Far out tales 2
by Kane


Martin Kane
The picture; Quick & the dead; Freefall; The Adulterer; 2 points; The anvil tree

5 - The Picture of Julie-Anne Grange

'He's great, I've seen some of the work he does and he's an amazing artist.'

'I'm not doubting that, it's just the idea of having to pose for hours on end.'

'He doesn't work like that.  What happens is he takes a series of photos and 
then uses those to create his final work.'

'Excellent.  Have you decided what setting you want to be in?'

'Well the reason I picked this guy is because he specialises in fantasy 
scenes.'

'Fantasy?  What, you mean like... you know...'

'Not that kind of fantasy.  Honestly!  Sword and Sorcery.  Lord of the Rings.'

'Warrior women?'

'Can you think of anything more appropriate?'

'Mmm.  I'm just imagining you as Xena.'

'Best of all, I'm going to hire a lion.'

'What?  Just like that?  Just hire a Lion?'

'It's this guy he uses.  He's a lion wrangler.  He uses this really old lion, 
an old circus lion actually.  They can only perform for a few years but its 
illegal to put them down just because they can't work anymore.  So he hires out 
retired lions for films and TV.  Things like that.'

'Wow.  Warrior woman and lion.'

'Yeah.  I just figured that I'm not getting any younger.  I spend all this time 
and effort on my body, not to mention money.  It'd just be nice to have 
something to remember it by.  So hence the professional photo shoot and now 
this.'

'A keepsake, to wow the kids with when they grow up.'

'Exactly.'

The artist turned out to be French, but nobody's perfect.  Stephen.  He was 
manic, talking in excitable bursts of heavily accented English and using his 
hands to articulate himself as much as speech.  She liked him straight away, 
liked the wicked gleam in his eye, the unconventional way he moved and talked.  
She liked the way he looked at her body as an artist, instantly excited by the 
prospect of working with someone of such "unconventional beauty" as he put it.

'I work with so many,' he told her.  'So many.  Either they thin and limbs or 
all tits.  But you!  The shape, the power.  Like a beast.  So beautiful.'

They did a warm-up session of standard poses and profiles.  He took pictures 
from every angle, fascinated by the motion of her muscles.  He got her to lift 
one arm and then the next.  She felt like a department store mannequin as he 
posed her one way then another.

Then he asked her to hit some muscle shots.

So she stood there, in a tiny posing bikini, the oil gleaming.  She pumped out 
some hard-core muscle shots, displaying the biceps she'd spent years building - 
countless gym hours perfecting.

Stephen shook his head in wonder, loading another reel of film.  'Amazing,' he 
told her, looking genuinely awed.

She had to admit, the session gave her a curious thrill.  What she did, had a 
certain degree of exhibitionism to it.  The occasions when she had competed had 
given her a natural high unlike anything she'd ever felt.

And here she was now, on display, her confidence and her body both soaring.  To 
have the camera worship her, approve of all she was - all she had done.

She left his studio feeling a million dollars.  When her husband returned home 
that night she'd wrestled him into submission, dragged him off to the bedroom 
and she had her wicked way with him, not relenting until they were both 
breathless and spent.

'Christ,' he murmured.  'Did you have some contest I didn't know about?'

'No.  Why do you say that?'

'You're always like this after a contest.'

She jabbed him in the ribs.  'Is that why you're so supportive of me competing.  
I see, it's all becoming clear now.'

He grabbed her finger and pinned her hand down.

'Be good,' he told her sternly.

She fought back, easily freeing her hand and pinning him in return, holding him 
helpless.

'Or what?' she teased.  She gripped his wrists and squeezed them painfully 
tight.  'What are you going to do?'

They wrestled some more and then made love again.  Slower this time, less 
hurried, less desperate.  A long slow ride into languorous oblivion.

Julie met with Stephen again two weeks later.  Again at his tiny studio.  He 
offered her a coffee and showed her his preliminary sketches.

'These are amazing,' she said.

A series of ideas and notes regarding how the final piece should look.  He had 
lots of sample backgrounds, from which they pieced together exactly what she 
wanted.  The main part would be her, dressed in the skimpiest of armour, in 
fact, what amounted to little more than a metallic bikini.   And on a leash 
before her, her pet hunting lion.

'No leash,' she told him.

'OK,' he agreed.  Though he was a little disappointed.  'I wanted leash to show 
you holding back lion.  Bicep bulging huge!'

'What if I'm just calming the lion by stroking its fur.'

'The lion rearing up a little, wanting to leap into battle.  You holding it 
down, your hand at its shoulder.'

When they were settled on the specifics, they arranged the final photo session, 
this one with the lion.

Stephen had hired out a studio, his own being too small to accommodate a lion.  
It was in town, fourteenth floor of a large office block.  Julie found the 
place without any problem.  A large and busy lobby.  She hit the elevator 
button and rode up to the fourteenth floor.

When she got to the studio Stephen was already there.  He was petting a large 
shaggy lion, which was happily lapping at a bowl of water, just like a pet cat.

The wrangler was a heavily set man, middle age having treated him badly.  She'd 
seen men like him in the gym, desperately trying to make up for lost time.  
This man however, seemed to have already given it up as a lost cause.  He was a 
pleasant enough fellow however.

'Julie-Anne, please meet Mr Richard Parker.  And this,' he gestured to the 
lion, 'is Mocco.'

Julie approached the lion carefully, but at prompting from the wrangler she 
stroked its fur.  It was thick and smooth.  So beautiful.  She twined her 
fingers into the mighty mane.  She felt the muscles on its flank, its 
shoulders, its legs.

To call the beast amazing would be to fall short.  Julie was speechless, unable 
to believe she was so close and so intimate to this most feared and respected 
of man-eaters.

Any doubts she had as to the decision to spend the extra money for including 
the lion were instantly wiped away.  It was worth every penny just for the 
experience alone.

'He's so beautiful,' she said, truly awed.  'How did you get him up here?'

'Oh, just in the lift.'

'What, a lion on a lead, like a pet dog.'

Richard nodded.  'He's tame as a pussycat,' he assured her.

She just shook her head in wonder.  The idea of leading this huge and 
magnificent beast through the front lobby was just too surreal.

They began.  Julie stripped down, peeling off the clothes to expose her 
tremendous body.  Stephen had seen the sight before but was still totally 
enthralled, staring in awe as her muscles were revealed.

Richard however, had no idea what to expect.  One minute he was watching a 
woman undress and expecting to get himself a cheap thrill, the next he's 
looking at a sight that made him doubt all that he had previously come to 
understand about the nature of the world and those within it.

He stared, jaw dropped, eyes bugged.  Neither Stephen nor Julie remarked upon 
his reaction.  Stephen was too engrossed in the sight to notice anything else 
in the room and Julie was too busy undressing.

She checked her suit was secure about her and looked up at Stephen's impressed 
scrutiny.  'Quit it,' she scolded with a wry smile.

'Sorry,' he murmured, shaking himself from his reverie.  'How is it they say?  
Legs can stop traffic?'

Then she noticed Richard.  She tilted her head towards him curiously, waving 
her hand before his eyes.

'Hello?  Richard?'

'Holy fucking shit,' he finally uttered.

'It's a little startling the first time,' she conceded.  'Shall we get 
started?'

Still in a daze, the wrangler led the lion over to where Julie stood.  He 
didn't meet her eyes, seemingly unable to do so.  He made a special effort not 
to look at her body either, as though to do so would send him into another 
frozen state of shock.

Mocco stood beside her.  She stroked his shoulders, still awed by the 
magnificent beast.

Stephen framed her in his camera and posed her verbally.

Once business began, Richard seemed more comfortable.  Handling lions was 
something he knew about - women with muscles was something he did not.

They put the lion's front legs on a slight incline, wanting to set the position 
for it to rear up.  Julie lent her body back a little, every angle of every 
limb carefully selected for the way the muscles could be highlighted.

Richard did his job, seemingly without looking at Julie at all.  But she wasn't 
offended too much.  She knew her body could have the strangest effect on 
people.  Some were awed and enthused, for example Stephen.  Some were driven 
into a mad lust, as was her husband.  And that was not simply because she was 
his wife and he loved her, but because he genuinely found large muscles on a 
woman the most erotic thing imaginable.

But not all reactions were positive.  Richard's fascination was nothing to do 
with wonder or desire or even simply to be impressed at what she had achieved.  
He found it disgusting, offensive even.  It challenged him in ways he did not 
want to be challenged.  It countered what he believed should be, and that made 
him fear her, fear what she represented and fear what she was capable of.  In 
short, she made him feel like less of a man.

Mocco however, was less judgmental.  He posed with her happily, doing his job 
like the professional he was.  He licked her hand affectionately every time she 
wasn't paying him enough attention.

When they were done, and Stephen was packing his equipment up, she took a last 
chance to say goodbye to the beast.  She tried asking Richard about what it was 
like working with Mocco but it's hard holding a conversation with someone who 
can't look at you.  He answered her questions but seemed intensely 
uncomfortable talking to her, blushing and stuttering.

She slipped her clothes back on, and that seemed to help a little, but he then 
began glancing down at her clothed body, as though trying to perceive the 
muscles beneath.

'My body upsets you, doesn't it,' she challenged.

Richard blushed.  'I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude.'

'But it does?'

'I think it's unusual,' he conceded.  'I mean, why would you choose to do that 
to yourself?  Why would you deliberately want to look like that.'

He was obviously one of these people who thought a muscular female body looked 
like there was something wrong with it.

'I like the way it looks,' she told him calmly, 'irrespective of what society 
says women should look like.  The stick-figure supermodels look unattractive to 
me.  I see their bodies as hideously weak and undernourished.'

'Oh you look strong,' he assured her quickly.  'I mean, there's no denying your 
physical power.  And I understand someone wanting to have that physical power - 
even a woman.  I just think it's a shame you have to make yourself so ugly in 
order to achieve it.'

As he said this, Julie realised the discussion could go no further.  He wasn't 
about to listen to anything she had to say about aesthetic beauty or 
perspective.

'You think I'm strange, I think you're ignorant,' she concluded.  'Let's just 
agree to disagree on this one.'

One of the benefits of being a female bodybuilder was being able to intimidate 
certain people when you felt the need.  She could be rude to someone without 
fear of what they'd say, because she could tell they were scared shitless of 
her.

She said a final goodbye to Stephen, a final goodbye to Mocco and waved 
absently at Richard.  She wondered carelessly what he might say about her 
behind her back.  Doubtless criticise her desire to look like a man.  Or even 
worse, he'd feel sorry for her.

But there was little she could do to change the mindset of a generation of men 
brought up with Action-man and Barbie framing their gender values.

She was still in the lobby when it happened.  There was a fitness convention 
being held soon in a part of the building and she wanted to pick up a leaflet 
with the details.

That's why she happened to still be around as the elevator doors opened and the 
whole lobby turned into a scene of utter chaos.

Julie heard the screams and turned towards them, wondering what was going on.  
She didn't see the blood, only the fleeing panicked crowds, running in all 
directions.

It was shock.  She didn't know what on Earth was happening or what on Earth she 
should do.

And then she saw Mocco, bounding up towards her.

Maybe it was her shock that meant she felt no fear.  And maybe it was that 
fearlessness - her delight at seeing this magnificent beast again - that calmed 
the panicked creature.

Whatever the reason, Mocco relaxed when he reached her.  He lay down before 
her, and began to lick the blood off his paws.  And that was when she realised 
something was wrong.

She thought first that he'd hurt himself somehow, but the truth came in right 
behind that.  But by then it was already done.  The man-eater was calm again 
and she was sat down next to it, her legs crossed, stroking its mane.

The papers had it that this mighty modern-day amazon bravely stepped forth and 
calmed the killer beast.  It made a big thing about her muscularity, publishing 
some very flattering pictures of her.  Lots of reference to Tarzan and warrior 
women.  The truth was, her strength wasn't even a factor in taming the beast.  
It recognised her and it no longer felt under threat.

It was just an unfortunate occurrence, pieced together after the fact, thanks 
to the testimony of those who'd survived that fateful elevator journey.

Julie had thought it strange when Richard had told her he'd brought Mocco to 
the fourteenth floor via the elevator.  Stranger still however, was the fact 
that on the journey down, the elevator hadn't even been empty.

Six people were in the elevator already when Richard walked in, Mocco on a lead 
beside him.  Apparently the last words Richard ever said were, 'Don't be 
alarmed folks, he's completely harmless unless something startles him.'

Mocco's wounded tail told investigators what happened next, as the elevator 
doors closed and all hell broke loose.

Julie stood beside her husband after the grand unveiling.

'I like it,' he told her.  'It's not what I was expecting but I like it.'

'Really?'

He put an arm around her powerful waist.

'It's of you, how can I not love it.'

The picture showed a warrior woman, sitting besides her pet hunting lion.  She 
was caressing its magnificent mane with love and tenderness and a complete 
absence of fear.

It was a tranquil picture, the woman painted with a grace and poise in repose 
that belied her magnificent physique.  Her body was built of coiled muscles, 
brimming with contained power.

'I didn't even know he took a photo.  The first thing I knew was when he showed 
me the preliminary sketch.'

He was staring at the picture admiringly.

Julie looked at her husband, suddenly accusing, 'I can't believe it, you're 
getting off on it.'

'What do you expect?' he protested.  'You're a very beautiful woman.'

She reached down to his dick, confirming that he was indeed aroused.

'Men,' she sighed.

'Reminds me of all those sword and sorcery comics I used to read as a kid.  I 
always used to dream that some muscular warrior woman would come and sweep me 
off me feet.'

'Take you back to her lair and have her wicked way with you?'

'That's the idea.'

She took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

'Luckily for you some dreams do come true.'


[An elevator door is closing.  We see people inside, looking anxious, as the 
last person to enter the elevator has besides them a lion.  We notice its tail 
is about to get caught in the closing doors.  "Don't be alarmed folks, he's 
completely harmless unless something startles him."]

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6 - The quick and the dead

Bodybuilding was her redemption.  She'd only headed down to the leisure centre 
to sign on for self-defence classes after the attack.  Not that she expected to 
become some fighter-killer, only walk down the streets with a little more 
confidence.  Anything to stop seeing muggers in every shadow, assailants around 
every corner.

She'd come though the incident unscathed.  He'd threatened her with a gun but 
come no closer than six feet.  She hadn't even gotten a decent look at the man.  
Which was something the policeman taking her statement was decidedly 
unimpressed by.

'You can't give me any description whatsoever?' he'd asked contemptuously.

'I've already given you the best description I can,' she protested.  She had 
described his hair type, his build, his height, his voice, his manner, his 
clothes, his odour, his shoes.  'I didn't see his face.  It was dark.'

They had little hope of ever finding the guy.  The policeman didn't bother 
showing her any mug-shots, saying that it was probably pointless.

But he had given her one piece of good advice: to take up some sort of self-
defence.  'On top of all the many practical benefits, it'll help you get over 
this incident and get on with your life,' he had assured her, displaying for 
the first and only time a genuine degree of insight or sensitivity.

And so she'd gone to the leisure centre where they held classes but instead she 
had been distracted.  A glass wall offered a glimpse into another room, another 
world, another possibility.

'Oh my God,' she breathed, watching the women inside the weights room.

There was all manner of people working out.  People from all backgrounds, from 
all walks of life.  But it was a woman closest to the glass that had so engaged 
her attention.

She was young, twenty at most, and yet she possessed the physique of a fully 
developed bodybuilder.

'Impressed?'

She turned to see another woman regard her with interest.  She was dressed in a 
tracksuit and had the healthy, athletic glow of a school sports coach.

'More than impressed.  Awed.  Stunned.  Amazed.  I didn't know a woman could do 
that.'

'You like it?'

'Like it?  I love it.  I'd kill to have a body like that.'

'It could be yours.'

'Oh please.  I could never do that.  Just look at me.'

'I was thirty before I even of thought of walking into a gym.  I was 
overweight, smoking twenty a day, and I hadn't exercised since high-school.  
And now...'

She rolled up the sleeve of her tracksuit.  Even before she flexed, you could 
see her bicep was powerfully built.  The bulk of the muscles were twined about 
her upper arm like heavy strips of meat.

And when she raised her arm, pumping the gun into its full glory, the peak high 
and hard, veins thick and fluid, there was no reaction to be made other than to 
stand and stare in awe.

'Shit!'

Bodybuilding was her redemption.  Not just in the obvious physical meaning, 
being that her body was remoulded, from a neglected machine, into a perfectly 
maintained and restructured one.  More so in a psychological sense.  Being 
mugged was a horrific experience and one she would have had a problem dealing 
with, were it not for her opportunity to take all that fear and doubt, and 
recrimination, and loathing, and anger, and helplessness, and regret, and 
frustration, and injustice, and reshape the negative energy into positive 
physical action.

Like a near death drowning, she had to breath out the bad air, breath in the 
good air.  Some bizarre parallel to photosynthesis, her angst transformed into 
solid muscle, via a gym.  She exorcised her demons, pouring her energy into 
training, and was rewarded with a body she would never have deemed possible.

And so it was, that her mugging led to a physique to be envied.  And it was her 
physique that led to a final sense of closure, as the pop-psychologists would 
have it, in that the next time she was mugged, the consequences were radically 
altered.

For a start, she was walking down a lonely back street, on her own, at night.  
Though some would call such behaviour foolish, she instead regarded it as her 
natural human right to do so should she wish to, muggers and rapists be damned.  
And she'd given herself the confidence and self-assurance necessary to do so 
without fear.

Though her pulse quickened, her body went numb, her head rang, when she saw the 
gun, it wasn't panic as such, because her mind ran clear - her thoughts 
coherent and logical.

It was a simple act of math.  She was certainly more powerful and more 
dangerous than this man.  Her muscles were better developed, her biceps larger, 
her strength considerably greater.  And yet, he held the gun.  It was a lethal 
weapon and despite her physical superiority to him, that one factor threw the 
balance back his way, over-tipping the scales in his favour.

It meant, in short, she would do nothing to risk a bullet.

If he were to mug her then so be it.  Money was only money.  Credit cards could 
be cancelled and cash could be re-earned.  Write off the debt to bad luck and 
then get on with your life, thankful that you are able to.  

And so when he demanded her purse, she handed it over without complaint.

The last time this occurred, she was shaking and crying at this point.  She was 
in a state of panic that it had taken her weeks to recover from.  But this time 
it was a simple, intellectual decision.  A weight of odds - a balance of power.

Here's the purse.  Take it and go away.

But he didn't.  He should have done so, but he didn't.

Maybe it was her fault, she later reflected.  Maybe her ease and simple 
acceptance lulled him into a false sense of power - a security he did not in 
actual fact possess.  Maybe the fact that she made it such a clean and easy 
process to mug her, fooled him into thinking this was somehow a result of his 
own potency.

He fell, and he fell hard.

Was it gloating?  Was it curiosity?  Was it some cruel malice, wanting to push 
his sense of superiority as far as it would take him?

Whatever made him err into complacency with this woman, it was the last mistake 
he would ever make.

Because he leaned too close.  He closed in on her, foolishly believing it was 
his power she respected rather than that of the weapon he carried.

And so, when the gun was in reach, when her brain calculated that she could 
disarm him without risk of swinging its lethal aim towards her, she simply let 
her rational, cool calculating mind retreat and the furious beast of her wrath 
replace it.

Bodybuilding was her redemption.  It is an unpleasant thing to live in fear, 
and she remembered it all too well.  And so it was that when she unleashed, she 
focused her fury and let all hell break loose.

A strong grip wrapped around the hand holding the gun.  Keeping away from its 
aim, she flung the man around, pulling the arm back behind him, throwing him 
down to the floor, face down.

Still in her powerful grip, the arm jutted painfully up behind his floored 
form.  She placed a foot on his shoulder and screamed a furious obscenity as 
she flexed.

The crunch of his bones marked the beginning of her finally overcoming the 
repressed rage of her previous attack.  This poor mugger would have to endure 
her vengeance.  Indeed he had no option but to endure, for without his weapon, 
he certainly had no means to stop her.

Her strength was far in excess of his and her fury knew no bounds.  She had 
been waiting a long time for this moment and she wasn't going to spurn such a 
God given opportunity.

She lent down and wrapped her arm about his neck, standing again and lifting 
him.  His body lay against her chest, his shoulders pressed against one huge 
pectoral muscle.  He could feel her nipple, sharp and erect jutting between the 
blades.

She held him up with one huge arm, the bicep peak huge and unyielding, cutting 
into his throat.  She was taller than he and his feet dangled an inch from the 
ground, increasing the pressure on his windpipe.  His feet kicked out, 
desperate for purchase but there was none.

His one functional hand clawed desperately at her hugely swollen upper arm, 
trying in vain to let some air through.

She just held him there, enjoying his struggles before finally relenting and 
allowing him some ragged breathes.  She simply released the tension on her 
bicep, not letting him go but loosening him a little and thereby letting his 
windpipe open enough to rip in some air.

She gave him maybe three breaths before squeezing down on her bicep again, 
popping the rock-like peak back into his throat.

This game went on for a few minutes, alternating ragged breaths with 
strangulation, while she watched his face turn a pale, purplish colour.  
Spittle coated his lips, his eyes bulged out, his nose bled.  His struggling 
against her became progressively weaker.  (Not that it was the slightest bit 
effective, even at its most intense.)

She let go fully this time, removing her arm and letting the limp body 
collapse, as though in slow motion.

He lay, seemingly unconscious, his breathing rough and painful to listen to.

She had broken one bone - his wrist.  One?  There were hundreds in the human 
body, where there not?

She knelt beside the man and took his foot in her hand.  She tightened her grip 
around the base of his leg, just above the ankle.  She held his foot in the 
other hand.  With the air of a child ripping the legs off of a spider, she 
twisted the foot around, not relenting until the shuddering break suddenly 
loosened the bond between foot and leg.  She actually felt the internal 
ligaments tear and pop, heard the crackling of cartilage.  It felt as though 
with the slightest additional effort she could actually rip the foot right off 
of him.  And, now this had occurred to her, she did in fact do so.

It was harder than she had assumed, the flesh surprisingly tight, the tangle of 
muscle and tissue and bone all wrapped up in there.  But with a flex of her 
mighty muscles, she pulled the foot free of its housing, the sock slipping off 
his leg with it.

The mugger was howling in agony.  This cruel torture was beyond his endurance.  
He simply wanted to die, to be away from here and this sick woman.  Was his 
crime so great?  His sin so hideous that he should be subject to such 
treatment?

But no one was to answer his questions; no one was to save him from his 
assailant.  Bodybuilding was her redemption and this act now was her catharsis.

She took the foot and stifled his screams with it, jamming the leather toecap 
into his mouth.  She hammered his heel with her hand to ensure it stayed, 
unwittingly wrenching his jaw too far and splitting the ligaments in his jowls. 

It didn't silence his screams, but it did muffle them a little.

She regarded her victim with a delicious sense of tyrannical mastery.  'I am 
Godzilla,' she announced, 'and you are Japan.'

She picked up his arm, the as yet undamaged one.  Her body was aching with 
sadistic desire, just itching to do this man damage.  

She remembered the first time she had seen a female bicep, flexed huge and 
hard.  She remembered the awe and wonder she felt believing such a thing to be 
beyond her own means, but yet yearning for it all the same.  The woman had been 
a trainer there at the gym and she'd taken her under her wing.  She promised 
her the body of her dreams - her wildest desires - and she'd delivered upon 
that promise.

So now it was, the gigantic biceps was hers, the shocked reaction was 
another's.  Though it wasn't awe and wonder the man felt but horror and fear.  
She had proved her dominance over him and she had proved her sadism.  Truly, he 
realised with impending dread, there was nothing to which she was not capable.

So she took his arm and she straightened it out.  And she took her own arm and 
she straightened that.  And she engaged both their elbows in a curious, arm-in 
-arm caress.

She pressed her inner elbow against his and she curled his arm about it, as 
though they were a pretty couple linking arms.  Then she closed her own arm.

But the action of doing so caused her arm to swell up.  Her massive bicep 
flexed enormous, trapping his slender elbow between its mighty peak and the 
flesh of her inner forearm.

And once she was ready, once his arm was in position, pinned helplessly by 
hers, she began squeezing.

She wrapped her free hand around the wrist of the other, slowly crushing his 
bones with her bicep.  She grunted with exertion, grinding down for all she was 
with.

Her efforts were rewarded with the slow and unmistakable crunching of his 
pulverised joint.  She pounded on regardless, mangling his flesh with every 
ounce of cruelty she could muster.

Her victim was barely conscious.  His eyes were swimming with blood-loss and 
the agony of each new torture.  She stroked his face with tenderness, noticing 
it was drenched with sweat.  There was blood drooling from around the sides of 
the shoe and dripping down his cheeks.

Bodybuilding was her redemption.  It was also her undoing.  Looking at this 
brutalised victim, looking into the eyes of one reduced to such a sorry state 
by the awesome power of her muscles, she realised this wasn't the closure she'd 
been seeking.  This wasn't a final chapter.  This was the beginning of a new 
and highly addictive hobby.  This man wasn't the end of the story - he was the 
beginning.

She took her thumb and dug it into his neck.  She felt around the bones there, 
feeling the lump of his Adam's apple.  She sunk her thumb deep into the flesh, 
surprised at how far she could penetrate before the flesh actually ruptured.  
She hooked a suitably hefty chunk of his throat and tore it free, opening a 
great ragged hole.

A noxious sigh escaped him, fetid air direct from the lungs.  And the sudden 
lunar jet of arterial blood.

She backed off a little so as not to soak herself.  A puddle was already 
forming around him, as well as a spray of gruesome graffiti - a fitting epitaph 
for his passing.

Oh, this was power alright.  As the life fled his shredded and broken form she 
felt a wave of euphoric triumph.  Oh dear God, she was hooked from then onward.  
She left him, weaving her way back home on legs that were still quivering.


[A mailman and a dog are facing each other in a front garden.  They are both 
looking at a can that lies midway between them on the path.  "The can of Mace 
lay where it had fallen from Bill's hand, and, for a moment, time froze, as 
each pondered the significance of this new development."]

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

7 - Free falling

The suit was a cliché of the business, short and stumpy.  Give him a cigar to 
chomp on and he could easily be cast in one of his own formula-driven action 
movies.

But he opened his mouth to reveal a sweetness and homespun charm that belied 
his tyrannical reputation.  The man commanded millions and had a nose hard 
enough to survive in Hollywood, but could still come across as the most gentle-
natured, down to earth guy you could ever hope to have as your neighbour.

He shook hands with her and she returned his strong and no-nonsense grip.

'Cassie, babe, it is a genuine pleasure to meet you.'

'And you.'

His eyes skirted her athletic form.  It was done with a professional's scrutiny 
rather than lechery.  He was assessing her.  The interview had already begun.

'Wow,' he said, 'they weren't kidding about your muscles.'

Against advice she had worn a sleeveless top, astutely surmising that she was 
being considered because of her physicality and not despite it.  She had 
decided that she should flaunt it rather than attempt to conceal it.  It wasn't 
like they hadn't seen her portfolio, displaying exactly what she looked like, 
in almost medical detail.

Even the simple action of shaking hands had caused the lean muscles in her 
upper arm to flex and harden, twitching with that delicious tease of definition 
and tone.

Cassie smiled coyly at his compliment and led him inside the hanger.

Her jeans were pretty tight too and she could feel his eyes upon her again.  
And again with that sense of a professional testing the quality of the meat.  
She shouldn't be offended too much she supposed, after all, if she was 
successful here she would be projected up there on the big screen, an image to 
inspire all manner of desires, not the least of which was sexual.

'This is Nigel,' she introduced.  A wild and wizened man, small and weasel-like 
with a darting gaze.  'He's the owner here.  He's also the main pilot.  He'll 
be taking us up.'

'Pleased to meet you.'

They shook hands.

'I won't be the one going up though,' the suit said.  'I've got a man back in 
the car for that.  Hate to fly.'

'And this is Murray.'

'G'day, mate.'

The suit smiled.  'A fellow Aussie I take it.'

'How d'ya guess?' Murray quipped, his accent broader than ever.

He turned back to Cassie.  'You don't have an accent yourself?'

'You want an accent,' she said, slipping into an outback slur, 'I can do 
accents.'  She switched back to her pleasant, mild tone.  'It's been diluted by 
all the time I've spent over here but I can call upon it when necessary.'

'OK.  I'd like you to meet Simon.'  The suit gestured to the car and the other 
passenger got out and headed over.  He was tall, six foot, and stocky in a 
muscular kind of way.  'He's the stunt co-ordinator for this project.  I want 
him to accompany you on the drop.'

'That's fine,' Cassie said.  'I assume his fully licensed and insured?'

'Of course.'

'Murray will still drop with me, we both have cameras mounted on our suits, so 
you'll be able to take away all the footage you need.'

'That's great.'

Simon arrived and she turned her attention to him.

'OK.  Let's get you kitted out.'

It took him a while to broach the subject, but Cassie could tell right away 
that Simon was fascinated by her physique.  He had a look about him that she 
was well used to spotting.  He wanted to ask her about her muscles but felt too 
uncomfortable to do so.

She knew her body sparked a conflict within some people, especially men.  She 
was tall and appeared at fist glance to be slim.  But there was an illusion 
there, given by the sleekness of her figure - the easy grace of her motion.  In 
actual fact, she had a degree of bulk that was denied most men, excepting 
athletes.  She was an all round action woman, learning her trade in various 
touring stunt shows back in Australia.  She had skills that the Hollywood 
action hero would envy.

She could handle any given vehicle with the precision control of a computer 
geek playing a videogame.  She could scale a building faster than your average 
person could use the stairs.  She could jump off of a speeding motorbike 
without hurting herself, leap from tall buildings without dying, get blow up, 
be set alight, cliff dive, dry surf, water-ski barefoot and horse-ride with her 
hands bound behind her back.

She could chin her own bodyweight, holding on by only three fingertips.  She 
could balance her own bodyweight onto a single hand, twisting her legs around 
her like a ballet dancer (or indeed a fitness competitor.)  She could jump over 
a bar the height of man from standing, twisting her back in a graceful arc to 
spin and land again on her feet.

But despite this CV, and the shopping list of talents it contained, it was her 
figure that tended to most shock and disturb those seeing it for the first 
time.

She was fitness-figure slim, but had muscle that would make men baulk.  Her 
biceps looked no more spectacular than a particularly well-toned beach bimbo, 
until she flexed them, at which point, all preconceived notions were cast aside 
to reassess this stunningly well developed woman.

And she loved the effect.  A favourite trick of hers was to smile all seductive 
and blonde, so skinny and healthy, so tanned and toned.  Oh wow, you've 
actually got a little bit of a six-pack there (she would be careful not to 
tense yet).  Do you work out at all?  A little, yeah.  I knew it, coz you're 
looking so fit.  And this slim babe tosses her hair, she whips off the jacket, 
throwing it carelessly over her shoulder, as though she's completely oblivious 
of the fact the motion throws out her bicep into a peak that could wrench open 
an arm-bracelet.  (Another favourite trick, though one she tended to save for 
more intimate moments, knowing the amazing impact it had upon certain men.)

Cassie was wearing a jumpsuit as were they all, but Simon began by gesturing to 
her body, as though he could see the array of well developed muscles beneath 
the loose cotton.

Both he and Murray were dressed in similar jumpsuits.  They all sat in the back 
of the light aircraft as it took them up to jumping height.

'Why all the muscles?'  He had to shout to be heard over the buzz of the 
engines and the roar of wind.

'I'm a stuntwoman.  They kind of come with the job.'

'I've worked with a lot of stuntwomen.  All of them have had a certain level of 
fitness, some more than others, but I've never met a single one who even came 
close to the kind of development you've got.'

Cassie smiled.  'I noticed your form while you got into that jumpsuit.  You've 
got some pretty good biceps yourself.  They didn't come from stunt co-
ordination.  You know your way around a gym.'

'Well yeah.'

'Same here.  I like muscles.  I think they're very beautiful to look at.  
They're also come in very handy in all kinds of situations.  They've got me out 
of a few scrapes in my times.'

'Don't you mind looking like a freak?'

She bit her tongue, not rising to the insult in his question.  He actually 
seemed oblivious to any possible offence.

'I don't think of it like that,' she told him.  'I know I look unusual, but I 
see that more as standing out from the crowd because I've achieved something 
most people haven't.  Whether they would want to or not isn't the point.  I 
don't judge people who haven't developed the kind of physique I aspire to or 
consider to be attractive.  I don't judge people who I personally consider to 
look too thin or too fat, except to question the health of either extreme.'

'OK.  What about the gender issue?  Masculinity and femininity.  Rightly or 
wrongly, the kind of muscles you have, make most people think of masculinity 
rather than femininity.  Isn't there the worry that you'll end up looking like 
a man?'

She raised an eyebrow at this.  'You think I look like a man?'

'I didn't say that,' he assured her quickly.

'I may not have tits like Carmen Electra, but I'm not exactly flat-chested 
either.  I'm a C-cup, which most women would consider more than enough.  I've 
got hips, I've got legs.  I've got a shapely ass and a flat belly.  All that 
qualifies me as feminine by any conventional scale.  The fact that my curves 
are a little harder than normal doesn't necessarily detract from that.  I know 
biceps aren't traditionally associated with hot chicks, but the way I look at 
it, when your talking about arms as big as mine, it's not exactly normal for 
men either.'

That got him.  'What do you mean?'

'Bodybuilding isn't normal.  In that it's not the norm.  The average man or 
woman you run into on the street doesn't have the kind of biceps I can flex.  
Whether you consider a bodybuilder to look impressive or just plain freaky, no 
one can possibly claim it looks normal, in the everyday sense.  Both men and 
women who bodybuild look unusual.  However, it happens that we've gotten more 
used to the way men with excessive muscles look over the years.  Much of that 
is due to the media and especially movies.

'Years ago Burt Lancaster didn't go around flexing his biceps like Tom Cruise 
or Bruce Willis.  And nowadays, thanks again to movies, we're learning to 
appreciate it with women too.  Walk into a cinema and you'll see Milla Jovovich 
or Jessica Biel, pumped up to play action chicks.  Charlie's Angels is filmed 
like a fetish movie.  We're invited to admire their physical prowess for its 
erotic appeal.  Young boys are watching it to see sexy kick-ass babes.  The 
Matrix movies cast their female warriors as sexy, PVC clad, perfect specimens 
of womanhood.  Twelve years ago Linda Hamilton was hailed as a feminist icon 
for her role and appearance in Terminator 2.  Nowadays, nobody would even 
notice her.'

'That's an interesting argument,' he agreed, 'but that doesn't change the fact 
that Joe Public associates muscle with men - not women.  Put muscle on a woman 
and alarm bells start to ring.'

'Oh I know that.  But it's getting better.  We've made huge strides over the 
past few years, and we ain't about to stop now.  Too many women have been 
inspired, too many have come to realise that the old clichés aren't necessarily 
set in stone and they don't have to or define who they are.  And too many guys 
have taken the modern woman to their hearts - more than you'd think - and they 
wouldn't want to go back either.'

'And you want to be right at the forefront, up there on the big screen?'

Cassie laughed.  'Oh yeah.'  She flexed one arm, though the resultant boulder 
muscle was all but concealed by the roomy jumpsuit.  'And get to see these 
puppies peak fifty feet tall!  What girl could resist?'

The plane had levelled out.  Cassie looked at the two men sitting with her.

'Well boys, it's about time we headed back down to Earth.  The direct route.'

So Cassie and Murray check each other's cameras and start them going.  Cassie 
does the intro blurb into Murray's camera, reciting date, time, current 
altitude, anticipated drop and chute opening, those here present.  She then 
walks to the main door and slides it open, instantly making the roar of the 
wind a thousand times worse.

She says something but it's lost.  She makes the hand signals instead.  Then 
she turns and jumps, disappearing into the sky.

Murray turns to Simon and the stunt co-ordinator shows his stuff, running and 
leaping into the wind.  Then Murray follows, and they are all three free-
falling.

It takes less then ten seconds for her to reach terminal velocity and by that 
time the adrenalin is pumping through her blood, turning her into the crazed 
thrill-junkie that inflicts so must risk upon herself for both fun and in the 
name of a career.

She adopts the position and waits for the others to catch her up, which they 
presently do.

Cassie and Murray synchronize their descent with practised precision, the tiny 
amendments and corrections they make all but invisible.  Simon ain't bad 
either, moving to face the two of them.  They spread instinctively into a 
triangle.

This is Cassie's interview and, time being a factor, she gets straight to it 
doing spins through the air.  She has the grace and skill of a creature in its 
home environment as she moves.

A few more aerodynamics and then she moves in close to Murray.  She kisses him, 
a friendly peck on the lips.

More hand signals and then the three of the spread apart.  It's time to hit the 
chutes.  The ground is closer now than it was, and rapidly coming up on them.

Simon and Cassie both look up to see that happy blooming of a flower, or a 
droplet of ink dissipating through water.  Or even a violent image - a mushroom 
cloud of mass-destruction - a sight of so beautiful that it would be hard to 
associate it with such horror, were it not burned so savagely into the retina 
of the collective unconscious.

But Murray.  Oh but Murray.  Bad luck occurs, no matter the level of 
professionalism and meticulous attention to detail.  These things happen, shrug 
it off and get on with your life.  Look back later and worry about the rhyme 
and reason, right now there are other more pressing concerns.

A professional daredevil though he is, the panic does indeed threaten as the 
reserve chute also fails to open.

Only seconds have passed, but they are few and precious.  There is now little 
more than two thousand feet left to play with.  After all, when you greet the 
ground whilst travelling a hundred and twenty miles per hour, it is unlikely 
that the meeting will be a mutually amicable one.

Cassie realised what was happening, and did the unthinkable' removing her own 
chute and plummeting after her companion.

It took her five seconds to reach the falling Murray, his spread-eagle position 
contrasting her streamlined dive.

But five seconds is a long time, when time is so precarious a position.  How 
can you truly know the value of mere moments until that is literally all you 
have left?

Maybe a thousand feet left, certainly not much more than that.  What's the 
lowest drop ever made?  Who holds that record?

But there's no time for such considerations, no time for even the micro firing 
of synapses to ponder anything other than that which is immediately necessary.

Cassie's arms slide beneath the shoulder straps lying tight against his chest.  
They twist around the strap and grip tight.  Murray has done the same with 
hers, wrapping his own arms tight around her straps, tight against her chest.

More precious seconds have been taken but Cassie hits the chute the instant 
they are ready to do so.  She doesn't even take a moment to look into his eyes 
until that precious silk is deploying and they are in the hands of fate.

A third failure would be fatal but the chute opens and they are snatched back 
from death's jaws, just as those teeth close upon them.

Though her physical strength is astonishing, a body falling at terminal 
velocity carries a huge weight of momentum with it.  The pain is intense.  
Murray cries out - is helpless to do otherwise.  Cassie proves her salt by 
remaining silent, though her partner's cam catches her agonised expression.

But the ground - now less than four hundred feet beneath them - rushes up at a 
stifled and more familiar rate.

She embraces him, scared the force may have broken his arms, wrapping her 
powerful limbs about him and securing his weight to her body.  Murray is 
clutching hard to her shoulders.  Unconsciously his hands move to her biceps.  
His fingers cannot hope to encircle her arms, so instead they grasp each 
bulging peak, clawed about them, his grip more than filled by their tremendous 
size.

It is not a sexual action (though the only time men have previously cupped her 
biceps in such a manner it was purely lust that inspired them,) but an 
unconscious need for comfort.  He has never been attracted to her muscles, 
female bodybuilding simply didn't appeal to him in that way.  Though he was 
familiar enough with her physique that he did not consider her freakish, as he 
somewhat reluctantly admits that he once did.  But it doesn't turn him on.

Now he clutches her biceps like the most ardent fetishist.  I still doesn't 
arouse him, but these past moments have taught him real fear (though the 
adrenalin kicking through his body will never again be matched in a long 
lifetime of crazy stunts).  His mind and body seek comfort, and there is a very 
real and palpable sense of security to be had, held onto so tightly by such 
blatant and incontrovertible strength.

They hit the ground and roll together, using the traditional technique rather 
than a stuntman's more common and better looking method of hitting the ground 
running.

They remain locked in their intimate embrace for several seconds after they 
have landed, the chute tangled and flapping beside them.

They are still holding each other when Simon walks over to them and asks if 
they are OK?  They need to take a moment and check before answering that they 
are indeed OK.

As the footage is checked later, they are told that at the point that the chute 
finally opened, they would have hit the ground in less than three seconds.

'Three seconds?' Cassie remarks, wry-cool, 'not even exciting.  Hollywood 
countdowns always get to at least two.'

When Simon gets Cassie alone he takes the chance to deliver, as though an 
offhand remark, 'I've heard of that procedure being used before.  It resulted 
in the arms being broken, sharp as a cut.'

'Well, we are both pretty strong,' she remarks.  She is perfectly aware that at 
the velocities involved no matter the strength of the given individual, the 
forces inflicted upon the body are far in excess of that which any human can 
withstand, no matter how big her muscles are.

Simon too is aware of this.  He raises an eyebrow.  'I happened to noticed you 
both prepare for the jump by attaching all kinds of support braces to your 
shoulders and arms.'

'It's good to be prepared.'

'And tell me, do you know the odds of a single chute failing to open, let alone 
the reserve too.  Murray's a professional Daredevil, I've read his résumé, I 
know the things he's done.  He'd be dead a thousand times over by now unless he 
showed the most meticulous attention to preparation.'

'Shit happens.'  He can keep prodding as much as he likes.  She isn't offering 
him a thing.  Unless he comes out and directly asks her, she's not gonna say a 
word.

He seems to realise this.  He smiles.  He's been impressed since first reading 
about her, and meeting her had done nothing but increase that respect.  He 
knows the business as well as anybody and knows when he's speaking to someone 
genuinely extraordinary.

'Strictly between you and me, I think you've impressed some very important 
people.  The kind of people it's good to impress in this business.  I hate to 
use cliché but you're gonna go a long way.'

And the Headlines that followed the first film certainly seemed to prove this 
statement to be true.

      Is Hollywood ready for the new breed of action woman?

      Putting the Fatal into Femme fatale

      Muscle hits the mainstream.

      Like Lethal Weapon reinvented for the Kill Bill generation.

      Not since a certain Austrian bodybuilder was thrust into the limelight,
      has a muscled action physique caused such excited commotion or debate.
      The difference is that this time, the physique causing such a stir is
      Australian, not Austrian, and the biceps being flexed are not those of a
      man, but a woman...

      The opening scene, an undercover cop being stung as her backup is taken
      down.  Our first sight of her and she is dolled up in the sleazy come-
      hither cheap garb of a hooker.  We're exposed to a Hollywood traditional 
      cleavage, to long and shapely legs, gorgeous flowing locks and model-
      perfect features.

      She walks into a trap, but as the bullets fly, the jacket is tossed aside
      and her arms are also revealed.  We instantly are forced to reassess our
      preconceived notions of sexuality and femininity as she muscles her way
      out of trouble, physically overpowering her assailants with a fighting
      style more akin to Fight-club than the functional kung-fu which women are
      normally permitted to utilise.

      She is given the so-called witty quips no modern action hero could be
      without but delivers them with a certain dry stoicism that actually takes
      them up a level.  Not that she's kidding herself this is high drama.  She
      does however, lend the picture a grim and dark undercurrent of gritty
      sexuality, bringing it line with the seventies thrillers it so emulates.

      A retired cop out for vengeance hooks up with a young cop, barely out of
      the academy.  This is no fresh-faced rookie however and she has her own
      agenda.

      It is perhaps fitting for the ageing action veteran to pass on the mantle
      in this way; his sudden and unexpected death in the film's third act,
      spurring his protégé to her final assault on the crimelord's palace, is a
      neat reflection on the male star's recent announcement that he is
      officially retiring from such roles in a desire to focus instead on
      directing.

      In fact, it is especially telling since in his next film he is again
      working with his muscular young co-star.  She is set to lead as a 
      genetically engineered super-being fighting for survival in a crime-
      riddled city of the future.

      How does the ageing action hero feel about a leading lady with biceps
      that put his own to shame?  He sits back in the chair, chewing on his
      trademark cigar.  Despite the years, which are finally beginning to
      catch up on him, his eyes retain the familiar mischievous sparkle.

      'She's a fantastic athlete,' he declares, 'but remains as beautiful and
      feminine as any woman I've met.'

      Doesn't he feel her muscularity counteracts that?

      'Not in the least.  She can portray a character as hard as nails, she
      really is as tough as she looks.  But what women are able to do in movies
      has grown so much, even just in the time I've been in the business.  When
      I started, you'd never get an actress take fitness to the level she has.
      But then there was no action roles for women at all back then.  It was
      just unheard of.  As these opportunities open up, I think you're going to
      start seeing it more and more.'

      He laughs and adds, 'certainly while I'm making movies you will.'

      It is perhaps fitting that the man who helped define the macho role model
      for men in modern Hollywood perhaps more than any other, now helps throw
      it into uproar.  Cinema must now evolve further to accommodate the action
      heroine, following up close behind, and proving herself to be just as 
      able.

      Given the phenomenal opening weekend of his new sci-fi movie, which puts
      female muscles further into the mainstream than we've ever seen them
      before, it seems that this is a step the cinema-going audience is more
      than happy to take.

Murray puts down the magazine.  'Have you read this?' he asks her.

'Yeah,' she admits, actually blushing a little.

This fame in still new to her and she hates to admit she still pours over 
critical reviews, taking to heart any point raised, whether good or bad.  She 
was overjoyed to be described by one hack as "utterly convincing as the tough 
and uncompromising new action sex-symbol."  Though severely disheartened to 
read the same journalist describe her latest as "a completely wooden 
performance given by a completely wooden physique, that make you wonder if you 
are actually watching a man in drag."

They are hanging out in a hotel room in Hollywood.  Murray's profession is 
loose enough to let him pretty much come and go as he pleases and he's stayed 
around Cassie as much as he possibly could.  And she has appreciated his 
efforts, he alone helping her to remain grounded in this insane business of 
fame and promotion.

She changes the subject.  'A sci-fi magazine has short-listed me into their 
annual top five sexiest women.'

'I read that too,' he tells her.  'And it had an awesome picture to go with 
it.'

'They're having an awards ceremony - not quite the Oscars but it should be a 
good night...'

He smiles and when he speak, there's the hint of a tease in his tone.  'Are you 
asking me on a date?'

She becomes uncharacteristically coy.  'Do you wanna come or not, fucker?'

'Well, if you put it like that, I'd be delighted.'

She smiles.  'Great.'


[A parachutist pulls his ripcord and looks behind him.  Streaming from his pack 
is not the anticipated chute but firstly a grand piano, and now a ship's 
anchor.  "Murray didn't feel the first pangs of real panic until he pulled the 
emergency cord."]

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

8 - The adulterer

'Oh my God, it's Yvonne,' Walter declared.  At the closest tables, a few heads 
swivelled at this exclamation, catching his expression and turning to see the 
woman in question.

Sandy however retained her cool.  She caught the red wine bottle he'd left in 
mid-pour, before it overfilled her glass.  She plucked it from his fingers and 
placed it back on the table before looking up at the approaching woman.

So this was Yvonne, the woman who had so vigorously enraptured and so viciously 
ruptured the heart of her beloved.  She was a tall woman and had a heavy build.  
Walter had never specified this fact to her, but she'd guessed as much from the 
nature of his occasional comment.  In truth he didn't talk much about her at 
all.  She had sensed that, even now, it was painful for him.  Or so she had 
assumed.

Yvonne strode purposefully over to the table, facing down her husband.  She was 
bristling with anger - barely able to contain herself.

'Yvonne,' Walter said but there was nothing to be said to follow this, no other 
words he could utter to explain or justify himself.

'Walter,' she replied in a strained tone.  Her head twisted like an accusation, 
fixing her fury upon the other woman.

Sandy was remarkably cool.  'Sandy,' she said helpfully.  She held out a calm 
and unwavering hand, though the wife didn't accept it.

Walter seemed to come out of his horrified shock then.  'Yvonne.  Let's not 
make a scene here.'

'Who's making a scene?' Yvonne hissed, her voice so tight it was barely 
audible.

A waiter had stepped up now.  'Sir, is everything OK?'  He too wished to avoid 
a scene, it would seem.

'Fine, thank you,' he said, dismissing the man with a careless wave, not even 
looking at him.

'Yvonne.  Go back home.  We'll talk this over.  I'll be there soon.'

Now it was Sandy's turn to pique.  'Home?' she repeated, though her voice 
remained dangerously calm.

'Don't tell me,' Yvonne sneered, 'he told you he'd moved out?'

'Look we can't do this here and now,' Walter insisted, not wanting to be caught 
between the rock and the hard-place, as it were.

'Agreed,' Yvonne stated coldly.  The only thing keeping her wrath from 
exploding was the public scene it would create.  She felt bad enough about 
herself already, she really didn't need to be made a public spectacle too.  'I 
take it you're checked in here.  Let's go to your room.'

Walter stood.  He put a gentle arm on her shoulder and spoke in a calming and 
placating voice.  He was half turned away from Sandy and spoke with the clear 
intention of excluding her.

'Honey, Baby.  We need to talk this through.  I know things haven't been 
working for us, but right now I've got to talk to Sandy.  I've got to let her 
down gently.  She didn't realise how tangled up our relationship was, it's only 
fair that I come completely clean with her as well as you.  Go home.  Let me 
talk to her now and then I'll join you.'

Yvonne listened to all this.  She placed a tender hand against the side of his 
chest, a little below the armpit.  It was a sensitive area where he liked to be 
touched.  But her tenderness turned vicious and she gripped the side of his 
ribcage tight, threatening to break his ribs.

'Get up now.  We're going to you room.  You, me and her.  Then you're gonna 
spill your guts.  Clear?'

'You can't just...'

She squeezed, popping two ribs with the ease of a chef preparing a piece of 
poultry.  To his credit, he didn't cry out, despite the sharp agony.  Her hand 
remained in its position, ready to do more damage should he fail to obey.

'Clear,' he whimpered.

The room was rich and indulgent.  Yvonne looked around, thinking of the last 
hotel she'd stayed in with her husband.  It was utterly put to shame by this 
one.

'OK, Honey, I know you must be...'

She punched him.  She slammed a meaty fist squarely into his jaw and sent him 
reeling.  He collapsed, giddy from the blow.

Sandy rushed between them, defending her man, despite the increasingly dubious 
nature of their relationship.

'Cut that shit out,' she hissed at the woman.  'Or you'll have me to contend 
with.

'Just making a point,' she remarked.  But she eyed the other women with barely 
concealed contempt.  They exchanged only a glance but in it they each summed up 
the other's mettle.  And they were both put on higher guard by what they 
gauged.

Yvonne chose this moment to remove her coat, throwing the mac aside to reveal a 
fairly plain shirt and jeans beneath.  The outfit hugged her physique in a 
telling way and Sandy knew her suspicious about this woman had been correct.  
She could see how she'd decked her husband with such ease.

Yvonne was a bodybuilder.  In no uncertain terms.  She fairly bristled with 
muscle, every inch of her body bulging and rippling.

Sandy was wearing a dress-top.  The shoulders and arms were covered, long 
billowy sleeves, but that didn't fully conceal the fact that her own body was 
hardly that of an anorexic either.

In the inevitable comparison she couldn't help notice that Yvonne's bulk was 
probably a little heavier - more solid and dense.  But Sandy could see that she 
was more cut than this woman was.  She knew she was younger, but when dealing 
with such an athlete, that really wasn't much of a consideration.

The only real question was, could she take her if it came to that.  And the 
only answer she had?  Maybe.

'I suppose I deserve that,' Walter conceded as he stood.  He rubbed his jaw, 
checking it for damage.  Them he prodded at his ribs carefully, wincing as he 
found the two that moved beneath his fingers.

'Is there any point?' Yvonne said, sounding remarkably relaxed now compared to 
how she had been downstairs.  The violence seemed to have had a curiously 
cathartic effect upon her.  'I mean, all the lies, all the going behind my 
back.  Even when I came out and asked you directly - face to face - what was 
happening, you denied everything and blatantly lied to me.  That is, in itself 
reason enough for me to give up on us, even without the fact of your 
unfaithfulness.'

'This isn't about justification,' Sandy started up.  'So what if he lied to 
you?  Have you any idea how cut-up he's been because of you?  You treat him 
like shit and now that he's trying to rebuild his life, trying his best to get 
over you, you come along to tear him back down?  Lady, you have got to let it 
go.'

'Rebuild?  Let go?  What are you a fucking self-help book junkie?'

Walter tried to step between the quarrelling women, tried to keep the situation 
from escalating.

Yvonne didn't want to hear it however.  She placed a flat hand against his 
chest and pushed, sending him flying backwards onto the bed.

Sandy jumped forwards.  'If I have to tell you to lay off one more time, then 
you and me are going round.'

Yvonne faced down the younger woman again.  'I don't know who the fuck you 
think you are.  But this man is still my husband.  If I decide I want to beat 
him to a bloody pulp, then that's exactly what I'm going to do.  If you want to 
try and stop me then just fucking try it.'

'Jesus you stuck up bitch.  Get it through your head.  It's over.  Let the poor 
man move on.'

Yvonne shook her head derisively.  'You deluded, naïve little child.  You think 
he's the poor abused husband and I'm the psycho clingy wife?'  She turned to 
her husband.  'Why don't you tell her the truth?'

She reached for him but he scurried backwards along the bed, cowering fearfully 
from her.

Sandy stepped up and grabbed her wrist.

'Get away from him,' she warned, squeezing the extended arm with real menace.

Yvonne stood remarkably still - totally controlled.

'Bitch,' she said in the lowest and most even tone imaginable.  'You're gonna 
take you hand off me.  Right now.'

'Ain't gonna happen.'

Yvonne drew her arm back sharply, pulling the younger woman towards her 
suddenly.  With the same arm that was being held, she grabbed Sandy's wrist in 
return, firmly locking their two arms together.  Never one for the long drawn 
out combat, her free hand lunged straight for the girl's throat.

Sandy grabbed Yvonne's wrist before she could clutch her steely fingers into 
place.  She ripped the heavy woman's arm to the side, having to genuinely fight 
to shift such muscular weight.

And they paused for a moment, once more testing the water, both surprised and 
wary of the other's extreme strength.

In truth, it was a bizarre experience for both women.  The were each so used to 
being the most powerful, the most muscular in any given situation, especially 
in comparison to other women, that to come up against a real challenge - a real 
threat - was as disconcerting as it was exceptional.

Walter watched, helpless to intervene.  Though he had to admit that there was 
something incredibly potent about watching two such beautiful women, quite 
literally fighting over him, despite the circumstances.

Despite the pain and fury, despite the antagonism and aggression, Walter found 
himself getting the most solid hard-on he'd had since he'd begun this affair.

Though he wouldn't wish harm on either of these women, to see them in such 
evenly matched combat aroused him beyond belief.

They both threw back, parting as though engaged in some strange and violent 
dance, muscles throbbing and pumped.

Yvonne shouted: 'You stupid little girl!  Don't you know when you're being 
used?'

But Sandy was in no mood for questions.  She roared and launched herself at the 
older woman again.  Like her counterpart, she fought in the manner of one who 
aimed to win.  She grabbed for Yvonne's throat, locking her hands about the 
thickly muscled neck and crushing her fingers into the rippling flesh.

Yvonne ripped at Sandy's thick arms, somehow getting a strong enough grip to 
actually force the lethal hold open and release the murderous pressure around 
her throat.  She kicked out, lifting her powerful thigh up to push the girl 
back with her foot planted neatly into the muscular board of her stomach.

Gasping for breath, she held up a hand to stay the girl's next assault.  'You 
want to do this?' she demanded.  'OK, but first wait.  One moment.  First let 
me ask Walter one question.'

Sandy backed away.  Despite the rage pumping through her body - her muscles 
alive with the need to pound out her violent emotion in the most brutal and 
physical manner imaginable.

'Walter?' Yvonne said, her voice cool once more.  'Will you tell this poor girl 
whether or not we had actually spilt up, prior to this evening.'

And that question, so loaded with recrimination and reprehension was enough to 
redirect both attention and emotion.

Despite the girl's tearful eyes turning his way, Walter didn't answer.  He 
couldn't meet her gaze, he could let her see the truth, even though such 
aversion was itself an admission.

'Before I finally had my suspicions confirmed, by seeing you and he in the 
restaurant tonight, I was under the impression that I was in a marriage.  
Admittedly one with antagonisms, with problems, a serious need for therapy.  
But a marriage nonetheless.

'He told you we were separated, right?  We'd split up.  He was married but only 
as a technicality.  As good as single.'

'Yes.'

'You know that he lied?'

'Yes.'  Then: 'I take it you never used to hit him - abuse him?'

'I've only ever struck him once.  That was tonight.'

Sandy turned on the man in question.

'And what have you got to say for yourself?'

Walter hung his head low, unable to meet her eyes.

And, looking at him, she saw his erection, still frozen and throbbing 
uncomfortably hard in his pants.

Realising then what had caused it, she was totally incredulous.  She grabbed 
his lapels and shook him hard.

'Oh Jesus, you twisted bastard.  All that you've done, is this whole thing just 
a twisted game to you?  I knew you could be a little kinky, but to play with 
people's emotions like a toy...'

'No,' he insisted, looking up at her for the first time, his eyes reeking with 
fear.

She drew back one muscular arm to slap him.  But she didn't.  In truth, it 
reminded her too much of the rough games they had played.  All the times she'd 
used her strength to dominate him.  The times she'd played the assailant, 
attacking him and pleasuring herself with his helpless though intensely aroused 
body.

She wanted to hit him, but was too put off by the thought that he'd actually 
enjoy it.

She dropped him, tossing him aside in disgust, not knowing what she could 
possibly say to him.

'Why?' she finally demanded.

'I didn't mean to,' he said, his voice small and pathetic.  'It started that I 
was just chatting to a beautiful young woman.  I was so astounded that you 
didn't walk away from me in abject disgust at the fact that I would approach 
you.'

Sandy just stared, not knowing what to say to him, how to express her rage and 
hurt.

'Look at me,' he insisted.  'How can a guy like me possibly turn down the 
affections of a woman like you?  You think I lied to you?  Maybe I did.  But 
you seduced me.  I couldn't help myself.  You seduced me with your body.'

Sandy took all this in, carefully considering all that he said - all that he 
had admitted to her.  Then she slugged him.  She punched him squarely in the 
jaw, unleashing her full fury into his corrupt and poisonous mouth.

Walter slammed back onto the bed with the force of it.  His jaw sat unhealthily 
on his face, clearly badly broken.  He tried to sit up but his body failed him 
and he collapsed back again.  He let out a low moan and then began to drool a 
thin line of blood down his jowl.

Sandy wiped the tears from her eyes, getting herself back in order.  Yvonne 
placed a hand on her shoulder.  It was a comforting gesture, an offer of 
support and affection.

'You OK?'

Sandy nodded.

'Good.  Can you give me a few moments with my husband?  There are a few things 
I need to say to him.'

'Sure.  I'll be in the hotel bar.  If you have any feelings left for the man at 
all then make sure I never see him again.  Because if I do, he's not gonna live 
through the experience.'

Her top had torn during the kerfuffle and she tossed it aside, making do with 
the T-shirt she was wearing beneath.  The fact that it was imprinted with the 
design of a cartoon bunny-babe winking sexily while brandishing an extremely 
large hand-cannon would probably have struck her as amusing in other 
circumstances.  In truth she'd put not thought into selecting it; she'd just 
grabbed a T, something random to wear beneath the designer top.

Sandy left the two of them alone.  She headed first to the Ladies to clean 
herself up more fully, then walked into the bar and ordered herself a G & T, 
ice & a slice.

She was less than halfway down the glass when a guy came up to her and sat at 
the next stool along the bar.

'Hi,' he said, a voice so rich and smooth, so confident and assured.  He was a 
suit - sharply tailored and immaculately styled.  'I hope I'm not bothering 
you, I just saw you sitting here alone.  I noticed your arms; you must 
seriously work out.  Am I right?'

'What's your name,' Sandy asked the man, somewhat dully.

'Andrew,' he told her.  He held a pleasant hand for her to shake.

'Andrew,' she said, ignoring the hand and facing him down with eyes that 
bespoke the evening she'd had so far.  'Go away.  Don't talk to me again, don't 
even fucking look at me.  You got that?'

He was shocked by her response but kept his cool.  'I'm sorry to have bothered 
you,' he said, getting off the stool and leaving her alone.

She was into her second drink when the next one tried.  Sandy normally liked 
the fact that guys were generally beginning to get used to seeing muscles on 
women.  So much so that these days she could always guarantee attention if and 
when she wanted it.  However, it also meant she had to put up with their 
curiosity and advances when it wasn't welcome too.  She should have grabbed 
another top while she was upstairs.  Something to ward off the rabid gaze of 
the lonely businessman.

He didn't even get his opening line out.  A heavy hand fell upon his shoulder.  
He turned around to see a woman - one who appeared physically capable of 
ripping his arm right out of its socket.  The man liked muscular women, he 
really did.  After all, what had attracted his attention towards the girl was 
the amazing size of her arms.  But when a female bodybuilder has one mighty 
hand clutched to your shoulder, the fingers curled tightly around the joint, 
all of a sudden, the sexual allure seems to drain out of the scenario.  
Suddenly he felt less aroused - more scared shitless.

'Fuck off creep,' she told him, tossing him roughly aside.

Much to the man's relief, she then turned away from him in order to sit beside 
her friend.

'You OK?'

'Yeah.  I could have handled that.'

'I know,' she assured her.  'But there's no reason you should have all the 
fun.'

Sandy couldn't be sure if that was a reference to their unwittingly shared 
partner.  She doubted it but wasn't about to rise to the woman if it was.  She 
offered a gesture of peace instead.  'Can I get you a drink?'

'Sure, thanks.  What's that, a gin?  I'll have one too.'

Sandy gestured to the barman.

'For what it's worth, I believe him.'

Sandy stared at Yvonne.  'Believe what?'  There was little she'd be willing to 
believe from any man for a long time to come.

'He's always had a real sense of insecurity about himself.  He suffers from a 
lack of confidence and has all these self-worth issues.  He's always had this 
big thing about it being so amazing that a bodybuilder, "a woman of such 
physical perfection" as he puts it, would ever have fallen in love with a guy 
like him.  I think he was just flattered by your attention.  Unable to believe 
that you'd see anything appealing in him.'

'Well trust me, whatever I saw - I don't see it now.  It's too lost behind all 
the layers of male bullshit.'

'You're not the only one who fell for his lies.  I've been with him for nearly 
ten years, and I still couldn't see the truth.  Even when it was obvious, even 
when it was right in front of my face.'

'You're done?'

'You mean is it over?'

Sandy nodded.

The older woman sighed.  'Yeah,' she finally answered.  'Yeah, we're done.'

An uncomfortable silence then.  Finally, Sandy offered: 'I'm sorry.'

Yvonne was still riled, but she didn't let herself act upon that bitterness.  
It wasn't this girl's fault after all.

'Sorry about your top,' she offered.

Sandy shrugged.  'That's OK.  Wouldn't have kept it anyway.  Walter bought it 
for me.'

Another uncomfortable silence.

'Where is he?'

'Getting his stuff together.'  She hesitated and then added, 'nursing a couple 
of black eyes to go with his broken jaw.'

'Should I clear out of here?  I shouldn't really drive, I've already had a 
couple of drinks.'

'No, stay.  I'll make sure Walter pays for the room in advance before we 
leave.'

'Thanks.'

There really wasn't much more these two women could say to each other.  They 
exchanged a few minor pleasantries, a couple of diet and training tips - 
bodybuilding being the one major thing they had in common (other than their 
ex.)

Yvonne finished her drink and stood to go.

'Well, goodbye then.  I wish you better luck with men in the future, I honestly 
do.'

'Yeah, you too.  Oh, and about Walter...'

Yvonne looked back expectantly.

'Give him a good kick in the balls from me.'

Yvonne smiled and gave her a final curt wave farewell.

Sandy turned back to her drink, finished it, ordered another.  She brooded over 
it, drinking slowly, cursing the fact that it really didn't seem to be 
affecting her.  Too fucking sober by half.

She sighed and stood to leave.  Catching sight of the businessman from earlier 
- Andrew, wasn't it? - sitting at the opposite end of the bar, she headed over 
to him.

He was reading the paper.  He put it down in front of him as her saw her surly 
approach.

'Hi?' he offered.

Sandy raised her arm.  The T-shirt was tight around her powerful torso - so 
much so that you wouldn't have gotten any better an idea of her outline were 
she naked.  It had sleeves but they were already stretched to capacity with her 
arms unflexed, coming half-way down her biceps.

She flexed.  The solid peak of her muscle rose and hardened like stop-motion 
photography of break baking in an over.  The bicep seemed to bloom into unreal 
magnificent life, swelling to an incredible size.

The sleeve couldn't stand to be stretched so far, and popped down the enormous 
smooth slope of her boulder shaped muscle.  And a good job too.  It seemed 
likely that had it not, it would have burst trying to contain a peak so huge.

All his previous collected cool was gone now.  His eyes were locked onto that 
swollen muscle as though unable to comprehend what he was seeing.  He was 
utterly transfixed by a dizzy combination of bewilderment and lust.

'Do you want to fuck me?'  It was toned purely as an indifferent query - a 
simple question of his desires - and not at all as an offer.

'What?' he managed to stutter.

'Sex.  Carnal intimacy.  Would it be desirable for you to engage in physical 
relations with me?  Does the sight of me arouse you?  Does my appearance - my 
body and all that it can do - incite a sensation of lust within you?'

'Yes.'  It was almost a sigh - a desperate and wanton admission.

'Then I'll offer you a deal.  I'll do that.  I'll go up with you to your room 
now, and we'll fuck.  But the price you pay for it is that you let me slap you 
senseless afterwards.'

'What?'  He was seriously scared.  Not to mention conflicted.

'I want to fight you.  No, let me rephrase that.  I want to beat you to a pulp.  
I realise that in some twisted way you get a thrill out of that, but I'm not 
talking about fantasy, I'm talking about violence.  I'm talking about breaking 
your bones, putting you in hospital, doing damage that you'll have to endure 
for the rest of your life.

'So I give you a choice.  If you want me - if you desire me - and you want to 
have sex with me, then so be it, I agree.  But those are my conditions - that 
is my price.'

He just stared at her, not able to process what she'd just said - not able to 
get his head around all that it implied.

But staring up into those dark and equivocal eyes, he was left with little 
doubt that she was telling him the absolute truth.

Andrew stood and backed away from her, as one would a wild animal, ensuring he 
made no sudden or threatening moves.

'I'm sorry I troubled you earlier.  Please, I meant no offence, really.'

He backed away and once he'd made it a few steps without her pouncing or making 
any move to stop him, he turned to scamper away.

She did strike then, however, catching his fleeing shoulder and gripping it 
painfully tight.  She jerked him back to put his ear level with her mouth.

'You may well be shitting yourself right now, and rightfully so, but I just 
want to tell you that I know you are going to jerk yourself insensible tonight 
because of me.'

She shoved him away, hard.  'Now fuck off.'

He pretty much fled after that.

Sandy returned to the room, glad to see that her ex and his wife were gone.  
The last thing she needed right now was to see either of them.

She opened the mini-bar and scanned through it.  A couple of miniatures.  That 
wasn't going to last her.  She called the front desk.

'Hi, yeah, can I have a bottle of gin sent up please.'

'Certainly, Madam.  One moment, I just need to open your account.'  There was a 
rapid clicking of computer keys.  'You're paying for the room by Mastercard, 
did you want your room-service on the same card?'

Sandy barely paused a moment.  'Yes please.  Oh, and also, I missed dinner, 
could you have a menu sent up too?'

'Certainly, that'll be right with you.'

'Thank you.'

Feeling a little better already she clicked on the TV.  She never paid the 
extortionate prices of movies in hotels, but money was cheap when it wasn't 
yours.

While she waited for room service, she lay on the bed face down, idly flicking 
through the hotel bumph.  She was happy to see that it included a catalogue for 
their gift shop.  Plus a helpful note advising that anything purchased could be 
added to the room-bill, such was their efficiency.

It occurred to her that despite his tastes in femininity, Walter had always 
shown her affection in the traditionally clichéd chauvinistic manner.  His 
credit card led his way.  Well, if that was the case then so-be-it.  He did 
after all owe her a very large apology.  She only hoped his credit limit was 
large enough to cover it.


[A sophisticated restaurant.  A man pores a glass of red wine for his date, who 
happens to be a sheep.  He is turned in surprise to see, in the foreground, 
another, pissed-off looking sheep, having caught them in the act.  "Oh my God!  
It's Yvonne!"]

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

9 - Two points

'Well it's creative, I'll give you that,' Detective Aston conceded.  'But we're 
left with how and why.'

The photo was from forensics.  They'd gone over the scene with their normal 
meticulous attention to detail.  God, this was a weird one.  It was the type of 
murder that got talked about for years.  The press hadn't gotten hold of it yet 
but it was just a matter of time.

The whole basketball hoop had been removed by the Investigations team and 
lowered to the gym floor.  The head was still attached.  They'd done so to get 
better access to it without yet having to detach it from its last resting 
place.  The rest of the body had been found in the opposite hoop.  The hips had 
been crushed to allow it to pass through, the ribs crushed, probably while 
jamming the corpse into position.

Aston flicked through the notes already made by the scientists.  'Broken teeth?  
Could that have been a part of the beating beforehand?'

The other cop gave a shrug.  'They think it happened when he bit down on the 
hoop.'

Aston nodded.  It made sense.  But there was something here he was missing.

'Well this is all very interesting, in a macabre kind of way.  But that don't 
explain what you're doing here.  Why come to me with this?'

'Because of who the victim was.'

Aston closed the file and actually read the name on the front.  He realised the 
other cop hadn't actually mentioned the victim by name, he'd just said it was a 
school-kid.

'Recognise the name?'

Oh yeah.

Aston opened the file again - took another look at the picture.  The severed 
head on a basketball hoop in the foreground, the rest of the body still hanging 
from the other hoop in the background.

'You want to kill someone - you just kill them.  You don't rip them in two and 
hang them in a school gym unless you're making a point.  He's been put on 
display.  And the bindings for his hands.  Wire?  Why not use tape, or cuffs?  
Why use wire?'

'Unless wire is itself significant,' the other cop finished for him, glad the 
detective had leapt straight to the same theory he himself had.

'Has anyone spoken to Rosalyn Fletcher?'

'Sebowitch is leading this one, he and Crown did a prelim.  Completely solid 
alibi.'

Aston nodded.  'Yeah, she would, wouldn't she.  What was it, out of curiosity?'

'You're gonna love this.  You know Margaret Parre, beat cop downstairs, she 
helps run a self-defence class at the leisure centre.'

'Yeah.'

'Rosalyn Fletcher has been attending faithfully ever since the attack happened.  
Never missed a lesson.  They had a big lecture last night, some guest speakers 
on top of the normal class.  As it was late, there were even a couple of 
minibuses to get everybody home again afterwards.  There's no way she could 
have been anywhere near the school when it happened.  And she has a cop as an 
alibi to testify to such.'

                                    * * *

Suzie went to visit Rosalyn Fletcher four months after the infamous basketball 
murder.  The press still sniffed around from time to time but it was less now 
that the police had officially lost interest in her.  The leading detective on 
the case had even specified at a press conference that Rosalyn Fletcher was not 
now nor ever was a suspect in the case.

That was bullshit of course, but it was nice of him to say it as it really had 
helped stem the flow of tabloid interest.  In truth, she'd never even spoken to 
the lead detective in the case, instead being interviewed by Detective Aston, 
the same man who had investigated the rape.

Needless to say, he thought she was responsible, as did most of the rest of the 
world who had even a passing knowledge of the incident, but her alibi was as 
solid as it possibly could be.  Everyone then assumed she'd paid another to 
commit the murder on her behalf, but without any evidence whatsoever the 
investigation had to give up on the theory.

And she had noticed something else during the interviews.  Despite his strict 
adherence to the law, despite his using every cops' trick to trip her up and 
break her logic, get a confession or contradiction out of her, she'd suspected 
that there was little real passion on his part for this case.  He did his job 
to the best of his ability and yet still, there remained a small glimmer of 
doubt, in the back of her head, making her suspect that were the man to do 
anything as unprofessional as to let his personal feelings be known, he would 
reveal that he really couldn't give a shit if the bastard's murder stayed 
unsolved, no matter how gruesome and macabre it had been.

And she flattered herself to believing that this fact was so because he'd been 
the one to talk to her last time.  He'd seen the photos of the wounds left by 
the wire bindings.  He'd asked to see them, turning her delicate wrists and 
she'd felt the emotion swell in him as he regarded the raw and recent damage.

He'd believed her accusations of who the assailant had been, despite his 
wearing a mask throughout the attack.  He'd believed because she was so damn 
certain.  You didn't need to see a man's face to be able to recognise his 
smell, his build, his lurching walk, his shuddering gasp as he came.

But the case had been dropped for lack of evidence.  And none were so furious 
about the fact as he.  He'd looked into her eyes afterwards and he'd said he 
was sorry and he'd meant it - down to his very soul.

So when this same man interviewed her, determined to discover whether she was 
involved with the murder, she'd denied everything and he'd believed her.  Only 
he hadn't believed her - of course he hadn't.  Nobody had.  But she had the 
distinct impression with detective Aston, that deep down, he didn't want to 
prove her guilt.

Suzie came to visit Rosalyn once the public mania had died down a little.  
Other press-cases had come and gone, other atrocities documented in meticulous 
detail for the public's consumption.

'Hey,' Suzie greeted, surprised but joyful at this sudden arrival.

'You OK?'

'I'm great,' she told the woman.  'Come in.  It's OK, my Mom isn't in.'

'Yeah, I know,' Suzie assured her.  She followed the girl inside, only removing 
her hood and shades once they were safely inside.

'You want a coffee?  Or tea, you'd prefer a tea?'

'No, I'm fine.  Sit down.'  She was amused by the girl's bouncy enthusiasm but 
still genuinely touched by it.  This was very a different young woman to the 
repressive depressive she'd first met nearly ten months ago.  She'd done a lot 
of healing in that time.  Suzie couldn't help wonder how much was due to the 
murder.  Not a pleasant question, certainly one that had all manners of 
ramifications, no matter the answer, but a significant one no less.  However, 
that said, if she were the type of woman to ponder too deeply over all that 
which she did, then she'd never be able to do it.

'Any more hassles from the police?'

'No, they've pretty much given up on it.  The press still hang around though.'

'That'll die down,' Suzie assured her.

'So what are you doing here?  I didn't think I'd ever see you again.'

'You won't,' she said.  'After today, you won't.  I'm gone from here soon, 
anyway.'

There was a pause - a slightly uncomfortable silence.  Uncomfortable for 
Rosalyn at least.  She searched for words to fill it.

'Oh, I've got to tell you this, I've started weight-training.  I want to be 
like you.'

'Really?  Good on ya.'

'Meeting you inspired me.  There's this woman who runs a self-defence class I 
go to and she said I should try hitting the weights, just to work on strength 
and I've really got into it.  I mean, when I met you I was totally blown away.  
But it never occurred to be to try it myself, I mean, I thought, like, I could 
never do what you've done, I just don't have it in me.'

Suzie smiled.  'You can do anything you want to do.'

'That's what I mean, I've really got hooked.  I actually realised for the first 
time that I really can achieve that look.  My Mom's a little freaked but she's 
helping me with diet and stuff.  She doesn't understand why I want to become a 
bodybuilder but she respects my decision.'

'That's great,' Suzie told her, really meaning it.

Another long silence strung out between them.  Again, it was Rosalyn who broke 
it.

'So why are you here?  You didn't tell me before.'

'I was trying to make a decision.'

'OK.  And have you made it now?'

Apparently she had done.  She reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a 
Betamax cassette.  'Sorry about the format, I've always used Betamax, 
everything they say about it being far superior to VHS is actually true.  I 
would normally convert it but I don't have the equipment over here.'

Rosalyn just took the proffered tape, open mouthed.  'Shit,' she uttered 
finally, 'is this... but I thought...'

She looked up at Suzie who just gave her a shrug.

'You said you couldn't video it.'

'I lied.  I taped it thinking I'd decide later whether or not to give it to 
you.  And I only came to that decision just now.  Whether you choose to watch 
it or not I leave up to you.  I don't need to tell you what that tape could do 
if anyone else ever saw it.'

'I know,' the girl assured her, deathly serious.

'There's nothing on there that can incriminate me - I wouldn't let you have it 
if there was - but your possession of that tape makes you an accessory to the 
act.  You understand?  If you're ever caught with it, your world will end.'

There was little more either had to say to each other after that.  They 
exchanged simple pleasantries before Suzie left, bidding the girl a fond 
farewell and wishing her all the best with the bodybuilding.

It took Rosalyn a further two weeks to watch the tape.  She came close to 
burning it on several occasions, getting as far as placing it in a baking tray 
and poring spirit over it, holding the burning match above it.

But she didn't kill the tape, saying to herself that if she did that, she'd at 
least watch it first.  (And hoping the dousing in meths hadn't destroyed it 
anyway.)

Eventually she decided she had to watch it, she'd go mad otherwise, unable to 
stop thinking about it.  But it was not in any way a decision taken lightly.  
Snuff after all, was snuff, irrespective of the circumstance.

                                    * * *

Jeremy was in one of those situations that throw you completely off-kilter.  He 
was going with it because he didn't know what else to do.  There was only one 
way to see how the movie was gonna end, and that was to sit it out.

The woman had been remarkably strong, basically manhandling him out of his car 
in her frantic insistence that he come with her, and taking him back over to 
the school gym.

'Jesus, Lady, what is your problem?'

'I'm serious, this is important.'

So he'd made no further protests, genuinely curious about what was going on.  
There was no one else around.  He'd been one of the last out of the changing 
room and now dealing with this crazy broad, the whole building appeared to be 
empty.

But at no point did he fear for his life.  The woman definitely had a bug up 
her ass about something but he didn't think she was actually dangerous.  And 
besides, what was she gonna do?  He was six-three and in prime condition.  He 
could certainly take care of himself.

And he thought she might be foreign.  She had a strangely rough accent, 
guttural even.  Australian?  Didn't some parts of England sound like that?

She took him to the side fire-exit of the basketball court.  The door had been 
smashed and she led him inside.

'Did you do that?' he demanded, but she ignored him.  'What the fuck is this?

Inside.  She stood on the basketball court.  Wearing fucking shoes on the 
court!  Didn't she have any respect?

'OK, we're here.  What the hell is going on?'

She faced him.  It was dark outside so he now saw her in full light for the 
first time.  He was vaguely surprised to see that she was actually very pretty.  
She had an attractive face and hair dyed stark black, but long and glossy.  It 
was currently tied behind her nape in a neat ponytail.

A basketball at her feet.  She used a foot to kick it up and catch it, like a 
soccer player.  She tossed it over to him and gestured to the far basket.

'Sink it,' she told him.

He'd caught the basketball easily enough and actually felt more confident with 
it in his hands.

'Not until you tell me what this is all about.'

'Indulge me first, then I promise I'll explain everything.'

Jeremy shrugged.  'From here?'  It was a hell of a long shot.

'No, no, get up close.  Just show me a basket.  Show me what makes you the big 
star player you are.'

So he did.  He walked up to the hoop, took a second to focus, and planted it 
neatly through.

'There,' he said, turning back to her, 'now why don't-'

The ball smacked him hard in the face.  She'd timed it perfectly, whacking him 
hard and fast just as his face turned towards her.  And she had some real 
fucking power behind it too.

Blood splattered from his nose and he buried his face in his hands.

'Jesus, you fucking cunt!'

When he looked up at her she wasn't even facing him.  She was over in the 
sidelines, removing the overcoat.  And what she revealed beneath was enough to 
make him forget both his pain and sudden fury.

'Fuck!'

A purple catsuit, garish and skin-tight, covering her whole body from the neck 
down.  It exposed the true shape of her physique - and that shape was unreal.  
Muscles bulged like balloons.  Her thighs were thick, her torso was huge.  Two 
massive breasts jutted unapologetically from her chest, assuring that this was 
indeed a woman's body.  Though the hourglass of hips and bust was exceptionally 
feminine, the muscles challenged this convention - muscles developed to such an 
incomparable degree were hard to absorb on a man, let alone a woman.

She fiddled with a box attached to her belt.  A glass eye at its centre.  A 
video camera.

'What the fuck!' Jeremy demanded.

'I just want to have a little fun,' she told him, stalking closer.

He saw this and began to back off.  When he did so she stopped her approach.  
Jeremy stopped also.

'What is this?  What's going on here?'

'Let me demonstrate.'  She went and picked up another basketball.  She lifted 
it to the side, curving her arm around it so that it was perched on top of her 
rock hard biceps peak.  'Imagine this ball is you.'

Without her even seeming to squeeze, the ball exploded, burst by the 
constriction of her muscles.  She still held a tiny scrap of it and she tossed 
the rag aside.

'Tell ya what, babe,' she said with an evil grin on her face, 'I'll give you a 
sporting chance.  You're an athlete, you've gotta be fast.  Make it to the door 
and you're home free.  If not - you're mine.'

'You're crazy!'

'I'm not crazy, I just don't give a fuck.'

And he ran.  And she took off after him, for all the world like a cat after a 
mouse.  And there's only one rule for winning the infamous cat and mouse game, 
(cartoon's not withstanding) - don't be the mouse.

Jeremy's long legs pounded, covering the distance between here and there, 
almost making it to the door.  He was an athlete, true, but so was she, and her 
muscles were a lot more developed than his were.  She pounced like a cat, 
taking him down and pinning him to the polished wooden surface of the court.

'Tag,' she cooed in his ear, leaning her head down so low that he could feel 
her tremendous bosom press against his shoulders, 'you're it.'

She stood and threw him along the ground, his body sliding along the flooring.  
Then she pounced again, landing on top of him.

She unfolded his limbs, straightening him out, arms to the side.  She pinned 
him face up on the ground, sitting on his hips to keep him trapped.  She lifted 
both his hands above his chest, holding the wrists tightly together in one 
hand.  With her free hand she adjusted the camera, making sure it caught all 
the action.

Jeremy squirmed ineffectually beneath her.  He tried to pry his hands from her 
grip but the swollen biceps muscle testified to her incredible strength.

She flexed her free arm before his face, making the biceps leap up huge and 
hard like a giant purple basketball.  'You see that?'

He nodded, scared.

'You know what that is?'

'A b-b-b-bicep?' he managed, not knowing what she wanted from him.

'That,' she said, flexing the huge muscle a few times, just to ram her point 
home, 'is your fucking death.'

His shuddering became sobbing then.  'No,' he murmured.  'No, no, please.'

'I'm going to fucking kill you and there is nothing you can do to stop me.  
Because I've got the muscle and you haven't.'

She slapped him.  'Stop crying.  Fucking cry-baby.  You're pathetic.  You 
really are worthless, you know that?  A scared, worthless piece of shit.  Soft 
as shit.'

Then, without warning, she punched downwards, smashing her fist into the hard 
bone beneath the collarbone.  His breast collapsed with a wet flumping sound, 
the top few pairs of ribs also snapping beneath the blow.

'Soft as shit,' she repeated.  She released his arms finally but he was in no 
state to fight her now.  They fell limply on either side, like a puppet with 
its strings severed.

Next she pulled out a small length of wire.  'For my next trick,' she told him, 
'I will demonstrate my superior strength to you in a simple competition.'

She lifted both his hands up and made him lock them together, linking the 
fingers around his hands.

'Simple really, you try and hold your hands together, and I, with my more 
powerful muscles, will pull your hands apart.  And to give you an added 
incentive to try your very best against me, you'll be wearing this.'

She showed the small twist of wire first to the camera, and then to Jeremy.  A 
double-looped slipknot.  She forced his thumbs up and slid the wire neatly into 
place.

'Now, are you ready?'

Jeremy was sobbing again now, trying to speak despite the tremendous pain in 
his chest.  'Please don't do this.'

'And tense,' she told him, grabbing hold of both his wrists.

She wrenched his hands open in a single fluid motion, Jeremy either too 
defeated to even try or simply so outmatched by her strength that his effort 
didn't register.  Whatever the reason, the outcome was the same - a neat 
thwicking sound and a soft fountain of blood as his right thumb dropped into 
the broken hollow in his chest.

She picked up the thumb and regarded it for a moment.  Jeremy had cried out in 
pain the moment the thumb came off but she silenced him now by putting the 
offending item into his mouth.

A gagging panic followed.  He tried to spit it back out but she forced the meat 
in.

'Swallow it,' she ordered.

More fear - more panic.  How could she demand such a thing?

She seemed to be serious however, forcing the thumb down to the back of his 
throat where he thought it would choke him.  And surely that would be 
preferable than continuing this torture.  What horror had she lined up for him 
next?

'Swallow it,' she insisted, still prodding the lump down against the back of 
his tongue.  'Swallow it now, or the wire goes around your bollocks.'

That settled it, English.  But he was hardly concerned with that question now.  
How could he swallow?  How could anyone?  He conceded to a few dry swallows, 
more a gag response to the thumb jamming at the back of his mouth.  And then it 
caught and he had no choice but to swallow.  With a supreme effort of will, he 
managed to down it, actually feeling the hard and horrid lump being driven down 
his gullet.

'Good boy,' she told him, obscenely pleased with his obedience.  'You know what 
that's just earned you?  Your release papers.'

For an insane second he thought that meant she was actually going to let him 
go.  But no, that wasn't what she'd meant at all.  Yes, she was going to end 
his torture - but in the end, isn't everyone's torture ended in the same final 
manner.

She stood up and lifted him easily up onto his feet, displaying once more the 
careless ease of her muscular power.  The loop of wire was still attached to 
the surviving though badly cut thumb.  She carefully removed it and adjusted 
the loop.  She then put his hands behind his back and slipped the wire tightly 
around his wrists, binding them together.

Jeremy suffered a coughing fit, the sudden shift of position exasperating the 
lethal damage done within his chest.  She waited patiently for him to stop 
hacking up blood, which he presently did so.

She'd produced another length of wire - longer this time.  Another loop.  This 
one went around his neck.  She pulled it taut but didn't use it yet, for the 
moment it was just a threat.  A highly palpable threat seeing as she clutched 
tightly to the other end of the wire, handled especially with a rubber grip, 
ready to jerk it tight whenever she felt like it.

She walked him to the edge of the court, removing the camera from is pride of 
place on her belt and aiming its glass eye over towards the hoop.  She then 
took a mask, which she proceeded to conceal her features with, taking the time 
and care to ensure it was comfortable.

Finally, she walked Jeremy down the last mile - a basketball court - towards 
the prize - the hoop.

'You're gonna do what I say,' she told him, 'coz if you don't, I'm gonna tug on 
this and that's it - you're fucking dead.'

Jeremy nodded, happy to obey, broken in both body and spirit.

'I'm gonna lift you up.  And you think you can bend you knees or that you might 
fall or whatever, I don't know, I don't care.  If you fail to remain straight 
as a board while I'm lifting you, I'm gonna tug on this.  Understand?'

He nodded.  'What are you gonna do to me?'

They were below the hoop now, both in the camera's line of sight.

She knelt down and wrapped one muscular arm around his legs, her thick and 
heavy biceps level to his knees.  Bracing him against her broad shoulder she 
prepared to lift him, one handed.  The other arm kept the wire noose tight 
around his neck.

'Remember, you stay straight upright, or I pull on this and you become a foot 
shorter.'

She lifted, heaving him up into the air, bringing his face up level with the 
hoop.

'That's good,' she told him, looking up, moving him closer.  'OK, now bite the 
hoop.'

'What?'

'Bite the fucking hoop.  Put the rim in your mouth and bite down on it.'

To emphasise her point she jiggled the noose a little, letting him feel the 
wire against his throat.

'Hard!' she insisted, watching the muscles in his jowls.

Then she ripped the wire down with all her might, her bicep swelling huge and 
hard and she pulled the knot through.

For a few endless seconds following this, Suzie simply stood and stared up at 
her handiwork, both impressed and amazed that it had worked.

She wound up the wire and then began dragging the rest of Jeremy over to the 
other hoop, pausing halfway to move the camera's view so it would also witness 
the other basket.


[A group of primitive cave-persons, standing around beneath a surprisingly 
modern looking basketball hoop, one of whom declares 'Oh great!  No one brought 
a ball!  Now what we do?'  "The birth of head-hunting."] 

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

10 - The anvil tree

'Don't go near the anvil tree.'  It was a common cry from my mother as I'd run 
out into the local fields to play.  How many times did I hear her say that 
phrase?  One of those things repeated so often that the combination of words 
and syllables, nuances of sound and expression, seem to coalesce into their own 
meaning - formed as they are by their own tradition of familiarity and 
association.

The tree was called the anvil tree because it looked like an anvil.  Even 
though it didn't - not really.  One of those local things I guess.  Somebody 
had said it, and other people had just gone along with it until the phase grew 
and became legend.  I remember knowing of the anvil tree long before I knew 
what an anvil actually was.

The tree was way out in one of the dead fields, basic waste ground that farmers 
long gone had given up on.  I don't know if was the mines that litter the whole 
region or some freak subsidence that had made that hillock unstable but 
whatever the reason, one dark and stormy night, way back in yesteryear, the 
ground had opened and half swallowed the anvil tree, pulling its roots down 
into the earth, leaning it over 'til it branches almost touched the ground.

And there the tree stayed and there the tree died - listing over in a near 
impossible balance, so far to one side that until this day, children run along 
the length of its trunk like a shallow ramp and dare each other to jump off the 
top end, to the ground below.

The branches were shorn off by locals, leaving the dead log, still semi-
planted, to age and blacken, sitting atop its mini perch, looking, according to 
some people, once long ago, like a strange giant anvil, dropped into the hill, 
crushed roots its stand, the shorn off end, pointing above the distant horizon, 
its tip.

Squint at it from a distance and maybe you'll see it - maybe not.  Either way, 
the name stuck and it's been known as the anvil tree to this very day.

I guess I was always a tomboy, but then being the youngest sibling and only 
girl, that's probably inevitable.  And I was good at being a tomboy too.  I'd 
run as fast as my friends, climb as high, wrestle as cruelly, punch as hard.  
There was always a degree of me being the girl amongst my particular group of 
peers, but I was their equal for the most part and they were comfortable enough 
with that.  And there was never any denying my loyalty either.  When we 
organised raids on the various group of girls who also played around the huge 
aches of waste grounds, I was one of them, despite the fact it was technically 
girls verses boys.  And I could be as vicious and spiteful as any one of them.  
When we had fights, we had fights.  I didn't wear my gender as a cloak to 
shield myself from attack.  But then I didn't need to, I was as capable and as 
tough as were they.

Despite my mother's ruling, we played at the anvil tree all the time.  And it 
was there that my relationship with Timmy, and hence the rest of the guys, 
first began to change and disintegrate.

The top of the tree was maybe fifteen, twenty feet above the ground.  It was a 
common rite of passage ritual for kids to parachute off it in the three 
designated ways.  There were some brats playing on the tree when we got there 
that afternoon.  They were running up and down its length, doing airplane wings 
with their arms.
 
I've done that too, running the whole trunk, picking up speed, leaping the 
cluster of petrified roots and off into the field.  I remember one fantasy war 
game we'd played once, the anvil tree being an aircraft carrier in a stormy 
sea.  I presume their game was much the same.

(We called them petrified roots but of course they weren't.  The tree was old, 
but it wasn't nearly that old.  I think Vic read something about petrifaction 
in a book and had become fascinated by it.  He was always the bookish one)

It actually takes a fair degree of surefootedness to take that ramp of slippery 
wood at speed.  One time when Vic had borrowed his granddad's stopwatch we'd 
timed each other to see who could do the run up and down the fastest.  You'd 
start with at least one foot touching the roots, facing up the trunk.  They'd 
yell "go" and you'd have to sprint to the top, touch the topmost tip and turn 
and fly back down.  You leapt the "petrified" roots and as soon as your feet 
landed, they stop the watch.  We had all sorts of trials and I won them all, 
inching ahead of Tim who finally had to concede that I was indeed faster than 
him.

Being older and bigger than the other kids there that day, we buzzed them off, 
even though there were five of them to our four.  (Timmy, Vic, Jamie and 
myself.  Jamie was a kind of hanger-onner, an annoying little runt who would 
weadle his way into packs of tougher kids in order that it would reflect upon 
him.  Not that we were especially thuggish of macho as cliques go.  I'm happy 
to report that years later in high-school I decked the bastard, causing him 
much humiliation, not to mention an ugly fat bruise as a badge of his shame.  
Needless to say, I never liked him much, but tolerated his presence simply 
because Vic and Tim both did.)

The smaller kids left without too much protest, asking only that they complete 
their parachute jumps, which had been the reason for coming up here in the 
first place.

Given the relevance and significance of such an occasion we conceded and let 
them continue.  I think, our presence there as older and therefore more 
respected (read "feared") kids, actually helped at least one of them go on 
through with it.  I know a lot of kids have been on the precipice (and standing 
from on top, I tell you, it looks fucking high) and been unable to go through 
with the jump, whichever level they were up to.  Most often the sitting or 
standing jump, as the hang is a piece of piss - I've seen four-year-olds 
complete it before.

Parachuting for kids at the anvil tree was similar to much of a child's 
existence, in that it's hideously dangerous, stupid, unnecessary, an essential 
part of sociological development and the unconscious hierarchy that governed 
us.  It was also based upon games of the imagination.  It's called parachuting 
though requires no parachute - you only pretend that you have a parachute.

There are three types of drop.  The hang is easy, because you've already got 
the entire length of your body that much closer to the ground.  Sitting has the 
added disadvantage of actually staring straight down at the ground, which seems 
horribly far away.  Standing is of course, your basic jump.

There are all sorts of injuries that this kind of activity can result in but 
kids are amazingly resilient and I only know of a few minor accidents resulting 
from parachuting off the anvil tree.  No broken bones.

The point was an act of courage.  If you could bring yourself to leap off such 
a height, despite your natural instincts telling you not to then you were 
master of your own fears.

So there are five of them, going for the sit.  Two went off straight away, 
obviously having done it before.  A third sat and debated a while to himself 
before taking the plunge.  The last two dragged it out, neither wanting to take 
that final all-committing step.

'Come on,' Jamie shouted up, getting bored of waiting.  'Just do it, or I'll 
come up there and push you.'

But it was an idle threat.  That wasn't how we did things.  I only know of one 
person getting pushed off the brink and the kid that did the pushing was beaten 
up, there and then, by everyone else present, barring none, especially not the 
kid who'd had his initiation so rudely thrust upon him.  It undermined the 
point and the honour of the ritual.

They chickened out in the end, walking the long walk of shame back down the 
trunk.  Jamie began to call out a few choice jeers but Tim shut him up.  It 
should also be remembered that Jamie dragged his feet about as much as possible 
when it came to his own initiation, putting off the final jump for months.  It 
was only fear of being completely ostracised that finally made him do it.

The kids left and we claimed the tree.  We were too old at this point to run 
and play, arms spread wild, as had the children we'd just chased off, and I 
really missed that.  There was something pure and free about running around 
like a hyperactive six-year-old that you only realise is missing later in life.  
Part of growing up, I guess.

We sat on the lower part of the tree, chatting about football and Buck Rogers 
and other things of major relevance to kids of our era.  Vic had snagged a box 
of cigarettes, which he dutifully handed out and lit.

I remember I lay back, staring up into the bright sky, my head a little dizzy 
from the smoke.  I was lost in my own reverie when I was rudely shaken back to 
my surroundings.

Another hit - a peanut bounced off my shirt.  Fucking Jamie of course.

'Piss off,' I hissed and tried to settle back down, brushing the fallen nuts 
away.

'Look at those, hooby-joobs,' he cooed and flicked another peanut.  I realised 
that he was targeting my barely blossomed bosom, hardly enough to even notice 
even though my T-shirt was pretty tight.

It wasn't the first time I'd been self-conscious my body, about the sudden and 
unwarranted assault upon my physique that had all of a sudden begun and was 
wholly uninvited.  I was, until then, quite happy with the way my body looked.  
Actually, not happy so much as completely indifferent.  I'd yet to learn all 
the baggage that weighs down an already troubled adolescence, yet to be taught 
to loath everything about my appearance and to covet instead the unassailable 
image of perfection plastered over the media brainwashing machine.

As it happens, when I did begin to be body conscious, I took a serious swerve 
from the mainstream.  I rejected all the bullshit the media spoon-fed us and 
chose instead my own unique form of physical vanity to sculpt myself into.  And 
now, years later, it's a decision I don't regret a bit.

But at the time, such things were yet to enter my head.  Or, more likely in 
fact, they were still too deep in my subconscious, waiting for the right time 
to surface.

All I knew was that my body had began this strange revolt against me, taking my 
perfectly functional and serviceable form and started to reshape it into the 
scarily unfathomable form of a woman.

I think I reacted to this burgeoning assault in the way most natural to 
children (to me anyway) by ignoring it and hoping it would go away.

So I still wore my Scooby-Doo T-shirt despite the fact that it was getting too 
tight.  I wanted things to stay as they were, I wanted to stay just one of the 
boys.  And when Jamie insisted on highlighting this new and embarrassing 
difference I responded in a naturally calm and reasonable manner.  I slugged 
the bastard.

I think it would have developed into a real and major scrap if the other two 
hadn't been there to calm the waters.  Tim told Jamie he was being an asshole 
and he told me I was overreacting.  To his credit, he highlighted the fact that 
the offence had been the tossed peanuts, leaving my personal development 
unmentioned.

Jamie just stood there sulkily, rubbing his sore face where I'd struck him.  In 
truth, I think he was glad it hadn't become a full-scale fight.  He wouldn't 
want to live with the stigma of getting beaten up by a girl.  (Though as I've 
said, that was an embarrassment I would indeed later inflict upon him.)  And 
make no mistake, I would have beaten him.  That's a simple fact and not one of 
the four of us doubted it.

We calmed down.  We sulked.  We had another quiet smoke.

'You know, this tree looks nothing like an anvil.'

I think it was Vic who said it.  The intervening clouds of faded memory have 
blurred the scene to the point where I can't be sure.  

Whoever did say it, I think there was a subconscious memory association going 
on there.  The first time any of us had seen what a real anvil looked like had 
been another day out playing and exploring, shortly before this.

The reason no one was in any doubt as to which of us was the strongest was 
because I'd proven the fact to them all quite categorically.

We'd found this old shed.  Abandoned and pretty much picked clean.  What hadn't 
been taken as practical and salvageable by adults, had been stripped by the 
kids that followed, considering the broken and rusted remnants of old tools a 
treasure beyond compare.

Amongst this debris was the anvil, a large and solid block of metal - black 
with age.

One of the boys tried to shift it, testing its weight.  He couldn't lift it and 
so, curious, I tried.

I was amazed and seriously jazzed that it shifted a little under my efforts.  I 
know that Tim tried next, impressed by my efforts but wanting to see for 
himself how heavy the thing really was.

He cleared everyone back, wanting space.  He hunkered down, dried any sweat off 
his hands and gave the thing all his might.  It wouldn't budge.


Both Vic and Jamie tried then, both in the same serious manner as had Tim.  Vic 
a little reluctant I think, never being the most physical of people.  But 
neither one could even rock the damn thing.  Well, if Tim couldn't, they 
certainly wouldn't be able to.

Then Tim insisted I try properly.  I was a little embarrassed by the sudden 
focus of attention, never being happy to stand out from the crowd.  (Oh how 
things have changed!)  But I was excited by the prospect.

I gave it as much ritual prep as had the guys.  I bent down and got the thing 
close to me, my back straight, my arms clutching that cool hard surface.

And I strained with every ounce of muscle power I could muster.  I barely moved 
the thing, one side only and that lifting less than an inch.  But still, 
undeniably, it had moved.

Exhausted, I dropped it again, actually making in thump back down onto the 
dirty ground.

Tim was ecstatic.  'Wow!  Like the fucking Bionic Woman!'  Which was a very 
cheesy show, but even so I have to admit, I never missed it if I could help it.  
It wasn't like today with superheroines pumped through the airwaves twenty-four 
seven.  Strong role-models for girls were in seriously short supply when I was 
a kid and I had to take what I could get, when I could get it.  No matter how 
crap.

I must admit to being a little surprised that Tim was such an ardent fan too.

Jamie and Vic were more restrained in their enthusiasm.  Jamie I think was 
particularly freaked, actually disturbed that I, the only girl of the group, 
should prove to be by far the strongest.  In his mind, physical power was the 
sacred reserve of the male of the species.

I know that it was at that point that he seemed to have developed a personal 
vendetta against me.  He certainly took every opportunity to highlight my 
burgeoning growth and exploit it, and that's the real reason it had come to a 
head that day at the anvil tree.  That's the real reason I'd hit the bastard.  
And had Tim not been there to calm the situation, I don't doubt the fight would 
have continued into a one-sided assault where I would have let loose all my 
fears and frustrations upon his childish and helpless form.

But despite this antagonism, it wasn't Jamie, but Tim who finally sealed my 
exile from the gang, and in so doing, my childhood years.

And it was the same day, I remember that.  When Jamie had sulked off early, Vic 
had some project to work on, Tim and I were left alone on the windswept 
hilltop.

We'd chatted easily enough but I could sense he was nervous.  He'd been pissed 
at Jamie and coming out with all this sudden bile about him.  It was the first 
time I realised he held such animosity for the guy, I had assumed it was just 
me who felt like that.

Then he told me how impressed he was by my lifting the anvil that time, and how 
impressed he was that I slugged Jamie earlier that day, and how I wasn't like 
other girls and how that made me special.

I should have seem it coming but I was honestly surprised when he kissed me, 
suddenly letting his lips fall against mine and pressing hard, in truth not 
knowing what he was supposed to be doing.

Whether it was curiosity or just shock, I let him kiss me for several long, and 
not entirely unpleasant seconds before pushing him off in horror and disgust.

Neither of us knew what to say after that so we both pretended it hadn't 
happened.  We talked awkwardly and then headed off home, taking different 
routes.  I never hung out with them again.

I know your first kiss is supposed to be a deep and wonderful experience but in 
my case it was a tragedy.  It had marked the disintegration of a kinship with 
my best friends.  It signalled a period of my life I was not ready to let go 
of, but it was taken from me nonetheless.

I tried to hang out with the girls after that, who were having none of it, 
saying I'd chosen my loyalties and they weren't interested anymore.  

Instead, I found my own niche, joining whatever sports event I could get into, 
discovering a new wonder in my body as I realised the changes occurring within 
me had an additional benefit I never would have suspected - strength.  The 
onslaught of adolescence sparks all sorts of hormonal and physical changes, but 
the discovery of my muscles, for me, was by far the most potent - even more so 
(initially at least) than the far more publicised onset of sexuality.

I took to physical training like a seabird that has been denied the water all 
its life.  And that was it - I never looked back.

The boys became, on the whole, faces in the crowd at school.  I mixed with 
other school athletes, finding my own selected clique where the qualification 
for entry was based entirely upon whether or not you were serious about your 
given sports.  Race, gender, appearance, intelligence, income, were all 
superseded by what you were willing to give of yourself, out there on the track 
or in the court.

I eventually gave up athletics for the more serious focus of bodybuilding.  In 
doing so, I mourned the loss of my bosom, the initial appearance of which had, 
only a few years earlier, caused me such heartache.  But with a new focus in my 
head, I resculptured my physique, finally the one in charge, finally wielding 
ultimate control over my body.

It's strange going back to your hometown, years later.  So much has changed in 
your own life and yet the landmarks, the streets, the established old folks, 
all seem to have remained the same.  

Oh, there's always the stores that have closed down and been superseded, new 
works programs, the hideous glass and aluminium structure that in no way comes 
up to matching the old and dearly loved library.  And the people have changed - 
grown older.  Births and deaths, there's more white hair and wrinkles.  

But still the sense that my own life has moved so fast over the passing years, 
in comparison to the almost incremental changes that have appeared in this 
established homeland.

And it's that familiarity I think, that lends it the sense of being so small, 
as much as the genuine scale comparison to the big city where I now live.

I was also curious as to the small town values, and how they would judge a 
woman who in essence sells her flesh for cash.

I hardly epitomise the sleazy exploitation of a hooker or stripper (that's not 
to say I disapprove of such careers, I'm nothing if not the perfect 
liberalist,) but the tanned and healthy exploitation of the sun-kissed 
California Beach Bimbo.  A fitness competitor with the white teeth and peaked 
biceps, shapely muscles and hard curves.  A belly you could batten brass upon, 
thighs that could crack open coconuts on the beach.

I justify this scandalous compliance to the media selling of the perfect image 
of womanhood in its standard brainwashing style, for two reasons.  Firstly, I 
have resisted the (very real) desire to rebuild my muscle-atrophied chest into 
something more media friendly despite the numerous benefits it would undeniably 
have to my career.  And secondly, my muscles are sufficiently developed - 
blatant and bulging enough - to stand me out amongst women on the whole (though 
admitted less than in past years, especially in CA) as somewhat freakish.  As 
such, I can convince myself that I'm helping to sell a very real and modern 
image of the new woman - one equal to her male counterparts in all senses, one 
who epitomises health and well-being and, above all, power, over both herself 
and her environment.

Admittedly, the reality of this is that I stand around in my bikini selling 
health food gimmicks and nutrient supplements.  I am in effect a semi-
pornographic icon of modern femininity, and I willingly accept all that such a 
label entails.  After all, it's no more so than your typical movie star.  And 
as they say, if it's good enough for them...

I saw Timmy when I went back to the old town.  He'd settled down, grown up into 
a tanned, outdoorsy type.  He works on a road-crew and it's given him a build 
that men I know in California spend hundreds of dollars trying to achieve.

We met in the same bar that used to refuse to serve us as kids until we finally 
reached legal age.  Fake ID doesn't count for much when you live in a place 
where everyone recognises just about everyone else, at least by sight.

I didn't recognise him at first and he joked about it, saying how a big star 
like me must find it weird coming back to the basics.

'Star?'

'Oh, I know who you are,' he insisted, giving his tone a soft tease.  'I'd 
offer you a beer but that probably doesn't fit with your fitness-fanatic 
lifestyle.'

'No,' I insisted, 'a beer would be nice.'

He knew who I was - the fitness remark confirmed it.  I was wearing a denim 
jacket and my arms and shoulders were concealed.

He returned with a Michelob Ultra and gave me a wink.  'Not so backwards after 
all, are we?'

I laughed.  We sat and chatted like no time has passed between us.  We 
remembered old times and old friends.  And those who weren't friends too, 
laughing over my decking Jamie, not once, but twice.

'Gotta admit, you affected my way of looking at women.'

I pulled a shocked expression, but couldn't help giggling.

'I'm serious.  A young impressionable boy, grows up besides a tomboy like you.  
And a real tomboy at that.  I know we didn't stay close, and I was always real 
sorry about that.  But I did kinda watch from afar.  I saw all your 
achievements, all your athletics wins.  I was seriously impressed.

'Remember when you lifted that anvil and none of the rest of us could budge the 
damn thing?'

'Yeah, I remember.'

'That had real impact upon the way I looked at women.  Throughout my life, I've 
never been interested in a girl that couldn't out-flex me.'

What to say to a comment like that?  'Well I'm glad to have had such a positive 
influence.  But I heard you was all settled down now.'

'Oh yeah, Grace.  Love of my life.  You have got to meet her, actually.  She's 
a fan of yours too.'

Grace it turned out, was here tonight too.  She was over with a group of 
people, chatting away pleasantly.

She was a tall woman, good looking in a country kind of way, broad and muscled.  
She had a fairly bulky build but carried it with a gentle poise befitting her 
name.  We shook hands and she joined us.  Despite being a little star-struck, 
she was charming and betrayed a sophistication that belied her roots.

And she really was a fan, knowing as much about my contest history as I did.  
It turned out she had similar ambitions of her own.  'I'd love to head out to 
California,' she finally admitted, as though confessing a hidden fantasy.  'You 
know actually make something of my body.  Christ, I spend enough time and money 
on it, I may as well reap whatever benefits I can.'

I think Tim was a little taken aback by her aspirations.  Not put out by them 
in any way, simply unaware of them until this moment.

And basically, that's how I first met Grace.  Kind of amusing that technically 
it was through my first love, in a manner of speaking.

Last time I saw her was when she was competing in an Iron Woman competition, 
her first major event.  I found it particularly appropriate that she became 
involved in a far more practical aspect of the fitness world than the 
aesthetics side I normally tend to associate with.

She and Tim stayed at my place in California the weekend it was on.  They're 
currently in the process of relocating.  It was a real pleasure to have them 
over and Tim greeted me with a small thank you gift.

I unwrapped the package to reveal a small but elaborately detailed wooden 
carving of an anvil shaped tree.

'Remember Vic?  He carves them in his spare time.  There's a new local tourist 
shop, all kinds of gift crap, they sell them there.'

I thanked him, genuinely and sincerely and placed it, in pride of place, on my 
mantel.


[A boy is playing on a swing beneath the "Anvil Tree", several windfall anvils 
have ripened and fallen, sticking jagged into the ground amongst the tree's 
shadow.  Many more hang ominously from the branches above.  His mother is 
standing by, annoyed.  "All right, Billy, you just go right ahead!  I've warned 
you enough times about playing under the anvil tree!"]