“Oh, here comes the dyke-train—would you look at these hard bitches!” said Megan as I saw two dirty, grease-monkey women wearing road crew vests and carrying tool boxes hauling their stuff across the parking lot, swearing like sailors as they headed inside to their new residence, the apartment over which Megan, her daughter Niki and granddaughter Emma, live on the Redneck Riviera of Baltimore County, while Emma’s drug addict father [coke, heroin, crack, oxys, saboxtin, ambian, lithium, and the list goes on] is shuffled between rehab, jail, hospitals and mental health facilities.

“Nikki went to get her clothes from the dryer and the ugliest one had her motor oil stained hands on her dress suits and unmentionables and they had words. I told her she can’t speak to these women like normal people—they’re hardcore white trash. These bitches are worse than niցցers. Nikki is a girly girl and my ass is getting too old to fight.”

I spoke to Niki and she was beside herself, “We have a new rental company and it’s started, we’ll have unlicensed mechanics rebuilding cars and hookers on the parking lot before you know it. I about hurled when I saw that grease monkey with her hands on my clothes.”

“Better on your clothes than on your throat, girly,” came sage advice from Megan.

Later that night, the Saturday night into Mothers Day, the liquor had been flowing upstairs for some time when, “Pussy” and “Cunt” or so they named each other amidst their shouted arguments and hurled insults, began to brawl—with no other word applicable.

I heard a loud slap or three.

I heard the thud of body punches.

I heard a glass shatter and a plate splinter against walls.

The lack of furniture in the upstairs apartment—for the women brought in only backpacks, tool boxes, beer and liquor, amplified the sound.

I then heard the crack of bone on bone—I surmised a fist on jaw.

There was then a fall, then a scramble on hands and knees, a slam against an exterior wall, a crash against an interior wall, a feral growl of rage, a grunt, a creaking and then an apartment shaking crash as a hard human back slammed on the floor above.

I was cheering, silently for the puncher who had, it seems, just been body slammed, while Nikki covered her eyes and buried her face in a pillow, Megan shook her head and said, “This is WW Dyke.”

Two-year-old Emma scrunched her eyebrows and said questionably, “Gampires?—I scared,” and smiled playfully as her eyes darted above and the rumble of combat intensified as both fighters found their feet and resumed their war of words and fists.

“Rillas?” she said with a wry grin as she covered her tiny shoulders with her blanky.