By Joshua M. Bernstein

ROLLERBABES There was a bookie. There was a crowd of 200 screaming onlookers. And there was the Gotham Girls Roller Derby league racing and tasting asphalt.

The premise: women wearing tattoos, scowls and roller-skates sprint three laps beneath Williamsburg's BQE overpass. A bet is five bucks per skater. Winners win. Losers lose. And the league gets funding.

The blue-suited announcer runs down various attributes. Some racers like whiskey. Others, misdirecting tourists. Skating talents are undetermined. I bet on Margaret Thrasher, rocking an orange t-shirt decorated with flying skates. I collect my racing form while Thrasher, CC Bullets, Chassis Crass and L'il Red toe skate at the chalk-drawn start.

"I wanna see banging on skulls and pipe-smashing," says a man wearing white-linen pants.

"Y'all may look good, but you better know how to skate," screams Richard Garcia, a local artist.

"Three…two…one…go!" Mr. Megaphone shouts, and the girls break like lame-duck rockets.

CC Bullets, perhaps weighed down by her post-apocalyptic bullet belt, lags behind. "A hangover and wheels don't mix!" someone screams. Crass proves bum, so the barn-burner is between Thrasher and Red.

Puerto Rican flag-covered cars blare salsa while Thrasher and Red—elbows flying—tussle into the final straightaway. They turn on afterburners—sort of—and Red ekes ahead. She knee-pad slides across the line, yet loses as Thrasher's final burst leads to a photo-finish triumph. I'm a winner!

"Do-over!" cries the crowd.

The zebra-striped referee overturns the result, and I rip my form in half.

For the second race, the bookie line is 20 deep. Five-dollar bills fly faster than skaters. "I never knew I could massage my gambling habit in such odd ways," my friend Andrew says.

Even money is on Hot Rod, a punker rocking American flag short-shorts. "I'm in full booty-mode action," she says.

The race begins, and H.R. eats asphalt. Then pigtailed Sybil Disobedience shreds her hose. "The fishnet ass burn is strangely nice—and strangely not nice," she says later, rubbing her rump.

Rosie Knuckles and Baby Ruthless battle. Victory is Knuckles. To celebrate, she wrestles Ruthless to the ground.

"Fight! Fight! Fight!" shouts the bloodthirsty crowd.

The ladies scrap and yell "You bitch!" before being separated.

Revenge is Thrasher's in the third race, setting up a Knuckles, Red, Thrasher finale.

The trio lines up, take off and the race is over. Red trips twice, and Knuckles is no match for Thrasher's newfound speed. With a shrug, she glides to victory behind a hail of cheers, jeers and, befitting a roller derby league, a "fuck you" or two. o