Hells’ Belles

An Evening with the Derby Dolls.
by Dan Gillis III

Thora Zeen flies past Broadzilla, crouching low to the track, her skates hugging the curves as her curves-hugging skirt flips up like the tail fin of a ’57 Chevy. Candy Striker clenches her teeth and scowls as she delivers a hit to Markie d. Sod, who falls face first to the masonite, narrowly missing a skate to the face from Maggie Mayhem.

As dark monsoon clouds hang in the distance over the Inland Empire and the fucking heat wave subsides, we watch from the edge of this swirling tempest of skates and skirts.

Actually, that’s just Tawdry Tempest tearing past the row of fishnets and extended, tattoo-sleeved arms.

This is the world of the Derby Dolls, world famous resuscitators of ’70s roller derby: the edgy sport that once rolled its way into the coliseums, fair grounds and YMCAs of the Riversides and Barstows of this country. You should ask your mom about it, she may have even been a derby girl herself. Well, that was before she popped you out, moved to Temecula, donated your college money to Jim Baker and found Jesus (Velasco, your former pool boy she escaped to Mexico with, to head a black market organ harvesting syndicate).

Oh Mom, what a goofball. (Please call…)

Anyway, in its third year, the Dolls are back skating on a banked track built just for this occasion in some industrial area adjacent to downtown and the Grease part of the L.A. River. Today, it’s the Sirens vs. the Trust Fund Terrors, in an all-out female frenzy hotter than USA “Up All Night” (but slightly less hot than 1992’s Bikini Car Wash Company or the Meatballs quadrilogy). Gone are the Farrah Fawcett hair flips and disco balls, now replaced with Betty Page bangs and nautical stars inked on every imaginable appendage. The Trust Fund Terrors claim to be the daughters of industrialists, flaunting their USC communication degrees and throwing their excess bling into the audience. With their bleached white tennis skirts, Lacoste-ly looking shirts and white panties, they proved that they weren’t afraid of getting a few skidmarks.

The Sirens, however, came to break up the notorious sorority smashers and break their birthday nose jobs. Dressed in their best blues and badges, these ladies were rough and tough with their handcuffs. It’s a good thing I remembered my safe word. (It was “Geddy Lee.”)

Actually, I remained in my safe position ringside as the ladies began their “jam.” Apparently, the object of the sport isn’t skating around the track punching one another’s kidneys and devolving into to a lascivious bout of tickle fighting and/or semi-nude grappling. But I did real shitty on my SATs and didn’t really get it, so I just yelled, “Fuck yeah!” as much as possible.

After the collisions, the insults and a few broken bones, the first half was over and it was it was time to bring out the half time show. In a sport already dominated by scantily clad females, what could possibly be more entertaining?

It’s Roky Roulette, the world’s only pogo-striptease artist. But you already saw that one coming.

Roky’s unique talent of stripping while deftly wielding his pogostick has gotten him fame and fortune (I think he’s paid in coke) across the known universe. I met him back stage at Lucha VaVoom—the other site of femme fighting and Mexican midget tossing—and he truly grabbed my attention while trying to touch me where my bathing suit covers. So being an old buddy of Roky’s, I was delighted to see him run onto the track in some sort of Colonel Sanders meets Big Bird get-up and proceed to get down to business. I believe that there was a well-waxed chest involved, some jury-rigged KFC bucket undergarments, and a few multicolored feathers sprouting from his crotchular area.

It was at this point that one of my companions said that he “wasn’t feeling well,” which I think had a little to do either with Roky’s rocket or the buttery sheen of his chest. Of course, it was probably related to the dirt-flavored hotdogs we had eaten earlier.

As we walked back to the car, I realized that I wasn’t disappointed that my telekinetic powers didn’t aid in any nipple slips (a power I refined while watching Skin-a-Max) or that I never once knew the score. I was just glad to finally see a bunch of nice young ladies beating the ever-loving shit out of each other.

Fuck off with Dan Gillis at http://www.underbellyla.blogspot.com/