SHOOTOUT AT THE ESTROGEN CORRAL

“I’m giving ya ten seconds to get through that door before I kick yer ass!”

Bitchfight!  The occupants of the surrounding tables cleared out in a hurry.  If you’ve never witnessed two grown women duke it out in a bar, then you’re missing quite the show.

The men, accustomed to fisticuffs, gathered around to watch.  They jostled for position, smiling and laughing, fully expecting their night’s worth of serious entertainment.  Ladies not involved in the dispute moved to the other side of the room.  They knew that cat fights are seldom restricted to only two combatants.  Without warning, it could inflame bystanders and turn into a total hair-pulling, nail-scratching, bra-ripping extravaganza.

The opponents sized up each other.  Fighter 1 in the blue trunks was a scuzzy blonde who had seen too many years and too many shots.  She slammed back another before stripping off her work jacket, flexing scrawny arms covered with faded tattoos.  Fighter 2 in the red trunks was a ratty brunette with sagging cleavage and glitter jeans stretched to their limit over a massive backend.  She was so loaded that she failed to notice that a jokester had tucked a bar straw into her buttcrack.

Scuzzy, the mouthier of the two, took her stance.  “I shoulda done this ages ago,” said she, cracking her knuckles.  “Yer just a uppity bitch who’s getting what’s comin’ to her!”

Ratgirl puffed out her chest.  Her breasts flapped like empty wineskins.  “When I’m done with you, I’ll teach your posse a lesson, too!” she boasted,  nodding to a snarling group of middle-aged women hovering nearby.

The posse jeered, screaming out epithets and boozy threats.  Scuzzy looked over shoulder briefly at them before righting her wobbly legs.  She grinned broadly at her plump adversary and removed her dentures, handing them off to an aide.

“Let’s see what you got,” said Ratgirl, inviting her forward.  “Unless you just plan on throwing them there teeth at me.”

Scuzzy took an unsteady swing.  It spun her completely around and she punched a bar stool instead.  It, and she, clattered to the ground.  The drunken posse matrons sprang into action, not to aid their champion on the floor, but to take her place en masse in the ring.

As predicted, all hell broke loose as hair went flying and acrylic nails drew blood.  Shrieks and moans, slaps and curses, each one louder and more colorful than the next, were flung from the human ball of intertwined limbs and handbags.  The male spectators cheered them on with whistles and fistpumps, especially when the bras came off and thongs shot across the room like rubberbands.  No matter how gruesome the sight -varicose veins, greying bikini lines and lumpy rolls of cellulite – their eyes stayed glued to the melèe.

“Break it up!” cried the bouncer, a mountain of a man with a bald head and numerous piercings.  The crowd groaned in refusal and closed ranks around the fighters, forcing Mountain Man to bust a few heads before getting close enough to the fray to douse the ladies with a bucket of ice water.

They squealed in horror, quickly pulling away and dabbing at the remnants of their clothing.  “I have to dry-clean this sweater, you asshole!” spat one of the bloodied women.  “What a cretin!”

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