2003-05-13 - 10:21 a.m.
She was one of those pretty girl tennis stars who always make the cover of the magazines, but different from the rest. Her mom was German and her dad was Somali. Just her dark honey complexion set her apart from the others, but she had something else. After a particularly amazing serve or a tricky backhand, she would gargle lamp oil and blow fire. Understandably, this was a crowd favorite. The other players complained to the National Tennis Association the cinged nets were not regulation, but their hands were tied by public opinion.
Over the years on the circuit, she developed a painful crush on the hearttrob Spanish tennis star who became more famous for his penchant for playing shirtless than his actual game. After 3 years of longing for him, at age 17 she finally got up the courage to have her agent call his agent and set up a meeting.
He came to her suite just outside Wimbledon with flowers and two shirt buttons buttoned. When he knocked, she almost didn't answer. They sat in the living room where he asked her how she liked the championship, but she couldn't answer. Then he asked about her family, no answer; she didn't even look at him, only concentrating on the now-bleeding callouses on her hands she had almost completely ripped off. Sixteen minutes later, as he asked about her pet history, she got up, retrieved her lamp oil, gargled, put her face in front of his, opened his mouth and breathed fire down his throat. Now he was silent as well.
