Ep2: Makeover Takeover

Emerging from the schoolyard’s back entrance are cackling JDs Pimples and Frankie, with an unconscious Tommy Boyd in tow, her wrists and ankles bound.  The Pimp man’s up front, holding his captive’s legs as the trio moves forward, with Frankie coming up the rear, his hands under the girl’s armpits… and occasionally around her sweaty bosom. 

There’s a devilish grin on his unshaven mug as they approach Chad's parked van with its open rear door, and then slide sleeping Tommy Boyd inside like a slab of shapely meat.  Walking directly behind them are super-cool, triumphant Chad Parker and the mastermind behind all of his audacious career schemes, fiancée Marcia Sloan.  An attractive and sophisticated society babe, Sloan thoroughly enjoys the sight of her helpless adversary being manhandled in such a humiliating way, but soon turns to Chad with a more pragmatic, no-nonsense look.

“All right, Chad, here’s the deal,” Marcia patiently explains.  “I’ve done my part in clearing the way for you.  I can keep ‘bicep bitch’ out of your hair for a while, but it’s going to be mostly up to you to sell yourself to that agent, Jeff Fields, tomorrow tonight.  Have you studied the data I gave you?”

“Yeah, Marcia, I got it all down pat,” responds Chad confidently.  “Statistics, names to drop, nice shit to tell the guy, all that garbage.  No prob, Babe.”

Marcia growls.  “UUGGH!  Not ‘I got it all down pat.’  It’s I’VE got it all down pat’!  Haven’t you taken the required English classes?  If you talk like an illiterate hick, that agent will drop you like a bad habit!”

Chad just rolls his eyes, but listens and finally nods, knowing full-well that Marcia is a genius at this sort of character assassination and career building scenario.

Meanwhile, the boys pop out of the van and shut the door behind them.  As Marcia and Chad continue their conversation, Pimples spots Tommy Boyd’s cool-looking motorcycle, parked a few yards away near the schoolyard fence.

“Hey, ain’t that the bitch’s bike?”

Frankie’s nasty smile widens.  “Finders keepers, losers weepers, I always say…”  And with that, he jumps on the vehicle and starts checking it out.

“You look more like the Fonz on a bad day than Brando, man!” Pimples laughs.

“Screw you!  It’s not a bad fit… once we get rid of the female stench,”  Frankie clarifies.  Then he notices something about the bike…  “Hey what is this, some kinda personal compartment…?”  He flips open a lid and shuffles through some papers.  “This is Boyd’s personal shit.  A lot of junk.”

Pimples looks around.  “There’s a garbage can right behind you…”

“Great.  Hey look – her driver’s license, photo ID, credit cards…”  CRACK!  “Boyd won’t be needing plastic anymore, they’re gonna control all her purchases from now on.  Peteeeeewwwww!!  Bombs away!”

Tommy’s crunched cards are tossed into the air, finding their mark in the garbage can with a CLANG!  “And the man makes a perfect basket…!”

Pimples glances back at the van, with their nabbed arch-nemesis inside.  “Ha! It’ll take her forever to get that I.D. replaced!”

“Gives the bitch something to do, now that competing with guys is out,” reasons Frankie, checking out some of Tommy’s other personal items stashed in the bike compartment.  “What is this… oh hohoho!” the greaser laughs, his face aglow with nasty joy as he shoves a new discovery in his pal’s face.  It’s a photo of a 10 year-old TB posing prettily with her dad, the Colonel, and he’s dressed in full military attire.  “A Personal Keepsake… from Dad to Tomasina!”  Frankie reads aloud in a mocking voice.

Pimples grabs the picture and guffaws.  “Ha-ha-ha.  Look at the little squirt.  She’s titless!”

“Hard to believe, right?”  Frankie grabs the picture back, automatically rips it to pieces.  “In the garbage…”  He tosses the crumpled up little ball that was once a cherished memento over his shoulder without a second thought, continues to explore the ‘cycle’s personal compartment.  “Hey!  Snickers bars!  Three of ‘em.  Knock yourself out…”

He tosses one to Pimples, who catches the taste treat and unwraps it.  Within seconds both leather-jacket creeps are wolfing down Tommy’s candy bars.  “Mmmmm.  Always liked Snickers,” comments Pimps, his big mouth chewing as he begins to rummage through the compartment himself.   “What’s this?  Some kind of medal, or something.  ‘Lincoln Heights Guardian Angel’ – what’s it say there, Protector of the Neighborhood Tommy Boyd –“

“Gimme that shit” snaps Frankie, grabbing the medal from his pal and instantly tossing it.

CLANG.  “Next…”

“Here’s another picture,” an excited Pimples announces as he checks it out.  “Hey, hot!”  That’s Tommy with her arm around some Asian chick, another female athlete – they’re both in track suits.  There’s some writing: ‘For my wonderful friend, Tommy… something to always remember me by.’”

Frankie glances at the pic and leers.  “Two she-males for the price of one.  No – wait a minute, don’t tear it up.  I’ll email this to my little nephew, Chuck.  He hates Boyd’s guts.  Like, ever since she caught him pushing some stupid kid around, and she gave him that spanking in front of everyone…”

“Yeah,” sighs Pimples, recalling.  “That was way harsh.”

“Well now he can even.  If I know him, he’ll have this picture up on the web in like a few hours.  It’ll be great… we’ll expose Boyd for the dim-witted dyke she really is.”

“Hey man, that’s perfect,” Pimples concurs.  “So much for the wholesome All-American role model.”

“Right!  Ha-ha-ha!”

Just then, finally finished chatting with Chad, Marcia approaches her two hired tomboy-catchers with a satisfied smile.  She can’t help noticing where Frankie happens to be sitting.  “A job well done, boys.  I see you’ve claimed the bike.”

“Well, yeah, I was just figurin’…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Frank.  It’s a gift from Aunt Edwina.  She says it’s the least she can do considering how much you’ve been helping her out lately, and how often her misfit niece annoys you.”

A wiseass smile spreads across Pimples’ fat face.  “Yeah, Frankie.  She’s really bought your ‘perfect gentleman’ act.”

“Look, what can I say?  The old lady has taste.”

About fifteen minutes later, Chad’s van rounds a corner on its way to Edwina’s suburban residence.  Inside the cab, dedicated-as-always Marcia patiently drills her boyfriend/fiancée/meal-ticket Mr. Parker, steady at the wheel. 

Within the van itself, Frankie barks into a cellphone, Pimples lights up a joint, and lying on the floor before them is the motionless body of Tomasina Boyd, still out cold from Chad’s chloroform.  Above the young woman’s sneakered feet, both ankles are bound together.  Long, sexy legs lead to the briefest of cut-off jeans, up to bound wrists which rest upon TB’s stomach.  These are directly below a pair of fullsome, very non-tomboyish breasts.  And above this ripe and ready female body is a face the angels themselves must be envious of…  Sweet as a newborn while in deepest dream-slumber, innocent, rounded facial features suggesting a little child rather than a young adult woman. And from the expression on her beautiful face, it’s pretty clear that this young woman… is dreaming.

It’s six years ago at a Lincoln Heights Little League game.

The only girl on the local team, youthful Tommy Boyd couldn’t be happier on this bright Saturday afternoon as she plants her feet on the mound and gets into batting position.  “That’s Daddy – uh, I mean, the Colonel – in the bleachers,” she thinks to herself after spotting him, a twinkle in her bright eyes.  “He hardly ever gets to see me play.  I’d best make it worth his while!”

The pitcher throws a curve ball, which is exactly what Boyd is expecting.  CRACK!  The spectators roar!  And Tommy’s off, running and stealing bases like the fireball of unrestrained energy she is. 

At one point during this victory dash, she turns to check out her homerun handiwork.  “Few things are prettier than the high arc of a well-hit ball sailing gracefully over the centerfield fence,” Tommy muses to herself.  Then she winces at the fact that she used such a girlie-word as “pretty” to describe the event, even in her imagination.  “Oh, who cares?  The only thing left of that ball is a vapor trail!”

Rounding third, Tommy spots her father, Colonel Boyd, with a big happy smile on his face.  “Hi Da – OH!” she stops herself just in time.  It would be “bad form” for one of the players to call out to him instead of behaving like a professional, Tommy reasons.  “After all, I’m supposed to hit homeruns – it’s my duty.  I’ll just give him a proper salute as I pass him by…”

Which she does, and the very proud Colonel returns it.

A short while later, in the dug out, TB and her beloved dad are officially reunited… maybe a little too officially.  “Welcome home, Sir!” proclaims TB, practically standing at attention.  “How was your trip?”

The Colonel looks playfully miffed at this by-the-book, soldierly response.  “What’s all that?” he laughs.  “Come here, and give your old dad a hug!”

This is nothing less than music to the young tomboy’s ears.  “Oh!  I-I can’t believe it!” she gasps to herself as Boyd hugs his eleven year-old daughter.  “This feels SO good… oh no!  I can’t cry!  Think of something else, fast!”

“Sir, I take it you saw my home run effort?”

“Saw it?” the elder Boyd exclaims, beaming.  “And look what I have here.”  He reaches into his jacket pocket… and produces the actual home run ball!

“I’m going to keep this one my desk, Tomasina,” Colonel Boyd says warmly.  “I’m very proud of you.”

Little Tommy is happy as can be, but isn’t sure how to respond to this compliment without appearing wimpy.  “Thank you, Sir,” she answers in a slightly deeper voice that doesn’t quite come off.  “But I was just doing my duty, nothing more.”

Colonel Boyd can’t suppress a cheerful laugh.  “Tomasina, Tomasina, Tomasina…” he says, shaking his head.  “Sometimes I wonder if I’ve failed you…”

“Time to become a proper young lady, day-dreamin’ dyke!” laughs a very different male voice, the one belonging to Tommy Boyd’s most persistent arch-enemy.

The tomboy’s eyes flutter open.  “Wha…  where…  how did…  is that…  Frankie?”

“Snap out of it, Boyd,” the low-life greaser snarls.  “You’re back at Proper Little Miss to continue your rehab.”

“I must have been… out of it,” the girl athlete surmises with a sigh.  Then she realizes her wrists and ankles are bound.  “Hey!  What the --!  You tied me up?!  Bastards!  I’ll get even with you for this!!"  

SPLASH!

In Aunt Edwina’s backyard, a stripped-naked Tommy is unceremoniously dumped into a large barrel of piping-hot water by Frankie and Pimples.  She bobs to the surface, spits out a stream of H20, struggles in vain to get out…  Fat chance!  Watching with folded arms and a raised eyebrow is unsmiling Edwina herself, flanked by self-satisfied Marcia Sloan and an amused Chad.  A bunch of neighborhood kiddies are also milling about, playing in the backyard and laughing at the soaked tomboy as she tries rather haphazardly to escape her unexpected “bath.”

“Aren’t you ashamed, Tomasina Boyd?” Aunt Edwina scolds her splashing, waterlogged niece.  “Indulging in sports instead of playing house, fighting with boys instead of learning to serve them.  No wonder you smell of unfeminine body odor!”

“I do NOT SMELL!” an indignant Tommy shouts, only to have her head plunged under the soapy water again by devil-may-care Frankie.  “This’ll knock the fight outta her,” the grinning greaser informs everyone assembled.  “Absolutely,” agrees nearby Pimples, who happily helps his best pal restrain their struggling arch-adversary.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Strictland,” Marcia tells the old lady gently.  “I realize ‘tough love’ can be a little difficult at times, but if we’re ever going to help Tomasina through her disastrous adolescence, we’ll simply have to remain strong, and forever committed to her rehabilitation.”

“Sometimes I wonder if anything will help,” Edwina shakes her head philosophically.  “But I’ll not shirk my duty, nor go back on the promise I made her father.  Tomasina will indeed become a feminine, well-mannered lady, no matter what the cost.”

“There, there, good lady,” Marcia coos, warmly taking Edwina’s arm.  “You’re not alone in this trial, just remember that.”

Chad can’t resist a titter, which preoccupied Edwina fortunately doesn’t catch.  Meanwhile, Frankie finally lifts poor Tommy’s dripping head from the water.  Momentarily rendered docile, she stares blankly ahead as her unrelenting bather proceeds to savagely rub harsh soap all over her face.  Pimples laughs, and all the little children present giggle, as helpless Tommy is mercilessly scrubbed by rough, unfriendly hands.

“Oh, Miss Sloan,” sighs Aunt Edwina with near-swooning gratitude.  “Your words have revived my flagging spirits, as I see there is at least one proper young lady in this community who takes seriously her social responsibilities.  Bless you, child.”  Edwina then turns her dart-like gaze to the soaked and soaped Tommy, who has gradually regained some of her senses.  “And you, Tomasina,” the elderly woman hisses.  “I think the least you can do is offer Miss Sloan a simple word of thanks for her efforts as your benefactor.”

Tommy is incredulous!  She fiercely brushes the lather from her face.  “ME?  Say ‘Thanks’ to that manipulative Marcia Sloan?  I’d sooner jump off Lincoln Heights Bridge!”

Almost on cue, Frankie slaps his hand onto Tommy’s head and thrusts it in the water, holding her under for a few seconds as the tomboy struggles.  When he finally allows her to re-surface, she gulps for air.

“C’mon, sudsy slut!” Frankie growls.  “Thank Marcia for being so nice to you!”

“Why don’t you bite my ass, you flunky monkey!” snaps Tommy.  Edwina looks as though she might faint.

“Hey!  Not a bad idea!” Frankie says with a perverted grin.  “Maybe later!  But… first things first.”  He submerges her again, and brings her up again.  “I got all day to play Dunk the Dyke, but Marcia and your aunt don’t.  So SAY IT!”

Ridiculed and helpless, Tommy clenches her fists and her teeth and squints her eyes.  “Oooohhhh… thank you,” she half mumbles/half growls.

“I don’t think Marcia heard you,” sneers Pimples.  “Say it louder, or down you go!”

“THANK YOU, MARCIA,” Tommy screams venomously, not gratefully, openly defying her dunker and the ladies present.  And down she goes again!

Aunt Edwina is near-livid.  “Tomasina Boyd!  One more outburst like that and your father will hear of it.  Now you thank Miss Sloan in a proper, ladylike tone!”

“That’s all right, Mrs. Strictland,” Marcia interrupts.  “Tomasina is a most challenging case, and I think ‘baby-steps’ are in order here.  We must suppress our desire for Tomasina’s rapid rehabilitation with the mercy of Job-like patience.”

“Oh, my dear Marcia,” Edwina practically sniffles.  “You are like a lighthouse to a ship on a stormy sea!”

Indeed.  Seconds later, soggy Tommy’s up again.  Almost cartoon-style, her head is now completely covered with soap suds, including her hair, which sticks out in all directions ridiculously.  A beaming Frankie holds up this dehumanized, featureless foam-face by Tommy’s soaped-up hair strands, displaying it proudly for all the gleefully chortling youngsters to enjoy.  Thoroughly overwhelmed and waterlogged, vision obscured by layers of suds, the girl athlete is completely unaware of what's happening around her.

About an hour later, in the house’s main living room:

The Great Tomboy Makeover has finally come to an end.  Once-sporty Tomasina Boyd now finds herself decked out in an absurd, custom-made child’s dress circa 1955, complete with puffy short sleeves and a dainty fringed collar.  Her wild and wavy hair is tied-off with ribbons and ridiculous bright pink bows; even the girl’s peach-fuzzy forearms have been thoroughly shaved.  In a word… yikes!

Not surprisingly, Aunt Edwina is delighted with this mega-metamorphosis.  The sight of her niece wearing something other than sports attire and sneakers is like a breath of fresh air.  She correctly credits makeover artists Marcia and Chad with pulling off a minor miracle, and even the craven Frankie and Pimples manage to come off like helpful assistants.

A dazed Tommy, meanwhile, doesn’t seem to know what hit her and where.  Dressed like a girl at last, albeit a six year-old one, she looks twice as silly standing defiantly in her familiar, fists-on-hips power-pose.  “Tomasina!  Get that frown off your face!” scolds Edwina.  “And for Heaven's sake, stand like a lady!”

Relishing every moment of her enemy's humiliation, Marcia, exuding maturity and patience, once again comes across as the voice of reason.  "Do you know how to curtsy, my dear?" she asks quite innocently.

On reflex, mind-clouded Tommy cautiously pulls at the sides of her little dress and manages a classic, if awkward, curtsy.  Then she just as awkwardly flashes a smile to go along with it.

"Oh I'm so gonna Tweet this!" laughs Pimples as he pulls out and aims his smart phone at the former Butt-Kicker of Lincoln Heights, now ignominiously reduced to an eager-to-please, six year-old girlie girl.  Tommy finally shakes her head, focuses on the situation and realizes what Pimp's up to.  She instantly loses the dumb smile and sticks her tongue out at him!

“Of course, it’ll take more than a change of clothing to tame this tomboy,” Marcia reminds Mrs. Strictland.  “She’ll need to learn feminine behavior from scratch.”  Tommy stops fiddling with her tight collar and squints at her nemesis.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Marcia and Chad exchange conspirator's grins.

Setting: the Proper Little Miss Finishing School, a super-strict, ultra-conservative local institution for toddlers.  Outside stands the sculpted figure of an iconic ladylike youngster, curtsying for our approval.  Inside, a little girl sits on the floor, legs spread across, mindlessly rocking a doll.  Then the girl turns her head… and we realize it’s a thoroughly mortified Tommy Boyd, catching up on those long-neglected female basics!

Behind Tommy, a bunch of snooty eight year-old “classmates” giggle at the new, ridiculously overgrown arrival.  Lost in a daydream, Tomasina remembers a heartfelt conversation with her beloved dad, Colonel Boyd, just before Edwina became her legal guardian.  Guilty about selfishly raising Tommy as the son he always wanted, Boyd hopes Edwina’s sternly classical view of femininity will correct this imbalance, finally making a lady out of his boisterous tomboy daughter.  "As a matter of fact," he tells Tomasina gently but firmly, I'm really counting on it."  Although she despises dresses, dolls, and anything traditionally “girlie,” Tommy promises the Colonel that she’ll swallow her pride and dutifully obey Edwina’s wishes, even if it kills her.  And it very well might!

“Tomasina!” a young voice scolds, snapping the teen out of her reverie.  “Wake up this instant, or I’ll report you to Miss Merribrook!”  Standing above Tommy with severely folded arms is Gwendolyn Joffe, a 10 year-old Proper Little Miss “senior” who’s obviously been asked to keep an eye on the new, mischief-prone inmate.  Never a woman to take lip from anyone, Tommy instinctively clenches her fist and stands up to Gwendolyn, towering over the much-younger girl.  Then Tommy swiftly relents, realizing that she’s backed herself into a corner.

Surrendering to fight another day, she slumps to the floor and resumes her mind-rotting, doll-rocking exercises.  “This ain’t gonna be easy,” the tomboy sighs philosophically.  “Isn’t,” corrects no-nonsense Gwendolyn.  Tommy just rolls her eyes…

Meanwhile, bad news travels fast in Lincoln Heights.  “Tommy Boyd’s in a dress… over at the little girl's school!” a distressed ten year-old tells his freckle-faced pal.  But before the two boys can even react to this emergency, neighborhood punks Frankie and Pimples surround them.  “That’s right, ya little crumbs,” Frankie snarls, grabbing the fatter of the two by his shirtfront.  “We brought her in ourselves.  From now on, Boyd plays with dolls instead of throwing lucky punches.  Now give!”  The kids empty their pockets, scared to death.

At the same time, a group of basketball-playing youngsters are getting creamed by bigger, older and nastier adversaries.  Without nimble Tommy Boyd on the kids’ team, they haven’t got a chance!

“Pssss – hey Tommy!” whispers a more nervous-than-usual Harold.  Clinging precariously to a tree outside a Proper Little Miss window, he tries frantically to get her attention, and finally succeeds.  He manages to lean on the sill as Tommy scampers over.

“How long you in for?” Harold asks with a Bogart accent, prompting an annoyed Tommy to tweak his nose.  Then he updates her on those disconcerting outside world developments.  Only one bit of good news: "We rescued your motorcycle from Frankie's clutches, the neighborhood kids and me" he tells his best friend proudly.  "It's hidden in the garden directly behind this place.  Oh, and we left Mr. Charm with a little present in return -- a stench bomb!"

Delighted that her 'cycle's been secured, Tommy is nevertheless profoundly pissed by what's happening to her undefended friends.  "Think it's about time for a little payback," she concludes, rubbing a very unladylike fist into her palm.  Harold's seen this look of fierce resolve many times before.  Watch out, boy braggarts and bullies of Lincoln Heights...  you can stuff jockette Tommy Boyd into a frilly dress, but you won't be able to contain this feisty force of nature for very long! 

A half-hour later at PLM, Tommy and the other little girls are being put through their monotonous dancing paces when Headmistress Merribrook receives a phone call.  It’s Aunt Edwina, and she needs Tommy home right away.  Merribrook instantly gives young Boyd permission to leave, never suspecting that the voice she heard over the phone was a taped-together sound bite concocted by Tommy, and played by partner-in-crime Harold!  On her motorbike in full ”little girl” regalia, Tommy Boyd zooms away from Proper Little Miss, heading toward…

…the schoolyard basketball court, where Tommy’s young teammates are overjoyed to have their “best man” join the just-beginning game.  Her goofy “girly” outfit elicits a few laughs at first, but soon Boyd’s back in skins, shorts and sneakers, leading her grateful pals to victory!

Final stop on Tommy’s agenda: a certain high-class party at the Sloan estate… 

"Thanks," says invited guest Randy Starr pleasantly, accepting a drink from a passing butler.  He's dressed to the nines for this little outing, and before long an equally dapper Chad Parker saunters over, Marcia on his arm.

"Glad you could stop by, Starr," grins Chad, even as the newcomer glances about at the impressive surroundings.  "This is your hostess and my girlfriend, Miss Marcia Sloan."  A charmed Randy takes Marcia's offered hand.  "I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Starr.  And please, let me apologize in advance.  I realize Lincoln Heights can be a tad trying and provincial without the proper connections.  Still, I'm sure Chad can direct you to the country clubs in the neighborhood worth joining."

"I'm sure I'll fit right in," Randy responds with an agreeable smile, finally downing his drink.

A short while later, laughable images of Tommy Boyd in her "little girl" outfit, curtsying and smiling against her will, are flashed on Marcia's cell phone.  A few of the local jock guests, all of them formally dressed, crowd around to mock the overgrown misfit, and even Randy walks over.  "Say, isn't that the little girl who thinks she's a boy?" he asks innocently.

Marcia grins from ear-to-ear.  "She won't be thinking that way for long.  As you can see, we're rehabilitating her."

"Yeah," Chad chimes in.  "The nitwit's over at a finishing school for little ladies.  They won't let her out until she grows out of her tomboy stage.  And that might take years."

A chorus of forced "awwww"s from the gathered jocks greets that last statement, followed by some hearty laughter.  Clearly, the local male athletes of Lincoln Heights would prefer keeping upstart Tommy Boyd exactly where she is.

"Actually, she's not a prisoner there, at least not all the time," Marcia explains.  "Tomasina still attends high school and we're even allowing her to keep her decidedly-unfeminine part time job.  That's why those sessions at Proper Little Miss must be especially aggressive."

Might work.  Still, Randy wonders if a girl of TB's indefatigable nature and soaring spirit can ever be tamed...

And sure enough, watching Randy from an outside window is none other than Tommy herself... upside-down, and suspended from the roof!  Pouffy hair cascading downward, childlike grin across her gorgeous face, Tommy sees her pseudo-beau Randy and everything else in the party room from a skewed, topsy-turvt perspective... the way she sees life in general, many locals might say.

As the party wears on, Tommy spots a famous sports agent, Jerry Fields, shaking hands and chatting with various guests.  Then the escapee’s eyes dart over to Marcia Sloan, in total scheme mode, giving some final instructions to Chad before he leaves the room for a few moments to freshen up.  “Your presentation has to be absolutely perfect,” no-nonsense Marcia reminds him.

With Chad briefly ducking away, Tommy, still peering through the window, grins mischievously.  Then, like quicksilver, she’s off again…

In one of the bedrooms, Chad hurriedly combs his hair and straightens his tie.  “Chaaaaddd…” a mysterious voice suddenly speaks with Marley's Ghost-like spookiness, and the hairs on the star athlete’s neck bristle.  “This is the voice of your conscience!” the voice continues.  A freaked Chad cautiously moves forward, then is suddenly slugged by Tommy’s fist as her arm springs out of nowhere.  Tommy literally holds the semi-conscious Chad in her arms for a few seconds, then POW! socks him again for good measure, draping him on a couch.

Licking her tongue in anticipation of more childlike mayhem, Tommy spots a bottle of liquor left on a nearby tray.  With elfin glee, she grabs it and opens it.  Smells the stuff – whoa!  Then she yanks up Chad’s unconscious head and pours the potent liquid down his throat!

It isn’t long before a staggering, thoroughly zonked Chad makes his way back into the main ballroom.  As laughing Tommy watches from her window perch, he greets a more than startled Jerry Fields in the weirdest way possible – he shows off some bizarre physical stunts that completely and ridiculously backfire!

A genius in damage control, Marcia rushes in to portray Chad’s behavior as an “unexpected tribute to splaptick comedians of the past,” citing a current Lincoln Heights film festival.  At least one member of the audience is thoroughly beside herself with laughter: Tommy Boyd, who rocks back and forth so violently she almost falls out of the window!

As the other jocks in attendance, who are essentially Chad's arrogant toadies, observe his debacle in disbelieving horror, Randy can't suppress a slight grin.  

Tommy looks at him again, her childlike laughter stopping.  "I do like Randy, and he's not quite as bad as the others," TB takes a moment to rationalize.  But one thing's for sure...this sports-addicted, bully-bashing buckaroo isn't giving up her catcher's mitt and brass knuckles for anyone, and certainly not without a fight!

"You can bet your precious male pride on that one," Tommy thinks to herself, a roomful of arrogant macho adversaries before her.  And that still has to include the smoothest and most dangerous jock of all, Randy Starr.  "I'll show you, Mister Perfect Athlete," she makes herself a giddy promise.  "One of these days… WHAM!”

NEXT EPISODE: A LITTLE LEAGUE OF HER OWN