Wrestling fans, we know you’ve been run through the wringer all through this card, but you need to dig as deep as any of the grapplers you’ve seen bring hell tonight and brace yourselves for the main event. It’s a story as old as time, a forced changing of the guard with stakes so horrifying that they redefine incredible. In this corner, we have Sally Slit, an up-and-comer whose star is ascendant with a rocket strapped to it. She was the dutiful student, but, as many students do, has grown impatient and overconfident. In the other corner is Tanya Taint, the founder and forger of a stable of women who have redefined power and agency. Tanya believes that Sally has become ungrateful and has outgrown her specially created britches. One wants to vanquish the other, and there’s weapons, and the only impediment on actions is the limits of each competitor’s imagination.

And, yes, both wrestlers are in their third trimesters. You can maybe guess the rest.

Ring the fucking bell!

MacFlanagan’s outdone himself, Travis thought as he reached under the rebuilt announcer’s table for another energy drink laced with something extra special. He chugged half of it. The crowd could maybe use a pick-me-up and powerslam me, but they should be ready to rise for the main event.

Correction, no one is ready for what MacFlanagan came up with for this match; it’s unheard of, but not for long.

He heard the grunting and recoiled at the smell that assaulted his nostrils. Doctor Dark, his broadcast partner—sporting one of his many masks that had covered what was rumored to be a face that would make a Gorgon cower in fright—had rejoined him at the color man’s chair.

“Christ, Doc, what did you eat? It smells like it left a mark.”

The masked man was nonplussed. “Your momma,” he answered, “and the mask acts as a flavor saver, or savor. But diction is for pussies, and I need to tell you and all the fans that the Doctor has set a personal record tonight. The action’s been so hot and heavy, T-cubed, that I’ve failed a mud check three times already.” The burly and misshapen masked man shifted in his chair like he had just failed for the fourth time, reached under the broadcast desk and withdrew another folded pair of disposable adult diapers. He handed them to Travis, who held them by a corner at arm’s length.

“Did you autograph these things, Doc?” Travis looked as if he wanted to resume his career-long feud with the masked man. It had been mostly an act, but occasionally they’d put a major ass whoopin’ on each other.

“Nah, little buddy. Just figured that you’d need a pair for the main event. I got me some of them special astronaut drawers—so absorbent you won’t even register a loss of control.”

“Well, for once you use the right words. This main event is out of control; it’s off charts that haven’t even been developed yet, and just like your farts, it’s gonna leave a stain.” Travis looked into the camera, shucked his sunglasses, and revealed eyes surrounded by scars. He looked raccoon-like. Each long-healed slash and gash coordinated with a blast from the past: fireballs to the face, barbed-wire braces, close shaves with broken bottles. He let the camera linger for several beats, then resurrected his most ominous voice.

“Our main event is a fetus fight. Two third-trimester competitors. First to abort the other is the winner.”

“You said a mouthful, Taylor, my lad,” Doc interjected. “And you were a lot clearer than your mother was last night. She tried to compliment me but her mouth was filled to overflowing.”

“You have to hand it to MacFlanagan,” Taylor said. His narrowing eyes drew his scars into tight puckers, like fists. “Nobody redefines the limits of ‘there’ better. Hell, I thought there was no way to top the DIY colostomy match from Surgical Slaughter.”

The Doctor shifted in his chair. “Taylor, why did you bring that up again? I’m hearing that Tiger Lyons is still reeling from having that plumber’s snake pulled out of his intestinal tract.”

“The good news is that he won’t need a high-fiber diet for a good long time. But that was then, this is now. Doc, let’s review the tale of the tape for the competitors in the fetus fight. Age before beauty, shall we?”

Doc glared at his partner, launching into the breakdown with a burn of his own. “Triple T’s got jokes. The biggest is between his legs, which never fails to get a laugh on date night. But seriously, sickos, this match, in all likelihood, will signal the rupturing of one of the sickest, viciousest, and skankiest collectives ever to disgrace the mats in Xtreme Martial Hell. Their antics are legendary; their victims are humiliated and maimed. To know them is to fear them. Let’s look at how and why No Fetus Can Beat Us is at the breaking point.”

Taylor interjected. “That’s right, Doc. There’s a power struggle in progress for the spirit and soul of this once-fearsome crew. Now, they’re a house, and legs, divided. In one camp are the youngsters, Connie Cameltoe, Bettina Bulge, and their mage, Sally Slit. Sally has it in her head that the crew has gotten softer than wet toilet paper, and envisions a group whose mere name is enough to make anyone—man or woman—lose their shit.”

A film vignette featuring Sally replaces the two commentators. She’s short, athletic, buxom, and tattooed from head to toes. Her crop top can barely restrain her huge breasts, and the crescents of her areolas peek through. Her bulging belly overlaps the waist of her tights, belly button pushed forward. Her voice is peppy, like a cheerleader’s, which she had been in a different lifetime. Sally looks directly into the camera.

“Tanya Tainted,” she taunts. “I thought you were the standard for toughness and terror. You took me under your wing and turned me into something set for greatness. But then your true colors showed. Your teachings were flawed. You wired me to never surpass you. But I got wise to your lies, and now it’s come to this: your way versus mine, your soul against mine, your fetus against mine. Just know this—I’m gonna yank that weak whelp out of you, stomp on it, then shit on it. I’ll rub your face in it like a bad dog, and then the fun really begins.” The film cuts and returns to the commentators.

“Yes, the special stipulation here,” Doc intoned, “to the winner go the spoils. Not only is the loser’s fetus aborted, but her followers must swear allegiance to the victor, and that means complete submission, tops becoming bottoms, dropping to their knees and assuming the positions for whatever the conqueror’s imagination can conjure.”

Taylor nodded and piped up. “Yes, but I’m sure that Tanya Taint has something to say about that. She didn’t get to where she is by sitting on her laurels.”

Doc and Taylor cut out and Tanya Taint fills the screen. And fill it, she does—all six feet, two inches of her very pregnant, heavily muscled body. A white streak winds through her ass-length natural black braided mohawk. Her voice is laced with gravel, and her expression, a study in supreme distaste.

“So, the fledgling wants to try out her wings,” Tanya growls. “But, remember, just because you have wings doesn’t mean that you can fly right. I’ve seen your kind crash and burn time and again; you’re gonna be no different. I’m gonna whoop that tattooed ass, then go all back-alley, rusty-coat-hanger on you. Gonna treat that thing growing inside you like a compacted turd, which, given the mother, is probably what it actually is. The stips don’t bother me, cuz I’ve been here before without you, and I’ve always come out on top. Get used to the view—you’ll be so far down everything looks like up. And my backups, Tara Tryst and Mona Moans, are smacking their lips at the possibility of playtime with your two little hiney-wipers.”

The picture cuts back to Doc, who chuckles, drawing out his evilly seasoned cackle. “Strong words, spoken with conviction. It’s clear that both competitors are trying to get in each other’s heads. But words are cheap...”

“You would know about that, Doc,” Taylor interrupted with a giggle of his own. “Think we’ve set the scene to satisfaction?”

“This match is so simple even a microcephalous idiot like you can fathom it,” Doc answered. “Two healthy competitors in their third trimesters, two thriving fetuses, a ring festooned with weapons, a referee whose only job is to declare a completed procedure, and one simple directive. Abort the opponent’s fetus, by any possible means.”

“You seen the betting lines on this one, Doc? It’s working out even on the weapons that will come into play. Fans, you can join in the fun by going to www.xxxmh.com and getting in on the action. The rusty coat hanger leads the freshly used forceps by a slim margin, and these two have large leads over the rest of the prospects.”

“I see that the plumber’s snake is back as a possibility,” the Doctor noted.

“How could it not be, and who came up with the idea of including an old-school auger bit?”

“The possibilities boggle the mind, T to the Three. Personally, I’ll be selecting ‘Other.’ The winner will get her hands dirty doing the extraction.”

“I see what you did there, Doc. I’m gonna go with spontaneous miscarriage after a pussy punt. Someone’s definitely going to get their kicks.”

“Very clever, Taylor, and the mere thought of this action makes my balls ascend. But how about the overarching question of paternity? Sally Slit is a phenomenon—that is clear. Barely beyond a year in the business and she’s doled out more clap than a sold-out show in a major venue, swallowed more swords than a sideshow carnie, and more than lives up to her nickname, the Ring Rabbit.”

“Stay on track, Medico Mediocre. What about the father?”

“Inconclusive. Rolly Hatchette and Cockfight Collier had that match at Surgical Slaughter where the loser had to take a paternity test right then and there. You know the outcome. Everyone who saw the show or read the dirt sheets knows; they ended up fighting outside the ring, through the audience, and into the parking lot where they tumbled into a waiting limousine that immediately drove off with them in it.”

“Well, if Sally loses, the question will be moot and both wrestlers will breathe a sigh of relief.”

“I know I would, Doc. Can you imagine what would come out if you commingled Sally Slit’s DNA with anything?”

“Excuse me, Taylor, but I just threw up a little in my mouth. In contrast, Tanya Taint’s child’s paternity is unquestioned, but it’s a tragically sad story. Her life partner, Mean Mace Matthews, took his own life when he was diagnosed with ALS. A genetic test revealed that the child carries the ALS trait, and Tanya is willing to risk her last connection with Matthews to teach her protégé a lesson.”

“I didn’t know that Doc, but I feel the crowd growing restless. The ring crew has finished hanging the weapons and sopping up the spilled blood and shit from the last match. I can see the announcer entering the ring, and it appears that things are starting to crown.”

“That was funny, Taylor.”

The ring announcer waited for the squeal of feedback to cut, and then began. “Wrestling fans, it has come to this. You know the story. You know the characters. You know the stakes. Are you ready to see a match that will set the bar as high as it’s ever been set?”

Unfocused responses echoed through the venue. The announcer favored the crowd with a peeved glare.

The ring announcer looked irked, and admonished the crowd. “Now I know you all can work up more enthusiasm than that? You can’t pussy out right now, not with what these two women are laying on the line. Now get each other’s thumbs out of your asses and let the wrestlers know how much you appreciate what they’re about to do!”

The chants began low and picked up until the arena echoed with the obscenity: “Scrape and rape! Scrape and rape! SCRAPE and RAPE!”

“That’s much more like it! And now, without further ado, let’s fucking do this.”

Whoops, screams, chants, the barriers separating the fans from the ring area strained as men, women, and children pressed up against them. Rental security looked on helplessly and resigned themselves to being a bottom for the ensuing stampede.

“Accompanied by Connie Cameltoe and Bettina Bulge, the Hellcatz. She hails from your boyfriend’s back seat, she’s nearly ready to pop, and she’s still out of everyone’s league. The head of the head cheerleaders, the sexy slick siren, Sally Slit!”

The cheers and boos canceled each other out as the three women in distressed cheerleader garb, visible garter belts, and bright red lipstick strolled to the ring. Sally brought up the lead, and her two cohorts followed behind her, waving red and black pom poms sodden with liquid that rained droplets on the audience. Sally carefully mounted the ring steps and entered between the bottom and second ropes. Her minions paused at the bottom of the steps to embrace, swap tongues, and cop feels of each other. The crowd hooted as Sally sauntered up to the ring announcer and snatched the mic away.

“You trash aren’t fit to be my bidet after a wet shit. I wouldn’t grace you with a golden shower. Y’all are low-league washouts. So, take your pictures for your spank bank, realize how lucky you are to be in our presence, and brace yourselves for... what the fuck?”

Tanya Taint, Tara Tryst, and Mona Moans slid out from under the ring, primed for the attack. Tara and Mona lit into Connie and Bettina with studded leather cat o’ nine tails while Tanya climbed under the bottom rope and hoisted herself onto the mat. Sally sent the ring announcer flying over the top rope as she charged the prone Tanya, who rolled back out of the ring to avoid her opponent.

“Holy shit, Doc,” Travis brayed. “You have to wonder how long they’d been hiding under there.”

“Shades of Memphis past, little buddy,” Doc replied. “Tanya seems to be dictating the pace here, making Sally chase her and managing to slip away.”

“Given her size and girth it’s amazing how slippery she is. Sally looks as though she’s getting impatient; see how she’s kicking the ropes every time Tanya evades her attacks?”

“It’s apparent that Tanya is trying to do two things here: frustrate her opponent and make her waste valuable energy in the chase. The only question is whether Sally will catch on, or sneak in a lucky strike.”

“You’re on your game as far as breaking down the early stages of this match.” Taylor’s question burned behind his scar-ravaged eyes. “I wonder why Sally is falling for it.”

“You’re seeing what a difference ring experience makes,” Doc answered with a nod of authority. “Tanya has wrestled all across the country in any kind of style. She epitomizes what Pedro Morales used to say: she’s ‘ready for any kind of action’.”

Sally pulled the ropes apart and descended from the ring. The two women faced each other, at ringside level and inches from the front row of spectators, clenching and unclenching their fists. Sally’s body tensed like it was being twisted. She screamed, and rushed at Tanya.

Tanya was a step too slow getting out of the way. The two women bumped bellies, with Sally getting the worst of it. She bounced off her larger opponent, backpedaled uncontrolled, and landed on her ass. Tanya went after her.

“Wait a minute. Tanya might have miscalculated there, Doc. Connie Cameltoe has gotten away from Tanya’s seconds and has Tanya by the hair. Oh Christ, she slammed her onto that sharp corner of the metal steps. Tanya is busted open.”

“That’s near one of her eyes, Taylor. It looks like it might have damaged it. Tanya is in some deep trouble now.”

Connie kicked the larger grappler in the lower back. Tanya stumbled toward Sally, who caught her, set up a DDT, and dropped Tanya on her damaged face. Sally stood up, went to the barricade, and grabbed a vacant steel chair. She folded it flat, dropped it on the floor, and reached out to pull the groggy Tanya to her feet. She grabbed her larger opponent in a side headlock and executed a bulldog drop onto the chair.

The crowd winced as Tanya’s belly cushioned part of the fall. Sally got up and played to the ringside fans, taunting them vilely.

“That’s what a never-was looks like! You dumb motherfuckers refused to see what trash she is. But now I’m gonna flush this shit, even if it takes two.”

Sally backed up and readied to deliver her next move.

“Taylor, if she lands this, it could be over in any number of ways. Sally could hasten her opponent’s contractions, or bring on a miscarriage, or severely injure Tanya’s back.”

“She’s got the leg drop primed. She lines up her approach, rushes forward, and...”

The crowd jeered and then winced as Tanya rolled out of the way and Sally landed hard in a full split.

“Ohmigod you fucking cunt shart—you split my taint!”

Tanya, still feeling the effects of Sally’s initial attack, grabbed the barricade and pulled herself to unsteady feet. Ringside fans crowded to her, sneaking back slaps and shoulder pats. Tanya shook her head as if to clear it, spritzing the fans with her blood and sweat. She finished collecting herself and stalked the writhing former cheerleader, who remained on the floor in the unwanted split.

“Tanya needed a lot of time to collect her wits, Doc, but Sally looks like that botched leg drop is still affecting her. Can Tanya capitalize?”

“She certainly looks like she’s going to try. She’s climbed the stairs to the ring apron. She calculates, and them jumps with a double stomp!”

“Oh shit, she connected, but with Sally’s back leg!”

As her muscles torqued, Sally shrieked. She rolled to one side and tried to rise. Her leg held, but she clearly struggled to bear the weight.

Tanya faced her adversary and smiled. Her still-perfect teeth contrasted against her stained face.

“It’s not your time yet, you wannabe upstart! Time to learn a life lesson.” Tanya rushed at Sally, grabbed her hair as she passed, and reverse bulldogged her onto the floor. There was a loud smack as Sally’s head whiplashed off the thinly cushioned concrete.

“OOOOO, Doc, that had to hurt.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. Let’s see how Tanya follows up.”

“C’mon, bitch, let’s dance!” Tanya howled as she grabbed her opponent and pushed her under the bottom rope. But before Tanya could slide in herself, she paled, grabbed her stomach, turned toward the fans, and projectile-vomited. The sodden fans cackled and rubbed the chunks over each other, some choosing to lick the debris from those near them.

Tanya collected herself and slid back into the ring, trailing remnants of vomit. Sally lay on her back on the mat, trying to collect herself.

Tanya approached her opponent and readied for a stomp on her huge belly. As Tanya’s foot descended, Sally rolled forward into her attacker’s plant leg, grotesquely hyperextending her knee.

Tanya screamed and collapsed. Sally got to her feet and aimed a kick between Tanya’s legs. At the last possible second before impact Tanya swept a foot upward, pitching Sally onto her back again.

“Ouch, what a Hail Mary. That may have bought Tanya a little time.”

“Right you are Taylor, but can she capitalize?”

Tanya struggled to stand, went down to one knee, and then used the ropes to pull herself up. She hobbled after her opponent, who also needed the ropes to rise. Both women faced each other, shrieked war cries, and limped toward each other.

“Holy fuck, dueling cunt punts! And both connected! Tanya has lifted Sally clean off her feet! How are these two warriors still standing?” Doc yelled.

“They’re both bleeding; it’s a gusher!” Taylor said hoarsely.

It was Sally’s turn to puke as she propped herself up against a turnbuckle; the stream flowed down her cleavage and pooled with the blood ebbing from between her legs. She slumped limply.

Tanya somehow managed to stand and survey the weapons hanging on the ring ropes. Her eyes fell on something. She grabbed it and shambled at her opponent, who still lay slumped in the corner.

“Omi fucking Gawd, Doc. What’s she gonna do with those forceps?”

“She’s torn off Sally’s shorts. No, god, no, not the forceps, and not in that hole!!!!!”

Tanya forced her opponent’s legs apart and zeroed in on Sally’s anus. Sally attempted to fight off the attack, but her disorientation was working against her.

“I’m gonna pull that fucking fetus out your back door, little girl. It’s fitting because that’s where you deliver shit.”

In desperation, taking advantage of her opponent’s preoccupation with the forceps, Sally headbutted Tanya. Tanya’s nose flattened and her front teeth collapsed inward. She dropped the forceps and Sally found the wherewithal to sweep them out of the ring.

Tanya staggered backward, trying to hold her face together; then she clutched her stomach again. She puked and shit herself simultaneously.

“Her shit split, her shit split,” Taylor yelled.

“That’s what happens when you wear a thong. But look at Sally Slit. She seems to be rallying. Look, she’s selected a weapon. What the fuck—it can’t be!”

“It is, a hand crank drill auger,” Taylor said breathlessly.

“Gonna drill you a new hole and DIY this episiotomy! Your fetus is sooooo fuckeeeeddd!” Sally swept Tanya’s legs and kicked them wide. She swung the auger at Tanya’s crotch. It connected with Tanya’s thigh, which she had thrust into the path of the antique device.

Tanya’s shriek was amplified as Sally’s face twisted in rage at her thwarted attempt to auger Tanya’s crotch. Sally began drilling, grinding the bit deeper into Tanya’s leg. The crunching of bone assailed the audience as Tanya screamed in agony, her blood staining the mat.

“Jeez, I bet that hurt, didn’t it? I’ll be more careful next time.” Taking her sweet time, Sally reversed the auger bit to extract it. She pulled it free, and readied for another thrust.

“Ooops, Sally lost her footing and plopped onto her ass,” Taylor noted, his voice rasped, strained to its breaking point.

“But can Tanya rally and use this mishap to her advantage? Oh shit, she’s not, no, she wouldn’t. Ugh, I can’t watch.”

“Yes, she did, Doc.”

Tanya had staggered to the ropes and grabbed the plumber’s snake, still caked with shit and blood from its last use. She flipped Sally on her belly, slowly spread her opponent’s ass cheeks, and slammed the tip home.

“Ahhh, God, no, don’t!” Sally shrieked as Tanya pushed the metal probe deeper into her.

“Take it all the way, you miserable, ungrateful, cunt.” Tanya screamed as she started rotating the snake. Sally puked blood; her body spasmed.

“Oh, how far apart are the contractions?” Tanya asked as she yanked the snake out of Sally’s rectum. Parts of intestinal lining trailed after it.

Tanya didn’t waste time; she forced Sally’s vagina open and slammed the snake home.

It went in so far, then hit an obstacle. Tanya stepped up her labor, cranking hard on the metal whip.

“Think I’ve hooked a big one. Let’s get this turd out of you!”

“Ugh, God. I thought I’d seen it all. Tanya Taint is doing a DIY abortion with a plumber’s probe!” Doc yelled. “She’s pulling the fetus out, the tip has pierced the head, and she’s nearly torn it loose from the body. Sally is voiding every type of bodily fluid that you can imagine.”

The fetus slipped off the end of the snake and splatted open on the canvas.

“And here comes the afterbirth—she’s not, she wouldn’t, oh shit.” Taylor lost his lunch on the rebuilt announcer’s table.

“Yes, Taylor, she would, and she is. Tanya Taint is shoveling the afterbirth into her mangled mouth.”

The commentators paused to take in the grotesque vision of the victor finishing off the afterbirth, then straddling the face of her vanquished foe and unleashing a tsunami of liquid waste and blood.

“Can we call this a ‘tainted’ victory, Doc?” Taylor quipped.

“That’s really bad, even for you, Taylor,” said his older colleague.

“I learned from the worst, Doc.”

About the Author:
Speculative fiction author Thomas R Clark is a two-time Splatterpunk Award nominee in the categories of Best Novella (2021) for Bella’s Boys and Best Short Story (2022) for Fireflies & Apple Pies. His most recent release is WE ARE 13, a collection of splatterpunk & folk horror. His journalism and entertainment critiques have appeared in Memento Mori Ink, Rue Morgue, Stranger With Friction, House of Stitched Magazine, This Is Infamous, and miscellaneous internet outlets. Tom lives in Central New York with his wife and their canine companions. His preferred social media platforms are Facebook, Instagram, and Tik Tok, and his website, thomasrclark.com, includes a merchandise and book store.

J. Rocky Colavito, aka Dr. Damned, is finally a retired college English professor who has decamped to the colonized southwestern desert where the heat is dry, the regional fare is spicy, and his mind is attuned to all things horror. He writes his brand, All the Genres of the Dark, with content ranging from the quiet and safe for the mainstream to dark and extreme forays that, in one case, got him banned from a tattoo parlor in Indiana. He encourages people interested in his works to read any and all trigger warnings associated with them, and proceed at your own risk. He is the creator of Buck Neighkyd, porn star turned occult detective, the author of the Stoned Cryptid series from Twisted Dreams Press, and uses professional wrestling, giallo films, and creature features as framing for many of his other works. His short form work appears in multiple collections, and in magazines like Carnage House, Werewolf Magazine Reborn, Ghost Light, and Caveman Magazine. He’s still the one they warned you about, and embraces that role with pleasure.