PADDY’S DAY RUMPUS

 

 

 

 

 

Part 1:

 

 

Posted by Simguy on 3/17/2008, 7:07 am.

 

 

Before: Boston; St. Paddy’s Day; Murphy’s Pub Est. 1888. Just of the financial district: dark wood interiors and leather-seated booths; brass rail along the bar; pictures of fighters on the wall—Tunney; Mickey Walker; Mickey Ward and such. Fine selection of single-malt scotches and rare-brew beers; special dispensation from the local constabulary allowing the smoking of ‘premium” cigars (just not cigarettes). Boisterous after-work professional crowd—live appearance by The Pogues belting out “Bottle of Smoke” as the girls walk in, grinning and waving.

 

 

JOD: Black bikini, tan boxing moccasins to the knee, blonde hair loose; small black scuba gloves—may as well be taped fist. JMAC: Green bikini with yellow clover-leaf on the right butt cheek; yellow snakeskin cowboy boots with 2 green clover leafs on either side of each; small black scuba gloves—may as well be taped fist.

 

 

Tables in front of the bar have been cleared—creating maybe 12 to 15 feet square fighting area on the hardwood floor, ringed by enthusiastic patrons. JOD smiling, shimmying her shoulder to the music as she saunters onto the fighting area.

 

 

Mac doesn’t wait for bell: left hand snakes out to jenny’s right shoulder from behind, spinning O’Dell about: pasting right hand takes O’Dell in the mouth, spins her about as crowd roars. Bell rings as grinning JMac’s wading in: O’Dell rights herself—stunned; Mac digs a right/left/right to that tight gut—neoprene gloves sounding out PIK! PAK! PEK! Mac humming: Jenny cramped up by body shots. Mac with straight left cross off her right foot—steps in her left foot tom paste the right cross—punching jenny across her face, spinning her to her right. O’Dell crashing into bar—elbows/forearms flat atop the surface: she mule-kicks her right left back on instinct, catching Mac low. JMac shouts, doubles up: O’Dell wipes her lips, turns, smites Mac a right hand to face, steps in, fetches her the left—backing Mac up all tossing blonde locks. JMac on her heels, stabilizes, dukes up: O’Dell tonguing the inside of her lower lip doesn’t advance—circles to her left  instead, Women settle into flat-footed steppin’—pivoting around left feet in respect buckets—each gently circling her fists, rotating her shoulder in time to the movement. Tough jabs lick out both ways—punching back either face—girls methodical here, systematically lumping each other up. Bell: Jennies swat right hands in a low-five as they pass en route to respective sides of the bar. Mac swigging Guinness—carousing with nearby fans; O’Dell sticking with water, but grinning, shaking her head at Mac’s over-the-top antics.

 

 

Thanks and praises

Thanks to jesus

I bet on the bottle of smoke

I went to hell

And to the races

To bet on the bottle of smoke

(Pogues—“Bottle O’Smoke”)

 

 

R2: Same flat-foot steppin’ around planted left feet—women taking turns pounding out stiff, small-glove jabs to reddening faces. Mac first to follow up with a right hand—tossing JOD’s head hard to starboard: O’Dell woozy when Mac edges in on left foot to dig a pair of left hooks form to liver PAK! PAK! Mac licking her lips as she turns the hook across O’Dell’s mouth, then smokes her right—smaller blonde backing bigger blonde up with stout Irish slugging. Minute mark: O’Dell firms: hair wild in her eyes as she digs a swinging right to Mac’s flat tummy, then hooks her chin. Crowd roaring, toasting the best punches with raised glasses—girls just wading in with hunched shoulders and chest-high dukes, cracking other lusty. O’Dell with the better of it late—digging hooks to Mac’s stubborn tummy, then criss-crossing up top. Mac’s head tossing side to side—she’s on her heels, not enjoying her dosage: by the final moments, JOD’s lining Mac up with an extended left handed touching the chest, measuring for the drifting rights that break Playmate stance, spin Mac ‘round and send her reeling.

 

 

The day being clear

The sky being bright

He came up on the left

Like a streak of light

Like a drunken ####

On a Saturday night

Up came the bottle of smoke

 

 

R3: Who says there’s no defence on Paddy’s day? JOD ducks a swinging Mac right, hooks Playmate in the back as she’s following through. JMac blurting in pain, stumbling past JOD to hit the bar face first: JOD stepping in behind her with dukes at chest—dipping that right shoulder and fetching Mac of pair of right hands cruel and flat to kidney. Mac cries out—turns off the bar with a crazy-swinging right hand backfist: O’Dell ducks it, touches her jab in between Mac’s heaving jugs, then pastes her a sweet right cross to mouth—pitching Mac around and chest-first to bar again. JOD with the best of it—Mac swinging fiercely, but O’Dell ducking shots and digging counter to body: Mac arching her back and groaning when she’s smitten—those small gloves are no joke. O’Dell pretty about her business—reaching with one hand to touch fingertips to Mac’s chest before drifting her the free mitt: big-time Irish slugging fails to take stubborn Playmate off her feet, despite sending her on a drunken reel about the bar. Mac busting up nicely at the bell—wiping her forearm across her mouth—she’s unsteady staggering back to her bar stool.

 

 

Twenty ####ing five to come

Me gambling days are done

I bet on a horse called bottle of smoke

And my horse won

 

 

R4: Raw, toe-to-toe slogging—often tough to watch. Girls taking turns drifting each other full and flush—touching one hand to measure, stepping in with the free mitt to face. Girls often squaring up stances to dig at waistlines: Mac doubling her hook like a trooper downstairs, crippling O’Dell, bunching her up. O’Dell, bunching her up. O’Dell doubling her hook body and face, stepping in to fetch the right cross before Mac can recover: it’s blistering, patient back and forth. Final minute, action REALLY slowing—both beauties are ragged, stepping in fence post holes: they NEED to reach a measuring hand out to touch before slugging now, foe fear of falling down in the attempt.

 

 

Stewards inquiries

Swift and fury

I had the bottle of smoke

Inquisitions and suppositions

I had a bottle of smoke

 

 

R5: Both vixens rocked, shabby—steppin’ gingerly—mouthbreathing. O’Dell hurtin’-sexy with hair in her eyes; Mac swollen-eyed, licking cracked lips as she circles. Grim punching—ponderous pace as the girls circle woozily, then commit. JMac workmanlike to O’Dell’s body—touching the left to JOD’s left shoulder while digging the right hand to tummy; touching the right out while digging home the  left. Mac occasionally able to square up her stance and pound away with both fists in tandem—supplying Jenny’s war-weary tummy with all the knuckle action it could want. O’Dell grunting, jerking forward hurt-she’s offering the fight’s first clinches, tieing up around Macs arms. JMac walking the bigger girl back—putting the brass rail in the small of JOD’s back and bending her over the bar. At one point—girls wrestling in close: O’Dell bends far forward, so Mac straightens her up with a right knee-lift to breasts—rocking O’Dell up and back against the bar—arms out wide to either side. Rough work—O’Dell wearing down as Mac mauls and brawls for points.

 

 

McCarthy/O’Dell Paddy’s conc.

 

 

Posted by Simguy on 3/17/2008, 7:08 am.

 

 

R6: O’Dell pivoting around that left foot like a peg-legged pirate—she’s shabby, but delivering a pulverizing jab to steal initiative. First minute spent jabbing Mac senseless, then O’Dell moves in: right hand to gut; left hand to gut; right to gut; left: Mac sputtering, pitches forward into O’Dell’s arms, legs spasming. JOD’s left fist clenches in Mac’s damp blonde locks, pulling her drowsy face up: drifting right hand spins a slobberknocked Mac to her right, chest-first to bar. Snarling O’Dell squares away in behind Mac, feet braced wide: right to the kidneys, left to the kidneys, right, left, right, left—MAC GOES DOWN! Jenny Mac an emotional fighter—she’s crying as she takes a knee, lower back throbbing: O’Dell hands on hips, panting with effort as she stalks away, giving Mac space to rise. Playmate beats the count, but she’s a crippled beauty: she plants her butt against the bar, stoops forward with fists at het temples as JOD moves in. Hardhearted beating: Jenny methodically about her blonde with repeat lefts and rights working either side of the body. Mac may as well be a side of beef hanging in a freezer somewhere: O’Dell’s just working her over to bell.

 

 

Bookies cursing

Cars reversing

I had a bottle of smoke

 

 

R7: Mac won’t go away; she sucks it up, stumbles out and gives JOD all she could want. O’Dell ragged—not anticipating anything like the punching she’s getting from McCarthy: JMac backing her blonde up with stout rights and lefts from a squared up stance—small gloves digging at O’Dell’s firm ribcage an d midsection. At one point—right hand to chin rocks JOD—spinning her about and sending her face-first into the crowd: helpful lads act like ropes—heaving O’Dell back into the fray where she immediately absorbs a swinging right to the pit of the belly. O’Dell blurting in hurt—staggering about: It’s Mac’s best, most thorough round—pasting O’Dell’s face, working her body, backing her up and walking her down bell to bell.

 

 

Glasses steaming

Vessels bursting

I had a bottle of smoke

 

 

R8: Glorious, boozy haymakers—girls staggering about on their heels, pawing for each other, then smoking each other with venom. Stop and go action as girls fall in and stumble about—then one will sort the other out and send her on her way with a right hand in the mouth or eye. Down the stretch of an even round—Mack ducks an O’Dell right, hooks the ribs and revels in the sob of shock from JOD. O’Dell swaying on the spot: Mac hooks the liver, hooks the liver; digs a right hand to tummy; chops a short left hand to chin to get O’Dell’s torso sloshing on her hips, JOD doubling forward at the waist: Mac takes a fistful of hair with the left hand—raises the right fist high and chops it down like a butcher’s blow to a chicken-neck. Punch takes Jenny O’Dell across her left eyebrow—splitting it open—and dropping her to all fours as crowd ROARS in approval. Mac swaying on the spot, woozily glaring down, then brightening as she plays to the crowd. During the break—O’Dell pressing a cold pint of beer to her eye—looking half asleep at the bar.

 

 

Slip a fifty to the wife

And for each brat a crisp new five

To give me break on a Saturday night

When I had a bottle of smoke

 

 

R9: “STOP-HER-OUT! STOP-HER_OUT!” Crowd chanting—nobody expected it to go this long—everyone wants to see one blonde asleep on hardwood. Mac pressing O’Dell around the floor at the stagger. Playmate will dig a right to the body, then catch JOD as she pitches forward—working her weight to brace her. Push her upright, then smite her fresh. O’Dell trying to hold her dukes up—eyes half shut—cut reopening as Mac’s deliberately working it with right hands. Fight spills into the crowd as Mac’s backing O’Dell up with walking-barrage lefts and rights. JOD’s rump hits the table of a booth: Mac walking her down, taking her time to position, then cross a right hand to JOD’s open mouth. Jenny O’Dell spun to her right—hands don on the table: Mac knees O’Dell’s buttocks, bunching up the meat and buckling JOD’s right leg from hammy-shock. Mac reaches gently around O’Dell’s middle from behind, coaxing her to the left, patting O’Dell’s back before sitting her down in the booth. O’Dell stunned, eyelashes fluttering, mouth open: Mac takes a seat on the table in front of her, legs either side of JOD. O’Dell murmuring—arms instinctively draping over Mac’s thighs as JMac’s left arm rides ‘round O’Dell’s head, cradling her, pulling her in close of Irish Washerwoman right hands. Mac just pounding away at a slumped and helpless O’Dell: JOD’s forearms on the table, her hands curled ‘round Mac’s rump. O’Dell sleepily turns her face away from the punches, dragging her features across McCarthy’s breasts in the process. Left side of JOD’s face pressed against Mac’s heaving rack—right side visible behind JMac’s left bicep—damp blonde hair streaked across O’Dell’s closed eyes. Mac sitting with straight back, mindlessly slugging at skull as barkeep moves in to break it up at the bell.

 

 

Priests and maidens

Drunk as pagans

They had the bottle of smoke

Sins forgiven and celebrations

They had the bottle of smoke

 

 

R10: Tenth round! Girls swaying—exhausted and badly, badly battered: both fighting on pride alone at this point. Mac goes to the body early—crumpling JOD with tough, short shots—the girls falling in together as Mac pushes in and jostles her foe. O’Dell mumbling, eyes swollen to slits—she’s frequently turned around by a punch, sent staggering off, whereupon she’s slugging blindly at air as Mac’s wandering in from behind. O’Dell out on her feet—just pitchin’ wonky: Mac woozy, but still able to judge the swings—ducking’em and digging to O’Dell’s majestic body. 2 minutes in, Mac’s slugging JOD to bar and O’Dell is spent, leaning back against the rail, elbows propping on the bar surface. Mac licks her lips—left hand taking JOD by her bikini top: O’Dell pouting as she’s tugged forward and cracked a drifting right. O’Dell reels back across bar—Mac tugs her back in position, poor JOD’s head lolling.

 

 

Top tug, and a right hand.

 

 

Top tug, and a right hand

 

 

Top tug, and a right hand.

 

 

Mac loads up for a fourth right, holds it cocked, the releases her grip on O’Dell’s top,. JOD’s out—she drizzles down the bar, taking a seat on the brass footrest, then sloshing onto her left hip and sprawling face-down at Mac’s feet. Crowd goes ballistic—glasses are smashed—fights start in the audience: it’s KO10 in spellbinding fashion, Jenny-freakin ‘-McCarthy!

 

 

After: Both women whisked to emergency ward—brutal, brutal contest takes an unbelievable toll. JMac lives up to her boasts—she gets the neoprene gloves she wanted, survives some agonizing moments herself to emerge the last-woman standing, Fight so splendid, both warriors get pictures of themselves mounted on the wall of fighters—right up there with the best fightin’ Irish pros of the last century.

 

 

The moon is clear

The sky is bright

I’m happy as the horses shite

Up came the bottle of smoke

 

 

Reposted by Archer 11/9/09.