Roller Derby

Thanks for noticing my skirt. My name is Trudy. Every evening, after finishing my shift at the Floating Fish Market, I park my employer’s merchant vessel; then I tie on my ankle-bracelet skates and take the sky trolley to Roller Jam USA in Staten Island. It’s a postmodern skating rink that caters to all ages during the day, but then after 7 p.m. they have Adult DJ Racing Night, where all DJs over the age of 21 are welcome to cruise around the track in a violent competition, and the winner gets a trophy. My jersey has a number twelve on the back, and, underneath that, I added my own custom motto: “Raisin’ Hell”. All of us adult DJ roller-skaters are pretty rude to each other, but my particular enemy on the racetrack is DJ number 8. I don’t like that guy’s appearance, I don’t like his way of talking, and I don’t like the music he plays. So it’s a thrill to get out there on the track every evening and just crush him with my superior skating skills. 

My signature move is to come coasting around the bend very rapidly and glide up right behind my adversary; then, while still zooming forward on the track, I raise my left leg — which has the effect of revealing my womanhood, because I never wear undergarments at the roller rink (tho I’m moving so fast that you can’t really see any details, so this pose is tastefully sexy rather than vulgar) — then I kick my foot right into the number 8 on my foeman’s jersey, and he goes tumbling into the abyss. At which point, I win the race and collect my prize. 

I’ve been participating in Roller Jam USA’s nighttime race-war for two full months now, and I’ve already accumulated 61 gold trophies. So, when I get my paycheck next week, I’m going to buy a display case.