Murder for Hire

Mayola-Pic Starring in Murder for Hire (Royston 07)

Tina Mayola-Pic looked (and acted) like a rolling conflagration of pure demon fire, a hellhound unleashed, a thunderstorm of destruction, and a monarch of mayhem all rolled into one as she raged across the finish line, fist pumping in the air and snarl eternally plastered on her face, dressed in her purgatory-red Colavita team kit to capture the win on the Fortson's Clothing Ladies' Day Royston Spectacular on 6 January 2007. Mayola-Pic's win, her fourth in her illustrious WBL career, came at the end of an 80 mile roiling and broiling day in the saddle and was a direct result of her sheer physical strength, her superb tactical stratagems, her madcap genius, her Thunder Road sprint, the fact she's just pure meanness from crown to toenail, as well as her insatiable desire to squish her opponents like cockroaches beneath her knee-high, patent leather, steel-toed, steel-plated, steel-heeled, and brass buckled dominatrix boots with 8-inch lifts and leather shoelaces, complete with a sheath on its side in which she keeps her 6 inch, pearl handled blade inconspicuously invaginated just in case anybody needs to be reminded of who's in charge-the Ladies. After collecting her prize box and all its booty, Mayola.-Pic pinned the crispy c-note she had won on her hip and laughed hysterically when asked "Hey Dominatrix, on a serious note, do you know any halfway smart men?"

Ladies' Day in the WBL also saw master sleuth Tony Farm Boy Fahey increase his lead in the Overall Standings with another brilliant escape from the stampeding herd when opportunity left its door cracked just a sliver. Fahey drilled 2nd place on the Oglethorpe County sprint, adding another 4 points to his treasure trove and solidly positioning himself for a serious run at the title in WBL 2007. All around camp rumors swirled about who this unknown glamour boy was and from whence he had come. Coach Chris Andrus doubted the boy was human and demanded Fahey “drop his drawers and show us his fundament,” a request Carney politely declined to enforce, much to the disappointment of all the ladies present as well as Fahey himself, who already had his hands on his belt buckle before Andrus had even uttered the word “fundament.” Despite any other criticisms we may validly lob Farm Boy’s way, the man is not ashamed to drop his trousers on a dime and display his buxom fundament. “You don’t have to ask twice,” he said, winking to a nervous Eric Keim.

3:00 p.m. (Saturday, 6 January 07): I need to interrupt the narrative flow to explain to the Reader why I wasn’t at the ride today, and to let You know that I’ve found myself in a rather ignominious position. I am currently housed at the Athens-Clarke County Jail on a temporary basis. The Reader will note from the time above that the Royston Ride has just ended. I was pulled over on my way to the start and arrested on an outstanding warrant. The Reader need not worry about the specifics, I am falsely accused and Carney will be here soon to post my bail. I called Crowe a few minutes ago and he relayed the details of the ride, assuring me Carney will be here soon. I am starting the Royston narrative now, but will finish it this evening after I get home. I have a dinner date with Carney and all the ladies. My cellmate is sleeping soundly. To bad I’ll be gone before he wakes, it would be stimulating to delve into the craggy recesses of the criminal mind.

Ladies’ Day in the WBL saw the temperatures reach record highs yet again as the mercury topped the 70 degree mark and stuck there for the entirety of the 4 hour affair. And despite a forecast to the contrary, there wasn’t a stray cloud to be seen wandering in the skies above. Once again this vainglorious phalanx of phools pretended they were Inca warriors and shed as many clothes as permissible under the local Decency Code, slathered themselves with oil, donned New Orleans party beads, and worshipped Old Sol.

A sundry assortment of femmes fatales (alternative term to substitute for “sundry assortment of femmes fatales”: (1) farrago of fierce termagants, (2) potpourri of puissant pavement pounders, (3) coterie of convivial confabulators (we all know how the ladies love to talk), (4) an eclectic band of errant enchantresses, (5) hodgepodge of ill-tempered vixens, (6) pit full of deadly rattlesnakes (no explanation needed) showed up to cross swords on the big money event including L. A. Asbury, Gina Voci, Bromley Metz, Ann Turner, Chamblee Abernathy, Laura Pollas and Jackie Soladay. After a few words from the explicator reminding all men (except Carney and Me, Humble C.) that they are utterly worthless, no more than stinking excreta, simply cow dung stuck to the bottom of a shoe, and have been placed on this oblate orb solely to service the needs of women, this intrepid pack of 60 or 70 field hands and their task masters clicked their heels twice, threw a sprinkling of salt over their shoulder for good luck, dropped a penny in their shoe, heaved a heavy sigh, took one last look at the one they loved (i.e., themselves in the plate glass window), and like Magellan, set off into the wild blue yonder to seek their fame and fortune.

The parcours selected for this itinerant band of peripatetic souls and wayward wanderlusters was an old time favorite, Royston, an 80 mile sortie north that features both long, fast, flat stretches as well as a medley of maleficent inclines, some of which, like both bananas and flats, come in bunches. The Royston Ride features 2 intermediate sprints, 1 for the Pros and 1 for the Non Pros, in addition to the ladies’ cash grab at the finis. Mucho grande points were on offer on the day and Farm Boy Fahey knew that the Golden Fleece would be lost unless he stayed focused and kept his eye on the prize.

The group set out northward and soon, under the impetus of the day’s helmsman IcePic, was skirting across the byways and backroads of rural Jackson and Madison Counties headed for the first sprint sign of the day, the Royston City Limit sign. Royston was the first sprint that the Pros were eligible to contest, and with $25 on the line to the winner, the big time sprinters were champing at the bit like mules on speed. Many didn’t know about Royston’s cruel reputation, but soon they would.

On the way to Royston, Farmer G a.k.a. Greg Schisla wondered out loud if Frank Travieso had gained a little girth on his backside. “Hay Frank,” the obtrusive Farmer cackled, “you’re looking loaded down in the booty, a little bottom heavy. Whatcha packin’?” Travieso, known for his vanity, continually took both hands off his handlebars and squeezed his glutemus maximus from both sides. He spent the remainder of the ride at the back of the pack and in front of the sag wagon asking Crowe, who was driving the van, to “measure his rump.” Poor Frank could not rest. At the store stop he checked his rump in the reflection. He asked passing motorists whether his team shorts “made his bottom look large?” He asked anyone who would listen “Whether or not he had a tight arse?” Unfortunately for Frank, he was a mess for the remainder of the day. When he arrived home, he tore off all his clothes and spent the rest of the day inspecting his package in a full length mirror. Finally, when he bent over with his head between his knees and surveyed the scene from between his legs, he satisfied himself that his buttocks was as slim and svelte as ever. Farmer G is a cruel trickster. He knows how to hit where it hurts.

20 minutes later: My cellmate just woke up. Wonder what he’s in for?

Approaching the first sprint, the whistle blew at the bottom of the beguiling Mur de Royston. IcePic immediately stoked the fire as soon as he felt the road tilt towards the sun. Ice lit it up and opened up a small, tenuous gap, and though he did put those behind in a spot of bother, the spirited group ran him down 200 meters up the first hill. As soon as Ice was brought back into the fold, Aerospace’s hitman Eric Moondog Murphy opened up the throttle and gassed it. Skinny Dan Asbury, recognizing Moondog as a danger man, reacted promptly and fastened a rope. Behind, the pack ripped asunder, like the curtain in the Great Temple.

Cresting the first hummock Murphy raised his head, made his mouth a gaping hole, and breathed in huge bucketfuls of air. He wasn’t familiar with this Sprint Zone, but he knew it was 3 miles, and he knew he had to climb a hill—he had done so, and now he was over it, or so he thought. Moondog and Skinny D took 3 pedal strokes, rounded a bend, and were greeted by another little monster—the second hump in the Mur de Royston. Both boys grimaced momentarily, gritted their collective pairs of yellow teeth, stood on top of their pedals, and tamped down with as much torque as each could muster.

But the second hillock is cruel and unforgiving and over its summit, a chase group of a dozen ran them down. Turning left at the stop sign, there were 2 miles until paydirt. Behind this front group of 12, the ejecta was scattered over a mile into 5 or 6 smoldering groups that continued to motor at a furious clip in spite of the fact that all hope of rejoining the elite group of 12 was lost, sort of like the human race. Oh well, carpe diem you hammering fools.

15 minutes later: I am terribly sorry to interrupt this narration at such a climatic moment, but my cellmate is starting to worry me. At this very moment, he is sitting on his bunk, back against the wall, staring at me. He’s thumping the back of his head against the wall. I’m trying to ignore him, but it’s terribly difficult. I think he’s snarling at me, but I’m afraid to look at him. I ask him what he was in for, but he hasn’t said one single solitary word. I hope Carney gets here soon.

Several attacks were tried, but no one could rip free until the intractable Moondog had a go again, his third, with 1 kilo to go. Moondog shifted and simultaneously flew away from the dirty dozen and quickly opened up a 25 meter gap. Behind, there was hesitation. Moondog sensed the indecision and floored it, an experienced executioner’s tactic. His gap widened to 50 meters and there it stuck. At the line, Moondog raised both hands in triumph—it was his greatest sprint win ever, of all time. Malachi Peacock kicked with legs of fury and was the best of the rest followed closely by Casey Manger. The broken bits and pieces and all the flotsam and jetsam headed to the store stop to regroup and to debauch the bathroom.


  1. Moondog: 5 pts.
  2. Malachi the Messenger: 4
  3. Casey away in a Manger: 3
  4. Eric Hollifield: 2
  5. Nick Reistad

5 minutes later: My cellmate just spoke for the first time. “Murder” was all he said. He’s still banging his head.

After the store stop, the group turned back towards A Town via Wildcat Bridge Road. Thought the group was blessed with 10 miles of gentle asphalt, all good things must end. The end of the group’s stretch of blacktop on Wilddcat Road features a vicious climb up and out of the Broad River Basin. (Though it was rumored Bruno Langlois was pulled up the hill by the sag, only Tom Palmer has verified the rumor, and because of Palmer’s reputation, that’s like having no corroboration at all. Bottom line, the Canadian may have gotten away with one. And to make matters worse, he’s a Frenchy to boot.) The horrible hill on WildCat was just the first of several vexing monstrosities to come over the next 10 miles as the group approached the day’s second sprint outside of Colbert. The gruppeto climbed 2 little monsters on Transco Road, tackled another surly beast on Bulloch Mill, and finally topped it off with the steep, disconcerting Colbert Crusher, a churlish hummock that left more than a few disconcerted in the thighs.

20 minutes later: My cellmate just told me he loves me. Double crap! He wants me to kill someone for him. I told him I’d think about it. He’s waiting on an answer, thumping his head on the wall. I’m afraid he’ll inflict harm upon my person if I give him the wrong answer. Damn, I hope Carney hurries.

Once through Colbert the horn sounded again signaling it was time to dance, the gates were open, and the bulls were on the loose. This sprint was for Non-Pros and featured a 1 mile segment of pavement that climbed 1 short hump, then screamed down the backside to the sprint sign crossing a bridge into Oglethorpe County. The group stayed together over the top and on the downhill run Georgia State Crit Champ Clay the Pettifogger Parks showed why he is just that and bolted away while the others were pondering original sin. The Pettifogger scorched across the line with a 10 meter gap taking the $ and the 5 points. But Yellow Jersey holder Farm Boy Fahey made the move of the day and once again showed his sinister savvy. Farm Boy didn’t panic, but instead looked for an opening. He waited 1 hair of a dog second after the Pettifogger jumped, then flew after him. He held off the chasers to take 2nd on the sprint and to capture 4 precious points, 4 points that will keep him in Yellow, maybe for many weeks yet to come. A few of the sentient noticed also another curious and crucial fact—Cleve Blackheart insinuated his corpus into 4th place on the sprint, taking 2 points, points that catapulted him into 2nd place in the Overall at the end of the day (22 points), 5 points behind Farm Boy (27 points).


  1. Pettifogger: 5 pts.
  2. Fahey: 4
  3. Skinny D.: 3
  4. Blackheart: 2
  5. Greg Turner: 1

Saturday Night (9 p.m.): This is not good, not good at all. I’m still in jail. Carney’s not here yet. I had to take a break for “chow.” I refuse to eat these greasy comestibles—Irish pototos, little cubes of beans and carrots, and chicken mull, all poured out of the same can. It’s “lights out” and I’m stuck in jail with a lunatic. I told him I needed 4 days to mull over his offer. He said he’d give me 2. Thank gawd. I’ll be gone by then—that’s Monday. I’ll sleep with one eye open tonight.

Sunday Morning (8 a.m.): That was the worst night of my life. I’d rather not talk about it. It’s very hard to write. I’m beginning to worry. I hope Carney has a good excuse. I called Crowe and he said he can’t bail me out because it would be a “conflict of interest.” He said he’d call Carney.

After the second sprint, there was a brief interregnum to allow for a quick regrouping; it was only 3 miles to the final Attack Zone. The ladies moved to the forefront of the fray and positioned themselves for battle. The ladies final killbox was 3 miles long, climbing the Mur de Winterville, hanging a right on Melton at the top, traveling 1.5 miles and finishing with the arduous 400 meter uphill drag to the infamous (and oft quoted) Blue 911 sign. The sprint line came at the 73 mile mark. These ladies had to work for their cash.

As soon as the bullhorn wailed, Chamblee Abernathy went to the front and turned up the heat. Climbing the Mur de Winterville she tried to rip the legs off of her competitors. She nearly succeeded. Though the other ladies managed to hang on by the hairs on their chins, Abernathy proved that the rumors swirling around about her are true—she is cruel and has no pity for those less fortunate souls who cannot climb. In fact, she was once heard telling her man-slave Ceasar Grajales, “Well hon, maybe if you lost a pound or two you could go outside and MOW THE F------- GRASS!” If you ride by her house these days, the Reader will note her grass is immaculate.

Sunday Night: I’m still here. I couldn’t write much today. I had to listen to my cellmate explain in intricate detail his sordid plan for me to kill 2 witnesses against him in his pending murder case. He’s stark, raving mad. I haven’t eaten in2 days. Neither Crowe nor Carney will answer the phone.

Taking the right hand turn onto Melton Road, everyone was tense. The men, who were trying to hang on behind, were rooting for their favorite lady. In her mind, Ann Turner wished “they’d all shut the hale up.” But that would be like asking a rooster not to cluck, for if there’s one thing a man must do, it’s run his mouth.

Approaching the 500 meter to go sign, the ladies jockeyed for position and waited, waited, waited. 400-300-200, then Wham, Mayola-Pic jumped with authority, turning over her legs like they were pistons pumping in Jimmy Johnson’s race car. Mayola-Pic took the win followed closely by L.A. Asbury, Gina Voci, Bromley Metz, Ann Turner and Chamblee A. The ladies all celebrated the V, and agreed Ms. Tina Mayola-Pic, the Dahlonega Dominatrix, exists on another plane.


  1. Dominatrix: 10 pts.
  2. I Love L.A.: 8
  3. Vini, Vidi, Voci: 6
  4. B. Metz: 4
  5. A. Turner: 2
  6. C. Abernathy: 1

Monday Night: Somehow, I've cobbled together the bits and pieces of this story. I'm posting it now. It's 10:31 p.m. and I've snuck into the prison library to use the computer. I've also agreed to kill the two witnesses against my cellmate for $200, half now, the other half upon completion of the assignment. It was either that or other unspeakable horrors. His plan is beginning to make sense, and like me, he's been falsely accused. He's not such a bad guy, just misunderstood. And the food here is beginning to taste a lot better. Gotta run, smoke break.

Humble C. (from the Athens-Clarke County Jail)


  • Tony Fahey 27 pts.
  • Cleve Blackwell 22 pts.
  • Eric Hollifield 20 pts.
  • P-Diddy Rice 20 pts.
  • Slotey 19 pts
  • Tina Mayola-Pic 18 pts.
  • Boots Winter: 18 pts.
  • Shireymania: 18 pts.
  • Jeremy The Firestarter Wadkins: 18 pts.
  • Jack Howland: 18 pts.
  • G-Man Somerville: 16 pts.
  • Malachi Peacock 14 pts.
  • Coach Chris Andrus: 14 pts.
  • L. A. Asbury 13 pts.
  • Nick Rocketman Arroyo: 13 pts.
  • Eric Murphy 13 pts.
  • R. Parks: 13 pts.
  • Eric Keim 13 pts.
  • El David Prez Nixon 13 pts.
  • Big Bad Hill Harper 13 pts
  • Boy Brian 11 pts.
  • Todd Henreksen 11 pts.
  • Frank Traviesio 11 pts.
  • Jeff Ford Truck 11 pts.
  • Double Talk: 11 pts
  • Tommy Maddox 10 pts.
  • Eric Maddox 10 pts.
  • Bogartarian: 10 pts.
  • L. Valletti: 9 pts.
  • Genteman: 9 pts.
  • Gillifan: 9 pts.
  • IcePic 8 pts.
  • Skinny Dan 8 pts.
  • Csaey Manger 8 pts.
  • Turbo Gentry: 8 pts.
  • The Pilgrim (Mellinger): 8 pts.
  • Bromley Metz 8
  • Glenn Edridge 8 pts.
  • Glenn Bradley: 7
  • Kari Bradley: 7