Coming back from school. Inside the van’s cabin, Pat Benatar’s pitched but accurate screams blasted from the stereo. I shout "Hit me with your best shot… Fire away" even louder. Uncle G takes his hands off the wheel to play some enthusiastic air guitar on the riff after the chorus and then makes his best effort to sing along with his creaky voice, fully out of tune. I place my stiff finger on his lips to show him how my "Fire away" does fit perfectly with Pat’s.

  As he bends onto Broadway to head toward El Segundo Boulevard, he turns down the volume.

  "I have a surprise for you, sweetheart."

  I squeeze my schoolbooks to my chest. "What’s up?"

  A mischievous grin is drawn on his good-natured face.

  "This morning, a customer dropped off the chassis from an old bike he’s had since childhood."

  My face lit up.

  "I got a couple of two-stroke engines in the back. The larger may be too heavy, the other leaks oil but could do, and luckily you wouldn’t depend on me to get to school anymore!"

  He parked in front of the house and zipped the basement door open with the remote. With the engine still on, I jumped out of the van’s cabin and rushed to the backyard.

  Uncle G shouted from the basement. "Bring the wheelbarrow and we’ll get them in here."

  I found the engines underneath a plastic tarp behind the compost boxes, but instead of taking the wheelbarrow, I returned carrying the two bulky metal chunks, one in each hand. I staggered up to Uncle G, hoisted the engines up to shoulder height, and dropped them on his carpenter's bench. The thump made the thick metal legs shake. I bit my lips apologetically, wiggling my sore, rust-caked fingers.

  Uncle G rubbed his chin with the back of his greasy hand. "Chica, I see weight is not gonna be trouble for you. We’ll definitely go for the bigger one," he stated, amused.

  He slid Blondie’s Eat to the Beat into the radio-cassette and pushed play, pumped the volume till the speakers trembled, and unfolded the three levels of his giant toolbox. "Let’s get to work, cielito…"

  We spent the rest of the day disassembling the bike engine piece by piece, cleaning each bit and arranging it on the bench like an army with its commanders, officers, and soldiers. Uncle G would do the quartering, and I would oil and polish each fragment. When Rovena and Gerry arrived, Geraldo had reassembled most of the pieces except for a couple of brackets that, he lectured us, should be replaced to fit the engine in its new smaller chassis. He was hoping to find the new ones at a bike-parts store downtown, although he didn’t rule out welding the old ones himself.

  "Gerry will be jealous," Rovena remarked, "her moped doesn’t compare to that monster!"

  "I’ll let her ride once in a while," I boasted, winking at my uncle.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Rovena pulled a blank face and headed to the kitchen to cook us one of her over-spicy delicacies for dinner. Irony was not her strongest point.

  After helping Rovena in the restaurant, Gerry changed into a tank top and dolphin shorts to do her routines. She’s so determined she could repeat push-up series until passing out. Okay, she had dropped out of school and her job was rubbish, but she could outmuscle any person about her size.

  Last year, the Californian branch of ISPN started broadcasting this thing called beach arm-wrestling, and Gerry quickly got hooked. Female contestants tested their strength on a professional stand set up in what otherwise looked like a beach volleyball court. She wasn’t the only follower of the new sport. What might initially seem like a staged bikini model parade actually evolved into lengthy muscular battles between first-class real athletes who went all in. Fitness modeling was at its prime, and top stars were lured into the glamorous arm-bending feasts with rewarding cash prizes. Dedicated outfits that exploited the hard-earned bodylines provided the icing on the cake. Audiences skyrocketed, and sponsors flocked to the smell of crude benefits.

  Gerry daydreamed about bending her favorite idols, life under the sun of Southern California for the whole nation to watch. I, in turn, pictured myself clad in one of those eye-catching outfits pulling against a black gang girl before the eyes of Dan Steinbeck, my private hero.

  Showdowns renamed BWT - Beach World Tour - gained in production. The introduction of contestants involved giant screens displaying the hotties' body stats, boxing-like stare-downs, and action refereed by uniformed bearded men who often needed to get physical to impose the rules on the committed warriors. Male sports celebrities were invited to try, but they became increasingly reluctant to take part, as bitter defeat was the most common outcome.

  A modality called Foursome Match Play was the main event. Two teams of four pullers competed in single-pull elimination rounds. Pullers, disregarding gender, were ranked by increasing body weight as flier, cruiser, skipper, and commander, with a maximum combined weight of 600 lb. per team. Fliers started up. The loser was replaced by the next higher rank in the team. The last puller standing on stage undefeated gave her team the win.

  "Tonight BWT is on Channel 55," I shouted to Gerry as she passed by from the shower. My voice merged with Rovena’s screams trying to communicate with Geraldo, still in the basement, since she couldn’t find the curcuma.

  "It’s a Doll’s match," I shouted even louder.

  The Iron Dolls were an all-female team that was making the grade in BWT. Most teams were sponsored by fast-food franchises, hypermarkets, or sportswear brands, but the Dolls had refused and remained freelance, which granted them massive popular support.

  "I know, only at 1:30 am,” Gerry barked. “I’d record it, but this one is worth watching live. They face the Wallmall Warriors, four guys from an aerobics academy.”

  Margo, the Dolls' invincible commander with Colombian roots, was particularly engaged in social work. She raised funds for charities and pushed misguided youngsters into disciplined training that rescued them from street life. Other teams had tempted Margo and 'Lizzy Bear' Brandson, the formidable but unpredictable cruiser, with lucrative offers, but they chose to stick together, which delighted their fans. They behaved like a bizarre family; a furious brat, a curly-haired gym rat, and a posh Londoner, shouting and pushing one another during the bouts, but eventually coming together in a hug, all the quarreling drowned in the immeasurable love and care Margo, the respected matrona, fostered among them.

  "Agree. Worth watching. Dolls will beat them 4 to 1."

  "You crazy? Those dicks are all fiber. Dolls 4 to 3. You bet?"

  "A pizza feast at Burky’s?"

  I offered a ‘high five’ to seal the bet, but at the last minute, I withdrew my palm.

  "… too slow!"

  Gerry blushed.

  "Fuck you, smart ass!"

  No matter how many times I pulled the trick, my angel face made her fall for it again and again. I grabbed her triceps.

  "Let me go with you and tell you about this morning at the bus stop."

  She didn't turn around but took my hand and dragged me into her lion's den.