When I Kill You by Michelle Wan

Lava,” Jimmy croons. We trade high fives.
    The crowd at Slurry’s is yelling, “Mud! Mud! Mud!” as Wanda and I come out onto the floor. The emcee wears a tux and bowtie over a pair of black Spandex shorts. He introduces me and Wanda and tells the cheering crowd that the winner of this match will wrestle a mystery celeb later in the evening, free drinks for the first person to guess who. Someone yells, “Madonna?” Someone else says, “The Pope?”
    Wanda makes a point of not looking at me, like I’m not worth the trouble. I use the time to check her out though. She still wears her trademark Tarzan suit, and although she’s maybe gained a pound or two, she looks strong and even tougher than I remember. Her hair has gone from bottle-red to purple.
    The yelling is deafening as we step into our corners. The ring is big, eight by eight, and the mud is the color of milk chocolate, clean and good quality. I can tell immediately by the smooth consistency. We do the mud bath ritual. We go into our kneeling crouch. The starting whistle shrieks.
    The old Wanda would have contacted immediately. Instead, she circles on her hands and knees, inviting me to come to her. I circle too. The crowd is urging us on. We make a few tentative grabs. Someone yells, “C’mon, ladies. Let’s see some dirt!” I choose that moment to launch myself at her. We slap and grapple. I’m on top and planning to stay there. I straddle her, grab her wrists, go straight in for the pin, but she bridges expertly and throws me off. I roll and scramble to my knees. She hurls herself at me.
    We grapple again and roll. The mud is extra slippery and I’m having trouble holding her. She takes me by surprise by pivoting swiftly. She clamps my torso with her legs. It’s a powerful hold, and now she has me on my back. I’m stuck. I kick and twist, trying to build up enough momentum to rock her loose but can’t break her death grip. I know the clock is running out, because I can hear Jimmy yelling somewhere to my left. I give a last tremendous heave and wriggle free. The bell sounds.
    Jimmy’s there at ringside, tossing me a towel. “That was close, Lava,” he says. “Watch the leg clamp. She’s strong.”
    â€œShe’s like a python,” I gasp.
    The whistle blows for Round Two. This time Wanda doesn’t hesitate. She flies at me out of her crouch. The impact is terrific, but I’m prepared for it. We scramble, pushing with our legs and shoulders. She lands on me sideways and goes with me as I skid across the ring. Now she’s on my back, loading on her full body weight, forcing me facedown in the mud. She does her old trick of really mashing me in it. It’s up my nostrils and in my eyes.
    â€œYou haven’t learned much, Lava,” Wanda cackles in my ear. Oh yeah? I think. My mouth is too full of mud to say it. I throw my head back and crack her nose. She grunts.
    This buys me the split second I need to squirm free. She scrambles after me, but I swivel around and get one arm around her neck, try to lock her in a cradle. She’s too experienced, sees it coming, knows it’s my favorite move, and kicks loose. More scrambling.
    Now we’re head-to-head, arms interlocked, walking in circles on our knees, pushing hard against each other. This is where her weight is always an advantage. She has a lot more to push with. I feel her draw her head back, see her eyes, know she’s mad as heck about her nose. I slam my forearm into her throat.
    â€œYou try to butt me again, I’ll break your neck,” I spit into her face as the bell rings.
    The ref has to pull us apart. I lean aside to towel off and rinse my mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Wanda staring hard at me. Her face is so covered in mud I can hardly make out her features. She’s the color of a Hershey bar all over, purple hair included. I know I look the same. I don’t