Riot Girls vs Faster Pussycats

Hunky Z parked by the school Gordon Campbell learned to drink in and lit up a bomber to share with Henrik. The dope smelled good. Henrik and I finished off the bottle of whisky. I threw the bottle over the schoolyard fence where it smashed and sparkled in the early evening sun. It had been a good day for drinking, like every day for the past several decades. If Henrik or I had eaten since breakfast one or both of us would have vomited by now. As is our custom, we were deranged.

On our way to the old hockey arena Hunky asked, "What's that smell?" Henrik breathed in deeply, sampled the aroma and asked his fucked up brain what it was that smelled so good. His eyes lit up like a sawmill on fire. "That Hunky," said Henrik, "is the smell of roller girl pussy." I breathed in deeply too. I was back in the motherfucking womb.

Once the three of us and our hidden liquor had made it past security we looked around the building none of us had been in since the fabled Ozzy/Motorhead rock show close to 30 years ago. I wondered no more about how it was Ozzy's band had made my ears bleed like an uncooked steak after Motorhead had already deafened me beyond repair. The arena was the size of a dollhouse.

A real good smelling dollhouse.

After we bought t-shirts and chatted with a few red hot roller girls we got ourselves centre ice seats, watched the place fill up and anticipated the spectacle we had come to participate in. As we waited roller girls took turns warming up on the unforgiving smooth concrete floor. We kept an eye out for Andi. #10 in the programme; #1 in our roller girl fantasy worlds.

"There she is!" She skated smoothly around the oval like a politician around a well meant question.

We ached like Iraq.

We sang the national anthem and the action began. What a great fucking country we live in. Roller skates, fishnet stockings, frilly panties, knee pads and leopard print collided in fierce, friendly competition between the Riot Girls and the Faster Pussycats. The crowd roared in support, stamping their feet on the dirty Douglas fir floor. Henrik, Hunky and I took up the Faster Pussycat cheer, "Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!"

After each jam concluded Forna Kate, from the legendary Saskatoon Roller Derby League, skated around the outside of the oval with the score card. I guess there are other things to do in Saskatoon besides go to Marquis Downs.

Each time Andi became the lead jammer we went wild. Andi reciprocated by shaking her girls at us during one especially dominant jam.

"This," said Hunky, "is the best twenty bucks I have spent in my life."

"No fucking shit," agreed Henrik.

"Fuck Anne Murray," was all I could say.