BRICKTOP by Chopper Lang

It all started this morning when I found out that the boy I’d taken home last night from the club where I work as a bouncer had cleaned out my cookie jar to the tune of two grand. Sure, he was cute, and a good lay — the little bastard was hung like the clapper from the Liberty Bell and rang my chimes five times in one night — but two Gs is a hell of a lot to pay for five Os, especially when you live on red beans and rice and re-use tea bags a lot like I have to do most of the time.

Then when I get to the gym, Dutch tells me I’m six months behind on my ring fees and he can’t let me train no more until I pay up. 

“But, Dutch, “ I say, “You know I got a fight with Babyface Nayland in two weeks. That’s a pro fight. Big money. Win or lose I can pay you everything I owe you and a year in advance.” 

I didn’t dare tell him about being robbed. That kinda thing happens to me way too often. I got a history of being a sucker for pretty boys with sticky fingers. Dutch woulda laughed me out of the gym. And the worst part was, I’d had a good chunk of that two thousand ear-marked to give to dutch today. That little punk ruined everything.

Dutch looked sympathetic, but not sympathetic enough. “Sorry Bricktop. You know you’re my best girl, but it’s been six months.” 

“Aw, Dutch, have a heart.” 

“I got a heart. I also got a stomach, and I can’t eat promises.” 

Twenty minutes later I was down the street at the White Horse Inn, drowning my sorrows in Guiness just like my daddy taught me, when a guy came up to me. 

Guys don’t usually come up to me in bars. I’m a little intimidating. You gotta get to know me a little before you find out that I’m a pussy cat. It’s my looks that does it. I’m six two like I said, and built like a granite shit-house. I weigh in at 220 fighting fit and it’s all muscle. Well, okay, about ten pounds of it is tits, but the rest is rock hard meat. My shoulders are so wide I practically gotta turn sideways to get through a door, and my thighs are bigger around than my waist! On top of all that she-beast is a mess of flaming red hair — hence the name Bricktop. It’s really Maureen (after O’Hara, but that’s an old story), nobody’s called me that in years — which I mostly wear in a pony-tail to keep out of the way. My face looks like one of those Russian heroic-worker statues; square jaw, high cheek bones, and a nose that’s seen better days. The only things that keep me from being downright revolting are my tits, which ain’t small, and still stand up all by themselves, my butt, which is as big, round, and hard as a couple of basketballs, my eyes, which are green and have long dark lashes, and my lips, which have been compared favorably to Angelique Jolie’s.

“You’re Bricktop Brodigan, ain’t you?” He says.

“Depends who you are.” 

“Well, I’m the guy whose got a money making proposition for Bricktop. Name’s Sparkplug Oswald. If you ain’t Bricktop maybe you can tell me where I can find her.” 

I gave him the once over. He was a greasy little squirt in a loud suit and a snap brim hat, with a pencil-thin moustache that I bet he thought made him look like Clark Gable. He was closer to John Waters. I didn’t know him from Adam.

“If it’s got anything to do with you or me getting naked, you can catch a cab back to munchkin land, shorty.” 

“Hey, I’m big where it counts, sister! But that ain’t what I’m after. I’m promoting a fight tomorrow night. Bare knuckles. Four Gs to the winner.” 

Four Gs! That would just about set me right, but it was impossible. “No can do, sport. I fight in a non-sanctioned bout they’ll yank my licence, then bang goes my title shot and my whole damn career.” 

“Not a problem, sweetcakes, we’ll put you in a wrestling mask. Call you the Masked Mauler or something. Nobody’ll know it’s you.” 

I laughed. “Buddy, there ain’t two girls built like me in the whole country. A mask ain’t gonna help.” 

“Sure it will. People might think they know who you are, but they ain’t gonna be able to prove it.”

I still didn’t like it. Tiny saw me thinking and leaned closer. I could smell his hair oil. “Tell you what, I’ll make it six thou if you win and a two thou guarenteed win or lose. Now whaddaya say?” 

Well, I knew it was a bad idea, but six thou! If I didn’t get money somehow I wouldn’t be able to train for my fight with Babyface and I wouldn’t have a career anyway. 

“Alright, Short Stack, you talked me into it.” 

He grinned. I didn’t like his teeth. He had too many of them. “Good. Be at the Sleepytime Matress factory on 26th and Howard at midnight tomorrow night, and come alone.” 

“You can count on that.” No way was I bringing witnesses to this shin-dig. “Who am I fighting?” 

“The Hooded Hoodlum.”