Porstmouth's mask churned. “Name of the game is b***h Fight. Here are the rules: There are nam. I'll tell you when the fight is over. You two bitches give us a good show, now. Hear?” she demanded, half yelling, glaring at them in turn. We nodded.
The Suicide Bomber started huffing and puffing, psyching herself up. She screamed, “Allah akbar!” and raised her fists.
Portsmouth stepped back to a wall quickly, yelling, “Fight!”
The wondrous word triggered a lightning response from Clarice's calm, still body. Like a Top Fuel drag car waiting at the line and launching 7,000 hp at a glimpse of the green light, her left arm shot into Suicide Bomber's face, fist flexing, shoulder tightening as it flattened her nose. The speed of it baffled the girl, made her hands jerk up in response, autonomous
