You don’t always have to crowd the jam line.
In fact, sometimes doing so creates a distinct disadvantage.
At the core, roller derby is all about managing space.
I’m particularly adept at that, on the track, and behind the bar.
Which is why I’m long on glares and short on patience when Linc McGill keeps finding his way into mine.
Yeah, he has a way with the ladies.
Charming them into parting with their cash for his wild concoctions.
And real talk… my derby sisters and I need them to part with those dollars.
But the “mixologist” as he likes to call himself, is chomping at the bit to make his mark.
And when he has his own money and his own bar… he can have at it.
Until then, it’s my way and my bar.
I’m more than just the head bartender.
And it’s my mark to make.
None of this fancy “mixologist” crap.
Peen doesn’t rule behind the mahogany bar at Banked Track.
If Linc doesn’t like it, he can exit stage left.
Whatever. She may fight it, but I know she likes me.
Rory Turner likes to talk a big game, but I’d like to see her pit her talents against mine.
Anyone can serve up an IPA.
But to manipulate a drink just by the way you shake it?
Nah, that takes talent and hard work.
Plus, a little wrist action.
That’s what keeps the ladies squirming on their bar stools.
Rory won’t admit it, but it’s what keeps her squirming too.
It’s only a matter of time before I’m setting more than just liquor aflame.
My adept wrist action is only the beginning of my skills.
And there’s only one woman I have any interest in sharing my moves with.
You know, once I take a jackhammer and crack the crust of that exterior of hers to find the racing blood of pure, red-hot woman pumping underneath.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
And so will we…