Big Bertha Brotz

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
My name is Jeremy Tompkins. I’m a journalist and graduate of J. K. Daffron High School in central Ohio, about twenty miles Southeast of Columbus. I was having a beer at a local bar with my buddy Todd Meyer the other night, and we started talking about greatest male high school athletes from Ohio. Todd, who is also a journalist, started spitting out names: James, Howard, Schlatter, Mayo, Claret and Lavender, when I said, “What about girl athletes?”
“Michelle Munoz for one,” he said. “And Jessica Simpson.”
“You mean the singer?”
“No, numb-nuts, the softball player from the mid-2000s.”
I was really just kidding, but Todd had this acerbic nature, which was amplified when he had a few brewskis in him.
“And Lori Brotz.”
“Brotz,” I said. “I remember that girl—tall as a barn and just as wide.”
“You’re not kidding,” said Todd. “I believe she was six-seven and over four hundred-fifty pounds, if my memory serves me right. She won the state discus championship a couple years in a row.”
“Didn’t she go into professional wrestling for a while?”
“Yeah. But then she ended up killing a woman in a fight outside a bar back in 2008.”
“I remember.”
“She’s in the pen upstate.”
“She had a younger sister, didn’t she?”
“Bertha,” said Todd. “Many say Bertha was an even a better athlete, or at least would’ve been. She was smaller—if six-four and three hundred-twenty pounds is considered small.”
“Not in my book,” I said.
“Bertha won a discus title, too, and excelled in more sports than her sister.”
“Volleyball and softball,” I said, as I drained the last of the beer in my mug. “And she was only a freshman when she broke the record at our school for most home runs.”
“Correct. And she only finished two years of high school; she was sixteen when . . .”
“Yeah, what happened there?”
Todd swigged his beer, slapped the bottom of the mug on the bar and eyed me. “You got about an hour?”
I looked at my watch. It was ten till twelve. The bar was open till one.
“Sure, why not. It’s Thursday night and I’ve got half of tomorrow’s article already written for the Dispatch.”
“The whole thing’s pretty tragic,” said Todd, as he squirmed in his seat.
“You fellas need another beer?” said the bartender.
“Sure,” said Todd.
“I got this one,” I said. Todd nodded as I reached for my wallet. The bartender brought our beers over and placed them on the bar top. I tossed seven bucks down, which he deftly scooped up. “Go on, Todd.”
I sipped my Corona as Todd starting telling me about Bertha Brotz. I was so mesmerized by the story, I could picture the scenes as if they were happening today, though the events occurred more than fifteen years ago.

It was a muggy afternoon in early June and Daffron was tied with Jefferson. Daffron was down to their last toss in shot put as Big Bertha made her way to the circle. She waved the ball overhead, gripping it with both hands. Then she jiggled her hips around as if she were whirling a Hula Hoop to loosen them up. A couple girls from Jefferson chuckled, but got embarrassed and a bit frightened when Bertha turned and glared at them.
Bertha entered the circle and placed the ball in her left hand. She then covered her right nostril with her thumb and blew her nose. She repeated the move on the other side, ridding her snout of dust rather than boogers due to allergies.
Bertha got set with the ball tucked against the right side of her neck. She made her throw but lost her balance, committing a scratch as her foot crossed over the line. The ball still soared over fifty feet, her personal best, but it didn’t count. Jefferson won the event. And Bertha finished second in the individual shot put championship, when an average throw would’ve won it for her.
Bertha walked toward the locker room, cussing herself out and tugging at her hair.
“It’s okay, Bertha,” some girl shouted.
“Oh, eat a pile of shit, bitch,” she said under her breath, as she clambered the slight incline in the grass toward the outside locker room door.
When she got inside, she punched her locker and dented it. And without speaking to a sole, she walked outside to her pickup truck, got inside it and stormed off.

Bertha sped down the highway as she engorged herself with fries and her second Big Mac. The sun was just dipping over the horizon as headlights flicked on amid traffic heading toward her. She sipped some Coke, then set the cup back in the cup holder. She then ripped a loud fart that felt a bit moist in her underpants. The truck cabin already smelled like sulfur from the half dozen panty burps she’d already ripped. But she didn’t care. She was going to end it tonight anyway. How embarrassing, she thought, screwing up her shot put throw to lose the championship. She could never face the girls or coach again. And she’d look like a real asshole when they printed her gaffe in the newspaper.
Bertha seethed for a while as she drove along the Interstate. She then started laughing when she uncorked another fart. She was soiling her panties like some goddamn baby. But there were no diapers to fit an ass as big as hers. She laughed at that thought as she sprayed her dashboard with particles of fries. She then finished the last bit of her burger, set the bag aside and grabbed her crack pipe.
It was tough being a top athlete because the pressure was unbearable. She had just starting smoking the shit to help relieve the tension. But the crack was making her more aggressive, which was way out of character for the sixteen year-old.
Fifteen minutes later, Bertha took the exit to Rural Route 3. She peeled out at the stop sign and sped to the right, almost upending her pickup. Her heart dropped to her stomach as the driver’s side tires lifted off the road about six inches, then slammed back to the pavement. Bertha laughed so heard her gut ached.
She turned right and entered a narrower road, where rows of corn soared to points on both sides. She took another hit on the pipe. Then another one. She had just stopped her truck on the side of the road, preparing to pee and remove her soiled underwear, when a car slammed into the back of her truck.

The force of the crash flung Bertha forward. Her thick chest hit the steering wheel, then she bounced back in her seat. A singe of pain streaked down her neck.
“Son of a bitch!” she shouted. “What the hell?”
Bertha tried to turn her head to the left, but her neck was too stiff. She grabbed the inside handle of her door, flipped it open and stepped onto the pavement of the road. The shocks on the truck squeaked upon the immediate absence of her weight.
Darkness had almost settled in, and with the aid of the full moon, which Bertha swore made her more aggressive, she spotted a dark blue Camaro attached to her driver’s side back bumper. The entire grill was smashed in. When she looked up, she saw two blonde woman in cowboy hats peering through the cracked windshield; their eyes widened as they stared at her, mouths agape. A brunette in back was leaning between the bucket seats, probably trying to determine what they’d just hit. Perhaps she shat herself as well.

Submitted: September 12, 2016

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Submitted: September 12, 2016

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My name is Jeremy Tompkins.  I’m a journalist and graduate of J. K. Daffron High School in central Ohio, about twenty miles Southeast of Columbus.  I was having a beer at a local bar with my buddy Todd Meyer the other night, and we started talking about greatest male high school athletes from Ohio.  Todd, who is also a journalist, started spitting out names:  James, Howard, Schlatter, Mayo, Claret and Lavender, when I said, “What about girl athletes?”

“Michelle Munoz for one,” he said.  “And Jessica Simpson.”

“You mean the singer?”

“No, numb-nuts, the softball player from the mid-2000s.”

I was really just kidding, but Todd had this acerbic nature, which was amplified when he had a few brewskis in him.

“And Lori Brotz.”

“Brotz,” I said.  “I remember that girl—tall as a barn and just as wide.”

“You’re not kidding,” said Todd.  “I believe she was six-seven and over four hundred-fifty pounds, if my memory serves me right.  She won the state discus championship a couple years in a row.”

“Didn’t she go into professional wrestling for a while?”

“Yeah.But then she ended up killing a woman in a fight outside a bar back in 2008.”

“I remember.”

“She’s in the pen upstate.”

“She had a younger sister, didn’t she?”

“Bertha,” said Todd.  “Many say Bertha was an even a better athlete, or at least would’ve been.  She was smaller—if six-four and three hundred-twenty pounds is considered small.”

“Not in my book,” I said.

 “Bertha won a discus title, too, and excelled in more sports than her sister.”

“Volleyball and softball,” I said, as I drained the last of the beer in my mug.  “And she was only a freshman when she broke the record at our school for most home runs.”

“Correct.  And she only finished two years of high school; she was sixteen when . . .”

“Yeah, what happened there?”

Todd swigged his beer, slapped the bottom of the mug on the bar and eyed me.  “You got about an hour?”

I looked at my watch.  It was ten till twelve.  The bar was open till one.

“Sure, why not.  It’s Thursday night and I’ve got half of tomorrow’s article already written for the Dispatch.”

“The whole thing’s pretty tragic,” said Todd, as he squirmed in his seat.

“You fellas need another beer?” said the bartender.

“Sure,” said Todd.

“I got this one,” I said.  Todd nodded as I reached for my wallet.  The bartender brought our beers over and placed them on the bar top.  I tossed seven bucks down, which he deftly scooped up.  “Go on, Todd.”

I sipped my Corona as Todd starting telling me about Bertha Brotz.  I was so mesmerized by the story, I could picture the scenes as if they were happening today, though the events occurred more than fifteen years ago.

It was a muggy afternoon in early June and Daffron was tied with Jefferson.  Daffron was down to their last toss in shot put as Big Bertha made her way to the circle.  She waved the ball overhead, gripping it with both hands.  Then she jiggled her hips around as if she were whirling a Hula Hoop to loosen them up.  A couple girls from Jefferson chuckled, but got embarrassed and a bit frightened when Bertha turned and glared at them.

Bertha entered the circle and placed the ball in her left hand.  She then covered her right nostril with her thumb and blew her nose.  She repeated the move on the other side, ridding her snout of dust rather than boogers due to allergies.

Bertha got set with the ball tucked against the right side of her neck.  She made her throw but lost her balance, committing a scratch as her foot crossed over the line.  The ball still soared over fifty feet, her personal best, but it didn’t count.  Jefferson won the event.  And Bertha finished second in the individual shot put championship, when an average throw would’ve won it for her.

Bertha walked toward the locker room, cussing herself out and tugging at her hair.

“It’s okay, Bertha,” some girl shouted.

“Oh, eat a pile of shit, bitch,” she said under her breath, as she clambered the slight incline in the grass toward the outside locker room door. 

When she got inside, she punched her locker and dented it.  And without speaking to a sole, she walked outside to her pickup truck, got inside it and stormed off.

Bertha sped down the highway as she engorged herself with fries and her second Big Mac.  The sun was just dipping over the horizon as headlights flicked on amid traffic heading toward her.  She sipped some Coke, then set the cup back in the cup holder.  She then ripped a loud fart that felt a bit moist in her underpants.  The truck cabin already smelled like sulfur from the half dozen panty burps she’d already ripped.  But she didn’t care.  She was going to end it tonight anyway.  How embarrassing, she thought, screwing up her shot put throw to lose the championship.  She could never face the girls or coach again.  And she’d look like a real asshole when they printed her gaffe in the newspaper.

Bertha seethed for a while as she drove along the Interstate.  She then started laughing when she uncorked another fart.  She was soiling her panties like some goddamn baby.  But there were no diapers to fit an ass as big as hers.  She laughed at that thought as she sprayed her dashboard with particles of fries.  She then finished the last bit of her burger, set the bag aside and grabbed her crack pipe.

It was tough being a top athlete because the pressure was unbearable.  She had just starting smoking the shit to help relieve the tension.  But the crack was making her more aggressive, which was way out of character for the sixteen year-old. 

Fifteen minutes later, Bertha took the exit to Rural Route 3.  She peeled out at the stop sign and sped to the right, almost upending her pickup.  Her heart dropped to her stomach as the driver’s side tires lifted off the road about six inches, then slammed back to the pavement.  Bertha laughed so heard her gut ached.

She turned right and entered a narrower road, where rows of corn soared to points on both sides.  She took another hit on the pipe.  Then another one.  She had just stopped her truck on the side of the road, preparing to pee and remove her soiled underwear, when a car slammed into the back of her truck.

The force of the crash flung Bertha forward.  Her thick chest hit the steering wheel, then she bounced back in her seat.  A singe of pain streaked down her neck.

“Son of a bitch!” she shouted.  “What the hell?”

Bertha tried to turn her head to the left, but her neck was too stiff.  She grabbed the inside handle of her door, flipped it open and stepped onto the pavement of the road.  The shocks on the truck squeaked upon the immediate absence of her weight. 

Darkness had almost settled in, and with the aid of the full moon, which Bertha swore made her more aggressive, she spotted a dark blue Camaro attached to her driver’s side back bumper.  The entire grill was smashed in.  When she looked up, she saw two blonde woman in cowboy hats peering through the cracked windshield; their eyes widened as they stared at her, mouths agape.  A brunette in back was leaning between the bucket seats, probably trying to determine what they’d just hit.  Perhaps she shat herself as well.


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