Mike Faricy: Bombshell

“All right,” Jimmy called, “just like always follow me, stay close, let’s go.”

They rolled out of the hallway and I could hear the growing roar of the crowd as they skated into the auditorium. I waited for a minute or two, then knocked on the locker room door. When I didn’t hear anything I opened the door and called into the room.

“Anyone in here?”

All I heard was the crowd overhead and the unintelligible voice of an announcer. I walked into the locker room and sat on one of the benches. I looked around at the individual locker areas. It was and wasn’t like other locker rooms I’d been in. The sinks and showers were at the far end, white hexagonal tile on the floor with glazed brick walls. I thought I could hear some water dripping, all that seemed to fit.

I heard the national anthem playing overhead.

Maybe it was the various frilly lace items hanging from hooks, or the fact that the room smelled reasonably nice. Maybe it was the thousand dollars worth of hair care products on the upper shelf of each locker area. I don’t know, there didn’t seem to be that sense of abandoned litter and trash so common in men’s locker rooms. I’m not sure any of the girls in here would ever get snapped with a wet towel or have their clothes stolen while they were taking a shower.

I heard the crowd roar overhead and more muffled announcer commentary. The bout must have started. There was a big part of me that wanted to watch Spankie and the Bombshells take on Harlotte Davidson and the Hastings Hustlers. Instead I was down here guarding a locker room full of woman’s underwear.

I thought about stealing all their towels, maybe adjusting the showers so they just sprayed cold water. Then thought maybe it would be a better idea if I didn’t play the clown for once and just made sure they got out of town without an incident.

Overhead the crowd continued to roar.

I think I may have dozed off, again, but I couldn’t be sure. Either way, I jerked my head up just as the door opened and a number of red faced, sweaty women rolled into the locker room.

“Bloody hell,” someone screamed and flung a helmet across the room.

“We’re getting our bleeding arses handed to us,” another shouted.

I figured it was probably inappropriate to ask how things were going. The place suddenly took on that familiar locker room smell.

“I’ll kill that redheaded American bitch,” Emma growled, rolling in the door. She shoved one of the girls aside, repeatedly slammed her helmet against the cinderblock wall, then turned and glared at me, the only American in the room.

“Dev,” Jimmy called from the door. “Join me out here for a bit.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice. I headed for the door, giving Emma a wide berth.

She glared at me as I retreated to the safety of the hallway.

“How’s it going?” I asked Jimmy once the door closed behind me. I had to talk over the cat fight coming from inside the locker room. You could hear the girls swearing and screaming at one another on the other side of the door. It sounded like they were about to kill one another.

“Seems to be going our way at the moment,” Jimmy shrugged.

“You kidding? God, I’d hate to be around if they were having a bad day.”

“Just letting off some steam.”

“Could have fooled me.” I said.

“They’ll get over it.”

I recalled my daydream about hiding in the locker room and jumping out when they were all in the shower. They’d do more to me than just cut off a finger.

“Anytime now, gentleman.” The same guy called down the hallway a few minutes later.

Jimmy knocked on the locker room door, and then called, “It’s time ladies.”

After a moment the girls rolled out, lined up behind Jimmy just like before, only now they were a lot sweatier.

“Good luck, Fiona,” I said to Harlotte.

“The crowd really likes me,” she said, then smiled and shrugged back.

I nodded at a couple of other girls, Emma was about four women back. She did not look happy. I decided to give her a dose of my personal charm.

“Good luck, Em…”

“Piss off, Yank,” Emma grabbed me by the neck, spit on me and shoved me against the wall.

I pushed back against her boobs with both hands. It was just a reaction nothing intentional. She rolled backwards into the wall, then charged right back at me and gave a Karate kick. I tried to block the kick by grabbing her leg and pulling it past me, forgetting she was on wheels.

Her eyes widened when her supporting leg rolled out from underneath her and she shrieked as she went down, bouncing her head off the concrete floor. Fortunately she was wearing her helmet. As she hit the floor a large loud “Uff” came out of her mouth. She laid there, eyes wide as I stood over her still holding her ankle.

A number of her teammates screamed. Jimmy turned round to see what the commotion was. Harlotte rolled against the far wall, mouth open and eyes wide.

“Are you mental? What the hell are you doing?” Jimmy screamed.

Clearly I wasn’t thinking.

“For God’s sake, let her go, you stupid bastard, let her go,” he screamed.

I let go of Emma’s ankle and it dropped to the floor like a lead weight, eliciting another “Uff,” when it hit the concrete floor.

One of the ladies hit me over the head with her helmet, someone else kicked me with her roller skate and suddenly things went black.

“So let me get this straight, Miss Felicity Bard, all one-hundred-and-seven-pounds of her and on roller skates, asks you to please not bother her. And you decide it would be funny to fondle her? Squeeze her breasts? Then when she reacts, attempts to fend you off, you turn the thing into a full blown assault, that about right?”

We were in the security office of the auditorium, a cinderblock room painted grey and devoid of any windows or personality. There was some sort of a hand written manning roster taped to the wall next to last year’s calendar.

I was sitting on a desk chair with wheels, my hands handcuffed behind me. A fat guy in a matching grey uniform sat on the edge of the desk leaning over me. He was a sergeant named Wayne, according to his nametag, and he had been reading me the riot act. I knew he was a sergeant because his iron-on patch read Security Sergeant.

Detective Norris Manning leaned against the wall behind him, arms folded, eyes sparkling, enjoying the show. He occasionally cracked his gum and never stopped smiling.

“Look, with all due respect, Sergeant,” I emphasized the last word. “I don’t have to answer you. You’re the security guard at a now empty auditorium. You’re not the police.” I looked past him. “I haven’t been read my rights,” I called to Manning.

“We’ll get to that soon enough, douche bag. Far as I can tell the sergeant here is just doing his job. He pursued and detained an abusive individual, you. That same individual, you, was involved in an assault on a young woman earlier tonight, one Felicity Bard, AKA Emma Babe.”

“Come on, assault? It was self-defense, there were witnesses.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right, there were witnesses. Seven, Sergeant, is that correct?”

“Seventeen,” Sergeant Wayne replied, he continued to stare down at me then rubbed his right fist into the palm of his left hand and glared some more.

“And they were all witnesses? To an assault?”

“You got it. They all signed statements saying this jerk attacked that little English girl down in the hallway outside the visiting women’s locker room.”

“Lurking outside a woman’s locker room, sounds predatory,” Manning smiled.

“I want my lawyer,” I said.