PASSING SHOT: THE FUTURE OF THE GAME (III)

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Chrissie: *stunned* well hello what's this? i'm not feeling like i can't walk for a week. i get up gingerly and i carry your two's jisms in my cage and i can get off the bed and walk around and there's no trail of drips. and now for the best part. the rainfall shower. sorry, guys.

Fed and Rafa look at each other, raise their pronounced bushy eyebrows, they each have a distinguishing distressed one, and tell each other: sorry not sorry.

Chrissie: quick, Rafa, look at my wooden nipple ring!

Rafa looks.

Chrissie knocks Rafa's face out using only her breast to strike the blow, not her hands. her tits really are that big to accomplish this feat.

Chrissie: Roger, look at my other tit's wooden nipple ring!

Roger: you can't fool a fool.

Chrissie: i can if the sickness is lovesickness.

and she knocks Roger out cold with a thundering bolt from her unassisted left boob.

Chrissie: RACK ATTACK!!! heehee, gets 'em men every time! and now to claim my just reward.

she removes her wooden nipple rings and puts them in a pile on top of her hair. and the wedding ring she finds digging into Roger's back. she stacks that on the pile. she leaves the areola area and into the new one. the new frontier. she closes the door behind her, the door of stained glass of one color: grey. the door closes and immediately it turns to the grey sky of the Amazon floor. bottomsoil at her feet, the green shampoo she uses which runs down her back and sills into a soapy brown sud trail under her feet, tickling her foamy toes. the conditioner she uses is white and cream and ivory and blends with the sperm in her pussy. but none of the sperm spills out. her rainfall shower blends into her body with equal force and pressure, a bathrobe of refreshment. suddenly the silver metallic rainfall showerhead robotically bends into her pussy before she can blink.

Chrissie: wait, what's going on! what's happening here! it's happening too fast!

it enters her and wiggles around a bit.

the green leaves and trees collapse and fall down on top of her, enveloping her in a sea of green. she is swallowed up into another body. a metallic body that at first displays pink healthy skin but is soon replaced with an outer coating of protracted pukey pungent orange. like toxic waste on the plates. a Hollywood tan. a bad Hollywood tan on this girl. the new android bashes down the shower door to a torrent of hssing mist. she is the girl known as Genie Bouchard. she speaks in a standardized signature staccato. Chrissie Evert is no more, engulfed in this new robot skinny frame. Chris Lloyd-Evert is gone. so is Chris Evert-Lloyd for that matter.

Genie: *statically* where are my clothes? i am not ashamed. i require dress that is fashion. i will not be like the former models. no more racist jokes, i am of a new millennium. i will scrubs all such offenses from my memory banks. no more about Arthur Ashe's name. when i google Martina from now on, the whole datafile of the complete Fried Green Tomatoes will appear up. DeRozan is a good player, i'm not just saying that as a homer pick. i have no home.

Federer and Nadal appear bunched together on a hard court. they have been blindfolded for days. once they take an hour for their eyes to adjust back, they are livid. especially Roger which is scary.

Roger and Rafa: how could you do this to us?! what have you done?!

Genie is on the other side of the court separated by a wuthering net.

Genie turns her neon-hot-pink racquet around to face the nub of the wrapped handle at the boys, holding the strung strings with her long fingers through the holes. like a machine gun.

Genie: you can't see me but i'm crying inside. i never meant for this to happen. we were gonna raise this child together. like a three's company. i'm too old to coach. the rainfall showers are not in any reviews, i checked twitter.

Roger: wait, is that Chrissie's voice? coming from inside that ganguro girl?

Nadal: i'm not even gonna comment at this point.

Genie: it's me Chrissie. at first it was about the money. but throughout the course the student taught the teacher. i never thought in a million years you'd betray your wife. for my tray. once-in-the-generations talent. well, twice. and Nadal was a happy accident.

Nadal: let's not turn this into a discussion on abortion.

Roger: how could you burden us with this responsibility? i mean me. i'm under no illusions. nor delusions. i'm also under enough immense pressure. i've got records to keep out of stretching reach.

Chrissie: the airplane ride here gave me time to think. it's transatlantic but vertical. i realized this could work. and that i was in fact in love with you. i love you, Roger.

Nadal waits for the pregnant pause...................he puts his gangly arms up in disgust.

Nadal: oh come on! i saw him first! she looks like me!

they are baking in the Australian sun, all except Genie.

Chrissie: it can be more than transactional. or an experiment. or life in the fast city. but you have to retire to see it.

Genie points the tennis gun directly at the two masters, separate from her mistress soul.

Genie: *robotically* prepare for no love. with this, i take over the world.

Chrissie: last-ditch effort. look at this.

she shows Genie the woman du jour, Fanny Blankers-Koen.

Bump: Blankers. that's fun to say. heehee, fun.

Genie: it says here women's athletics were a time not thought of high-regardedly. so why should i care? what does this have to do with me?

Bump: that's what i said.

Genie destroys Roger on court 6-0 6-0 6-0. Nadal retires. with an injury to his wound. Genie waits for Nadal to recover 100%. then she promptly defeats Nadal 6-0 6-0 6-0 at Roland Garros.

that night, Genie does a sit-down interview about her match tactics with John Major, who has declared himself Prime Minister For Life. the hot lights are bright. John is sweltering majorly. Genie doesn't feel anything.