements becoming slower
and weaker, until she fell limp in his arms.  Hey, he thought, his
grip loosening.  Who's dimming the lights?

     He toppled forward and fell face-first to the mat, exhaustion
smothering him like a lead blanket, capable only of gasping for
air.  Then, perhaps, mercifully, his vision faded, and the world
went black.


     Mike drifted back to conciousness within the bubbling waters
of the jacuzzi, lying against a woman's body, her strong fingers
gently massaging his neck.  He settled more comfortably against
her, his body throbbing with soreness.

     "Man, what a crazy dream," he said.  "I went to this place
full of amazonian wrestlers who beat the shit out of men.  I had a
match with their best fighter and got hurt."

     "Who won?"  It was Patricia's voice.

     "I don't remember.  Why don't you tell me?"

     "It was a draw.  We were both declared unconcious."

     "Oh."  He shrugged.  "I'm not looking forward to the rematch."

     "Me either."

     "Let's skip it, then."

     "Fine with me."

     She slid around to sit across his lap.  He realized they were
both naked.  "I guess I was wrong."

     His hands moved over her sides, her skin wet and smooth. 
"What about?"

     "You.  Me.  Everything."

     "Go on."

     "I...didn't think their was a man alive who could even compete
with me.  I didn't think you could compete with me.  You proved all
that wrong."

     "And how were you wrong about yourself?"

     She caressed his chest absently.  "Mike, I...thought that I
wouldn't care if I lost.  I figured I'd just shrug it off and move
on.  But you...you almost won.  If you hadn't collapsed...."  She
shook her head.  "I don't want to think about it."

     "Relax, kid.  It was a draw."

     "Yeah, but you put me out, Mike.  I've never been out ever." 
Her eyes were welling with moisture.  "I--I guess I'm just a poor
sport."

     "Look at me."  He lifted her chin with a finger.  "No, you're
not a poor sport.  You're a poor loser--like me.  I've lost eleven
times, and those losses hurt.  But I didn't let them define me.  I
avenged every one of them.  And if, or maybe when, you do lose, you
should do the same."

     She smiled and sniffed.  "I guess you're right."

     He hugged her tightly.  "Take it from me.  You are a fantastic
person, and your friends will still care for you, win, lose, or
draw.  You take care of the people who matter to you.  You might
beat them up from time to time, but you take care of them."

     Patricia laughed and looked away.

     "What?"

     "It's just that Elaine was right about you."

     "How?"

     "She told me that you always know exactly what to say."

     "Guess I should have become a politician."

     Patricia's lips found his, and they kissed warmly.  They
parted, and Mike noticed Elaine, entering from the changing room. 
She was naked.  Eyes down, she stepped into the frothy water.

     "Um," she said, "Would you guys mind some company?"

     Mike took her hand and drew her beside him and Patricia. 
"Y'know, you're the most kissable referee I've ever met."

     Elaine was grinning and blushing.  Her face slackened, and she
said, "I...just wanted to say that that was the greatest match I've
ever seen.  You're both just incredible."

     "Thanks," he said.

     Elaine moved closer, then kissed him, slowly and with tender
passion.  She gave Patricia the same.

     "Well," said Patricia, "How're we gonna work this?"

     "You two start," said Mike, easing back.  "I'll watch."


                        CHAPTER THIRTEEN
                 High finance and a Karate lesson

     "Oh, come on," said Elaine, pulling Mike with her into the
AmaFlix main office.  He was pale and trembling.  "Don't be such a
pansy--"

     "I'm not a pansy," he said, leaning back against the wall for
support.  "I'm just used to having all four wheels on the ground
when I'm in a car."

     "What happened?"  Annie stapled some printed pages at the
corner, and said, "He looks like he's seen a ghost."

     "I did," he said.  "Mine."

     "Elaine shrugged.  "We were on our way over, and he was doing
the speed limit.  On the interstate.  In a Corvette."  She shook
her head.  "So, I got really bored and made him let me drive."

     "'Drive' isn't the word for it."  His eyes were bulging.  "Try
'fly'.  Try 'carom'.  Try--"

     "Oh, how would you know.  Your eyes were closed the whole
time."

     "No, they only closed after we passed 150 or so.  And how we
outran the highway patrol--"

     "Those pursuit Mustangs are easy to lose.  Once you're a
couple of exits ahead, you just whip off, double back and fall in
behind.  Nothing to it."

     Mike swallowed hard, and ran his fingers through his hair.  "I
hope I've got some tread left on my tires."

     Elaine pressed him to the wall with her body.  "That's funny. 
I've been wearing the tread off of something else lately, and you
haven't complained about that."  She pulled his lips to hers, and
few kisses later he was considerably calmer.

     "You're still a maniac," he said.

     "Yeah, and you wouldn't have it any other way."

     "Hi, kids," said Patricia, emerging from her office.  She
dropped a pile of approved contracts on Annie's desk.  "How's it
going?"

     "Just fine," said Mike as Elaine squeezed him tenderly. 
"Look, I think I got something of yours by mistake yesterday."  He
dug into his pocket, and pulled out a slip of folded paper.

     She took it from him.  "What is it?"

     "Some kind of check.  It must be a misprint."

     Patricia shrugged, than handed it back to him.  "No, it's not. 
It's royalties on the first week's sales of our fight video."  She
raised an eyebrow.  "You were expecting to make money on the fight,
weren't you?"

     "Well, yeah, but...."  He shook his head.  "I mean, 120
grand...."

     "I know it's not much now, but the new catalogs only went out
a few days ago.  Most of the check is from our BBS sales and people
on our video subscription service.  Your next one should be triple
that."

     "'Not much'?  Jesus, this is ten times what I make for a
regular match!"

     Patricia shrugged.  "Well, I won't go into what you'll make
once we send it overseas next week.  Except that the U.S. is only
about a tenth of our market."

     Mike did some math.  His first check was for 120 thousand
dollars.  The next one would be at least triple that, coming to a
total of 480 thousand (and, he suspected that secondary sales would
likely push it well over half-a-million).  And then, the
international sales would be ten times that amount.

     Ten times 500 grand....

     He went weak in the knees, sliding to sit against the wall. 
Elaine knelt beside him, a pout of concern on her face.

     "Boy, you wrestlers aren't getting paid what you're worth,"
she said.  "I mean, if seven million seems that much--"

     "Uh...seven million?"

     "Mm-hm.  After you factor in all secondary sales and
merchandising.  We'll offer still picture sets, posters, maybe a
commemorative plate from the Franklin Mint.  Available only from
QVC.  I'm really being kind of conservative, but I'd say that
seven's a worst-case estimate."

     His whole body was abuzz with disbelief.  "Oboy," was all he
could manage.

     Patricia laughed, and pulled him to stand.  Supporting him
with a firm embrace, she gave him a crushing kiss.  Once he'd
steadied somewhat, she parted, and said, "Welcome to AmaFlix,
Mike."

     The door to the supply closet popped open suddenly, and
Darlene, her half-top hiked over her voluminous breasts, was
giggling and yanking at Jim's already disheveled clothing.  "Oops,"
she said, grinning, and hauled him back inside.

     "Well," said Annie as the door closed.  "I guess they haven't
found those paper clips he was looking for."


     Frank Kove strode before his assembled warriors like a
grizzled drill instructor, his hands clasped behind him, his eyes
inspecting the creases and patches of students uniforms, his mind
analyzing the posture of each man's stance.

     "Straighter," he said, kicking a short youth in the rump. 
"Shoulders square.  Chest out."

     Red-faced, the student did as ordered.

     After a few more such corrections, Kove led them through
punching drills, followed by kick strikes.  Several minutes passed,
and even his hardened students were sweating profusely.  Satisfied
that they were warm, he ordered them to stop and return to
attention.

     "Sparring practice.  Positions."

     The thirty-three men barked compliance and scurried to
surround the square section of padding they'd just occupied.  Kove
strode to the center, spread his legs, and put his thumbs in his
belt.  His eyes roamed over the group, before settling on the
student he'd corrected earlier.

     "You," he said.  "Come here."

     The young man hopped up and jogged to him.  "Yes, sensei!"

     "What's your name?"

     "Robert Murphy, sir!"

     Kove sized him up more closely:  he was eighteen--maybe--and
stood around five feet nine.  His slender body couldn't weigh more
than 150 or so, judging from the loose fit of his gi.

     "How long have you been in my class, Mr. Murphy?"

     "Two weeks, sensei!"

     Kove furrowed his brow, and smiled slightly.  "You haven't
sparred yet, have you, Mr. Murphy?"

     "No, sensei!"

     "Well, then.  It's time someone popped your cherry."  Kove
swung his leg back and said, "Fighting stance!"

     Murphy's face went ashen.  "B-but sensei--"

     "I said 'fighting stance', maggot!  Do it or you're leaving in
an ambulance!"

     The young man assumed an awkward side profile position,
clearly terrified.

     "Fight!"  Kove came at Murphy and threw a few jabs, allowing
the youth to flinch and draw away.  "Oh, come on, you puss!  Do you
think an opponent's going to have mercy?  Or pity?"  He gave him a
"come on" gesture.  "Attack!  Do it, boy!"

     Murphy mustered his courage, then lunged, aiming a fist at
Kove's chin.  The man sidestepped and spun, connecting with a
backfist to Murphy's head.  He convulsed and hit the mat face-
first.

     "Get up!"  Kove prodded the semi-concious youth with a foot to
his ribs.  "You maggot!  You worthless shit!  Get up!"

     Murphy crawled to hs hands and knees, and Kove yanked him back
to his feet.

     The group watched, smirking and laughing, as Kove victimized
the young man, landing fists, knees, and kicks, carefully applying
only enough force to stun without rendering him unconcious.  Kove's
method was surgical and brutal.

     "And now," he said, facing the youth, "It's time for lights
out."  Murphy swayed before him, only partly aware, as Kove set,
jumped, and landed a one-two scissors kick.  He flew back and fell
in a heap, blood oozing from his nose and lower lip.

     "All-right!"  His remaining students clapped and shouted
support as Kove struck a dramatic pose.  He smiled and slicked his
hair back into place.

     "Randall!"  He pointed down at Murphy.  "Dump that loser
outside where you got him.  He failed the initiation.  Not enough
blood."

     "Yes, sensei!"  The student Kove addressed dragged Murphy away
by his arms.

     "Lewis--lead the class.  Parker, Morgan, Washington--in my
office."

     Morgan was the last inside, and closed the door; he was a
broad-shouldered blonde with high cheeks and thin lips.  Parker's
dark hair was bound into a pony-tail behind him, and his gi held to
a slender but lightning-fast physique.  Washington, a black man,
was the tallest--and broadest--of the three, and, in Kove's
estimation, the best all-around fighter.

     Kove took his place behind his desk, settling into his leather
rolling chair, surrounded by rows of trophies and pictures of
himself.  The three men stood at rigid attention before him, legs
spread slightly and locked, hands at their belts.

     "You men are aware of what happened to that gang you hired,
right?"

     "Yes, sensei," answered Parker.  "I--I thought they'd get the
job done."

     Kove held up his hand.  "Relax.  So did I."  He sniffed.  "All
those sweathogs can do is powerlift and smoke crack.  There isn't
a warrior among them."  Steepling his fingers, he said, "It's time
we got serious about wrecking AmaFlix."

     "Yes, sensei."

     Through his office window, Kove watched as two of his students
went after one another in flurries of fists and feet.  "You
gentlemen represent my absolute best students.  You're all that's
left of my Four Horsemen since that traitor Jax left."

     "Yeah," said Parker, "But we're the Three Horsemen now!"

     "Yeah!"  Washington pointed to himself.  "And I'm Death."

     Morgan leaned forward to look at him.  "Bullshit.  I'm Death. 
You're Famine."

     "No, no, no," said Parker, waving them off.  "I got seniority! 
Since Jax left, I'm--"

     Kove slammed his big hands down onto his desk.  "You're dead
if you don't shut the hell up!"  The men jolted back to attention. 
"Now my plan is real simple.  After class, we're goin' over there
to show'em what bein' the best is all about.  And once we've put
down whoever they put against us, we're gonna find that rat bastard
Jax and split him open.  You got me?"

     "Yeah!" they shouted in unison, fists clenched.

     "Alright!"  Kove pointed to Parker.  "Get the van gassed up."

     "Right!"  He patted himself down.  "Uh, I don't have the
keys."

     Morgan felt his gi.  "Neither do I."

     "Don't look at me," said Washington.

     Kove took a ring of keys from a peg behind him and hit Parker
in the chest with them.  They jangled on impact.  "There!  Now go
get the van, you dimwit!"

     The Three Horsemen scurried out of the office.


                        CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    The Taming of the Tiger and the Demise of the THree Horsemen

     Elaine was excited about the match.  After all, Tiger Tamanna
was one of the biggest stars in Mexico, where they prized
acrobatic, daredevil wrestling.  She finished lacing her white,
rose decorated boots and adjusted her knee pads just so.  She
inspected herself in the mirror, from the curly brown hair down her
hard, sinewy body covered in a white, one-piece suit of her own
design that left her torso from just below the breasts to just
below the navel uncovered, to the crimson lycra tights that hugged
her thighs, down to the boots.  She flexed her abdominals, smiling
as they formed a hard, muscular shield that no one -- well, maybe
Patricia -- could penetrate.  She tensed her thick thighs, admiring
the way her quadriceps showed through the skin-tight material,
straining the seams near the breaking point.  A nod and a wink and
she headed to the ring.

     Tiger Tamanna was already there, testing the springiness of
the ropes and stretching out.  He was dressed in orange trunks,
boots, and kneepads, all decorated with tiger's stripes.  His face
was covered by an ornately decorated leather mask in the image of
a tiger.  Muscles rippled on his athletic frame.  He seemed very
confident of his ability to defeat the AmaFlix coach.

     Darlene was seconding Elaine, and she grinned at the brunette
and gestured to the ring.  "Takes his name seriously, doesn't he?"

     Elaine laughed.  "Yeah, but I wonder if he knows what I'm
gonna do when I take his mask off."  Darlene snickered and Elaine
climbed into the ring.

     Patricia was refereeing the match, and she gestured Tiger and
Elaine to the center of the ring.  "This is a three-out-of-five
fall match, pins and submissions.  Any illegal tactics and I'll
disqualify you.  Understand?"  Both grapplers nodded, and Patricia
introduced them.  "In the blue corner, standing five feet eleven
inches tall and weighing two hundred and sixty pounds, the
three-time Mexican heavyweight champion, 'Tiger' Tamanna!"  The
crowd responded with polite applause as the muscular Latino waved. 
"In the red corner, standing five feet five inches tall and
weighing one hundred and fifty-five pounds, Elaine Lawson!"  Elaine
acknowledged the cheers with a wave.  "Shake hands and come out
fighting.  Good luck!" Patricia said.

     Elaine extended her hand to the big man.  "Good luck, Tiger,"
she said.

     She saw his lips smile behind the mask and he shook her hand
firmly.  "To you also, senorita," he said in mildly accented
English.  They headed for their respective corners.

     Elaine saw Mike in the audience and waved.  "Go get 'im,
Elaine!" he hollered.

     The bell rang and Tiger moved confidently at his opponent. 
Elaine grabbed for him but he cartwheeled out of her reach, showing
some of the agility he was famous for.  Elaine grinned and moved in
again.  This time she swept at Tiger's legs, trying to knock him to
the mat, but Tiger somersaulted across her leg and attacked from
behind.  He grabbed Elaine in a side headlock.  Before he could
lock the hold in securely, Elaine shoved him off and into the
ropes.  He rebounded and leapfrogged over her as she prepared to
hit him with a shoulder block.  Off balance, she was unprepared for
the dropkick that crashed into her chest when she spun to face him.

     Elaine staggered backwards into the ropes.  Tiger nipped to
his feet and grabbed Elaine by one arm, then whipped her across the
ring.  She rebounded into a flying shoulder that caught her high in
the chest and sent her crashing to her back.  Tiger quickly cradled
one of her legs and tried for a pin, but she broke the cradle with
a flex of her mighty thigh and flipped him off her with her
muscular arms before Patricia counted two.

     Elaine was amazed at Tiger's speed.  For such a big man, he
moved like lightning.  It was easy to see why he'd been a champion.

     "Gotta slow him down somehow," she thought.  Tiger and Elaine
climbed to their feet at the same instant.  Elaine grabbed him by
the arm and whipped him toward a corner.  Just before he crashed
into the turnbuckles, Tiger leaped to the second rope and launched
himself backward in a body press.

     The move caught Elaine by surprise, and Tiger's two hundred
sixty pounds crashed into her chest and sent her down again with
Tiger atop her.  The Mexican's muscular arms strained as he fought
to pin the brawny brunette, but Elaine was able to slip out from
underneath him and squirm away again.  Tiger quickly leaped up
and grabbed Elaine, pushing her into a corner before she could
brace herself.  Tiger drove his muscular shoulder into Elaine's
belly, then whipped her back first into the opposite corner with an
impact that shook the ring.  Elaine was woozy and she desperately
tried to regain her full faculties.  She saw the big man sprint
across the ring and launch himself through the air, using his body
as a missile with Elaine's chest as the target.

     Elaine threw herself forward and down, leaving Tiger with
nothing to hit but the top turnbuckle.  His chest smashed into the
padding with wicked force, stunning him.  Tiger slumped to the
canvas.

     Elaine knew she had to take advantage of the gymnastic man's
mistake before he recovered.  Rising quickly, she dragged him by a
leg to the center of the mat.  Picking up his other leg, she locked
her hands behind his knees and threw herself backward, catapulting
Tiger into the turnbuckle head-first.  Using the ropes for support,
Tiger tried to pull himself erect.  Elaine spun him around and
picked him up bodily.  Holding his two hundred sixty pounds easily,
the muscular dynamo turned to face the the opposite corner.  She
took three running steps and power-slammed him to the mat, shaking
the ring.

     Tiger writhed in pain from the brutal impact.  Elaine picked
the Mexican up and draped him across her broad shoulders, then
dropped backwards, crushing more air from Tiger's lungs.  Elaine
rolled over and knelt astride Tiger's chest, her fingers twining
with his as she went for the pin.  Patricia slapped the mat twice,
but Tiger was able to bridge, pulling his shoulders off the mat and
balancing on his head and feet.  Every fiber in his body trembled
as he strained to keep from being pinned.

     Elaine smiled and said, "So, not quite finished yet, eh? 
Okay.  Let's see if a squeeze changes your mind."  She wrapped her
brawny legs around Tiger's body and locked her ankles.  Elaine's
steely thighs bulged with incredible power as she crushed Tiger in
the body scissor.  Her tights stretched to the utmost to contain
the swelling muscles and Tiger moaned in pain as her granite hard
legs bit into his sides.  Elaine released Tiger's hands and rolled
to her side, then concentrated all her considerable strength into
her legs.  Sweat poured down her face and glistened on her body as
she crushed Tiger mercilessly.  He thrashed around in a desperate
attempt to break Elaine's hold, and with a furious effort was able
to reach the ropes.  He grabbed the bottom rope in a death grip and
Patricia ordered Elaine to break.

     Elaine reluctantly released her prey and rose smoothly to her
feet, an indomitable fighting machine; an incredible combination of
power and skill.  Tiger slowly pulled himself up and turned to face
her.  His breathing was ragged and sweat flowed from under his
mask.  As Elaine moved in to renew her attack, Tamanna tried to
spin along the ropes, but her previous assault had taken too much
out of him and he stumbled and nearly fell.

     Elaine quickly took advantage of the man's exhaustion,
grabbing him around the waist with her muscular arms and suplexing
him onto his back.  Elaine quickly secured a cradle, wrapping one
arm around his head and the other around his far leg then locking
her hands tightly together.  Tiger strained to keep one shoulder
up.

     "How'd ya like to eat a knee?" she growled as her biceps
bulged, forcing the man's knee toward his face.  She tried to roll
him onto his shoulders, but Tiger's agility and flexibility allowed
him to keep one shoulder off the mat.  "Okay, if ya don't like
getting pinned, let's try something else," the brunette juggernaut
said.

     She maintained the cradle and locked her legs around Tiger's
other thigh.  Her brawny limbs tightened around the Mexican's leg
and she stretched her body, forcing Tiger's legs apart.  "Time to
make a wish!" Elaine said as Tiger did the splits.

     Despite his flexibility, this was too much.  Tiger was unable
to stand the pain.  "Aaayyyy!  I geeve!  Please, let me go!" he
hollered.  Elaine released him and pranced back to her corner,
happy knowing she'd taken some of the spring out of the gymnastic
Latino.

     "Nice move, girl," Darlene said with a high-five as Elaine
reached her corner.  "I never saw that hold before."

     "Me neither -- it was an inspiration," Elaine replied as she
towelled off her face.  "He's damn good -- nearly had me with that
flying bodypress.  I think I grounded him for a while, though."

     Tiger limped back to his corner where his cornerman harangued
him in Spanish.  Tamanna tried to work the kinks out while he
watched Elaine and shook his head.

     When the bell rang he came out much more cautiously.  Elaine
grabbed at his leg but he slipped away and tried for a facelock
which Elaine slipped out of.  They exchanged several lightning-fast
holds and reversals before Elaine secured an arm bar and whipped
Tiger into the corner.  Once again he leaped to the middle rope and
threw himself backwards at her, but this time she was ready for
him.

     Elaine caught Tiger in mid-air and just held him there for a
few seconds, then smashed him across her knee in a brutal
backbreaker.  She picked him back up without releasing her hold,
then pressed him over her head and threw him halfway across the
ring, where he crashed to the canvas and squirmed in pain.  Elaine
stood over him for a moment, her powerful muscles standing out
boldly, then she picked him up.  Tiger tried to gain an advantage
with an elbow into Elaine's belly, but her granite hard abdominal
muscles easily absorbed the impact.  Elaine snap-mared Tiger back
to the canvas, then knelt behind him and locked her hands under his
chin.  Driving one knee into the man's back, Elaine laced her
powerful fingers together and pulled back, straining Tiger's neck. 
The sinews in Elaine's corded forearms danced under her skin as she
increased the pressure.

     "You might wanna think about giving up," she murmured into his
ear.  A quick jerk back punctuated her words and drew a gasp of
pain from Tiger.  He strained to relieve some of the agonizing
tension and was able to force her hands apart.  He rolled forward,
out of her reach, and got to his feet.  Elaine was on top of him
before he could think, whipping him into the ropes.  When he
rebounded, she hit him in the chest with a dropkick, sending him
ass-over-teakettle and down to the mat again.

     Tiger had only gotten to his knees when Elaine grabbed his
head and stuffed it between her muscular thighs.  Wrapping both
arms around his waist, she snapped him up, jackknifing him, then
viciously power-bombed Tamanna to the canvas.  Tiger lay there,
nearly out, as Elaine lay across his chest and Patricia slapped the
mat three times.  His second practically had to carry him back to
his corner.

     "Two down, one to go," Elaine said as Darlene handed her the
water bottle.  She studied the man across the ring, slumped on his
stool.  "Wonder what he looks like under that mask..."

     Darlene grinned.  "I bet we're gonna find out."

     Tiger was barely aware of his surroundings as the bell for the
third fall rang.  Elaine pulled him to the center of the ring and
put on a brutal demonstration of suplexes and slams. 
Belly-to-belly suplex, pick up, belly-to-back suplex, pick up, body
slam, pick up, spinning vertical suplex, pick up, backbreaker --
Elaine smashed Tiger's battered body to the mat again and again,
until his arms were flopping like a rag doll's.  Finally, Tiger lay
nearly motionless on the mat, with only spasmodic jerks of his arms
and legs showing he was still conscious.

     Elaine hauled Tiger to his feet, where he swayed like a
sapling in the wind.  Whipping him into the ropes, she caught him
in a bear hug as he came off, then spun and smashed him to the
canvas with a spinebuster slam.  Elaine quickly sat down behind him
and wrapped her powerful legs around his head.  Securing his chin
under one knee, Elaine locked her ankle behind the other knee, then
leaned back and poured on the pressure.  Her fingers went to work
on the laces of Tiger's mask.  He thrashed around desperately,
trying to loosen the hold, but was unable to break free.  Elaine's
strong fingers made short work of the knot and she began to pull
the lacing free.

     "Por favor -- please, senorita," gasped Tiger, "do not take my
mask."

     "Sorry, Tiger," Elaine replied, "I've gotta see what you look
like.  Besides," she added, "I have a real good use for this mask."

     She slowly pulled the lacing apart while Tiger squirmed, more
pained by the unmasking than the headscissor.  "No mas, senorita --
I surrender!  Please, I submit."

     "That's nice," Elaine replied, "but I still want the mask. 
Kind of a trophy, comprende?"

     She finally worked the lacing free and looped it through her
cleavage, then pulled the mask off, revealing the handsome face of
a man around thirty with blue-black hair and a thin mustache.  His
eyes were screwed shut, as if he could shut out the humiliation. 
Elaine tied the mask to her suit with the lacing, leaving it
dangling from between her boobs, then put added pressure into the
figure-four headscissor.  Her massive thighs seemed carved from
granite as she crushed the Mexican's head.

     "Aaaaaaaahhhhh!  Por favor, no mas.  NO MAS!" screamed Tiger
as Elaine crushed his head in the steely vise of her thighs. 
Patricia asked if that meant he submitted.  "Si, SI!  I geeve up!"

     Elaine released him then and stood over him, arms raised in
triumph as Patricia proclaimed her victory.  She looked down at
Tiger and decided that, good looking as he was, there was someone
else she wanted more.  Quickly locating Mike in the audience, she
leaped over the ropes and went straight to him.  Twining her
fingers in the fabric of his shirt, she pulled him halfway out of
his seat and kissed him passionately, then pulled him after her
toward the storeroom.

     In the ring, Tiger was being helped by his second and Patricia
to his corner.  Sunny slipped between the ropes and asked, "Need
any help?"

     Patricia glanced up and grinned at the tall blonde.  "I think
Tiger needs some personal attention.  Got anything planned?"

     "My pleasure -- and I do mean my pleasure," Sunny replied. 
She draped Tiger over her broad shoulders and headed for the
whirlpool.  Tiger's cornerman trailed along behind, sputtering
questions.  Sabrina quickly stood up and took his arm.

     "No, Tiger's gonna be busy for a while," she explained in
response to his torrent of Spanish.  "Maybe I can help you."  She
dragged him along, following in Sunny's wake.

     

     Elaine threw Mike down on the padded floor and yanked his
shirt open, scattering buttons across the room.  Hungrily her mouth
descended on his, and she moaned in pleasure as he ran his big
hands across her taut muscles.  He pulled the straps of her suit
down and peeled it off her, pausing as she freed the mask, then
stripped her ruined tights down over her boots.  She frantically
pulled his pants down and her arms around him, massaging his
bulging muscles.  She worked her mouth down his chest, flicking her
tongue in and out of his navel as he gasped in ecstasy.

     She raised her head and smiled up at him, twirling the mask
around her finger.  "Whatcha gonna do with that?" Mike gasped.

     She didn't answer, but spun around so she was sitting on his
chest, her bare ass toward his face.  Massaging his cock expertly,
Elaine wrapped the ornate leather mask around his bulging erection
and secured it with the lacing.  She turned back around and
enveloped his leather-clad cock with her dripping pussy.  She
stiffened at the feel of his thick, well-protected member inside
her, and began bucking like a wild bronco.  Mike matched her
passion, and the pair quickly climaxed, then again, then again,
until Mike lost count.  Finally sated, Elaine collapsed atop him
and nibbled at his throat.

     "That was different," Mike said, when he could speak.

     Elaine chuckled deep in her throat and said, "I always wanted
to do that -- especially since Patricia did it to Crusher and told
me what it was like.  It's even better than I imagined."

     "A little hard on the mask, though," Mike said, looking at the
stained, soaked leather.

     "Mmmm -- that's the idea.  I think it looks sturdy enough to
stand up to another round, don't you?"

     "My mother warned me 'bout women like you -- and I couldn't
wait to find one!"  Elaine laughed and they began again......


     The rest of the day's matches had passed at AmaFlix with no
surprises.  Patricia had done her usual job of sensual domination
against a journeyman "tough guy" champion named Chuck Gibbons, and
Darlene had had no trouble flattening former heavyweight boxing
contender Mitch "Hit Man" Snipes in three straight, convincing
falls.

     Once sated from after-match sex, Elaine and Mike had returned
to the training area for a follow-up workout.  Most of the regulars
were still there, caught up in the intensity of the day's
activities, training with weights or honing their fighting styles.

     "Way to go, girl," said Tommie, exchanging a high-five with
Elaine.  "You made the 'Tiger' look like a tabby."

     "Don't I know it," she said, smiling and twirling the stained
mask she'd taken by an eyehole.

     "Is...stuffing as much fun as I've heard?"

     Elaine shuddered, and drew Mike closer.  "God, it's a thrill. 
You've got to try it."

     "Of course," said Tommie, sliding her breasts against Mike's
diaphragm.  "Here's somethin' else I'd like to try."

     He felt a familiar pressure--coupled with soreness--building
below his waist.  "You're insatiable.  You're all insatiable."

     Tommie was reaching for his zipper when a side entrance to the
gym crashed open, revealing Kove and his fellows.  They strode into
the room and struck a spread-legged pose.

     "Alright!"  Kove pointed toward them in a sweeping gesture. 
"This is it!  I'm taking you down today!"

     Patricia leaned over to Darlene.  "Get the cameras rolling--
pronto."  Darlene nodded and sprinted off, disappearing into the
nearby video control booth.  Patricia waited until the ready lights
on the overhead cameras blinked on before sauntering over to Kove. 
Scowling, Crusher followed behind her, his fists closed tight.  She
put her hands on her hips, clearly unimpressed.  "May we help you?"

     "You're Goddamned right you can help me!  You can start by
coughing up that traitor bastard Jackson!"  Kove looked over her
shoulder.  "Where is he?  Hiding?"

     Patricia shook her head.  "No.  He's indisposed--"

     "No, I'm not."  Jax came hobbling over, his right knee
wrapped, wearing a tank top, yanking up a pair of athletic shorts. 
He'd emerged from a side entrance, which led to a small padded dojo
used by the martial artists.  "I'm right here.  You need
somethin'?"

     "Yeah.  I need your head on a pole out in front of my dojo,
you piece of shit."

     "Your head," repeated Morgan.

     "On a pole," repeated Parker.

     Washington looked indecisive, before adding a "Yeah!"

     "Well, I ain't exactly hard to find--"

     "NO."  Patricia put her hands on his chest, and looked into
his eyes.  "You're mending, Jax.  Sunny's figure four almost broke
your leg, remember?  You just got back on your feet today."

     Jax pointed past her, at the smirking Kove.  "But--"

     "No 'buts'.  I'll handle this."

     "Wait."  Patricia turned to see Maya, having emerged from the
dojo, wearing a pelvic thong, pulling a half-top down over her
breasts.  Her body was covered with a light sheen of perspiration. 
Patricia mused that she'd been speeding her "grasshopper's"
recuperation with some private sessions.  "This isn't about Jax. 
It's about me."

     "Oh, please," said Kove, waving her off.  "Don't flatter
yourself."

     "Am I, Mr. Kove?  As I recall, I faced the most successful
example of your art and I disgraced him.  Thus, you were
disgraced."  She took another step toward him.  "Rather than change
the limitations of your thinking, you embraced them and placed the
blame elsewhere."

     Kove pursed his lips, rocking from foot to foot.  "Yeah,
well...we came here to kick the ass of whoever you wanted to put up
against us, and then take out Jackson.  If you're stepping up to be
first--"

     "I am offering more," she said.  "I will face your companions,
to prove the inferiority of your art.  If I cannot defeat them, I
will bow to you."

     Kove and the horsemen snickered.  Shrugging with complete
confidence, he said, "Sounds like a square deal to me.  Parker, you
face the broad first--"

     "You misunderstand me.  I said I will face your students--all
of them."

     "What, at the same time?"  The men laughed.  "Puh-leez.  You
can't be serious!"  Maya's gaze was steady and unflinching.  "Well,
shit, the bitch means business!"  Kove gestured toward the nearby
practice ring.  "Please, boys, oblige the lady."

     Laughing, the men exchanged high-fives as they jogged to the
ring.  Parker shouted, "Now she's gonna face the wrath of the Three
Horsemen!"

     Morgan added, "Yeah!  And I'm Death!"

     "No, you're not!"  Parker pushed Morgan's shoulder.  "Like I
said, I've got seniority!"

     As they sorted the argument out, Jax took Maya's shoulders. 
"Look, lemme do this!  I know how they fight--"

     "No, grasshopper."  She reached down and lightly squeezed his
knee, making him wince in pain.  "Your injury is great, and I have
only begun aiding your recovery.  And I, too, know how they fight." 
She pulled his face down, and kissed him.  "Now stand ready, and
observe Kove.  There must be no foul play sullying this match.  I
will prove once and finally that Kove is wrong."

     "Don't worry," said Patricia, as a group of AmaFlix regulars
formed a semicircle around Kove.  "He'll be a good boy."

     Kove tried to muster the courage to sneer, but only managed a
grimace.

     Maya walked to the ring, then slid beneath the ropes.  She
took her place before the men, who spread out in a triangle around
her.  "So," said Morgan, hopping from foot to foot, and rolling his
head around to loosen his neck muscles.  "What are the rules?"

     "No rules," she answered, slipping into the focused mindset
she would call upon for the match.  "Just art versus art.  Do what
you feel you must."

     "O-kay--"  By signal, Morgan and Parker lunged; Maya's leg was
a blur as she landed a sidekick to the first man, then snapped it
back to drive her heel into the second man's jaw.  Staying cocked,
she spun and met Washington in the ear with the ball of her foot.

     "Come on!"  Kove pounded the ring apron as his men struggled
to regain their footing.  "Don't let her trick you!  Those kicks
are just for show!"

     Mike leaned over to Elaine.  "That's one helluva show."

     "Amen."

     Maya allowed the men to stand, watching them carefully. 
Washington lunged and siezed her arms from behind, attempting to
take her wrists and twist her into a joint lock.  Using his grip,
she stepped back and pulled her arms through, sending Washington
head over heels to the canvas.  She stepped sideways, maneuvering
Parker to block Morgan's perspective.

     "Gotcha!"  Parker snapped a kick at her, and followed with a
pair of palm strikes; she used a windmill block to redirect his
force and carry him beside her, then backfisted his skull.  He
caromed from the ropes and tumbled to the mat.  She caught Morgan's
wrist in mid-air as his punch neared, then dug a thumb into a
pressure point.  He wailed in agony as he dropped to his knees,
helpless.

     "You move in straight lines," she said, watching as Washington
clambered shakily to his feet.  "That is unnatural.  You must
think--and act--in circles."  She turned his wrist over, sending
him to his hands and knees, then buried her heel into the back of
his head.  He collapsed and lay unmoving.

     Maya turned, to see Washington, standing shakily, and Morgan,
who was pushing himself to rise.  She allowed a smile to creep to
her lips.

     "Uh oh," said Jim to Darlene.  "I remember that smile."

     She nodded, and embraced his waist.  "It's clobberin' time."

     Gauging their positions, she stepped once, hopped, then sent
her legs out in splits fashion.  Both kicks connected under the
men's jaws, knocking them flat.

     Maya stood in ring center, Kove's students scatterd around
her.  "Now," she said, "The final test.  Kove."

     He looked at his unconcious horsemen, lying about her, soundly
unconcious.  The group around him was smirking, in anticipation of
the thrashing that awaited him.

     "Fuck you!"  With an olympic-caliber burst of speed, Kove
ducked and sprinted for the exit.  He was through the doors and
gone before someone could block his path.

     "That chickenshit!"  Jax shook his head.  "I can't believe I
had anything to do with that son-of-a-bitch."

     "He gave you focus," said Maya, sliding from the ring.  "You
came to realize that his philosophy was inferior.  You adjusted. 
Most people do not."

     "You're amazing," said Patricia, shaking her head.  "You make
it look so effortless."

     Maya shrugged.  "When facing such men, it always is."  She
took Jax's hand.  "Now come, John.  I believe we were healing your
knee when we were so rudely interrupted."

     "Yeah," With a glance back at Kove's men, he said, "Thank God
I'm just your patient."

     Patricia watched them disappear into the dojo, then turned
back to the group.  "Would you be so kind as to see these gentlemen
out?"

     "With pleasure," said Tommie.  Andrew and Bob were close
behind.  "C'mon boys, let's take out the trash."


                         CHAPTER FIFTEEN
                      A Mysterious Visitor

     "Excuse me, Mr. Winslow?"

     He stabbed the intercom button.  "What?"

     "Mr. Tsukara is here to see you."

     "Send him in."

     The door to his office popped open, and his secretary ushered
in an Asian man wearing a double-breasted silk suit.  Winslow stood
as he approached, noting the man's Gucci shoes and gold Rolex.

     "Mr. Tsukara.  It's a pleasure."  He extended his hand.

     At six feet four inches, Winslow stood seven or more inches
above his guest, but the man's handshake was as firm as his own. 
"It is good to meet you face to face," he said.  His english was
only marginally accented. 

     "Please, sit down."  Winslow motioned to a chair before his
desk, and Tsukara lowered himself into it.  "So, tell me, have you
had a chance to observe the combatants I spoke of?"

     "Yes, yes I have," said Tsukara, nodding.  "I attended a slate
of matches at the AmaFlix facility yesterday.  You were correct
about their skills.  I have rarely seen such power and prowess,
even after the effects of the virus.  That they have gathered in
one central location is a remarkable thing."

     "They're always scouting out new talent.  They don't seem to
have a lot of success finding men, but--"

     "On the contrary, the males they have found as opposition are
usually superb combatants.  They would be extremely competitive in
your organization.  It is simply that the abilities of the women
are extraordinary."

     Winslow shifted in his seat.  "Yeah, well...are you gonna be
able to use 'em?"

     "Most assuredly.  The only dilemma will be selecting the most
desirable warriors for the tournament."  Tsukara interlaced his
fingers, and placed them on his knee.  "Tell me something, Mr.
Winslow.  You seemed...eager to bring these women to my attention,
and refrained from suggesting the participation of any members of
your organization.  Did my mentioning the high mortality rate of
the tournament influence your decision?"

     "Uh, of course not!  I mean, I just want what's best for
everybody here, and these girls--especially Patricia Daniels, don't
forget to put that Daniels girl at the top of the list--deserve a
chance at this."

     Tsukara smiled and nodded slightly.  "How selfless of you.  I
am happy to see you have put the bitterness of your previous
associations behind you."

     Winslow's mouth opened.  "W-what are you--"

     "I'm only saying that for someone who was publicly disgraced
and stripped of his possessions as you were, you've certainly shown
remarkable graciousness in forgiving Ms. Daniels.  Less mature men
might have suggested her participation in the tournament as a means
of revenge."

     He nodded, awash with embarassment.  "Yeah, well, I uh, I try
to be big about things."

     "How noble."  Tsukara let Winslow squirm for a moment, before
continuing.  "I have determined that a competitor associated with
your organization would be a worthy entrant."

     "My organization?  Who?"

     "His name is Mike Anderson, a former world champion of
mainstream professional wrestling.  His title was taken from him
only a few months ago, under chicanerous circumstances.  His
inability to gain a rematch has been due to legal entanglements."

     "Legal entanglements?  What kind?"

     "His organization, the World Wrestling Alliance, has only a
few other competitors approaching his class.  They wish to avoid
lengthy title dynasties--which they feel dilute fan interest--so
they allow less talented athletes to attain belts, to ensure they
will be exchanged more often."  Tsukara smiled thinly.  "Of course,
I am sure you are not quite so obsessed with demographics."

     Winslow tugged at his tie.  Tsukara's conversation had taken
on a personal tangent that he hadn't expected.  "Absolutely not. 
The California Wrestling Alliance observes impartiality in its
ranking system and its title opportunities."

     "As I thought.  So tell me, what might your ranking formula
be?  For example, since coming to your operation and representing
the WWA, Mr. Anderson has won every match, including a victory over
Zack Xavier, your current top contender for the state championship
belt.  He has yet to even appear in your top ten.  Why--"

     "Yes, well, all that's done by my staff, and they factor a
bunch of things in.  Whatever their reasons, I'm sure they've been
completely unbiased in determining the standings.  It's very
complicated."  Sensing that Tsukara might press the issue further--
just to make him more miserable--Winslow quickly added, "So, you
want this Anderson guy, too?"
     Tsukara nodded once.  "Yes.  If his involvement will not prove
too great an imposition."

     Winslow shook his head.  Having Mike Anderson distracted, or
better yet, dead, would remove a big thorn from his side.  Anderson
was romping over the organization's top talent, and his exclusion
from the CWA rankings was sure to become an issue soon. 
Truthfully, Winslow knew that if--or more specifically, when--
Anderson grabbed the state championship belt, it might be months
before he lost it or won something better.  "Not at all.  I'd be
derelict in not making Mr. Anderson available for this glorious
opportunity."

     "Excellent.  I will make the necessary arrangements then.  Now
if we might, I would like to see the videotaped profiles of the
AmaFlix competitors that you've composed.  This will aid the
selection process tremendously."

     "Sure, sure, right away."  As he called to have the display
set up, Winslow's spirits--despite the grilling from Tsukara--were
high.  The Tournament of Lethal Kombat would be his best hope for
the elimination of several problems in his life, most notably
Patricia Daniels.  Short of arranging something fatal for her
himself, and making way for possible incrimination, the tournament
would likely result in her removal from the scene in a clean,
untraceable way.

     And that, he decided, was worth any amount of grilling from
this smug Japanese prick.


                         CHAPTER SIXTEEN
                  Patricia wrestles Jim  -- sort of...

     The AmaFlix training area was alive with the sounds of mid-
morning exertion, as the assembled hard bodies pumped, hanged, and
banged heavy iron.  Sunny, who had become a fixture in most facets
of Bob's life, was spotting him through a gruelling biceps routine. 
Patricia and Darlene were supervising--and participating in--
Crusher's shoulder workout.  Aaron watched in awe as Samantha
squatted an immense quantity of weight for reps.

     Jim ambled into the room as Elaine, under Tommie's watchful
eye, benched ten pounds over her previous max.  He wore bicycle
pants and a tank top bearing "Avalon College Intramural Athletics"
across the front.  He negotiated the cluttered maze of machines and
weight stations until reaching Darlene.

     "Hi, Jim!"  Darlene embraced him, her hot, sweaty body
dampening his skin and togs.  A vigorous kiss followed.

     "Hi, yourself," he said.  "That's a great way to start a
workout.  You almost done?"

     She bit her lower lip.  "Well, yeah, but...I won't be able to
train you for a while."

     "No problem.  What's--"

     "You're coming with me," said Patricia, taking his arm.

     "Sure.  Do you need that hard drive validated or--"

     He shut up as she turned and jerked him behind her.  They
travelled past the others in silence until arriving at the door to
the private studio.  She turned the knob, and pushed him through,
following close.

     "Okay, Jim-boy," she said, shutting--and locking--the door. 
She threw the light and camera switches.  "Into the ring."

     He blinked.  "Um...come again?"

     "Did I stutter?"  Patricia slung him over a shoulder and
walked to the ring.  She hopped up to the apron and set him down
over the ropes, onto the canvas.

     "Did I miss a memo or something?"

     She bound over the ropes, her sweat-mopped hair flying.  Her
glistening body was concealed only by a thin black "Hard Bodies"
half-tank and a yellow pelvic thong.  Her thick mane was bound into
a pony tail.  The lights made her golden skin gleam, highlighting
her powerful physique.

     "Jim, it's a precondition of employment here that everyone
fight.  I waived it for a while in your case, but I think it's
time."

     "Time.  Time that I fought."

     She nodded.

     "Fought you."

     She nodded again.

     "Waitwaitwait just a minute.  You know damned good and well
that I'm no fighter.  I've never wrestled or boxed anything.  And
to fight you--it makes no sense."

     Patricia shrugged.  "It doesn't have to.  Besides, you've been
working out, and for your size your fairly strong.  And Darlene
tells me that when you two lingerie wrestle, your technique is
good."  She stepped close to him, her hands on her bare hips.  "Now
stop bitching.  You're about to get for free what I usually charge
ten grand an hour for."

     Jim swallowed a baseball-sized lump; his skin was tingling,
and his face was hot.  "Uh, w-would ten grand make you skip it?"

     "Not a chance.  And you can stow any thoughts you've got about
resigning to avoid this, because you're trapped.  There's no way
you can get that door unlocked before I get to you."  She smiled in
an altogether evil way.  "You're just gonna have to take your
medicine."

     "Okay," he said, steeling himself, his mental gears turning. 
He poked her in the abdomen.  "But just understand three things. 
The first is that you're gonna have to agree that I get paid for
this--flat fee, royalties, everything."

     "Fine.  You'll get it.  What's the second?"

     "That it ain't the size of the man in the fight, it's the size
of the fight in the man!"

     She giggled.  "Well, that's the spirit.  And the third?"

     "That you're gonna have to catch me first!"

     With surprising agility, he leaped backward and slid head-
first under the ropes.

     "Get back here!"  She walked to the side of the ring nearest
him as he ran behind the first small block of seats.  "Get back
here or I'll--"

     "You'll what?  Beat me up?"  He grinned maniacally.  "I'm
gettin' that already!"

     "Okay, fine."  She cleared the ropes in a single bound and
landed on the floor.  "You'll be sorry."

     He darted down an aisle and ran behind the ring.  "It ain't
gonna be that easy!"

     "There's nowhere to go, Jim."  She advanced methodically
toward him.  "I--we--have all day."

     "Yeah, but the cameras don't.  I'll just betcha I can keep
away until they run out of tape."

     Patricia smirked.  "Fine.  I'll just have to hurry things up
a little."

     She broke into a sprint, legs pumping furiously, shooting
toward him at superhuman speed.  He yelped and turned to run, but
she was on him in an instant, her steely arms clamped around his
body, as she pulled him, wriggling, back into the ring.

     "Much better," she said as she lay across his back, still
holding his torso, and cinched her legs around him.  She applied
some pressure, making him groan.  "Now here's how it works.  I'm
gonna let you up and give you a chance.  If I don't think you're
trying, I'm gonna put you back in the vise and squeeze you for the
rest of the day.  Okay?"

     He nodded, unable to speak.

     She backed away, and Jim climbed to his feet on shaky legs. 
He turned to face her, drawing ragged breath.  In his best Daffy
Duck voice, he said, "You're dethpicable."

     "I try."  She gave him a "come on" motion with her hands. 
"Let's go."

     He crouched, chewing his lower lip, as he turned potential
strategies over in his mind.  He knew none of them would work, so
he chose the most amusing of the lot.

     Jim charged and grabbed a thigh with both arms.  He pulled,
but it didn't move.

     "Puh-leez, Jimmy boy," she said.  "You don't think--"

     "No, I don't!"  He released her and began poking his fingers
in furious, random fashion into her ribs and kidneys.  She shrieked
and covered up, but he was behind her, tickling any available
midriff or belly he found.

     "StopitohshitI'llgetyou--" she giggled, twisting and dancing. 
Seeing her standing off--balance, he grabbed her and--to his
surprise--dragged her down to the mat.  He wrapped his legs around
her waist and embraced her torso.

     "Wow!  Lookit me!"  Jim smiled, doubting he'd manage to keep
her should she make any effort to break the hold.

     Patricia wiped a few tears of laughter from her eyes, then
rolled to face him.  "You son-of-a-bitch," she said, smiling, as
she coiled her arms around his.  She leaned back onto her knees,
then stood, easily supporting his weight.  Her python-like arms
compressed, and once again he found himself breathless.

     "Don't worry, I know my own strength," she said.  "Of course,
I did accidentally snap a couple of Joe Norris' ribs once.  But he
made a big mistake."  She jolted him with her biceps.  "He tickled
me."

     Jim rolled his eyes, mentally kicking himself.  Oh, well,
she's probably kidding, he thought.  I hope.

     Realizing that there was no way to power out, he leaned his
head forward, beside hers, and drew his tongue down along her ear. 
She stiffened noticeably, and loosened her grip.

     "Jiiim...."  She moaned as he tugged at an earlobe, unhooking
her arms.  Her hands went to his shoulders.  "S-stop...."

     Ha! he thought, maintaining his sensual assault on her ear,
and sliding his hands over her hips and glutes.  She drew a leg up
against his, pressing against him, warmth throbbing inside her
pelvis.

     "Damn it!"  She pushed him to the mat and rolled him over. 
Her arms twisted around him in a sleeper hold.  "You're
incorrigible!"

     As the lights dimmed, Jim smiled inwardly.  Maybe I didn't win
the match, he thought.  But I sure won the war.


     When he came to, Patricia was already riding him, shrieking
and moaning as she writhed.  Their clothes lay in a nearby pile. 
He cupped her firm, heavy breasts, stroking and kneading them,
eliciting a sharp gasp and an orgasm moments later.  Jim guessed
that they made love for hours, before she finally threw her
exhausted, sweat-soaked body over his.  He hugged her as she kissed
him deeply.

     "That was dirty," she said, pouting and rubbing her nose
against his.

     "'Dirty' is such an ugly word.  But it fits."  Rubbing her
shoulders, he said, "When put in a no-win situation, you just have
to make the best of things."

     "You're still gonna fight."

     "Yeah, well...I figure I can take it.  And who knows?  My
unorthodox fighting style might surprise some people."

     "It'll probably get you killed."

     "Killed like this?"  He kissed her, then said, "If this is
death, then I was stupid for breathing."  His fingers found the
small of her back, making her shudder.

     "Just call me the reaper," she said, renewing the rhythm. 
"God, this is embarassing.  When they find out I'm ticklish...."

     "Ah, don't worry.  It's cute.  You looked adorable dancing
around like that."

     "Great.  Patricia Daniels, the merciless, brutal, adorable
owner of AmaFlix."  She shook her head.

     "Has a ring to it."  Driving up and into her rhythm, he said,
"Now stop complaining and screw."


                           CHAPTER 17
                   The recovery of Robert Murphy

     "He's dead."  Andy shook his head, morose.  "Jim's gotta be
dead.  They've been in there three hours.  She's finding someplace
to hide the body."

     "Don't say that," said Darlene, gently pushing his shoulder. 
"She wouldn't kill him."  She bit her lower lip.  "Would she?"

     "Oh, relax," interjected Tommie, putting her arms around them.
"I had my ear to the door a few minutes ago.  Patricia's screamin'
like the gal from 'Psycho'.  Unless Jim found a knife -- or he's
already in rigor -- they're fuckin' like coked-up rabbits."

     Darlene smiled and looked at Andrew.  "They've got the right
idea."  She took him by his closest arm, and Tommie took the other.

     "Uh...both of you?"

     "Don't whine," said Tommie, as they pulled him toward the
store room.


     Registered nurse Teri Pierce brushed her long blonde pony-tail
over her shoulder, then pushed open the entrance to private ward
714.

     An open curtain brought late-morning sunlight into the small
room, bathing it in warmth.  She entered and quietly closed the
door.  Her heels clacked on the tile floor as she walked over to
the patient's bed.  The young man, a beating victim named Robert
Murphy, shifted in his sleep, his body squirming to find the least
painful position for his battered body.  He'd been found lying
half-dead in an alleyway outside the Port Ellis Shoto-Kan Academy. 
All the police could ascertain was that he'd gone outside for an
unspecified reason, and had been subsequently assaulted by a gang.
Teri didn't think much of the explanation, but without witnesses to
the contrary, it was considered the likeliest scenario.

     Teri knew better.  As a part-time competitor at AmaFlix, she 
was well aware what kind of man Frank Kove was -- and what kind of 
students he preferred.  No one in his dojo would speak out against 
him.  Most of them were gang members and ex-convicts, amoral men 
using their training to abuse and intimidate others.  If she were 
right, and Murphy had been beaten up in the dojo, then the crime 
would likely go unpunished.

     "Hey, fella," she said, gingerly putting a hand on his chest. 
Even with the virus augmenting his healing, she knew he wasn't out 
of the woods.  His swollen, blemished face and mottled body were 
struggling against their injuries.  "You doin' okay?"

    He stirred, his puffy eyes fluttering open.  "Oh, hi, Teri."  
He smiled as much as his split lip would allow.  "I thought you'd 
be off-duty by now."

    "I am."  She slid onto the bed beside him.  "How ya feelin'?"

     "Great," he said.  "I'm ready to go play in traffic again."

    She giggled.  "How you can make jokes is beyond me."

    "I have an ulterior motive.  I like your laugh."

    She smiled and glanced away briefly, then met his eyes again. 
"Have you eaten?"

    "Yeah," he said, nodding.  "Some kinda soup and a little jello. 
Pretty nasty stuff."

    Teri glanced out the window at the expanse of blue sky beyond. 
"Look, Robert...if you'd like to talk to someone about what 
happened--"

    "Wouldn't do any good."

    "Why?"  She took his hand.  "How can we help if you don't--"

    "Look."  He squeezed her fingers.  "It really won't help.  I 
mean, I could tell you about how I was suckered into going to that 
place, and how..."  He closed his eyes, and tightened his face, 
choking back his emotions.  "...how Kove...called me out to spar, 
and--"  His chest convulsed once.

    "Oh, God."  She leaned over and hugged his face tightly to her 
soft bosom, her strong arms holding him, her fingers in his hair. 
 Robert sobbed against her, allowing a flood of pent-up feelings of 
humiliation and betrayal tumble out.  "You poor guy.  I've gotcha."

    A few minutes passed before his grief subsided.  She wiped his 
eyes and nose with tissues.  "There we go," she said.  "All clean."

    "I feel stupid," he said.  "I'm sorry, I--"

    Teri put her finger on his lips.  "Don't.  You went through 
hell and and had to let it out.  I'd rather you cry like a baby 
than store it up."  They heard an intercom blare a muffled message
down by the nurses station.  "So it was Kove.  I'm not surprised."

    "You know him?"

    "I know of him."

    "How?"

    She smiled.  "Promise not to laugh?"

    "Scout's honor."

    "Well, I...make money on the side working for a company called 
AmaFlix.  They make videos of women fighting men."

    He raised an eyebrow.  "You're kidding."

    "Uh-uh."

    "What, do you handle their medical stuff?"

    "Yes, when the primary doctor isn't there, or when she's 
fighting.  I also assist her when she needs it.  But I mostly 
fight."

    He smiled.  "Wow.  I never would have guessed it."

    "Why not?"  She held up an arm and flexed her bicep.  It 
swelled to enormous proportions.  "Don't think I'm strong enough?" 

    "Jeez!  You're huge!"

    Teri put his hand on her rocky muscle, allowing him to feel its 
smooth, silky power.  "Do you like it?"

    "I won't move if you don't."

    Giggling, she took his hand and put it on her densely muscled 
leg.  "Like I said, I fight for them."

    "Do you fight men?"

    "Almost exclusively.  I wrestle and box, but most of my matches 
are freestyle."

    Robert seemed to have forgotten about his pain as he shifted to 
face her.  "How well do you do?"

    Teri shrugged.  "In two years of fighting, I haven't lost yet."

    "Cool!  The men--are they small, or--"

    "Ha!  No way.  Most of these guys are boxers and football 
players twice my size.  In fact, I recently took on somebody you 
might know of -- Ricky Alvarez."

     Robert furrowed his brow.  "THE Ricky Alvarez.  Former North 
American Kickboxing Association heavyweight champion."

     Her eyes twinkled.  "Yeah."

     "The same guy who knocked out three men in one night last year 
in Vegas."

    "Did he?  I had no idea."

     "He's also been the Western Hemisphere forms champion three 
years running."  Robert licked his lips.  "You beat him."

     "Yeah.  No problem."

     "Tell me about it!  How--"

     "Wait, first let me say something.  We were talking about
Kove,  remember?"

    "Unfortunately."

     She unconciously flexed her quad; it rippled menacingly
against his palm.  "One of his fighters -- John Jackson -- recently
defected to  us, after losing a match.  He's training under the
girl that  defeated him."

    "Jax lost?  But he's the all-city champ!"

    Teri shrugged, and Robert noted that her broad shoulders 
stretched the thin fabric of her nurses dress to its limit.  "Yeah, 
well, Maya worked him over good.  After the match, he offered 
himself to her as a pupil.

    "Kove took it badly.  He hired a gang to bust the place up, but 
that didn't work, so he sent his three star pupils over last night 
to cause trouble."

    "What happened?"

    "Maya took them on.  They were carried out.  Kove ran away 
before she could get to him."

    Robert grimaced.  "Kove's a chickenshit bastard."

    "That's an understatement."  She winked.  "But don't worry.  I 
overheard some of the girls talking, and I think he's in for a 
surprise at his next tournament."

    "You're gonna enter somebody in his contest?"

    She nodded.  "Oh, yeah.  And this time I don't think he'll get 
away."

    "I want to be there," he said.

    "I'd planned on it.  And I'll bring you to AmaFlix, if you'd 
like."

    "'Like'?  I'd love it.  As soon as possible.  If I weren't 
screwed up, we'd go today.  If you were heading that way, I mean." 

   "I don't need an excuse to go there.  I can't get enough of the 
place.  We'll get you well and over there in no time."

    His enthusiasm had alleviated much of his pain.  "Tell me about 
your match with Alvarez."

    "What do you want to know?"

    He grinned.  "Every last detail."

    "Okay.  Let's see...."

    She began the story with some background:  pro athletes like 
Alvarez get top dollar to fight at AmaFlix, and at first they
regard  it as a quick, anonymous way to make several thousand
dollars -- after all, there's no way they'll sell a tape of the girl
getting  beaten up, right?  He appeared one day in his Maserati,
and made an  inquiry into fighting a match.  He wanted to get his
girlfriend and  expensive bracelet, but had just invested a huge
sum into a  developer's mall project and needed some disposable
cash.

    The contract was signed, and Teri found out about it a few 
minutes later.  It was a freestyle contest, anything goes, until 
someone submitted or was knocked out for sixty seconds.  When they 
climbed into the ring, Alvarez couldn't take his eyes off her, clad
as she was in a small white posing bikini with a red cross on the 
left breast.  He thought everything was a real joke, even after the 
match started.

    At 5'11" and two-thirty, he was an inch taller and almost forty 
pounds heavier; her considerable bustline, straining the brief 
outfit to its utmost, didn't help him take the matter any more
seriously.  She knew that he wouldn't give his full effort until 
she'd hurt him for the first time.

    Alavarez came out and poked a few jabs at her.  He was 
smirking, amused and feeling a little foolish.  She didn't take 
advantage of his low guard.  She wanted to make him realize that he 
was in a real fight, to receive his full efforts.  Her victory 
would be untainted.

    He stepped in and stuck out his face, certain he could duck any 
blow she might try.  Teri's open palm hit him in a blur that 
slapped the taste out of his mouth.  He spun against the ropes and 
went down to one knee, stinging and embarassed.

    That was the trigger she'd needed.  Alvarez, shouting curses 
about steroids and silicone, came at her.  A wild right cross 
missed, leaving his ribs exposed, so she landed a brutal punch that 
doubled him over.  That fuelled his Latin temper, and he came after 
her with a series of kicks and strikes.  Blocking the head shots, 
Teri allowed two kicks to glance off her well-armored abdomen to 
wade in close, then wrapped her arms around his torso.  He groaned 
as she applied crushing pressure, lifting him up and shaking him 
from side to side.  He had no power to attack, as searing pain shot 
through his trunk.

    Teri decided to stretch the match out, so she hurled him flying 
and stepped back, allowing him to recover.  He settled down and 
kept his distance, trying to confront her with martial arts skill,
but she again chose to absorb a few harmless blows for the 
opportunity to corner him and apply first a headlock, then--pulling 
his weakened skull between her legs--a standing head scissors.

    As she told the story, Teri noticed that Robert was transfixed, 
and, despite his injuries, sporting an urgent hardon.  Re-telling 
the story was arousing her as well, so she decided that this 
bruised, brave young man should get the best personal care she had 
to offer.

     His mouth hung open as she stood and unzipped her snug white 
skirt, allowing it to fall away.  She knew his next check-in wasn't 
scheduled for another few hours, giving her--them--the time she 
needed.  Robert swallowed hard, his heart racing as she tossed 
aside her bra and panties and described pulling Alvarez upside down 
and piledriving him.

    The combination of her soft touch and warm lips on his, coupled 
with her story, put Robert at the brink.  Sensing his condition, 
she climbed under his sheet.  Careful not to rest her full 193 
pounds on him right away, she brought him slowly within her as she 
gave an excrutiatingly detailed account of the subsequent breast 
smother and leg scissors she had applied.  Robert gasped and came, 
his semen blurting out in a wave of bodily pleasure.  She moaned 
and kissed him, crushing her lips to his, tasting his split lip.

    Between her own orgasms, Teri continued her story, knowing 
exactly how to word it to draw out and maximize their pleasure.  
She watched him transform before her eyes, as bruises faded, cuts 
mended, swelling shrank.  By the time of the conclusion--where the 
battered, exhausted Alvarez screamed his submission from within a 
head scissors/body vise combination--they were racked with a 
violent climax that left them trembling.

      As she held him, kissing and nuzzling him, he realized that
his injuries were gone.  As drained as he was sexually, his tender
body felt better than it had before Kove's attack.  His hands
explored the smooth, hard contours of her physique, and cupped her
large, firm breasts.

    "Tell me," she said, "Where are you staying?"

    "I just started college here.  I'm living in a dorm."

    Teri slid out of bed, and reached for her undies.  "Not 
anymore."  She shrugged back into her thong, pulling it high on her 
hips.  Foregoing the bra, she stepped back into the skirt and 
pulled it up.  "You're staying with me now."

    "With...you?"

    She nodded, zipping her dress up to mid-bosom, her nipples 
poking very obviously through the material.  "Yes," she said, 
pushing her bra into a pocket.  "I'll need to supervise your 
recovery first-hand.  Now here, take these."  She handed him a 
hospital gown, slippers, and some underwear.  "After you're 
dressed, I'll check you out of here and take you to my condo.  
We'll get your friends to bring some clothes, and later we'll clean 
out the rest of your stuff and haul it to my place.  Is it too late 
to get your dorm fee refunded?"

    "Um, no.  We just got there."

    "Good," she said as he dressed.  He slid the foam slippers on 
and stood.  Walking to him, she hugged him tightly and pulled his 
face to her chest.  "My brave little man," she whispered.  
"Everything's gonna be just fine now."

    Teri gave him a deep, lingering kiss, then put her arm around 
his waist.  As they walked toward the door, he said, "Y'know, I'll 
bet you tell some dynamite bedtime stories."

    Squeezing his rump, she looked down at him and said, "Yeah.  
But mine tend to keep you awake."

    Robert grinned.  "Sleep is for fags."



                        CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
                        Whare's Patricia?

     "Juh-eeezus Christ!"  Jim came charging out of the private
studio, wearing only his bicycle pants, his face distorted with
terror.  He ran up to Samantha and took her by the shoulders. 
"She's gone!"

     "What?  What are you talking about?"

     Jim waved frantically back at the private studio.  "Patricia! 
She's gone!  I mean--"

     "How do you mean 'gone'?"  This from Sunny, who was towelling
off her neck.  "'Gone' as in 'left'?"

     "No!  Gone as in...poof!  Vanished!  Outta here!"

     Elaine scurried over to the door, and looked in.  "He's right.
There's nobody in there."

     Samantha put her hand on his shoulder.  "Wait a minute, Jim. 
Calm down and tell us what happened."

     Jim dropped onto an unoccupied bench press, and took a deep
breath.  Tommie and Darlene walked over to them, the blonde
carrying the groaning martial artist.  She gently lowered him to
the soft matting face down.  Straddling his waist, she massaged his
neck and shoulders.  "Patricia and I had, well, wrestled--"

     Sunny smirked.  "You're still walking?"

     He sneered.  "It's a long story.  We finished that, and we, 
well--"

     "She jumped your bones."  This from Elaine.

     Darlene, pouting with concern, sat next to Jim and embraced
him.  "Yeah.  So, we did it, and we were getting dressed again
when...when...."

     "C'mon, spit it out," said Elaine.

     "Well...you're not gonna believe this, but this oriental guy
in a black suit just sorta appeared."

     "Appeared," said Tommie, assaulting a knot in Andrew's
trapezius.  The man winced and groaned with pleasure.  "As in, 'out
of thin air.'"

     "Yeah!  Exactly.  He...he came over to us, and bowed.  Said
his name was...Tsukata or Tsukara, something like that."  He
pointed at Elaine.  "Mike was with him."

     The brunette walked closer.  "Mike?  That's impossible.  He's
wrestling today, across town."

     "I know what I saw.  This guy, he starts telling Patricia
about this Tournament of Lethal Kombat, and how she and Mike are
gonna go fight in it.  Said it was some kind of big honor.  Before
she can say anything, he holds out his hand to her, and...she goes
stiff as a board.  Just rigid."  He shook his head.  "Then, she
starts floating or something--"

     Samantha whistled.  "Man, she must have clobbered you.  This
is getting wilder by the word."

     "I KNOW what I SAW, goddamnit!  She drifted over to this guy,
and then poof!  They're gone!"  He looked at Darlene.  "You believe
me, don't you?"

     The redhead chewed her lower lip.  "Um, well...you sound
sincere--"

     He shot to his feet.  "Don't patronize me.  Some yokel's
kidnaped Patricia and none of you believe me!"  Their faces were a
mixture of amused smirks and sympathetic frowns.  He snapped his
fingers.  "I can prove it."

     "This should be good," said Sunny.

     "Stay right here."  Jim turned and hustled out of the weight
pit, toward the video room.  He popped the door open, and
disappeared inside.

     Samantha asked, "What do you think he's doing?"

     Darlene shook her head, and they watched with anticipation. 
After perhaps twenty seconds, he came back out, holding a
videocassette.  Walking to them, smiling smugly, he said, "I
present to you exhibit 'A'."


     "My God," whispered Samantha, as they watched the monitor in
disbelief.  "He was telling the truth."

     "As if," he said, his hands on his hips.

     True to Jim's word, the scenario played out before them:  the
Oriental man appeared, Mike floating rigid beside him, and spoke of
the tournament to Patricia and Jim.  Before the blonde could open
her mouth, she was somehow frozen and levitated to him.  Moments
later, they faded from view, and Jim ran screaming from the room.

     "Oh, honey," said Darlene, hugging him and pressing her cheek
to his chest.  "I'm sorry.  I should have believed you."

     "No sweat.  I know how it sounded.  It's a good thing you
can't swing a dead cat around here without hitting a video camera."

     "So what do we do?"  Sunny looked to the group.  "I mean--"

     "What can we do?"  Samantha shut off the VCR and the monitor,
and popped out the tape.  Taking it in her hand, she said, "You saw
this as well as I did.  Whatever happened in there is beyond our
ability to explain."  She shook her head.  "Unless one of you is a
witch or something, we'll just have to hope that Patricia and Mike
come through this thing okay."

    "Cops are out of the question," murmured Elaine.  "They'd look
at that tape and think we used our equipment to make it here.  Then
they'd suspect us of doing something to them."

    "I agree."  Aaron slid his arm around Samantha.  "I have to
work with the police a lot.  They're paid to be suspicious.  Over
something like this, they'd have every right to be."

    Jim stroked Darlene's hair.  "We wait, then," he said.  "And we
hope that Tricia and Mike kick the hell out of whatever they're up
against."

    They thought about that for a moment, then Sunny smirked and
said, "Okay, I'll give you the opposition and two touchdowns."

    "Sorry," said Samantha, smiling.  "I don't take sucker bets."


    When Patricia and Mike regained their faculties, they were
standing on a terrace formed of grey blocks, set in pitlike fashion
ten feet into the ground.  The ovoid venue was at least fifty yards
across at its longest point, and sported amphitheater-style
seating.  Twenty yards distant, a temple of identical construction
rose up before them, with a tall expanse of steps leading to an
empty throne at ground level.  Carved into the roof of the temple
was an ornate scene of two serpentlike dragons, coiled around one
another and locked in mortal combat.  A bright midday sun blazed
down from overhead, offset by a cool breeze wafting in from behind. 
Standing to either side of them were more people, warriors all from
their appearance; counting themselves, they totalled eight, six men
and two women.

    "Funny," said Mike to Patricia.  She noticed he was wearing his
black tights, kneepads, and boots.  "I should be hopping mad or
something, or at least disoriented.  But I feel...."

    "Calm," she said, finishing his sentence.  "It's probably part
of the process."

    He nodded.  "So Tsukara got you, too.  I'm not surprised."

    "Yeah.  I was...finishing up something with Jim.  How did you
get taken?"

    "I was alone in the locker room.  I'd just finished a jobber in
record time for the CWA, when...."  He waved a hand.  "You know the
rest."

    They all looked forward as a gong sounded, echoing through  the
space before them.  The vibrations took some moments to fade, and
when it had disappeared completely, Tsukara faded into view before
them, reclined on the throne, wearing a tunic of black silk, and
loose pants of matching material.  His fingers were steepled.

    "Welcome," he said, smiling enigmatically.  "As the saying
goes, I suppose you're all wondering why I've gathered you here
today."

    "No," said Mike, crossing his arms.  "You brought us here for
the tournament of Lethal Kombat, like you said.  What we don't know
are any particulars."

    "These you shall have.  You're about to participate in a
contest of supreme fighting skill, to determine the greatest among
you.  You are some of the finest warriors your world has to offer,
and should be honored to be present here."

    "Excuse me," said Patricia.  "I have others within my
organization who are every bit my equal.  Why was I the only one
chosen?"

    "Because, Ms. Daniels," he said, "Our demographics suggested
that two females would deliver the most pleasing mix of sexes for
the broadcast."

    She looked perplexed.  "Demographics?  Broadcast?"

    "Yes.  Invisible to you but placed at strategic positions about
this arena are...cameras of a sort, sufficient to record this event
for posterity."  He shifted in place, then said, "You see, the
business of presenting these contests has been...fulfilling from a
spiritual standpoint, but I've recently concluded that others might
benefit from bearing witness to this display.  In fact, I've
recently arranged a very lucrative pay-per-view contract, as well
as an abundance of merchandising.  The commemorative video should
sell quite well to the 18 to 34 year old market.  And of course,
the computer game version will likely set records."

    "I don't believe it," said Mike, shaking his head.  "I've seen
a thousand episodes of Kung Fu, but I never thought I'd see a
mysterious Asian guy sell out."

    Tsukara's smile broadened.  "Mr. Anderson, being enigmatic is
enjoyable for a time, but it doesn't put water in the jacuzzi."  He
looked over the line.  "It's time we made introductions.  At this
end of the line is Abdul Mohammed Farouk, known to his fellows in
arms as Jihad."  A swarthy, hulking Arab in a traditional turban
and pantaloons glowered at them for a moment, then returned his
gaze to Tsukara.  A long, curving scimitar hung at his waist.

     "Beside him is Shakala, of the Congan Tamasi."  An angularly-
muscled black man shifted uncomfortably as Tsukara mentioned his
name.  He wore an intricately decorated shift around his waist, and
brandished a long spear.  Mike estimated his height to be well over
seven feet.

     "Hailing from Australia's famed outback is Gator Gaines," said
Tsukara, nodding to a broad-shouldered, shaggy man in torn jeans
and a sleeveless flannel shirt.

     "G'day," he said, tipping a dusty hat to them.

     "Beside Mr. Gaines is--"

     "Nikolai Gregarin!"  A muscular blonde man in a short-sleeved
military uniform stepped forward.  The trimmings indicated that he
was a member of the Spetnaz, the Soviet elite forces.  He scowled
and said, "I will win this tournament and bring this proud prize
back to the motherland!"

     Mike looked at Patricia and rolled his eyes.  "We've got a
live one here."  She giggled.

     "What?  What did you say?"  Nikolai turned and stepped to
stand inches from Mike.  "Mock me to my face, pig--"

     "Bring it on."  Mike's body began to tense for the first blow.

     "Not now, gentlemen," said Tsukara, holding up his hand.  As
if nothing had happened, Nikolai's face went blank and he took his
place in the line.  "Save this for the contest.  I will match you
both together first, I promise."

     Nodding toward Mike, he said, "This is Mike Anderson, a
professional wrestler hailing for the United States.  And beside
him is Patricia Daniels, also from America, and the proprietor of
a video fighting franchise."

     Jihad leaned forward and sneered in her direction.  "This must
be some kind of joke.  I fuck American blondes, I do not fight
them."

     Patricia's smile was menacing.  "Him first.  Please."

     "It shall be arranged," said Tsukara.  "Beside Miss Daniels is
Shang Chin, a master of several martial arts disciplines."  The man
indicated stood expressionless, wearing only loose pantaloons bound
at the ankles.  An intricate tattoo of a coiled dragon ran down the
length of his muscular right arm.

     "And finally, we have Shawnee Bloodmoon, of the Apache tribe."

     Mike looked the woman over:  she stood near Patricia's height,
and was every bit as densely muscled.  Her dark skin was
complemented by thick black hair that fell in shiny waves to her
waist.  A leather bikini-like loincover barely concealed her
pelvis, and a matching top strained to contain her abundant
cleavage.  Her knee-high moccasins and scant covering sported
decorative fringe.   Mike instantly regretted that he were meeting
this exotic beauty in a combat situation--but then again, it was
better than not meeting her at all....

     "The rules of the tournament are quite simple:  the
contestants battle until one or both are immobile.  Should the
latter occur, I will make the decision as to who is the winner."

     "Hold it," said Mike.  "Define 'immobile'."

     "Unable to continue, Mr. Anderson."

     "How far does that go?"

     Tsukara smiled.  "The victor makes that decision.  At any
rate, the champion is then to face me for the final battle."

     "That's great," said Patricia.  "Are we gonna be doped up like
what you just did to Nikolai?"

     "I assure you, Miss Daniels, that the match--like all the
others you'll have--will be completely legitimate."

     "Tell me," said Mike.  "You're set to broadcast this thing and
make a ton of money, along with t-shirts, hats, coffee mugs, and
videotapes.  Well, aside from the ultimate honor of winning and all
that crap, what's in it for us?  I can take or leave being here,
personally."

     "Oh, I have arranged for all of you--the survivors, anyway--to
receive an ample percentage of the revenue.  More importantly,
though, is that if you ever wish to return to your own world, I
must be convinced that you are giving your full efforts toward
victory.  Should you fail to convince me, you will not survive the
experience."

     "Pardon me," said Gator, removing his hat.  "Could ya define
this 'your own world' stuff?  I mean, we ain't exactly on Mars, are
we?"

     "No, Mr. Gaines, but Mars would be infinitely closer.  I have
brought you to an intervening dimension, where time moves at a much
higher relative speed.  You will return to your place of origin at
close to the time of your departure--presuming you survive.

     "And now..."  He gestured toward the seats around them, and a
huge, murmuring crowd of monks faded into view, their shaved heads
reflecting the sunlight.  Bright orange material was draped over a
shoulder, concealing them in togalike fashion.  "...let the
tournament begin."

     The world around Patricia and Mike blinked suddenly, and they
found themselves standing with the others in a line at the top of
the throne stairs.

     "Goddamnit, I wish he'd stop that," muttered Patricia.

     "You aren't the only one," answered Mike.

     "Shakala," called Tsukara.  "Gaines.  To the arena."

     The African--his spear gone--and Gator descended the steps,
and walked toward a square of blue blocks in the direct center of
the arena.  As they traversed the distance, Mike realized that
Tsukara must be mentally cueing them as to where to begin.  The men
stopped at opposing corners of the square, and faced one another.

     The gong sounded again, ringing out over the arena.  As it
faded, Tsukara spoke.  "Fight."

     The two men approached one another.  "Well," said Gator,
holding out his hand, "Here's to ya, mate.  Good luck."

     Shakala cooly regarded the profferred hand, then looked back
at Gaines.

     The Australian shrugged.  "Okay, have it your way, then."

     The crowd noise picked up as the two men began to circle,
eyeing one another, searching for a weakness.  Shakala lunged,
attempting to grapple, but Gaines ducked under and the African
stumbled out of the square.  He whipped around, his fury building,
and charged again.  Gator stepped inside his grasp and threw a
right, which connected to the negro's chest.  Staggered, Shakala
teetered as Gaines threw a left, right, left combination to the
body, putting his considerable mass behind each blow.  As he pulled
back to deliver another, Shakala swung a long arm and delivered an
open-handed strike to the side of Gaines' head.  The shaggy man
spun sideways, in danger of falling.

     The African wrapped his arms around Gaines' waist from behind
and jerked him up, squeezing the air from his lungs.  He struggled
in the tall man's embrace, desperate to escape the pain coursing
through his abdomen.  He pried at the negro's hands, but they were
locked and unyielding.

     Gator's vison began to dim as he pulled up a leg and kicked
down; the heel of his boot slammed into the African's thigh. 
Shakala screamed and released him, hobbling back.  Gaines tumbled
to the ground, clutching his body, gasping for air.

     He regained his feet as Shakala loped toward him.  The tall
man lifted him into another bear hug, but before he could cinch it
tightly, Gaines rared back and hit him on the bridge of his nose
with his forehead.  Pain shot through the African's face, and he
dropped his foe.

     The two men continued their brutal battle for several minutes.
Shakala's close-quarters attacks forced Gator to assume a defensive
posture, putting him on his heels almost the entire time.  The
African's brute strength began to overwhelm Gaines, and soon he had
the man locked into another bear hug.  It was clear to all
observers that Shakala had him at his mercy.

     "He's killing him," said Patricia, watching as Gator's eyes
began to roll back into his head.  "He won't let up."

     "Yeah," said Mike.  "We should--"

     "Stop!"  Patricia's cry was loud enough to silence the arena. 
Shakala turned to look at her, maintaining his hold.  "That isn't
necessary!"

     The negro sneered, and tightened his grip.

     "Miss Daniels," said Tsukara.  "It is the nature of this
contest.  Men die.  And you know I cannot permit you to interfere."

     Patricia pointed toward Shakala.  "You have a choice," she
yelled.  "You can claim the victory and walk away now, or you can
kill him--"  She clenched her fists, making her forearms ripple
menacingly.  "--and expect the same from me if we meet."  Her glare
left no room for doubt.  "Your choice."

     The African's muscles relaxed, as he contemplated the woman's
words.  Gator choked in what little air he could, his body
desperately clinging to life.  Patricia didn't blink, her blue eyes
cold with anger.

     Shakala chose to err on the side of caution.  He slowly
loosened his grip on the Australian, and dropped him to the floor.

     "Interesting," said Tsukara.  "I don't believe that's happened
before."  He raised his hand, and spoke in a resonating voice. 
"The winner of the first battle...Shakala!"

     A deafening roar arose from those assembled, as the African
raised his fists and flexed before the crowd.  Some minutes later,
the noise subsided, and he strode back to the throne area.  He and
Patricia met eyes as he passed, their mutual hatred charging the
air between them.

     With a glance back to Tsukara, Patricia trotted over to where
Gator lay, and felt for vital signs.  His pulse was relatively
strong, and he drew breath in ragged gasps.  To her surprise,
nothing seemed broken.

     She slung him over a shoulder, stooped to collect his hat, and
returned to the throne.  Patricia bounded up the stairs, supporting
the man she carried with no visible strain.  She lay him in the
cool shadows of the temple, and patted his cheek.

     "Hey," she said, as Gator gurgled.  "Talk to me.  How do you
feel?"

     His eyes fluttered open, and he looked up at her.  "He killed
me, didn't he?"  He chuckled.  "I didn't know angels were so
beautiful."

     She giggled.  "No, you're okay.  I got him to back off."  With
a pat on his chest, she said, "Just rest.  I'll see you later."

     As she rose, he said, "Hey blondie.  Thanks.  And best o' luck
to ya."

     "Anytime."  She winked.  "And it's Patricia."


                        CHAPTER NINETEEN
                      The Russian is coming

     Patricia returned to the main group as the gong sounded once
more.  "Mike Anderson," said Tsukara.  "Nikolai Gregarin.  Take
your places."

     "I guess I'm on," said Mike.  He winked to Patricia.  "If I
don't get through this--"

     She pulled his lips to hers, kissing him with unexpected
vigor.  They embraced, Patricia crushing her body against his, her
passion betraying her true feeling--that she cared deeply for this
extraordinary man, this rare equal.  If he survived, and were
forced to watch her enter the arena, he knew he would be in the
same apprehensive position.

     "You're gonna get through this," she said.

     "What makes you so sure?"

     "Because you know what I'll do to you if you don't."

     He chuckled.  "Good enough."  He tasted her soft lips one more
time, relishing in the sensation of her beautiful presence, then
pulled his arms back.  Turning to the big Russian, he said, "Let's
go."

     Mike began trotting down the steps.  The crowd noise suddenly
elevated; he'd spent enough time in packed arenas to know something
was amiss, and turned just as Gregarin's mass collided with his. 
Tangled, they flew off the steps and hit the stone floor hard, the
Russian landing atop him.  His vision swam as the big man began
slamming a big fist into the side of his head, pinning him under
his weight.

     "He can't do that!"  Patricia pointed frantically at the men. 
"He jumped him from behind!  They weren't even out there!"

     "It was an unorthodox tactic," nodded Tsukara.  "But, I never
told him he couldn't.  They shall proceed."

     Anger negating his stun, Mike reached up and took Gregarin by
his ears.  With a twist of his huge forearms, he dragged the
Russian down beside him, then rolled atop him.

     "You wanna streetfight, motherfucker?"  Mike's fists pummeled
down on the blonde beneath him, the sensation of bone under his
knuckles.  "Let's get down!"

     Desperate, the Russian bucked, pitching Mike forward, onto his
knees.  The both jumped to their feet, and Anderson spun as the
Russian tackled him around the chest, sending them down once more. 
They rolled over and over, pumping blows into one another,
battering any exposed body part that happened to present itself.

     Mike kicked him off, gaining some distance, and the men arose. 
They hunkered low, adrenalin numbing them to their pain, drawing
breath in gasps.  Screaming, the Russian dove at him; Mike slipped
sideways and drove a knee into his solar plexus, sending him
flipping onto his back.  He jumped straight up and twisted, and
landed on Gregarin with a corkscrew elbow.  The blonde's grunt was
the most satisfying sound he'd heard all day.

     He slid to lay opposing the man, then locked in a front face
lock, his bicep digging into Gregarin's chin.  The blonde groaned
as Mike ground in, keeping his weight over him and intensifying the
pressure.  Mike grit his teeth, his opposite hand clamped onto his
wrist, every muscle in his upper body tensed and glistening in the
bright overhead sun.

     Nikolai floundered around underneath until coming to lie face-
down, then pushed up to his knees.  He took Mike by his waist,
then, with a growl, stood, taking Mike up with him.  He turned and
lunged, and Mike hit the wall hard.  Anderson cried out in pain as
he slid partly down against the stone, releasing his hold on the
Russian.  Gregarin wasted no time, throwing lefts and rights at
Mike, scoring hits in his abdomen, chest, and face.

     "Oh Lord," said Patricia as Mike's head snapped back and
forth.  "Oh, God, he's going to--"

     Mike ducked, and Nikolai's fist hit the stone with all his
might.  He recoiled, screaming, his fingers twisted and throbbing
with pain.

     "You sonofabitch--"  Mike charged and hooked him with a
massive clothesline, knocking Gregarin down hard.  He began
stomping Nikolai, the soles of his boots battering the Russian's
chest and head, anger and pain adding to the force of his blows. 
"Commie pinko piece of shit!"

     Gregarin rolled to avoid the attacks, and Mike kept on him,
driving kicks into his exposed ribs.  He pulled Nikolai up, pulled
him into his arms, then pushed him overhead, supporting him under
his chest and crotch.  Mike grunted and threw the man tumbling to
the ground.

     The Russian rolled to his side, weak and moaning, then used
his good hand to push himself to his feet.  Mike stood ten feet
distant, watching, fuming with rage.  Pulling himself erect,
Gregarin squared his shoulders, bracing for a finishing blow.

     "Forget it," said Mike, staunching his anger.  Putting his
hands on his hips, he added, "You lost.  Game over.  Let's get some
brews."

     Nikolai looked at him with wide eyes.  "You must finish this!"

     Mike shrugged.  "What difference does it make?"  He walked
closer, to stand within arms reach of Gregarin.  "You're one
helluva fighter.  You pushed me to my limits, then got a bad break,
no pun intended.  You've got nothing to be ashamed of here."  He
extended his left, to correspond with the good hand the Russian had
remaining.  "Now come on.  Let's get this over with."

     Nikolai studied the proffered hand for a moment, dumbstruck at
Anderson's sportsmanship.  He'd jumped him from behind, he'd done
every brutal trick he could think of to gain the victory, yet the
American had won--and was now offering a gesture of friendship.

     He reached out and took Mike high on the forearm.  "Were our
positions reversed," said Gregarin, allowing himself to smile, "I
would not be so charitable."

     They released one another, and began walking back to the
temple.  "Yeah, well, I'm American.  Charity's our specialty."


     Patricia moved to Mike's side and wrapped her arms 
around him.  Kissing him deeply, she whispered, "Way to go, 
big guy."

     Mike grinned and feigned embarassment.  "Aww shucks, it 
weren't nothin' any red blooded American kid couldn'ta done."

     Patricia squeezed a little tighter and said, "Nobody 
likes a smartass."

     Before Mike could respond to that, the gong sounded 
again.  "Shawnee Bloodmoon.  Shang Chin.  Please enter the 
arena," Tsukara ordered.  The Apache maid and the Oriental 
martial-arts master moved to the blue square in the arena's 
center.  Shang Chin's barrel chest and thick arms rippled as 
he moved catlike to his corner.  Shawnee, who was about an 
inch taller than the Oriental, tied her long hair into a 
pony-tail to keep it out of her way.  The crowd noise reached 
a crescendo as the martial-arts master bowed to his opponent 
and the match began.

     Shang Chin sidled over the stones, his feet seeming to 
grip the very rock as he moved in on the Apache.  Shawnee 
crouched deeply, her arms up in a guard position as she 
awaited his approach.  Shang Chin feinted a punch and spun 
into a kick smoothly.  Equally as effortlessly, Shawnee 
avoided the kick and attacked, trying to dump Shang on his 
back.  The muscular Oriental pulled out of her reach and 
caught one of Shawnee's sinewy forearms.  A spin and twist 
drove Shawnee to one knee as Shang Chin applied pressure to 
her elbow and shoulder.

     Shang Chin smiled wickedly as he worked the hold, trying 
to weaken or dislocate the arm.  Gritting her teeth with 
pain, Shawnee worked against the pressure until she could 
push the brawny man off.  The man smiled and nodded at his 
opponent, saying, "You are strong.  But I am the master."

     Shaking her arm to restore circulation, Shawnee replied, 
"That's yet to be decided, isn't it?"  Shang Chin grinned and 
grabbed at Shawnee's arm again.  The tall Indian spun away 
and tried a side kick at Chin's chin.  He made the kick miss 
and trapped Shawnee's leg before she could recover her 
balance.  A heave and sweep of her other leg dumped Shawnee 
to the hard stone.

     Shang Chin stepped across the woman's supine body, 
locked her captive leg between his muscular thighs in a way 
that applied simultaneous pressure to her knee and hip, then 
grabbed Shawnee's arm again.  He wrapped her arm up and 
applied pressure to the elbow and shoulder, again trying to 
take her arm out of commission.  Shawnee's dark eyes 
narrowed.  A quick indrawn breath betrayed the pain Shang 
Chin was causing.  She brought her free leg up, put the foot 
in the middle of the thickset man's chest and heaved, sending 
him staggering away.

     Shawnee tried to attack while Shang Chin was off 
balance, but he recovered quickly and slipped behind her.  
slipping his arms around hers, he locked her in a double 
armbar and leaned back, pulling her shoulder blades together 
painfully.  Shawnee dropped to her knees as Chin applied 
pressure.  The husky man tried to disable his tall opponent 
again, hoping to take her arms out with the vicious hold.  
Shawnee concentrated on forcing her arms apart.  An 
expression of amazement appeared on Shang Chin's face as his 
hands were pulled apart.  Shifting his grip, Shang tried to 
hammerlock one of her arms, but Shawnee gave a convulsive 
heave and flipped him ten feet across the arena.

     Shawnee got up quickly, ready for Chin's attack.  It was 
not long in coming.  He did a forward roll to get within 
range and swept her legs again, taking Shawnee to the floor.  
He pounced on her leg and drove the knuckles of one hand to 
the inside of the knee, searching for the nerve center.  
Shawnee reached up and took him by the ears, then 
monkey-flipped him to the stone platform.  Both opponents 
rose and faced each other at the same time.

     Shawnee was panting and sweat stained her leather bra 
and loincloth.  "Okay, friend," she thought, "you've had your 
chance.  I think it's time to get serious."

     Shang Chin was frustrated, though his face remained 
inscrutable.  "How can I hurt this woman?" he thought.  
"She's slippery as a mongoose."  He got a bit careless as he 
attacked again, and Shawnee saw an opening.  She moved in as 
Shang Chin leaped into the air, tryng a flying spin kick.  
The Indian maid avoided the blow and caught the powerful 
Oriental.  Locking him in her steely arms, she spun and 
power-slammed him to the stone floor.

     Mike and Patricia winced in unison.  "Oooh, I bet that 
hurts," Mike said.  Shang Chin writhed on the ground.  
Shawnee lay atop him and locked her sinewy arms around Chin's 
head.  She grapevined his thrashing legs and pulled his face 
into her cleavage, straining with all of her might to smother 
him.  But the Oriental still had his arms free, and drove the 
knuckle of one thumb between two of her ribs, finding a 
pressure point.  Shawnee gasped in pain and rolled away, 
releasing her smother hold.

     Shawnee and Shang Chin rose simultaneously to their 
feet.  The slam had slowed Shang down a bit, and his reflexes 
were not what they had been.  Shawnee rocked him with a kick 
to his chest, driving him against the stone wall.  He tried 
to counterattack, but Shawnee ducked the expected punch and 
drove a wicked knee into his belly.  As he doubled over, 
Shawnee caught Shang Chin around the waist, heaved him up and 
drove him to the stony floor with a powerbomb.  Shang Chin 
writhed in agony from the brutal maneuver.  Shawnee pulled 
him up again, spun him around, and trapped him in a full 
nelson.  Falling backwards, she locked her granite-hard 
thighs around his body.  She squeezed hard, until she felt 
his ribs bend from the crushing power of her thighs.  Her 
biceps and forearms bulged as she strained to keep him 
captive.

     Shang Chin thrashed his legs around, trying to dislodge 
Shawnee's double hold, but he couldn't free himself.  Her 
legs were flexing and relaxing in rhythm now, as she brought 
more and more pressure to bear.  He tried to force his arms 
down to break the full nelson, but Shawnee hung on doggedly.  
He began to gasp for breath, and redoubled his efforts to 
break the hold.  "That's it, struggle," the beautiful woman 
murmured into his ear.  "You'll tire even more quickly."

     Shang Chin's efforts to free himself were having an 
unexpected effect on the Apache maid.  She felt her nipples 
stiffen in desire as the man fought to get free.  
Perspiration slickened both their bodies, making it more 
difficult to hold on.  Shawnee felt her arms slip, but before 
she lost her grip completely she rolled both of them over.  
She then released both holds and pivoted in place atop 
Shang's back.

     Shawnee locked her muscular thighs around the Oriental's 
head in a reverse neck scissor.  Shang Chin tried to pry her 
legs apart, but could make no impression on her iron-muscled 
lower limbs.  Shawnee's rock-hard inner thighs were perfectly 
positioned to cut off the blood supply to Shang Chin's brain.  
Her nipples stiffened even more with Chin's head between her 
legs, and it was all Shawnee could do to maintain her 
concentration.  Shang's vision blurred and darkened as the 
carotid arteries were crushed by Shawnee's vicious grip.  He 
tried to submit, but could only moan in pain as the Apache 
knocked him out.

     Shawnee felt Shang Chin go totally limp as he lost 
consciousness and released her hold slowly, prepared for a 
trick.  Standing up, she prodded his ribs with one moccasin, 
but he was out.  She looked up at Tsukara and said, "I 
believe this man is 'immobile' now.  I claim victory."

     Tsukara said, "I agree.  The winner of this bout -- 
Shawnee Bloodmoon!"  The woman nodded in satisfaction and 
picked up her foe, who was beginning to revive.  "What do you 
intend to do, Ms. Bloodmoon?"

     Shawnee smiled and replied, "I intend to totally conquer 
this man.  Is there anyplace a little more -- secluded -- 
where I can take him?"

     Tsukara nodded at one of the monks, who motioned at 
Shawnee to follow him.  Mike and Patricia smirked at each 
other as the Apache woman carried her trophy off.


     The monk showed them to a well appointed chamber.  There 
were soft cushions on the floors and scented candles provided 
a soft light.  Shawnee thanked the man and carefully knelt on 
the cushions, placing her burden down softly.

     Shang Chin slowly regained full consciousness.  He was 
lying face down on something soft and silky to the touch, and 
practiced fingers were easing his pain.  He turned his head 
and saw the long, blue-black hair and lovely features of his 
opponent.  Shawnee smiled at him.  He saw that she was naked, 
and realized he was too.

     "Welcome back," she said softly.  Her soft lips 
descended on his and she kissed him deeply.

     The martial arts master rolled onto his back and looked 
up in puzzlement.  "What -- I mean -- what happened?"

     "I won," Shawnee replied.  "Now, I claim you.  You are 
mine, to do with as I wish."

     "What if I -- resist?"

     "I've beaten you once.  You have been weakened.  I don't 
believe I would have any trouble beating you again."  She 
smiled again and continued, "But I hope you won't resist.  
You fought well and honorably.  There is no need to be 
ashamed.  We can give each other much pleasure, or we can 
inflict more pain on each other.  Choose."

     Shang Chin smiled faintly.  "I believe I choose 
pleasure.  You are a great fighter.  I feel no shame."

     "Good," Shawnee said.  She caressed him softly, and 
Shang saw her nipples stiffen as he brushed his fingers 
lightly across her thigh.  They lay side by side.  Shang 
lowered his head to her magnificent breasts and nuzzled at 
their fullness, suckling at her dark aureolae.  Shawnee 
stiffened as waves of pleasure engulfed her.  She found his 
prick and was pleased that he was as aroused as she.  She ran 
her fingers lightly up and down the shaft, her thumb rubbing 
at the tip, and Shang moaned in pleasure.  Shawnee brushed 
his penis across her pubic mound, and Shang shuddered with 
ecstasy.  Sensing that he was near exploding, she pressed 
down firmly on the head of his prick until he could control 
himself again.

     She rolled them so Shang was on his back and she was 
straddling his torso.  His calloused thumbs slid gently 
across her stiffened nipples, and she felt herself about to 
come.  She thrust herself down on him, impaling herself on 
his engorged cock.  They came within seconds of each other, 
the universe exploding around them as they shivered in 
delight at the feelings coursing through them.  When they 
were spent, Shawnee lowered herself so she was laying on 
Shang's muscular chest.  Her fingers idly traced the dragon 
tattooed on his arm while he enjoyed the feeling of her hard 
body against his.

     Shawnee flexed her muscles, gently massaging Shang's 
cock which was still inside her.  She felt it harden again as 
Shang pulled her face to his.  Their tongues jousted for 
supremacy momentarily before Shang surrendered and Shawnee's 
tongue probed deeply into his mouth.  They climaxed again and 
again, bringing each other to further and further heights of 
rapture...


     They lay face to face on the silk, content for the 
moment.  Shang Chin murmured, "I've never been conquered in 
that way before.  I must admit, it is closer to heaven than I 
have ever been."

     Shawnee smiled and replied, "I also am enjoying the 
interlude.  I suppose I should go back and find out who my 
next opponent will be, but I don't seem to have the energy."

     "No energy?" Shang Chin said quizzically.  "Perhaps I 
can help remedy that."

     He touched her in a certain place and Shawnee felt 
herself becoming aroused again.  "Well, I have more than 
enough energy for THAT..."



                         CHAPTER TWENTY
                        An Arabian Night

     Tsukara watched Shawnee carry Shang Chin away, then 
turned back to the remaining competitors.  "Patricia Daniels.  
Jihad.  You are next."

     The thickset Arab shoved past Patricia and led the way 
to the arena.  He moved to his corner and removed his 
kaffiyeh. revealing thick, black hair.  "I will make this 
short, but not merciful," he sneered at the blonde.

     Patricia sniffed at the air.  "Hey, Ali Baba, is that 
your camel I smell?  No, I guess it's you."  Jihad scowled 
and inflated his chest.  "Ooohh, I'm scared," laughed 
Patricia, as she flexed her prodigious biceps.  She shook 
back her mane of honey blonde hair and waited for the signal.

     The crowd roared as the gong sounded and the snarling 
Arab leaped at Patricia, determined to destroy her quickly.  
The blonde calmly stepped to one side and Jihad flew past.  
He stopped quickly and spun to face her again.  Once again he 
charged like a maddened bull, and Patricia avoided his rush.  
"Ole!" called Mike with a grin.

     "I will stomp you into the ground!" snarled Jihad as he 
made ready to attack again.

     "Big talk, buster.  We'll see who stomps who!"  This 
time Patricia met the big man's attack head on.  They crashed 
together chest to chest, their fingers seeming to twist 
together by mutual consent as they engaged in a traditional 
test of strength.  Jihad had about two inches of height and 
fifty pounds on Patricia, and he tried to use the resulting 
leverage to force her arms down.  But the muscular blonde had 
other ideas, and she easily matched Jihad's grip.  Their 
biceps swelled and their forearms rippled as they fought for 
dominance.

     "Infidel bitch!  I will destroy you!"

     "You sure your camel's not around?  The closer I get to 
you, the more I smell camel shit!"  Jihad howled in rage and 
tried to head-butt Patricia.  She avoided his attack and 
increased the power of her grip.  She could feel Jihad 
weakening and began to roll her wrists, bringing painful 
pressure on the Arab's hands.

     In desperation, Jihad brought up a knee between 
Patricia's legs.  Searing pain shot through the blonde's body 
and she dropped to one knee, releasing Jihad's hands.  Jihad 
brought his knee up again, this time right under Patricia's 
chin.  Her head snapped back and she was flung several feet 
away.  The back of her head struck the hard stone floor, and 
she was momentarily stunned.

     Jihad was quick to press his advantage.  He twined his 
fingers into Patricia's blonde locks and brought her to her 
feet.  He drove his forehead into hers, disorienting Patricia 
further.  He threw her back first into one of the stone walls 
and Patricia gasped in pain.  Smiling cruelly, Jihad smashed 
his big fists into Patricia's body, weakening her abdominal 
muscles.  The battered woman slumped to the ground.

     Picking her up bodily, Jihad crashed Patricia down 
across his upraised knee in a vicious backbreaker, then let 
her collapse to the hard ground again.  Picking her up by the 
hair once more, Jihad spat in Patricia's face, growling, 
"Now, infidel bitch, I will end this!"

     Mike growled and started for the stairs, but something 
held him back.  "No, Mr. Anderson," Tsukara's voice echoed in 
his mind, "you must not interfere."

     Jihad lifted Patricia and delivered another backbreaker 
and let her fall to the stone.  Then the Arab wrapped his 
powerful fingers around Patricia's throat, sneering down into 
her face.  "Die, American bitch," he growled.

     Patricia fought to keep her throat open and was able to 
get a small breath of air.  Her back hurt, her belly ached, 
and her crotch burned.  She looked at the dark, hateful face 
above her and thought, "I've had about enough of this."

     She drove her powerful arms between Jihad's, breaking 
the choke hold.  A convulsive heave and she threw the big man 
off.  She got to her feet as Jihad attacked again.  "You 
should have stayed down.  My victory is inevitable," he 
boasted.  Jihad leaped at her, but Patricia caught his head 
and dropped backwards.  Thrusting a foot into his belly, she 
monkey flipped him down to the stone floor.  Jihad landed 
hard, the wind driven from his body.

     Patricia got up slowly and worked the kinks out of her 
back.  She felt a knot on her forehead where Jihad had driven 
his head into hers, and her throat ached.  "I think you've 
had enough fun for one day," Patricia told Jihad as he 
struggled to his feet.  She grabbed an arm and returned the 
favor by whipping him back first into one of the stone walls.  
Jihad moaned in pain and slumped to the floor, his legs 
splayed out wide.  Patricia picked him up and pressed him 
over her head, then tossed him to the arena floor.  Jihad hit 
hard, and skidded several feet.  The rough stone removed 
several square inches of skin.  Shakily he climbed erect, 
only to be met by a brutal clothesline that sent him crashing 
to the floor again.  He rolled to his hands and knees, and 
Patricia kicked him viciously in the ribs.  He flew several 
feet and hit another wall, where he crouched, barely 
conscious.

     "Just practicing my field goals.  Three points for that 
one, I think."  Patricia was now completely recovered and in 
the mood for revenge.  She picked him up again and secured a 
full nelson.  Her biceps bulged as she pressed Jihad's head 
forward.  "You like to head-butt people, don'tcha?" she 
asked.  "Ever tried it against granite?"  She drove Jihad's 
forehead into the arena wall.  The big man would have fallen 
but for the brawny blonde's hold.  She pulled him toward the 
center of the arena and lifted him off his feet.  Jihad 
howled in agony as his shoulders were almost pulled out of 
their sockets.  Patricia dropped him, and Jihad crumpled to 
the floor.

     The big Arab was yanked up again by the tough American 
woman.  A brutal kick to the belly doubled Jihad over, and 
Patricia wrapped her muscular arms around him and picked him 
up.  With a sudden heave she held him back down across one 
thick shoulder.  His body was being crushed between 
Patricia's brawny arms and hard shoulder.  Jihad moaned in 
pain as the pressure on his back increased, until it seemed 
he must break in two.  Patricia shifted her grip and let 
Jihad slip into an inverted bear hug.  Now she was 
pulverizing him between her thick, muscular chest and her 
sinewy arms.  The air was forced from his lungs as Patricia 
increased the vise-like pressure.  Finally, a bit bored with 
the proceedings, she dropped the breathless man to the 
ground.

     Jihad lay there writhing in pain.  Patricia took a 
handful of his matted hair and pulled him more or less 
upright.  She whipped him into the wall again, face first 
this time, and drove her big fist into the Arab's kidney.  
Jihad's back bent like a bow, and he fell backwards to the 
ground where he lay moaning.  Flipping him to his belly with 
her foot, Patricia captured Jihad's arms and yanked them 
painfully behind him, at the same time planting a foot in the 
middle of his back.  The intense pain from the surfboard hold 
had Jihad screaming in agony.

     After a few minutes Patricia released the man's arms.  
Jihad tried to crawl away from his tormentress, but Patricia 
dropped on him knees first.  The savage impact drove all of 
the air from Jihad's lungs and the rest of the fight from his 
battered body.  Patricia sensed the difference as she wrapped 
her steely thighs around the Arab's torso.

     Patricia rolled onto her back, pulling Jihad with her.  
Locking the man's face into one sweaty armpit, she grabbed 
Jihad's near wrist with her other hand.  Stretching his arm 
across her body, she tensed her rock hard abdominal muscles 
until a little more pressure on Jihad's wrist would snap his 
arm.  She flexed her sinewy thighs, cutting into the man's 
ribs.  Pulling back on Jihad's head, she pulled down with her 
legs as well, stretching Jihad's body as if it were on a 
rack.

     Patricia flexed her prodigious bicep, cutting Jihad's 
air off.  He flailed his free arm around, but the Herculean 
blonde held him easily.  She tensed her muscle-laden thighs, 
feeling the man's ribs bend.  After a minute or so Jihad's 
arm dropped limply to the ground.  Patricia held the beaten 
man for a few more seconds, then released him and stood up, 
raising her hands in victory.

     Tsukara proclaimed, "The winner of the fourth match, 
Patricia Daniels!"

     Patricia looked down at Jihad as if making up her mind, 
then turned and climbed from the arena, leaving the Arab 
there.  Mike wrapped his arms around her and kissed her.  
"Easy, big boy, I'm kinda sore," she protested, then returned 
his kiss with equal passion.

     "There will be a one day rest period before the second 
round matches," Tsukara announced.  "You will be attended 
to."  Then he stood and vanished.


     "Nice digs," said Mike, looking over his quarters.  The monks
had taken the fighters into Tsukara's temple, leading them through
the stone corridors until arriving at the chambers they were to
use.  He now stood within a lavishly appointed room, adorned with
plush furnishings and decorative tapestries.  "Better than Motel 6,
that's for sure."

     Two of the monks remained with him, both female and, to his
surprise, with bobbed black hair.  The only people he'd seen in
Tsukara's employ thus far had been bald.

     "We are your attendants, Mr. Anderson," said the girl to his
left.  "I am Rhela."

     "And I am Nhela," intoned the other.

     "Nice to meet you."  Both women were caucasian-featured, with
the perky, adorable faces he had a special fondness for.

     Rhela took his hand, and led him to a padded table.  "Please,
lie here," she said, and he did as bade.  To his surprise, they
tugged away his boots, pads, and trunks, leaving him naked.

     "Um, would you please define 'attendant'?"

     They smiled mysteriously as they produced tubs of water, cloth
rags, and bottles of oils.  Rhela pushed him to lie flat and moved
behind him.  She took his wrists in her small hands and stretched
his arms over his head, allowing Nhela an unobstructed view of his
bruised body.  He twitched and shifted as Nhela poke and probed his
wounds, but to his shock he found that he could not budge his arms. 
Rhela leaned over and whispered, "Do not be alarmed.  We are simply
caring for your injuries.  Try to lie still."

     Nhela cleaned his skin with the soaps and water, and rinsed
his hair and scalp with a scented fluid.  They took turns
administering the medicinal oils, one keeping him pinned while the
other rubbed the ointments into his welts.  Mike was troubled by
the awesome strength of the girls:  when they held him immobile, he
could not free himself in any way.  It was also strangely arousing,
as reflected by his throbbing, thickened shaft.

     His embarassment turned to shock as Nhela took his penis in
her hands and began to caress it.  Her palms and fingers were
coated with a fluid that sent a menthol tingling into his skin,
intensifying his arousal.  She took him within her mouth, and
worked his member until he erupted, fiery pleasure wracking his
body.  The woman never ceased, swallowing his discharge and
continuing her ministrations, while Rhela smothered him with
kisses.

     Switching postions on occasion, the women triggered several
successive climaxes, more than he'd have been capable of were it
not for the poultices they'd used.  Throughout the session, he
noticed his bruises and wounds fading until completely gone.  Once
healed, they gave him a total-body rubdown, their deceptively
powerful hands kneading each muscle until it was like pudding.

     Mike wasn't entirely certain how much time they took, but when
they completed the massage he was sprawled over the table in an
exhausted heap.  The only muscle in his body that was till rigid
was his unflagging penis, which despite their earlier attentions
was threatening to rupture his skin.  He heard them disrobing, and
when they reappeared over him they were naked.  Both had hard,
slender bodies, with sleek muscle tone and full, raised breasts.

     "And now," said Rhela, pulling him into her arms, "we do
something about your favorite muscle."  She hefted his weight
easily, and brought him to a wide, canopied bed.  He sank into the
mattress, and they crawled on with him.

     For the next several hours, Mike found himself caught in a
precision sexual machine, the girls rolling and maneuvering his big
body at will to maximize his pleasure.  His body responded as if he 
hadn't had sex in months, both women using a mixture of techniques
to enhance the experience.  When finished, they lay with him for a
while, nuzzling and kissing him tenderly.  No words were spoken as
they held one another, basking in the afterglow.  Exhausted and
satisfied, he drifted into a peaceful slumber.


     He awoke with the sensation of something warm and heavy atop
him.  His eyes fluttered open see Patricia, lying across him, her
head resting on his chest.

     "Tell me," she said, her expression dreamy.  "Did anyone else
just receive the same incredible fuck that I did?"

     "Lord, Patricia."  He embraced her, and she scooted up to be
face-to-face with him.  "Words can't describe it."

     "I know.  These two monk girls, Nhela and Rhela, they socked
it to me."

     "Funny.  They worked on me, too."

     "Really?"  Patricia was wide-eyed with surprise.  "H-how could
they have been in two places at once?"

     "You're asking the wrong person.  All I know is that some
truly strange things happen around here, and that our perceptions
of reality don't seem to mean much."

     "I guess you're right."  She reached behind her, between his
legs, and grabbed his member.  The menthol tingling began again,
and he was fully, painfully erect moments later.  "Just as I
thought.  Do you...wanna see what's left down there?"

     Mike leaned forward, sitting them up, and began kisssing her
breasts.  "Lady, that's like asking a lush if he wants another
bottle of cherry ripple."  He rolled atop her, and said, "And trust
me, you are the sweetest wine of all."

     "Mmmm," moaned Patricia as his lips trekked downward over her
body.  "Poetry is such a turn-on."



                       CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
                    This Kombat can be Lethal

     The four remaining contestants for the tournament of 
Lethal Kombat found themselves once again standing before 
Tsukara's throne.  "I trust you have all taken advantage of 
the amenities and are fully refreshed," the Oriental murmured 
with a slight smile.  Mike and Patricia glanced at each other.  
Each wondered if there were any cameras set up to film things 
other than the action in the arena.  "In any case, it is time 
for the second round.  Patricia Daniels.  Shakala.  To the 
arena, please."

     Patricia followed the tall African to the floor.  Once 
again the seats were filled and the crowd was murmuring 
excitedly.  The blonde wondered exactly how she'd fight this 
giant -- at least a foot taller, very strong and vicious, to 
say the least.  "Play it by ear, I guess," she thought as she 
took her position.  The gong sounded and Patricia offered her 
hand, as Gator had, to the big Tamasi tribesman, but he 
disdained to accept it.  Extending his long arms, Shakala 
moved purposefully toward his foe.

     Patricia circled to her right, alert for any opening 
Shakala might give her.  She knew that the African's reach 
advantage might give her problems.  She darted in to drive a 
kick at Shakala's belly, but he coolly grabbed her foot out of 
the air and heaved, sending her down on her back.  Patricia 
rolled into a full back somersault and came up again ready for 
Shakala's counterattack, but the tall man patiently waited for 
her to approach again.

     On the platform, Mike watched the battle with some 
apprehension.  Shakala was tough as nails and quite ruthless, 
as he'd proved against Gator, and had a considerable reach 
advantage.  Shawnee watched the battle with total 
concentration, knowing that if she won her fight against Mike 
she'd be facing the winner of this match.  She looked for any 
conceivable weakness as the fight continued.

     Patricia tried several punches and kicks, but was 
frustrated by Shakala's enormous reach advantage.  He easily 
deflected blows that could have crippled him if they landed.  
As Patricia stepped in to attempt another punch, Shakala 
struck quickly.  He landed a wicked punch to Patricia's chest 
before she was in range to connect.  The force of the blow 
sent her staggering backward.  Shakala was quick to press his 
advantage, driving a callused foot into Patricia's belly.  She 
was able to absorb some of the impact with her abdominal 
muscles, but the sheer force of the kick drove her backwards 
into the wall of the arena.

     Shakala grabbed his shaken opponent and pulled her into a 
face-to-face bear hug.  His ropy arms twined around Patricia's 
body as he lifted her off her feet.  Patricia felt her ribs 
bend and she knew she couldn''t last too long.  Her arms were 
free, and she drove simultaneous chops to Shakala's ribs, 
forcing him to release her.  The big man took a long step back 
out of her range before she could follow up.  Shakala smiled 
and said, "I will crush you eventually, woman.  No one can 
stand against me for long."

     Patricia ignored his taunt and probed for an opening, but 
Shakala fended off every attack.  She to use her speed and 
agility to slip around behind him, but Shakala spun to face 
her.  Frustrated, Patricia leaped in at her foe but Shakala 
caught her and threw her to the ground.  Patricia hit hard, 
and Shakala was on top of her before she could recover.  He 
smashed his bare foot hard into Patricia's belly again, 
doubling her up.  Another kick, this one to the head, nearly 
knocked the blonde unconscious.  Shakala hauled Patricia up 
and draped her over his shoulders.  Spinning around several 
times, he tossed the dizzied woman to the ground again.

     Patricia was completely disoriented from the airplane 
spin.  Shakala picked her off the ground and pulled her into 
another bear hug.  This time he was behind Patricia and her 
arms were trapped inside his.  Triumphantly Shakala said, "Now 
I will crush you!  You are finished!"

     Patricia battled to draw breath past the constriction of 
Shakala's sinewy arms.  She clenched her fists and slowly bent 
her arms, flexing her powerful biceps.  Straining mightily, 
Patricia forced Shakala's arms away from her sides enough so 
she could breathe again.  Screaming incoherently, she slowly 
powered her way out of the hold.  When she stood on the ground 
again, she suddenly ducked and reached between her legs, 
grabbing Shakala's ankle.  She quickly stood up again and the 
tall Negro was dumped on his back.  Twisting the leg, she 
forced Shakala to his stomach and wrenched his leg into a 
Boston half-crab.  She strained to put all the pressure she 
could into the hold, but Shakala's long legs gave him a 
leverage advantage, and he straightened the leg, throwing 
Patricia off in the process.

     They both regained their feet at the same time.  Patricia 
moved in quickly and drove a hard punch into Shakala's belly, 
driving him back a step.  She tried to follow up with another, 
but Shakala backhanded her in the head, his knotted fist 
sending her tumbling across the arena.  As she stood up again, 
Shakala wrapped his arms around her once more.  Lifting her 
off her feet, Shakala smiled down at her as he tried to crush 
Patricia yet again.  The blonde knew she wouldn't last long in 
the tall man's deadly embrace.

     Patricia's arms were inside Shakala's and she was able to 
snake her arms around the tall man's body.  Locking her hands 
behind his back, Patricia began to apply her own bear hug.  
After several seconds, Shakala's grip slackened and Patricia's 
feet found solid ground once more.  Her powerful arms bulged 
and she could feel Shakala weakening as her strength took its 
toll.

     The tall man brought both fists down on her broad back.  
Patricia gasped in pain and tried to increase the pressure of 
her arms, but Shakala smashed his fists down twice more and 
Patricia couldn't maintain her grip.  She released Shakala and 
stumbled backwards.  Before she could get out of the huge 
man's range, however, Shakala's foot smashed into her belly.  
It drove her backwards into the hard stone wall.  Patricia's 
head hit the solid rock and she nearly lost consciousness. She 
fell forward just as Shakala stepped in and raised a bony 
knee.  It hit her chin hard and Patricia crumpled to the arena 
floor.

     Shakala knelt astride the dazed blonde and wrapped his 
huge hands around her throat.  His forearms rippled as he 
tried to choke the life out of Patricia.  Her blue eyes began 
to glaze over, and Shakala bared his teeth in a savage grin, 
believing he had won.  Patricia had other ideas, however.

     Desperately hanging on to her last shred of 
consciousness, Patricia grabbed at Shakala's wrists.  Her 
steel-trap fingers dug painfully into the Negro's tendons as 
she tried to loosen his death grip on her throat.  Shakala 
snarled and redoubled his efforts to crush Patricia's 
windpipe.  For several seconds the two warriors struggled, 
their immobility belying the enormous forces involved in the 
battle.

     Slowly, her prodigious arms bulging with the effort, 
Patricia forced Shakala to release the choke hold.  She fought 
to turn over, forcing Shakala to his back.  The African 
wrapped his long legs around her just below her ribs and he 
applied enormous pressure, trying to scissor her back down.  
Patricia stood up slowly, her legs shaking with the effort.  
She picked Shakala's upper body up with her, then suddenly 
drove forward and down, smashing him against the arena's 
unyielding floor.  Shakala moaned and his scissors was loosened 
but not broken.  Patricia picked him up again and repeated the 
brutal maneuver.  This time Shakala's ankles unlocked and 
Patricia was free.

     Now she was close enough to do some damage.  She dropped 
all her weight, knees first, into Shakala's belly, smashing 
the air from his lungs.  Picking the tall man up, she smashed 
him across her knee in a savage backbreaker.  The African 
moaned in pain as Patricia repeated the brutal maneuver, then 
dropped Shakala to the ground and fell atop him.  She turned 
Shakala onto his belly and spun so his head was between her 
powerful thighs.  Locking him into a reverse head-scissors, 
Patricia squeezed with all the strength she could muster.  To 
Shakala it felt like his head was caught in the steel jaws of 
a huge vise, and someone kept closing them tighter and tighter 
around his skull.  Patricia poured every ounce of energy into 
her legs.  Shakala knew he wouldn't last long in this hold.

     With a near-superhuman effort Shakala got to his hands 
and knees, then rose to his feet, picking Patricia up as well.  
She wrapped her arms around Shakala's middle, adding to his 
pain, but the tall Tamasi was able to withstand the pressure.  
He turned his back to an arena wall and stumbled backwards, 
driving Patricia into the hard stone again.  Patricia couldn't 
maintain her grip, and she fell to the floor.  Fortunately for 
her, she was able to get her arms down before her head hit or 
she would have been out.

     Shakala crumpled to the floor as well, nearly spent.  
Patricia's tremendous condition allowed her to recover before 
the tall African, and she got shakily to her feet.  Shakala 
had made it to one knee when Patricia clotheslined him 
savagely from behind, her brawny arm catching him perfectly in 
the back of the neck.

     Shakala's face smashed to the floor.  Patricia picked him 
up and turned him head downward, then smashed his shoulder 
down onto her upraised knee.  Shakala screamed as his shoulder 
was dislocated.  Dropping the man again, Patricia wrapped her 
titanic thighs around his torso.  Slipping a muscular arm 
under his chin, the powerful woman secured a sleeper.  Shakala 
thrashed around like a fish out of water as he tried to throw 
her off, but Patricia would not be moved.  Every muscle in her 
body seemed etched from the same granite as the arena floor 
and sweat gleamed on her bulging sinews as she cut off the 
blood to Shakala's brain.  His good arm fell limply to the 
ground and he stopped moving as he completely lost 
consciousness.  Patricia maintained the hold for another 
half-minute to make sure he wasn't shamming before releasing 
him and climbing wearily to her feet.  The crowd roared as she 
raised her hand in victory.

     "Our first finalist -- Patricia Daniels!" Tsukara 
announced.

     Patricia slowly climbed out of the arena as two monks 
carried the beaten Shakala away to revive him.  Mike assisted 
her up the last several steps and hugged her.  "Oww!  Watch it 
there, guy, I'm kinda sore!"

     "Sorry -- but you were terrific!"  He kissed her and 
smiled.  "Now I guess it's my turn."

     "Yeah.  Good luck."

     Mike glanced to Shawnee, who was analyzing him with cold
precision.  He knew the raven-haired woman's mind would be focused
on one thing only:  his defeat.  "Thanks.  I believe I'm going to
need some."


     Mike and Shawnee stood facing one another on the blue stones,
the surrounding crowd murmuring in anticipation.  Her dark eyes
smoldered as she flexed and unflexed her fists.

     "Hey," said Mike, extending his hand.  "Good luck.  I mean,
I'm gonna fight to win, but...I wish you well."

     She squeezed his hand warmly.  "I wish you good fortune also,"
Shawnee said.  "I've looked forward to our encounter.  I will enjoy
your conquest afterward."

     He kissed the back of her hand.  "One step at a time, young
lady."

     The gong rang suddenly, echoing through the arena.  The sound
faded, and Tuskara spoke.

     "Fight," he said.

     Shawnee jumped and drove her stony shoulder into his
midsection, bowling him over, then lifted her knee into his chest. 
Mike was knocked flying, and he landed hard on his back.  She
leaped and landed astride him, then coiled her thick legs around
his trunk.  The hold was firmly set when she reached forward and
pinned his wrists to the ground.

     "Damn it," he gasped as she applied excruciating pressure. 
"Why don't I ever land the first blow?"  He knew Shawnee would be
strong and skilled, but had had no idea her power would be so
immense.  Given that she'd proven to be as talented a warrior as
anyone else present, he knew he was in for another punishing fight.

     Mike bucked and jerked, until managing to roll atop her.  He
gave her a head butt, knocking them both silly and making her
release him.  They staggered to rise, shaken and dizzy.  She came
to her senses first, and flattened him with a clothesline.  His
head bounced off the stones, further disorienting him, and she
pounced on him once more.  Stunned and desperate, he flailed and
fought, as she searched for another hold to apply.  To her
surprise, his legs clamped down under her armpit and around her
opposite shoulder.

     "Yeah, you women ain't the only ones who can do that hold
shit!"  Mike bore down, using the respite to regain his faculties.

     As time wore on, the sweat from their bodies slickened their
skins, and Shawnee began to slide free.  Sensing that he was losing
the advantage, Mike unhooked her, and both participants rolled to
stand.  The Apache maid worked her neck and arm around to loosen
them, while Mike massaged the back of his bruised skull.
     They rushed together and collided, fingers interlocking,
chests pressed tight.  Mike noticed that her nipples were hard
points against his skin, even through the leather top she wore.  He
found it impossible to gain leverage, and soon she was bending his
wrists back, overpowering him.  Son-of-a-bitch, he thought as he
dropped to one knee.  That's it!  No more tests of strength with
any women over the age of twelve!

     Shawnee jerked him up suddenly.  Releasing one hand, she
locked it around his wrist and whipped him hard into the nearby
stone wall.  He gasped, his eyes losing focus as Shawnee charged
in.  She leaped and rammed her knee into his chest, then pulled his
head down between her thighs.  She lifted him up, his body
jackknifed over, and power-bombed him to the stone floor.

     He grunted as she drove her knee into his stomach, over and
over, the leather of her tall moccasin doing nothing to lessen the
impact.  She gave him no time to recover, as she pulled him up and
put him in a side headlock.  Her huge bicep drilled into his face,
numbing it.  With a fierce cry, Shawnee took five running steps,
leaped, and bulldogged him face-first into the rock surface.

     Mike writhed in agony as she studied him, searching for the
right way to end the match.  Shawnee lay across him and locked her
legs around his head, cinching in the same hold that had beaten
Shang Chin.  He tried futilely to pry her legs apart, but knew
after the first pull that it was hopeless.

     His vision became clouded with flashing lights as her vise-
like thighs bore down, complemented by her brawny arms around his
waist.  In desperation, he managed to roll over, then struggled to
his knees.  Shawnee applied furious pressure as he staggered to his
feet, and turned to face the wall.  He lunged and rammed her body
into the stone, then a second time, then again, until her grip
weakened.  He spun and landed atop her, and she unlocked him,
grunting.

     Mike slumped against the wall, recuperating, while she
struggled to rise.  His instincts told him that he'd have to go for
the knockout, as he'd absorbed most of the damage in the contest,
and wouldn't be able to stand much more. Granted, he was better
built to endure punishment, but Shawnee was every bit Patricia's
equal in strength and skill, and could chop him down as he'd seen
her do to Shang Chin.  He'd have to make his next moves count.


     Shawnee felt herself being elevated in his arms, held across
his chest.  He spun in place and power-slammed her to the ground,
stunning her.  Pulling her to her feet, Mike entertwined his arms
in hers, locking in the cobra clutch.  Shawnee cried out as he
arched back, taking her off the ground, hanging on with what little
energy he had remaining.  She was stronger than he--that much was
painfully obvious--and he fought desperately to keep her contained. 
His only chance was to keep her off her feet and deny her the
leverage to use her awesome power, something Shakala had thought
unnecessary when he'd faced Patricia.  Stunned as she was, Shawnee
came close to breaking his grip; it took several seconds for her
struggles to cease.

     Thank God, thought Mike as he unlocked the hold.  He slumped
to his knees and draped her over his shoulder, sucking in lungfuls
of air.  While he'd taken greater punishment, his hold had been the
equalizer.  Gotta be careful, he thought, and stood.  I can't
always expect the Clutch to pull my fat out of the fire.

     Mike shifted Shawnee, to hold her bride-style in his arms.  He
turned to face Tsukara, and said, "Game over, I think."

     "Indeed," said the Asian man.  "The winner of the match:  Mike
Anderson!"

     Mike carried Shawnee back as the crowd roared its approval. 
His whole body throbbed with pain, and he knew that he'd been lucky
to still be concious, much less the victor.  Patricia joined him as
he re-entered the temple.

     "Great match," she said as they stopped.  "She almost had
you."

     "Yeah.  I got lucky.  I felt like I was fighting you all over
again."

     Patricia stroked Shawnee's thick hair.  "So beautiful," she
murmured, then looked to Mike.  "What now?"

     "Now, I drop Shawnee off at her quarters, and I go find Rhela
and Nhela and beg 'em for a special session."

     "Me, too," she said.  "Then I think I'll track down Gator."

     Mike nodded.  "Give 'im a big wet kiss for me."

     "Ewww."  Patricia shivered.  "I'll kiss 'im, but not for you."

     "No sense of humor."

     Their lips met passionately.  Parting, she said, "We're
supposed to fight tomorrow."

     "Yeah, but I'm not gonna.  You can have the tourney for all I
care.  You're my friend, and I'm not--"

     "Neither am I," she said.  "I'm fed up, too.  Tsukara can go
fuck himself."

     He smiled and adjusted Shawnee in his arms.  "Sounds good to
me.  We'll break the bad news to him tomorrow."

     "Yeah."  With a nip at his chin, she said, "Later."

     "Later."  Patricia strode away, and Mike started walking
again.  "Oh, Rhela," he called.  "Nhela!  Table for two."



                       CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
                    Fun between the matches

     Patricia found Gator lying face down on a long, padded table,
his trapezius muscles being vigorously massaged by an attendant. 
She moved quietly beside the masseur, and nudged him aside.  The
transition of hands on the Australian's muscles was smooth and went
unnoticed.

     "Hrmmm," he groaned, shifting in her grasp.  "Losin' wasn't
fun, but the consolation prize is right oustandin'."

     "Yeah," she said.  "I was thinking of putting one of these
little bald guys on retainer."

     He opened his eyes at the sound of her voice.  "Blondie--er,
I mean Patricia!"  Smiling, he said, "You've got a great set o'
hands."

     "Thanks.  I like to think my technique is pretty superb." 
Pressing down on his spine, she said, "Of course, I have other
techniques you'd like much better."

     Gator's eyes went a little wider.  "I ain't gonna touch that."

     "Oh, yes you will."  She rolled him to lie on his back.  "I
insist."  He watched as she leaned over, and pressed her lips to
his.  Parting, she said, "You look a little surprised."

     He shrugged.  "Yeah, well, I ain't complainin', mind ya, but
you're awful easy on the eyes, and I ain't exactly Robert Redford."

     Patricia shrugged, her hands sliding down to his broad chest. 
"Ida know.  You remind me of someone.  He isn't Robert Redford
either, but pretty boys turn me off anyway."  She batted her huge
blue eyes at him.  "Still interested?"

     He laughed and pulled her closer.


     A knock came at Mike's chamber as he sloshed some wine into a
glass.  He corked the decanter and walked to the door.

     He opened it to see Shawnee, standing with her arms crossed,
her weight shifted to one foot.

     "May I...come in?"

     He pulled the door wider and made an entry gesture with the
glass.  "Please."  Mike closed the door behind her, and she turned
to face him.  "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

     She stood quietly, looking him over, holding herself by the
elbows.  Mike sensed that she was experiencing a tumult of emotions
stemming from her defeat.  He tried to think of some way to break
the uncomfortable silence between them, but decided to let her
initiate whatever discussion would follow.

     "You beat me," she said.

     Mike sipped his wine, then nodded.  "Yeah.  For what it's
worth, I didn't want to--"

     "I'd never been beaten before in my battles," she said.

     "Oh.  Well, I've dropped a few in my time, so don't feel too
badly."  He gestured to the wine table.  "Would you care for
some--"

     "You carried me back."

     He smiled.  "Not to be insensitive, but are you going
somewhere with this?"

     Shawnee broke eye contact, then took a step closer.
"You...carried me back.  After defeating me."

     "Yeah.  It seemed the polite thing to do."

     She was in obvious conflict about something, and he struggled
to conclude what was causing her such confusion.  Yes, he'd won the
match, but it had been a close, difficult struggle, and she
certainly had to realize that it could have gone either way.  He'd
taken her back to her chamber in the temple, where attendants had
applied poultices to her bruises and bathed her.  He wasn't proud
of the victory--the whole damned tournament was something he could
live without--but he suspected that it meant a great deal more to
her than he knew.  Nonetheless, she seemed hung up on the fact that
he'd carried her back after winning.

     In a flash of insight, it hit him.

     When a woman defeated a man and carted him off afterward, it
almost always signified that she was going to complete her
conquest.  He never imagined that it worked both ways, and that she
might be confused, and perhaps even offended, that he hadn't
finished the cycle.  Shawnee was exotic, exquisite in her beauty,
and he realized that she was probably troubled by his apparent lack
of interest in her.

     It made sense.  But if he were wrong, and she were simply
angry with him, then he'd be singing soprano the second he tried to
make a move.

     He decided to chance it.  Mike placed his glass on a nearby
counter, and walked toward her.  Her body trembled as he stroked
her cheek with a finger, brushing his thumb over her full lips.

     "You are so lovely," he said, tracing his finger down her
chin, then between her breasts.  "I wish I'd had a chance to
properly romance you.  I'd've spared no expense--"

     Shawnee tackled him with an embrace and kissed him, moaning
with passion and longing as she crushed her lips to his.  He hoist
her into his arms, her legs sliding around his waist, and carried
her to his bed.

     No more words were spoken for hours afterward.  The warriors
made love with hunger and urgency, abandoning all inhibitions,
moving instinctively between tender exploration and pounding
intensity.  They brought one another to climax after climax, each
orgasm a wave of white-hot pleasure.  Her screams of ecstasy
mingled with his groans as they writhed, sopped with sweat,
frantically driving toward each sensual peak.

     As if by mutual signal, they collapsed together, hearts
pounding, heaving for breath.  Mike mustered the energy to rise
from the bed, and drew a tub of cool water.  He scooped Shawnee's
depleted body into his arms, and brought her to the bath.  They
reclined within, her lying against him, as he slowly cupped water
in his hand and poured it over her.

     "Well," he said, kneading her breasts in his hands and slowly
stroking her nipples, "I'd put that one in the top five."  She
moaned and nuzzled more comfortably against him.

     He slid his right hand lower, over the steel washboard of her
abomen, and she draped her lower legs over the sides of the tub. 
Mike snaked his fingers within her, and gently probed her cavity
while rolling her clitoris between his thumb and forefinger.  She
bucked and writhed, squealing and kissing him, her back arching,
driving her jutting breast into his palm.  He lost count of her
orgasms after a dozen, each striking within seconds of one another.

     Shawnee moaned as he washed her body with soaps and oils.  He
made each motion a sensual exploration of her smooth skin.  Her
long, thick hair required special attention, as he carefully worked
sweet-smelling shampoo through her tresses and massaged her scalp.

     After a rinse, it was her turn.  She cleansed him with the
same lazy, loving care, alternating between kisses and scrubs on
his body.  Once he'd been thoroughly bathed--and aroused--she eased
him back and took him within her mouth, her lips sliding up and
down his shaft, nipping and licking him with the same technique
that she'd thrilled him with in bed.  She mouthed him with thirsty
vigor, working through his climaxes, repaying him for his previous
kindness.

     Mike lay trembling in the tub, his balls and related plumbing
aching.  She stepped out and towelled off, then helped him out and
dried him.  Scooping him into her arms, she smiled and said, "Yes,
Mr. Anderson, I'd put this evening in my top five as well."  With
a kiss, she brought him to the bed, and lowered him to it.  Shawnee
crawled atop him and nestled her damp hair under his chin, her
hard, heavy body pressing him into the mattress.  "Now you need
some rest.  You've got a big day coming up."

     "That's an understatement," he murmured, as he felt himself
lapsing into sleep.  And if it's anything like the evening I've
just had, he thought, then I'm  a dead man.




                      CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
                 Talk about split personalities!

     The day was typically bright and clear as Patricia and Mike 
strode down the temple steps, to take their places before 
Tsukara.  The crowd, already summoned, was murmuring with 
anticipation as the warriors found their positions and turned to 
face the throne.

     "The moment of truth nears," began the Asian man, smiling.  
"The victor of this match will advance to challenge me for the 
greatest prize of all--"

     "Um, excuse me," said Patricia.

     Tsukara raised an eyebrow, unamused.  "Yes, Ms. Daniels?"

     "We've...decided not to fight."

     He quietly regarded them, considering her words.  "You 
realize what you're sacrificing.  This opportunity is extended to 
only a few."

     "Yeah, well, I know that."  She took Mike by the elbow.  
"But I can't -- won't -- compete against a friend here, not this
way.  You kidnaped us, and forced us into this tournament under
threat of duress.  I was willing to continue out of my fear of
the consequences, but no more."  She smiled as Mike slid his arm 
around her broad shoulders.  "It's over."

     "What she said," said Mike.

     "An interesting choice," said Tsukara.  "But one I provided 
for.  This will be an excellent chance to demonstrate the 'buddy' 
option for the home game."

     "I don't understand," she said.

     "You will."  Tuskara arose and stepped in opposite 
directions; to their amazement, he split before their eyes, 
separating into identical versions of himself.  The men moved to 
stand on either side of the throne.

     "I shouldn't be surprised," said Mike.  "It's not like he 
hasn't been doing that kind of shit since we got here."

     "No kidding."  Patricia slid against him.  "I guess we're 
fighting after all."

     "Yeah."  They took a step back as Tsukara's clones trotted 
down the stairs with light steps, the black silk top and pants 
ruffling in the breeze.  They moved to stand back-to-back as the 
duplicates surrounded them.

     "I wish you good fortune," said both versions of Tsukara, 
pressing their knuckles together.  They steepled their 
forefingers and bowed.

     "Good luck," said Mike to Patricia.  "If I'm done early, 
I'll--"

     "Ditto," said Patricia.

     The gong sounded, and the fight began.

     The Tsukaras moved with blinding speed; Patricia took a 
powerful crescent kick to the jaw, sending her stumbling sideways, 
while Mike caught a spinning sidekick to his chest that knocked
him sprawling onto his back.

     "Damn!"  Patricia deftly flipped back to stand, watching
her opponent as he circled her.  Tsukara -- her Tsukara -- was 
moving around her with light steps, his hands and arms in a 
constant swirl of configurations.  She was vaguely aware of Mike 
grunting in pain and slamming to the ground again, but shut it 
out, focusing on her antagonist.  Patricia was well aware that if 
she didn't pay complete attention to her foe, she'd be in no 
position to help her friend later, much less survive.

     The Asian shot in and rained a sequence of blows into her 
face; the shots send pain lancing through her, snapping her head 
back.  She attempted a wild swing, but Tsukara leaped away.  He 
returned to strike her repeatedly in the abdomen, the surgically-
placed punches finding the chinks in her armor and doubling her
over in agony.

     She cursed and drew herself upright, trying to follow his 
movements.  If she could just get her hands on him, she thought.  
He can't be invulnerable, or there'd be no point to the 
tournament.  But he was just too fast....

     She gasped as she saw Mike tumble down behind her opponent, 
his face bloody, his body already streaked with bruises.  The big 
man staggered to his hands and knees, dark red drool oozing from 
his mouth.  Her Tsukara feinted, drawing her attention back, and 
she braced herself to charge, to try anything to make contact.  
She tensed--

     Mike threw himself around the legs of her clone, his 
enormous arms siezing Tsukara's thighs in a death grip.  
"Patricia!  Hit 'im!"

     The deadly blonde was in motion before he could finish 
speaking.  Screaming, she propelled herself forward with her 
awesome legs, and caught the immobilized Tsukara in the neck with 
the mother of all clotheslines.  He was torn from Mike's grasp 
and sent flying head over heels.  With a satisfying thud, he 
landed face-first on the stone floor.

     Mike wheeled, expecting a blindside attack; to his surprise, 
his opponent was in an identical posture on the ground, as if it 
had suffered the same fate.

     Then he realized that it HAD suffered the same fate.

     "Look!"  Mike pointed at his opponent.  "He can split to 
attack separately, but--"

     "But they take damage as one!"  They exchanged a high-
five.  "Good move!"

     "You'd've thought of it."  He nodded toward her clone, who 
was trying to push himself up by his arms.  "Do me a favor.  Slap 
him into the Daniels body vise.  Squeeze his fucking lungs out."

     Patricia sauntered over, and stood over the man.  She sat 
down suddenly, driving his face back into the stone.  "Ooh, you 
mean this widdle thing?"  Her iron thighs coiled around the man, 
and she pulled his arms back by the wrists.  Moments later, both 
clones were screaming in agony.

     "Yeah," said Mike kneeling beside her.  "Are you sure your 
legs are in the right spot?  You want 'em right between the hips 
and ribs--"

     "Of course they are."  She jolted the man, applying intense 
pressure.  "You don't think I'm gonna take it easy on 'im, do 
you?"

     Mike wiped some of the bloody drool from his face, and 
smiled.  "Yeah, you just keep on screamin', pal.  My friend here 
ain't lettin' you up for another couple of hours.  I'd be 
surprised if you had a rib left to your name."  He scooted down 
to crouch before him.  "Boy, that's GOTTA hurt.  I mean, I've 
felt it before, and I'd rather be stuck in a car crusher!"  He 
slapped Tsukara's face, already etched with pain.  "Sucks, don't 
it?  I mean, just a minute ago you were eatin' my lunch, and now 
you're guts are on fire!"  He backhanded him, noting in his 
peripheral vision how the clone was screaming and reacting 
identically.  "This is great!  Stereo body scissors!  You aren't 
getting tired, are you?"

     Patricia rolled her eyes.  "Puh-leez.  I can keep this up 
until Jesus comes."  She leaned forward.  "And bad boys like you 
get the FULL treatment."

     Mike crawled over beside her.  "I'll bet I can get you to 
squeeze even harder."

     She snorted.  "Oh yeah?"

     He drew his face closer.  "Yeah."  He planted crushing kiss 
on her lips, which she returned with vigor.  Her whole body 
tensed as she tightened the hold.  He moved behind her and began 
stroking her, sliding his hands over her shoulders, then
under the half-shirt to knead her breasts.  He sent his fingers
lower, to caress her thigh, while kissing and gently biting the
nape of her neck.

     A few seconds later, she screamed, the cry coming from the 
back of her throat, an orgasm rocking her body in time with the 
pulsation of her thighs and the sensation of his hands and mouth 
on her body.  She gasped as he drew back, and looked at him.  
"Don't stop now, you son-of-a-bitch!  Things are just getting
interesting!"

     Mike nodded toward the unattended clone.  "I think it's 
over."  Mike's opponent was completely limp on the cold stone
floor of the arena.  Correspondingly, the double of Tsukara that
she held was motionless.

     "Yeah.  I guess you're right."  She unlocked her legs, and 
stood.  "We win."  She threw herself against him, pulling his
face down for a deep kiss.  Parting, she said, "But if and when
we get back, you're gonna pick up where you left off."

     "Count on it -- what the hell?"  Below them, Tsukara -- both 
versions -- had vanished.  They turned, and high above, on the 
throne, he sat looking down at them, smiling.

     "Impressive.  You figured it out."  He made a forward motion 
with his hands, and Shawnee, Gator, and the others began filing 
out on either side of the throne.  They descended the steps and 
formed a line to either side of Mike and Patricia.  "It is 
official.  Patricia Daniels, Mike Anderson--you are the winners 
of the Lethal Kombat tournament."  The audience, which had 
watched in stunned silence as they bested Tsukara, stood and 
roared their applause.

     "Very interesting solution," said Shawnee, turning to face 
Mike.  "I see my ministrations focused your thoughts."

     "That's one way to put it."  He leaned over and kissed her.  
"Whoever said 'no sex before a fight' was full of shit."

     It took the clapping and cheering some time to subside.  
Once done, the onlookers took their seats, and a pair of monks 
clad in purple sashes stepped forward from beside Tsukara's 
throne.  They held pillows in their outstretched hands, atop 
which sat glittering objects.

     "You shall now receive the final reward," said Tsukara.

     "Stock options, I hope," murmured Mike.

     The monks padded down the steps, and moved to Mike and
Patricia.  On the cushions were ornately carved amulets, fashioned
of palm-sized diamonds.  The disks featured an inset of the
interlocked dragons, one of polished gold and the other of
sparkling silver.

     "Lord, it's beautiful," said Patricia as hers was placed 
around her neck.  She gently took it in her hand and let the 
sunlight play against it.  "Just beautiful."

     "Yeah," said Mike, regarding his.  "Almost makes it 
worthwhile."

     "It is done," said Tsukara.  "You'll all be receiving 
correspondence soon regarding merchandising and such.  Marketing
has assured me that we're due for a landslide of orders once the 
event is broadcast."

     "Wait," said Mike.  "You mean it hasn't even been shown 
yet?"

     "Of course not.  As I explained earlier, time moves more 
quickly here.  Three days have passed in the space of two hours in 
your native dimension.  But we've had time to edit the event 
into a cohesive whole, and include the effects required of such a
production."  He gestured toward them, and a series of glowing
portals burst into view, each shimmering at the borders.  Through
them were different scenes:  Shakala stood before a lush green
jungle, while Jihad regarded the shining sands of a desert. 
Gator's notorious outback was present, as were the mesas and bright
colors of Shawnee's home.  "Now you may return to your places of
origin.  And prepare yourselves for next year's tournament.  It
will be even more glorious."

     Shakala and Jihad wasted no time.  With a fleeting glance 
toward Patricia, they jumped through their gates and were gone.

     Mike walked to Nikolai, and they shook hands.  Red Square
loomed before him, the Onion Towers visible distantly.
"Dosvidanya, comrade," said the Russian.  "Our paths will cross
again."

     "Count on it.  Best of luck."

     With a nod, Nikolai darted through, and the portal closed.

     Mike returned to Shawnee, who stood waiting.  "This is the 
part I didn't want to think about," he said, cradling her face.  
"I don't--"

     "Fine.  I'll come with you."

     His eyes opened in surprise.  "Y-you mean it?"

     "Of course.  I haven't had this much fun since we opened 
the casino on the reservation."  She took one of his hands and 
kissed the palm.  "Even if I could keep you off my mind, I don't 
think my body's ready to give you up just yet."

     "The feeling's mutual."  Mike nodded past her.  "I think he
wants to say something to you."

     Shawnee turned, to see Shang Chin standing before her.  
With a slight smile, he clasped his hands and bowed.  She grinned 
and returned the gesture.

     "It was an honor -- and my pleasure -- to know you," he said. 
"You fight with strength and courage."

     "As do you," she answered.

     As the Asian straightened and moved toward his gate, she
caught him by the wrist and pulled him back.  "I don't think so,"
she said, gripping his waist tightly.  "You're coming with me." 
The shocked man pulled at her forearm for a moment, then realized
it was hopeless.

     "Wow," said Mike.  "The Chinaman's getting Shanghaied!"  
They looked at him blankly.  "You know.  He's from China, and 
Shanghai's in China, and -- and --"  He waved his hand toward them.  
"You guys have no respect for bad puns.  None."

     "Ready, people?"  Patricia and Gator were poised before the 
gate.

     "Hey!  He's coming too?"

     "Yeah."  She put her arm around his waist.  "I promised 
to fly him home on a regular basis.  I told him about AmaFlix and 
he seems eager to give it a try."  Given the gorgeous blonde 
grafted to his side, Mike had little trouble understanding why.

     "Sounds good.  Okay, folks, let's form a line here."

     Shawnee dragged the hesitant Shang Chin over and shoved him
through the gate, following closely behind.  Mike then entered,
before Gator put a hand on his hat and hopped in.  Patricia stepped
toward it, then looked back at Tsukara.

     "Be seeing you," she said.  "Can't wait to give you another
big hug."

     He smiled.  "Rest assured, you will receive the opportunity."

     With a wink, she jumped through and vanished.


     When she emerged, the group was already being set upon by 
the AmaFlix regulars, who were shoving through the ropes into the 
private ring she'd been taken from.  Elaine had Mike in a death
grip, and was kissing him with urgent passion.  Sunny and Tommie
were pressed against Gator, while Maya was calming Shang Chin in
fluent Mandarin Chinese.  With Mike preoccupied, Shawnee was
chatting with Samantha and Darlene; Patricia noted that the
three women seemed nearly identical in height and proportion, and
given that the Native American woman's match with Mike had been
as close as her own, she suspected that AmaFlix had acquired yet
another elite competitor.

     "'tricia!"  Crusher scrambled into the ring and threw his 
arms around her.  He lifted her and they kissed, deeply, 
lovingly, Crusher allowing his true feelings to storm to the 
surface.  She curled her legs around him as he ran his fingers 
into her hair.

     "Oh, lover," she said, nearly breathless.  "That's the way 
to welcome a girl home."

     "I was, y'know, worried," he said, stroking her broad back.  
"I mean, we just didn't know anything, and...."  His chest 
convulsed once, and tears collected in the corners of his eyes.  
Tightness gripped her at the sight of him.  The only other time
he'd cried was during his defeat at her hands, after she'd taken
his mask and humiliated him in the ring.  Now, he was shedding
tears for her, making no pretense of his feelings.  Inadvertently,
she'd dug past the machismo and aggression polluting his soul and
found his heart.

     "Don't worry, honey," she whispered, her lips close, wiping 
his eyes with her thumbs.  "It'll take more than some flaky out-
of-this-world tournament to keep us apart.  You're stuck with 
me."  She drove home the point with another kiss, this one a 
slow, tender exchange, underscoring the sincerity of her words.

     Patricia pulled her face back, to see most of those 
assembled watching and smiling.  "Okay, folks," she said, 
grinning, squeezing Crusher gently with her legs.  "Mike and the
rest of us have a wild story to tell you.  Everybody -- and I mean
everybody -- get your things together, because we're going to my
place for a pool party.  It'll help us properly greet the 
newcomers."  At the sound of that, Sunny and Tommie squeezed
Gator between them, while Elaine and Shawnee flanked Mike.  Maya, 
Sabrina, and Akira were now closer -- much closer -- to Shang
Chin, and he was noticeably tense.

     "Hey, folks," came Jim's voice from behind them.  He was on 
the floor outside the ring, holding an open cardboard box 
bearing the interlocked dragons of the Lethal Kombat tournament.
"Look at this stuff!"  He removed a handful of videotapes, which
he put on nearby seats, and took out one of several poster tubes. 
He took a poster from within and allowed it to flow open,
revealing a central shot of Patricia, standing tall and square,
framed by several pictures of her battles in the tournament.
"This thing is packed with coffee mugs, t-shirts, even some kind
of plate from the Franklin Mint!"  As he rolled the poster back
up, he asked, "I'm guessing that this is somehow related to your
vanishing act."

     "You guess correctly," she said.  "This is great.  Now I can 
pack you into my home theater and show you the tape.  I just put 
in a Bose sound system."  She waved her hand toward him.  "Okay,
folks, help him pack that stuff back up and let's get on the road!"

     As the group filed out, Patricia, still attached to Crusher, 
leaned over and kissed his cheek.  "Hey, you weren't really all 
that worried, were you?"

     "Hell yes, I was worried!  I mean, I had no clue what coulda 
happened to ya!"  Balancing her weight carefully, he hopped down 
to the floor.  "Made me mad, not bein' able to protect ya."

     "You're sweet."  She cuddled against him, nestling her head 
on his shoulder.  "And later tonight," she whispered, her breath
moist and warm against his skin, "I'm gonna suck you like a 
lollipop."

     He chuckled.  "It's good to be sweet, I guess."