James Linus Walcott entered the tournament, as he did every year, in spite of his age. He loved the adrenalin rush and the camaraderie at these events. The sports auditorium in South Central Miami housed a full-sized basketball court with four wrestling arenas beyond the north end basket. With the basket stands removed, the hall opened into a much larger space. The spectators at these unsanctioned, open Martial Arts tournaments liked to get down close to the action. Ignoring the bleachers, they linked arms to prevent the crowd encroaching on the fighter’s space. Ninety-six contestants, four of them women, had arrived to try to win a cash prize. Second prize was nothing but a bruised ego. A woman had never won a contest before, in the seventeen-year history of the event.

Walcott’s first opponent was a tall, toned blonde-haired woman. They faced each other in the Judo arena. They bowed respectfully to each other.  They circled for a few moments then engaged. The woman was the same height as Walcott, so that was no advantage. He was giving away around thirty-five years but they were packed with experience. Walcott felt confident. They exchanged a few flicks and kicks, a few pulls and twists but nothing came of it for a couple of minutes. Neither of them had scored. Walcott felt it was time to use one of his well-tried tricks. He stood upright and adjusted his judogi, the loose fitting jacket. He deliberately left the right side front loose from the belt, offering a grip and hence a scoring throw opportunity.

The woman moved in close, her eyes glanced down at the jacket, Walcott had her hooked. She would lean to her left and reach low for the loose fabric, then he would strike, rolling her onto her back for a winning ippon. What happened next astounded everyone who was watching. The woman did indeed move low and left but she moved in really close, struck her right arm between Walcott’s legs and lifted him clear of the mat. She held him at chest height, pulled him tight to her upper body and simply fell forward. He landed flat on his back on the padded mat. Her right hand maintained the grip between his legs, her left arm held tight around his neck. She embraced him into an ippon, holding him still for fifteen seconds. There was nothing Walcott could do apart from kick his legs uselessly into the air.

They broke, separated, bowed and shook hands. They smiled, each knowing that tricks are fine as long as the other guy hasn’t seen them before. Charlie had seen them all. Walcott sat on a bleacher and watched the remainder of the tournament with a sense of wonder, of history about to be made. The bouts continued according to weights, skill levels and belt colours. Eventually the open rounds began. No holds barred and serious efforts made to win each bout. Walcott watched the woman win her next four bouts without a score against her name.

One or two questionable throws appeared as the bouts progressed but that was normal at these unofficial tournaments. They allowed different disciplines to highlight their skills to each other. Occasionally things turned ugly but it never went beyond a few choice words and a well-timed throw. The preliminary bouts were restricted to those practicing the same art. The crowd greatly enjoyed the later bouts. Watching a Karate expert take on a Judo or Tae Kwan Do expert was always fun to watch.

The blonde woman and a hard looking ex-police academy instructor contested the final of the Judo. Vincent De la Hoya enjoyed the status of second favourite to win the tournament. Much to everyone’s surprise, it turned out to be the ex-cops last appearance in the ring that day. They circled each other for a few seconds until Charlie launched a high kick to his head with her right foot. He saw it coming; she practically telegraphed the move when she shuffled towards him. He swiftly dropped his head and torso, moving forward and left, towards her oncoming kick, easily avoiding the blow. Sadly, for him, he missed something; he did not see her other foot clip him behind the knee of his supporting leg. He crumpled as his knee collapsed under the impact. He knelt briefly on the mat. As he pushed himself up from the non-scoring knock down, he sensed rather than saw the rush beside his head. The woman was airborne, grabbing his head as she passed his crouched and unbalanced figure. She kept her hold on his head, toppling him backwards, and flat on his back. It was fast, had force, was powerful and she showed wonderful control. He sprang off the mat but he only made about three inches before the woman landed flat on his upper body, an arm and both legs spread wide to flatten him back onto the mat. Charlie landed with all her weight concentrated on her right elbow. It hit him on his sternum, she restrained herself from applying all the force she had available; she did not want to hurt him too much. Charlie followed with a lightning fast, straight, hammer-fist blow to his throat, pulling up a millimetre short of his Adam’s apple. The judge gave her the unconventional ippon after just thirty five seconds.

The semi-final took longer, almost three and a half minutes. Her Asian Tae Kwan Do opponent towered over her by at least a foot. She had never faced anyone so tall. She paused, took stock, talked to club members, strategized then entered the ring. Judo would probably lose against Tae Kwan Do in this case; he enjoyed such a reach and height advantage. Facing her opponent, Charlie adopted his own techniques, much to the surprise of the spectators. They assumed her area of expertise to be Judo. Charlie watched him closely, observing every move he made as he shaped up for an attack.

Charlie stepped in close, arms raised, as if to strike at his torso. He deflected her blows easily, forcing her backwards, smiling at the impudent attacker. He slapped a few blows on her head, as if chastising a child. The grin broadened. He did not know it, but he would very soon be finished; his swagger and grin would last only a few minutes longer. Charlie allowed the young man to think himself unbeatable against the smaller, lighter opponent. He scored points freely, palming her attacks away with apparent ease. He adopted a stance suited to kicking, Niunja Sogi, relying on his long legs to score points from a distance. Charlie adopted an untidy defensive punching stance, Annun Sogi, aimed at blocking the incoming blows. She needed to get in close, her height and reach so disadvantageous. He delivered punches and kicks seemingly at will. Charlie parried or deflected them as she danced around the arena, but some found their target. Charlie was losing hand over fist on points; she had not scored any. She did not care.

The Asian, Hijo, saw an easy opening. He rocked back, swung a long arcing kick with his left leg towards Charlie’s midriff. She blocked it late; his foot hit her exposed ribs, apparently knocking the wind from her lungs. The sharp pain in his foot surprised him. He felt as though he had kicked a wall. Charlie saw him flinch. Charlie back-pedalled, staggered almost, her breathing laboured. She winced and pressed her apparently damaged ribs. She took a step forward, rushing to regain her stance. Hijo, sensing an easy win, swung again, another hit to Charlie’s midriff. Charlie again cringed in pain. Hijo winced when he put his full weight on his bare right foot. What had he kicked? The first glimmer of doubt crossed his face. Charlie did not miss it. Hijo would end it now. He hopped on his toes, wheeling to his left. Charlie circled the arena with a clumsy gait, maintaining her defensive stance, barely following his every move. He sprung his balance from his right leg back to the left. His right leg whipped towards her at head height, flashing in on a short arc. If it touched her unprotected head, she would lose the bout. Hijo and the crowd of spectators roared the winning blow to its destination.

Problem was it never landed. One moment her head danced wearily in front of him, waiting for the blow to land, the next instant it dropped out of sight. Charlie somehow managed to launch a low-flying kick from a punching stance, something no one had seen before. The rapid front snap kick, the first kick every new exponent of the art learns, hit Hijo’s knee on his planted left leg. Charlie hit it just hard enough to severely strain the ligaments in the back of the knee, but not hard enough to tear them. Hijo collapsed like a steer with a bolt through its brain, quiet and still, clutching his knee as excruciating pain seared out of his cruciate ligament. Charlie aimed a swift stamping kick to his rolling head. She pulled up a quarter inch short of impact. The referee awarded her the win without hesitation.

They announced the final bout would begin in twenty minutes. The crowd left the bleachers to get refreshments or grab a smoke outside. Charlie asked around the arena during the interval. She learned that her opponent was indeed skilled but almost universally disliked. Arrogant, racist, a bully, homophobic, Republican; these and other insults were used to describe him. Charlie analysed, strategized and theorized. She faced the wall in a quiet corner, holding the ends of a sweaty towel around her shoulders and concentrated, breathing deeply and drawing her inner strength to her very core. Thirty seconds before the bout began, she felt ready.

 When the spectators returned, they formed a large circle in the centre of the hall. The announcer called the finalists names. Charlie stood face to face with ex-Master Sergeant ‘Buzz’ Aldrin Miller. They listened to a long list of his accomplishments and awards. He instructed for three years at the Marine Corps Martial Arts Programme. He had won tournaments both locally and state-wide. It sounded to Charlie like he rapidly became the local hot favourite. Come the time to introduce her, the announcer simply said;

‘This is Charlie, the blonde chick from England. We don’t know squat about her but she sure is pretty!’

They applauded loud and long, for both of them. Charlie studied Buzz as he smiled and waved to the crowd. Arrogance; check.

Charlie knew that this bout would be her toughest. With that background and experience, he surely had all the moves to beat any opponent. No one at the Jiu Jitsu dojo where he commanded such respect had any doubts that he would win, nor did the nearly five hundred others in the hall. His list of tournament wins extended to thirty-two consecutive, no losses. He stood grinning, looking at the glorious rack on the Limey woman in front of him. The sweat stains around her waist and between her breasts showed the effort she put into her earlier bouts. The smirk on his face said it all. This will be a short but oh so sweet bout. She will not know where to turn when I get going on her.

Miller studied his opponent more closely. Facing him stood a striking looking woman with a well-contoured body. She wore her ash blonde hair scraped back and tied in a tight ponytail. Her attractive green eyes stared right back at him. Her brows arched as if in a constant state of surprise. Her full lips looked as if they simply wanted kissing, forever. Buzz Miller had no idea what he faced but he felt sure that she could only be there by chance and not because she deserved to be. Miller strutted around, raised his toned arms, egging on the crowd. They cheered enthusiastically, raising the volume inside the high roofed hall.

Only Jack Walcott held a different opinion. Jack, an ageing but still enthusiastic participant in these tournaments, saw it from another perspective. At the age of seventy-two, Walcott had witnessed all there was to see while practicing and teaching martial arts. He watched the blonde woman from the very first bout, when she beat him with such cunning. He saw her stealthy moves, her viper like speed, her cunning intelligence, the use of her body’s attractiveness as a distraction. He also saw some obvious street fighting moves, some Krav Maga moments as she whirled, spun, slid, danced even, in and out of her opponent’s reach, bemusing them, distracting them with her body and smile, confusing them, then beating them. She reminded him of an expert pickpocket he once knew from his army career, a supreme master at deflecting attention from the real moves.

She unexpectedly exhibited a brief hint at the knowledge of Silat. Now that did surprise him. Silat, practiced only rarely outside of Cambodia, a few parts of the Philippines and in a few corners of Malaysia, was almost unknown in the West. Walcott saw a glimpse of it as the woman rolled under the legs of a falling opponent. Her eyes focussed briefly on his genitals, an obvious and vulnerable target but not one normally attacked in traditional martial arts. He offered a wager, ten to one. He got plenty of takers.

‘The broad doesn’t have a prayer.’

‘I’ll take your money, Old Man.’

As the final bout got underway, Walcott counted a little over four thousand dollars in his tracksuit jacket pocket. He did not have forty thousand dollars anywhere so she had better win, he thought.

The referee stepped back and waved them to join the fight. Charlie stepped to the centre of the ring. She smiled a broad, friendly smile, showing her teeth. She extended her right hand, offering to shake his. He took it; she shook it and pulled just enough to rock his upper body forward by an inch. He sensed the trap, he pulled back as he let go, too late. The heel of Charlie’s left hand struck his right cheek and nose with full force.

‘Blood! There is blood!’

The hall shook with the screams and shouts.

‘That fucking bitch is dead! Nobody has ever drawn blood since I was in the Marines. She is just so fucking dead. She should have just taken her beating like a man and she wouldn’t suffer. Now, she is gonna feel real fucking pain, dumb bitch. Who the fuck does she think she is, treating me like a fucking amateur.’

  He wiped the blood from his nose, just a smear, but still, blood and that made him mad. Two minutes into the bout and Buzz had failed to connect with one good strike.

‘She is fucking quick.’

Charlie ducked, weaved parried and attacked to keep him busy. She aimed blows at his head, occasionally getting through his defences and scoring points. She retreated so quickly that Aldrin barely had time to land a blow. She pulled on her cropped halter-top; it had ridden up, exposing the under curve of her breasts. She ducked and rolled, trying an amateurish looking sweep kick. Her long right leg swept towards Buzz’s feet. He jumped, easily avoiding the kick. He landed but somehow her feet had returned; they connected with his ankles the instant he landed. The rapid and unexpected change of direction caught him out and he went down.

He thrust out his right arm to prevent both shoulders from touching the ground. The crowd of spectators cheered, screamed and stamped their feet. Charlie sprang acrobatically to her feet without using her hands, levering herself upright from her shoulders. She stood, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet, arms at her sides, prepared for the next assault. Her opponent sprang up with almost equal agility, but he landed a second behind Charlie.

She grinned, a little smirk of a grin, making sure he saw it. She pulled down on her tight top once more. His dark eyes glared back at her. He had never been flat on his back since his service days, never. He had to step it up a gear, stop pissing around. She was good. He landed a few scoring hits to the woman’s head and upper body, but right now, that early slap and the cleverly timed trip meant she was ahead on points. An almost invisible welt under her left eye showed he at least scored one effective blow. Two hundred and fifty-five pounds of well-defined muscle faced a slip of a woman who could not weigh more than one-forty. He implemented one of his favourite tricks. He allowed the woman to attack and get in close; he grabbed her forearm and turned her body away from him, much to her surprise. It was almost too easy. He unleashed a killer straight-fingered jab to her exposed kidney. He aimed to end it now by damaging the organ, probably permanently. It never landed.

Charlie reversed her left arm behind her and caught his extended fingers in the palm of her hand. She flung herself to the right and away from him, maintaining her powerful grip on his fingers just long enough to ensure that all of them bent painfully backwards. She gripped on the little finger for a second longer. The crowd in the front rows heard the pop as it dislocated from the joint. They roared and stamped their feet. The pain shot through Miller like a hot knife. It was kill or be killed. The red mist rose in front of him. He winced as he reset his finger joint back in place.

‘Fuck you Lady. You should not have done that. Stand still a minute and let me show you how it’s done.’

Sixty three seconds later, it all ended in spectacular fashion.

Miller decided to end it, now. He had been showboating for the crowd, allowing her to get a few slaps around his head and arms. She got lucky with the earlier blow to his face, and the trip, and the finger shit. Charlie wheeled in a wide circle. The crowd looked on expectantly. They sense that their local hero had put up with enough from this stranger, this woman. He stepped forward, lunged for her head and upper body with rapid, short jabs of his flat hands. So swift were his moves that the onlookers barely noticed that the woman parried or blocked every blow. Charlie frowned in concentration; the sweat glistened on her honed body. Her dark, wet vest clung to her attractively mobile breasts; her ridged torso glistened with sweat below the short top. She shuffled back from the onslaught. Her eyes stared into his; he kept looking for an opening. Charlie could only go so far back before the obstacle of the encircling crowd would stop her. The crowd sensed a finale coming soon. His speed and skill were showing now. He was scoring at last. Charlie took several scoring hits on her head and to her stomach. She began to suffer. He beat her back by the sheer brute strength and speed of the onslaught.

Charlie caught the expectant gleam of triumph in his eyes as he saw the fast approaching ring of onlookers behind her. Charlie had nowhere to go. Behind her, one of Buzz’s associates stood, his arms outstretched gripping his neighbours’ wrists. Charlie backed into him, as if by accident. She stepped away, just a little, a calculated distance, just far enough from the man but not too close to her opponent. The man behind her raised his foot to connect with her backside and pushed her back into the centre of the ring of spectators. Charlie appeared to stumble forward and fell to her knees. Her head bowed; her hands jabbed forward to stop her fall, but only one of them touched the ground. She was almost on her face from the seemingly brutal kick in her back. Miller looked down at Charlie’s exposed neck. He raised his arms; his two clenched fists prepared to swing rapidly down, aimed at the back of her neck. If he connected with full force, he would do some real damage or even, quite possibly, kill her. He took a half pace forward and began the coup de grace.

Miller did not see the blow that ended the bout for him. It came from nowhere. It surprised everyone in the hall, particularly Miller himself. The only one in the audience expecting the blow was Walcott. It emerged from below her head, beginning its journey from around about her right hip, hidden but deadly until it was too late for him to do anything about it. Her extended knuckles struck the delicate flesh between his legs. The force of the blow ripped Miller’s urethra and vas deferens from his penis. One of his transverse perineum muscles split roughly in half and his prostate gland ruptured. She pulverized his right testicle. Charlie’s knuckles buried deep in the most delicate and vulnerable part of Miller’s body for a second as she allowed the energy from her fist to radiate through his body. Anyone who has seen a Bruce Lee movie will know that he maintained contact for a second after delivering the knock-out blow. He didn’t do it for the movie effect, it was a real killer technique.

Charlie suddenly appeared inches in front of him, glowering into his dumbstruck eyes. A swift, non-lethal blow to his throat with her extended right elbow put him down. His voice box shattered. He fell, pole-axed, flat on his back, choking and gagging as he rolled in agony on the ground. She followed up with a stamping kick on his upturned face, crushing the cartilage of his nose but not crushing it up onto his skull, as she could so easily have done. Charlie did not even bother with any further follow up; she knew he was staying on the floor for some considerable time. Miller would never have another erection, taking a dump would be agony and passing urine without pain would be impossible for the rest of his life. He would never again speak above a whisper.

She had triumphed, against all the odds against a fighter who turned dirty when he took that first soft blow to his nose, right at the beginning of the bout, when she drew blood. That single event, drawing blood, was what Charlie had relied on to win her the bout; his anger. Angry fighters were losers. Her father taught her that. He did not teach her the trick of removing her sports bra and tweaking her nipples to erection when she faced the wall before the bout; that was something she learned for herself. Distraction, yes!

This takes a lot of work!