Far out tales 3
Martin Kane
Max Waxman; Claire; Armoured and dangerous; Laying low



11 - Max Waxman, time traveller

Max was returning to his apartment, creeping up the communal stairwell, 
hoping he didn't run into anybody.  He passed by Devi's apartment as 
silently as he could.  It wasn't that he didn't like her, in truth, she 
was one of the few people in the world that he did like, but he wasn't 
good around people and generally found it easier to avoid them than 
attempt any kind of basic social pleasantries.

She must have been lying in wait however because her door suddenly 
opened and she half stepped out of her apartment, making it impossible 
for Max to get up the next flight of stairs without pushing past her, 
which of course he wouldn't do.

'Max,' she declared with delight, as though this were such a pleasant 
coincidence.

Devi was a pretty young woman, Indian but brought up in Britain.  She 
was average in stature but had sharp, intelligent eyes, gleaming with 
both warmth and a cynical wit.

'Hi Devi,' he conceded, a little embarrassed.  'How are you?'

'I'm great.  I grabbed you some somosas.'

'Oh, thanks,' he said, taking the proffered bag of food.

'There were these guys looking for you,' she told him, suddenly far 
more serious than her normal, easygoing nature.

'Guys?'  That sounded ominous.

'Yeah.  Done up in business suits but real sleazy types.  Thuggish 
almost.  They stopped me in the stairwell, started asking me all this 
stuff about you.'

'Are you OK?'

'Huh?  Oh, I'm fine,' she assured him.  'But they were not nice people.  
Do you know who they were?  Max, what do they want with you?'

Max ignored this question.  He nodded to himself, thoughtfully.

'OK.  I better go now,' he mumbled.  He held up the paper bag.  
'Thanks.'

'Wait,' she said, stopping him.  She laughed.  'Your hair!'

She patted his wild strands down, stroking his head tenderly.

'What?' Max said, recalling a little, though out of habit rather than 
offence or displeasure.

She giggled.  'I can't believe you went outside like that.  Honestly, 
Max, you need a mother!'

'I wasn't outside,' he muttered.

She let him go and he practically fled back to his apartment.

Max liked Devi, but right now he did have other things on his mind.  
The guys looking for him were a concern too, but he was too busy to 
worry about them right now.

The somosas were still warm and he bit into one, spilling the loose 
vegetable mix.  He sat at his computer and was lost to the world from 
that point onwards, not the slightest bit distracted by neighbours, 
suited thugs, or even food, as data and schematics flew across the 
screen before him.

                                * * *

It was late into the night and Max was busy in the basement.  His 
computer stack sat on a couple of decorating tables, wires trailed 
across the floor in a way most contrary to health and safety 
regulations.

Machinery and equipment lay scattered around, assorted debris from a 
technician's lab.  But other things too: large pressurised canisters; 
hoses and pipes; crude wooden frameworks; a mile or so of steel cable.  
There was some sort of heavy duty industry equipment, the size of a 
workbench - second-hand and battered but still looking like it had a 
serious purpose; something else, akin to an old style photocopier; some 
crates; some breeze-blocks.  And in the centre of the room was a 
telephone box.  In fact, you could still see the markings on the inside 
wall where the actual phone - now removed - had once been.

Max had the generator running.  He checked its outage and adjusted the 
settings on a board, which looked something like a sound technician's 
mixing deck.

It was then that he heard a noise.  Not that the room was otherwise 
silent, the generator was chugging away merrily.  But he was sure he 
had heard something.

'Who's there?' he demanded.  He was glad that his voice sounded a lot 
more authoritative than he felt, he really didn't like confrontations.

'Max?' came the surprised voice, 'Max, is that you?'

Devi came into the basement.  All she was wearing was a long T-shirt 
that hung half-way down her thighs, evidently doubling as a nightshirt.  
Aside from that, her legs were completely bare, including her feet.  
She was brandishing a baseball bat, ready to use it on whatever 
intruders she came across.

'Jesus,' she exclaimed, 'what is this place?'

'Erm, my workshop,' Max told her, trying not to stare at her near 
nakedness.  Her breasts were not particularly voluptuous, but what she 
had was barely concealed.  The shirt didn't leave much to the 
imagination, hugging her form.  Soft cream coloured cotton contrasted 
her tan legs and arms, the low cut of the neck where he could make out 
the beginning of those two, soft mounds.

He shook himself.  'What are you doing down here?'

'I though I heard something,' she told him.

'So you came to investigate?'  He was shocked, surprising himself as 
well as her with the level of his concern.  'If you really thought 
there were intruders, why not call the police?  But to come 
investigating yourself...?'  He didn't know how to finish that sentence 
and so did not.

She shrugged.  'I can handle myself,' she told him, with careless 
confidence.  'What, you think I'm just a poor little Indian girl who 
needs a big strong man to protect her?'

The last thing he wanted was to raise her heckles, or debate sexual 
politics, but he thought she'd been stupid, and didn't have the social 
etiquette to keep his mouth shut.

'I just think it's a bad idea to go interrupting violent criminals 
dressed only in your underwear, armed only with a baseball bat.  Call 
me old-fashioned if you must.  Jesus, don't you watch horror movies?'

She laughed, relieving the tension at least.  In truth she was 
flattered by his obvious distress that she would put herself into 
potential danger.  God knew the boy let his feelings be known little 
enough.  It was nice to see that he really cared.

She moved around the workshop, taking in the bizarre machines and 
electronic detritus.

'What are you doing down here?

'Oh, you know, mad professor stuff.'

As she wandered around the room, she casually tossed the bat onto her 
shoulder, like a guardsman carelessly crooking a rifle.  This had two 
notable consequences.  The first was to hike the loose cotton 
shirtsleeve up higher on her arm.  The second was to flex her overtly 
developed upper arm, now unconcealed.

'Jesus, Devi, what's with your arms?'

Devi glanced down at her crooked arm - at the blatantly bulging peak of 
her bicep.  She kept her cool, acting as though there were nothing 
extraordinary about her physical build, as though she didn't spend 
countless hours, sweating and grinding away in the gym to achieve such 
a stunning effect.

'They're called biceps,' she said, the epitome of careless cool.  
'Don't tell me, you didn't know that girls can do that, right?'

Max didn't speak at first, too distracted by the rounded muscle.  She 
tried to read him, tried to ascertain his feelings on this new 
revelation.  After all, muscular arms weren't often on a guy's list of 
favourite female features.  (Though that's not to say she hadn't dated 
her fair share of guys whose favourite female feature was in fact just 
that.)

Max shook himself from his dumb shock, replayed her last comment and 
quickly caught up with himself.

'I just never knew you were a bodybuilder, that's all,' he told her.  
'I had no idea.'

'Well, you've never shown that much interest in what I do,' she scolded 
him.  

'I'm just busy, that's all,' he said defensively.

But she wasn't really annoyed.  Aside from his surprise, he was pretty 
cool with it.  In fact, he'd had a little trouble taking his eyes off 
her scantily clad form since she stepped in here.  If he'd been scared 
off by the sudden revelation of her muscles, he would have quit it - 
but instead, he was now even more fascinated by the sight of her.  
Though he blushed every time she caught his eyes skirting her form.  
Right about now, that was every twenty seconds or so.

'Busy?' she asked, walking around the large generator, growling away to 
itself.  'So I see.  What is all this.'

Glad to switch the subject to something he understood, Max instantly 
relaxed.

He took her to the back of the phone box, the canisters strapped 
tightly to its sides, heavy steel welded unwieldy to the back of the 
structure.

'See that?  That's a combustion chamber.  I combine three gases, 
creating a controlled explosion - only on the tiniest level you 
understand.  It's also exposed to a fourth element at the point of 
reaction, which results in an entirely new element being formed.

'It only happens for a split second, right at the moment of reaction.  
It lasts for an instant, then its subatomic structure dissipates.  
However, during that split second, it has some very curious properties.  
One of which I attempt to utilise here.'

He pointed out the miles of wires the snaked over the entire surface of 
the phone box like some bizarre brass nouveau panelling.

'By accelerating neutrino particles I can then create layered aerophyte 
waves which allow for a controlled manipulation of naturally occurring 
particle schisms.  Attaching them in a set pattern I can then create a 
field that will manoeuvre a physical object through those engineered 
ruptures.'

Devi listened to him, took in all that he said, tried to break it down 
into a simple and practical meaning.

'OK,' she said slowly, getting her head around the few bits of his 
explanation she actually understood.  'So without all the techno-babble, 
your actually talking about travelling between physical realities.  All 
that quantum mechanics theoretic shit, you can actually do?'

'I'm looking at chromodynamics,' he told here.  'It's not about 
travelling between alternate realities - I'm talking about travelling 
in time.'

'Time travel?'

'That's the idea.'

'And it works?'

'Dunno, I haven't tried it yet.'

Devi stared at the telephone box.  It was her turn to be shocked dumb.  
And she had to admit it, he'd outdone her a thousand times over.

'Time travel?'

Max grinned.  'Yeah.'

'In a phone box?'

'Don't you watch TV?'

'You're serious?

'Absolutely.'

She just stared at the machine, not knowing what to say to that.

'Fuck!'

But her surprised and awed expression was replaced by one of sudden 
concern, her sharp features, twisting into one of suspicion, her eyes, 
flicking aside as she focused instead on intent listening.

'What?'

'Shh,' she told him, motioning with her hand.

There was only one doorway into the basement workshop, the heavy wooden 
door Devi had come through.  She approached it now, bringing her 
baseball bat to bear.

The first one came storming in, a beefy guy with a balaclava over his 
head, his eyes looking wide and stupidly surprised in the wide circular 
holes.

He got the baseball bat around the head - an audible dull and hollow 
clunk that made Max wince in sympathy, despite his shock and fear.

Guy number two came in low, a tackle to her thighs that took her down 
hard.

She brought her knee up, catching his face, but the blow was stilted by 
his hold.

Max ran up to help but guy number three was already in.  He held a 
shotgun, a sawn-off job, which he brought up hard and fast, catching 
Max in the jaw.  Electric pain spiked through his skull and he went 
down.

Devi aimed her bat and slammed down, straight and hard.  The crack that 
was produced from this blow was neither hollow nor dull.

'Oye!'

Mr shotgun levelled the sawn-off at Devi.  She froze.

'Don't move!'

She didn't move.

The first guy was stirring, rubbing the side of his head, groaning.

'Fucking bitch,' he burbled, incoherently.

'You OK,' the gunman demanded.

His companion got warily up and mumbled something vaguely affirmative.

The gunman kept his gun aimed at Devi, kept his eyes fixed upon hers.  
He wasn't taking any chances with her.  She may well be a little Indian 
girl, dressed only in her bedclothes, but she'd just taken out two 
large guys, armed only with a baseball bat.

'Take this little hellion and tie her up.  That post, over there.'

The other guy nodded and walked up.  He regarded his fallen companion 
and bulked in surprise and distress at the bloody sight of him.

'Get up,' he hissed at Devi, cold and vicious.

Devi obeyed wordlessly.  He pointed her over to a column at one end of 
the basement.  She went over, stood with her back against it, placed 
her arms behind her back, around the post until they met behind it.

He pulled out a plastic tie strip - a one way clipped band.  He 
threaded it through, put her wrists together, placed the band around.  
He tightened it and checked it was secure.

'She's pretty fit,' he called to the other.  Whether this was a 
reference to her developed arms or the way her arched shoulders made 
her breasts protrude indiscreetly outwards she could not be sure.  She 
didn't care to ask, either, suddenly feeling incredibly vulnerable.

But the man did not dwell upon the fact, instead rejoining his 
colleague.  He gestured to Max who was now, sitting up, bloody and 
dazed.

'What about him?' he asked, gesturing the other post, parallel to one 
Devi was now struggling at.

'He'll be good.  He's gonna tell us how all this clever equipment 
works.  Aren't you?'

Max didn't say anything.

The gunman handed the weapon to his colleague.  'Watch him.  I wanna 
take a look at this.'

He headed over to the computer bank, checking the main monitor.  He 
typed a few commands, looking pleasantly surprised at the response.

Max winced to see his secrets violated so.  'Please don't,' he said.  A 
gun was jammed painfully into his ribs.

'Shut the fuck up.'

'I'm serious.  The whole thing's set up.  It's incredibly dangerous if 
you don't know what you're doing.'

The man at the computers looked sardonically at Max and feigned all 
innocence.

"What, me," he gestured, and pointedly hit another key.

He looked over at the board of switches, dials and lights, a full two 
seconds before it kicked into life, demonstrating at least a passing 
knowledge of the systems used.

'Oh my,' he said smugly, 'what could this be?'

He walked over to the board and began lifting slides, turning knobs.

'Don't,' Max insisted, sounding decidedly more panicked now.  'That's a 
really bad idea.'

The man ignored him.  He walked over to the large capacitor and tapped 
at a readout, as though wondering why it wasn't registering.  He went 
and checked the generator, saw the problem, smiled and flipped another 
switch.

He went back to the boards, played with the levels a little, then over 
to one of the computers, bringing up something on the screen.  He stood 
there, watching the figures, like one in a trance, mesmerised by the 
beauty on screen.

'Please,' Max insisted, 'shut it down - the set up is so volatile, 
there's a thousand things that could cause an overload.'

He was expecting another jam in the ribs but the current gunman 
appeared uncomfortable with his colleagues tinkering too.

'Maybe we should just wait for the boffins to come and play with it,' 
he suggested.  'Just in case we touch something we shouldn't.'

The other man waved him off, too fascinated by all that was before him 
- the proverbial kid in a sweetshop.

The three men were all too engrossed in what was going on with the 
equipment.  No one noticed Devi as she shrugged her way through the 
shadows to come up behind the gun bearer.

First thing he knew about it was as two arms reached up simultaneously.  
The shotgun was pulled smartly out of his grip and he was bodily spun 
about.

He had time to register that she was free - that she was on him - and 
then a surprisingly hard fist for one so delicate and pretty was 
smacked squarely into his face.

She slammed him in the belly, just for good measure, following it with 
a swift knee into the same spot, and finally a savage elbow to the back 
of his skull as he doubled over in pain.

Devi approached the last intruder.  He looked far less smug now.

'You were tied up,' he said, not comprehending.

She tossed him the strip of plastic binding.  Its slide-lock was still 
intact but the strip itself had been stretched and snapped about 
halfway down.  Which wasn't supposed to be possible.  Not for the 
average perp.

'How the fuck...?'

She answered by flexing one of her biceps, the muscle peaking to such 
an extreme that it actually stretched the wide, loose sleeve of her 
shirt.

His eyes went wide and his jaw dropped.  That wasn't the answer he was 
expecting from her.  Though it did at least make perfect sense.

Though confident in her physical superiority over the man, Devi kept 
the gun levelled at him, her eyes assuring him that she wouldn't 
hesitate to shoot if he so much as thought of trying anything.

It was then that the threatened blow-out occurred, Max's worst fears 
came to pass as a huge electronic bang distracted them all.  A side of 
plastic panelling flew off, scorched, wires black and smoking.  A 
monitor above cracked suddenly, glass fracturing as though by a 
gunshot, an electrical fire deep in the heart of the machine.  Tendrils 
of smoke began to rise from half a dozen pieces of equipment.

The final intruder took his chance, using the distraction to make good 
his escape.

Max was already running at the smoking equipment, ripping wires out as 
another burst of electrical burn burped from a charred vent.

Devi fired after the thug, more through impulse than design, but the 
shot went wide, missing him.  The man didn't slow, making it to the 
door, slamming through it and swinging it shut behind him.

Devi was right after him, getting to the door as it slammed.  But he'd 
already secured it from the other side.

'Bastard,' she screamed, thumping her fists on the heavy door.  She 
rattled it, kicked at it, swore some more.  'We're locked in.  He's 
probably getting back up.  Max, is there a phone in here, we need to 
call the police.'

Max was loosing his own cool, thumping a keyboard.

'Max!'

'It's frozen.  It's fucking useless.'

'We need help.  We need to call the police.'

He turned to her, wild panic on his face.  'I can't shut it down.'

Devi left the door, walking over to him.  'What does that mean?'

'It's charging, I can't stop the process once it's going.  The levels 
are all over the place, unless the board is completely balanced, 
completely neutral, there's no way the time event horizon can retain 
any kind of stability.  Overload is unavoidable.  Adiós mundo.'

'What?'

He just stared at her, a resigned blank shock coming over him, a faint 
trace of a smile playing across his gentle, sensuous lips.  He mimed an 
explosion with his long delicate fingers, mouthing "Boom".

'Can't you balance it?'

'The process is supposed to strictly monitored throughout, I've got a 
dozen computers monitoring and adjusting the levels.  It can't be done 
by hand - it's not possible.'

'So we get out of here.  Is there any way out other than that door?'

He just shook his head, though whether that was an answer to her 
question or just his frightened mind refusing to deal, she couldn't 
tell.

'Max.  Are there any other ways out of here?'

'No.'

'Then we go through the door.  What's in here that we can use to break 
it down?'

'Nothing.  It's steel reinforced.  We've got a minute left at most.'

Tears were in her eyes now - not despair, she refused to acknowledge 
that yet, simple anger and frustration.  But her mind was catching on
faster than her emotions.  'We're fucked.'

And he looked at her again, and a mildly crazy gleam came into his eye.

'What?'  His eyes were crazed but she was ready to try anything.

'Unless we aren't here when it blows.'

She looked at the phone-box.  'You said it hadn't been tested.'

'This is true.'

'So it could kill us.'

'This is also true.'

'What about the balance - the levels, whatever.'

'Not our problem... if at the moment of the explosion we create a 
rupture and disappear through it.'

'You're insane.'

'Probably.'

She smiled at him, his mania actually infectious.

'OK.  So what do we do?'

'Step into my office.'

'And what about Cheech and Chong?' she asked, refering to the two 
fallen intruders.

He didn't like to say to her that one was almost certainly already 
dead.  'Nothing we can do.  They won't fit.  Christ, we'll barely fit.'

So she nodded and climbed into the phone-box, the claustrophobic space, 
only glass and steel to protect her from the promised explosion.

Max went from computer to computer.  Swearing hopelessly at each one.  
There was no failsafe for this eventuality, no get-out clause.

So he turned valves, opened them up full.  He started the process, 
prepped his time-machine for its maiden voyage.

He set a countdown clock, reading as it did, the time remaining until 
overload.  It was on a figure over a thousand, but the digital numbers 
spun like liquid - literally only seconds left.  And he set his own 
controlled explosion to occur at the event of the inevitable meltdown.

Then he stepped into the box with her, closing the glass door behind 
him.

It was cramped inside, smaller than a normal phone-box thanks to his 
modifications and they had to close tight on each other to fit.  He 
felt her athletic physique press hard against him and then she was 
holding him tight, an act that had nothing to do with confined spaces.

He held her to him, regretting not taking the time to get to know this 
woman more.  Regretting all the wasted time, all the foolish decisions, 
all the time he could have made more of.  The value of time, that it 
never truly appreciated until there are literally only seconds left.

Not even that.

Devi creased up her face, screwing her eyes shut.  Max, ever the 
curious child, watched - as - the - explosion - ripped - through - the 
- air - toward - them - 

and white light was replaced

by green fields and sunlight

and Devi opened her eyes, having felt the explosion, felt the heat, 
seen its fury even through her eyelids.

But now she was staring at greenery.  Now the horizon was comprised of 
trees, of mountains.

'Where are we?' she asked.

'I have no idea.'

'Didn't you set it before we left?'

'It takes months of computer algorithms to set it.  So no, I kind of 
neglected to set it.

They were still intimately close, the terror of the past events making 
such immodesty utterly redundant.  Devi smiled wryly.  'Wasn't the 
Tardis larger than this on the inside?'

He slid the door open and they stepped into a fresh and beautiful land.

They looked at each other and each could have wept, for the simple joy 
of life, for the amazing fact that they had escaped, by the very skin 
of their teeth.

Devi threw herself back into his arms, thrust her lips against his 
mouth and stole a furious and impassioned kiss.

'Max - you're a genius.  I'll never doubt you ever again.'

'Don't say that, you don't know if I can get you home again yet.'

Despite his words, the jovial tone with which he delivered then was 
actually reassuring.

'But you can, right?' she asked.

'Oh, sure.  Certainly.  Without a doubt.'

His tone waved a little.

'But...' she prompted.

'But, it may take a while.  I need to do a few more jumps to get my 
bearings.  And preferably, under slightly better circumstances.'

'But you can do it?'

'You said it yourself - I'm a genius.  I've got a whole load of figures 
and data, but without any basis comparison it's fairly useless.  It's 
like saying you're fifteen from meridian.  Unless you know whether it's 
fifteen metres of fifteen miles, it's useless information.  I don't 
know what the units themselves represent.  And until I do, we can't 
find our way back.'

'So that's all we need to do?  A couple more jumps, you examine the 
data, then take us back?'

'Basically.'

She gestured to the phone-box.  'And that's not gonna be a problem?  We 
can jump again without all the fancy equipment inside your workshop.  
The gases, the particle accelerator.'

'Well, yes.  Technically.  I need to do a bit of work first but I can 
get it running.  There's only a limited amount of gas but that's not a 
problem because the quantities involved are so minor, the reaction 
element is only a catalyst for the rest of the process.  There's enough 
for hundreds of jumps.  The only question is the power.  The idea was 
to use solar energy, which it is rigged up for.  It's supposed to be 
portable after all.  But it is gonna take a while to charge up.'

'A while?'

'About a week.'

'We're trapped here for a week?'

                                * * *

Max was checking the data from the jump, crouched over the small screen 
built into the hardware attached to the back of the phone-box.

'I'm gonna go exploring,' Devi announced.

'I'll come with you,' Max said, firmly.

'No.  You've got work to do.'

This was true.  And Max really was loathe to leave the machine alone.  
Still he made a token protest though.

'We have no idea where we are.  In fact, we have no idea WHEN we are.'

'I can handle myself.'

This fact he couldn't dispute.

He glanced over at her - the T-shirt her only clothing.  He was wearing 
jeans.  He was a fairly slim guy.  Though shorter and smaller than him, 
they shouldn't be too excessively loose on her.

'At least take these then,' he said, slipping his jeans off.

She wolf-whistled at the sight of his legs and his cotton boxers, but 
she took the jeans gratefully.  Though she had to turn the bottom of 
the legs up a good few times, and puncture a new hole in his belt, it 
was a vast improvement on nudity.

Max got back to work.  He had a lot to do, not only the data to go 
through to make his best estimate on their next jump but to get the 
thing ready to make another trip.

                                * * *

Devi reappeared an hour or so later, with Max seriously beginning to 
worry about her.

He saw her approach.  She was dragging something large and heavy behind 
her, an animal of some kind.  A bird, he thought, something like an 
ostrich as far as he could see.

It was only when she finally got to him and threw the dead beast at his 
feet that he realised the truth and all that it implied.

It was similar to an ostrich but this creature was no scrawny bird.  It 
was lizard-like, powerful hind legs and two small stupid forepaws.

Max stared at its beak-like face - the round, reptilian eyes.

'So tell me, Max, coz it's a while since I attended natural history 
classes, but is that, or is that not, a fucking dinosaur?'

'Shit.'

'There's the big open plain down there, a whole bunch of them running 
through.  This baby practically smacked straight into me.  Just caught 
a hold and snapped his neck.'

'Well at least we ain't gonna starve.'

                                * * *

A week later.  Two human beings stand outside a phone-box in a clearing 
on prehistoric Earth.  

One of them makes last-minute checks on the hardware at the back of the 
box.

The other waits patiently.  She is a curious figure, dressed in a cape 
of animal skin - some huge wildcat.  The cape is open and a folded over 
T-shirt is bound about her breast.  It's short, doubled as it is, and 
exposes a highly muscular midriff, though she is beginning to miss her 
regular gym sessions.

She also wears a loincloth, which matches her cape.  A modern leather 
belt is about her waist, though she's given Max back his jeans.  
Suspended from it is a series of weapons.  A knife made from stone, a 
dagger that looks like a bone or a tusk, possibly also from the 
unfortunate cat.  A pouch of stones, which she has already become adept 
at throwing, already possessing tremendous power in her arm, needing 
only to hone her eye.  A wooden torch, all ready to be lit.

She leans her weight on a long spear, sharpened to a lethal point.  The 
act causes her extremely toned arm to twitch and jerk with serious 
muscular development - a fact that Max remarks upon flirtatiously as he 
stands and joins her in front of the box.

They kiss, for luck, then once again, because they enjoy it.

They step inside the box, needing to press against one another to fit.

They kiss once again as the box appears to evaporate into the very 
ether.

And Max and Devi disappeared once more through time.


[A hokey time-travel device, a professor approaching a dinosaur from 
behind, a large spear-like thermometer in hand.  "An instant later, 
both Professor Waxman and his time machine are obliterated, leaving the 
cold-blooded/warm-blooded dinosaur debate still unresolved."]

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

12 - Claire (part 1)

It wasn't the worst job he'd ever had.  Out in the summer sun, 
wandering through the park.  Meeting new people, bringing joy to little 
children.  The wages were shit, but that was true of every job he could 
find himself.  On the whole, what mattered was that he was happy, and, 
for the most part he was.

James sold another balloon, holding the bunch of them down low so the 
little girl could pick which one she wanted.  She plumped straight away 
for Winnie the Pooh, the populist choice.

She said thank you in a soft childish giggle and the pretty young 
mother paid.

James continued his slow walk around the park, plying his ware, 
wheeling the gas canister behind him.

He got best business in the areas where the families congregated.  The 
duck pond, the ice-cream parlour, the playpark.

He could do with an ice-cream himself actually, it was hot today.

The downside of the heat was that it also brought out all the nutters.  
He saw a street walker, long raincoat tied up tight around his belly 
despite the heat.  He had a plastic carrier bag of newspapers which he 
was collecting from the various litter-bins.

James watched as the man made his shuffling way along, mumbling a 
steady internal monologue to himself.

A young couple approached along the path.  They recognised immediately 
what he was and hunched aside, detouring over the grass to avoid 
walking near this man, as though his wretchedness were contagious.  In 
his turn the man ignored them, knowing his place in society, or rather 
outside of it.  He knew not to make waves, to remain unseen.  For to be 
untouchable meant at least that you remained untouched.

But there was always something that could interrupt the status quo.

When he saw James his expression was equivocal.  Was that shock?  Was 
it panic, or fear, or anger?  Whatever the man felt, it sparked off a 
tirade of emotions, and he had long ago forgotten the necessary social 
niceties of interpersonal relationships.

'Hooooooo,' he called as he matched right up to James, a determined 
look of blank... something on his face.  In truth, James couldn't 
relate to the man - could not empathise enough - to understand just 
what it was that expression meant.

'Still know.  Har.  And all coz they don't do it no more.  Just like we 
ought to.  I didn't.  You never?'

Most of it was garbled, lost in a semi-drunken slur.  What James could 
make out was insensible anyway.

'Why?  You know?  Do you know?'

Still hunched, he peered up at James with angry eyes, demanding an 
answer from him.

'What?' James replied.  What other response could he make?

He glanced around him, looking for help, not knowing what to say to 
this strange and troubled man.  No one met his glance of course, it was 
not their problem.  They watched from a safe distance however, curious 
to see how this would play out.

'I'm sorry, I can't help you,' James told him, trying to back away.

The man was not to be placated however.

'Yer bugger,' he hissed, angrier now.  'Hmm?  Any who don't?  Any who 
do?

His rescuer appeared in the form of a woman.  She strode meaningfully 
up to him, took the man's arm and half turned him to face her.

'What's the problem?' Her tone was gentle but had a quiet note of 
authority to it.

'Ain't got nuffinck,' he insisted.

'What do you want with this nice young man?'

James felt mildly condescended to, especially given that she surely 
wasn't any older than he was.  But he was more than willing to accept 
it, under the circumstances.

The homeless man shuffled, embarrassed, instantly reprimanded by this 
sweet young woman.

'I know you don't mean any harm now, do you.  You're not causing trouble 
are you?'

He mumbled something.

She smiled sweetly at him.  'That's good,' she assured him gently.

And the man turned about and began to shuffle off again.

James watched him go, surprised and more than a little relieved.

He turned know to his rescuer.

She was of average height, a light and loose T-shirt, bright colours 
in keeping with the summer sun.  A summer skirt.  Blonde hair, light 
and loose, though, he was happy to add, she'd already proven herself 
anything but the typical blonde bimbo.

James was stunned by her fresh and easy beauty.  He wanted to say 
something, didn't want her to turn and bounce off, leaving him still 
stuttering, not having taken this opportunity.

'Are you OK?' she asked, real showing concern.

'Oh, yeah, fine, thanks.  Thanks for bailing me out, that was amazing 
how you handled him.'

'No problem.'

'I should thank you.  Let me buy you a drink.  Or an ice-cream.  I 
happen to know a place near by that does excellent Italian ice-cream.'

She glanced over his shoulder to the ice-cream parlour less than fifty 
feet from them.  She laughed.  'Sure, why not.'

It was only then that his natural attraction towards her took a sudden, 
lurching, bolster, sending his desire into critical heat.  She put her 
shades back on, the motion both crooking her arm at the elbow, and 
letting the loose sleeve drop down to her shoulder.  The combination 
flashed a biceps muscle that would put most men to shame.

His breath caught in his throat but he managed not to show his shock or 
delight.  He kept his head and they went to get ice-cream.

They sat outside.  James tied his balloons to the back of his chair.

'Careful you don't go floating up into the air.'

He smiled.  'What would you do if I did?'

'Well I normally try to limit myself to one rescue a day, I guess I 
might make an exception if I'm in a good mood.'

She sat opposite him, elbows resting easily on the plastic table.  The 
T-shirt was loose, sleeves billowing, covering her upper-arms 
completely.  Much to his chagrin.

'I'm Claire,' she told him.  

'Hello Claire, I'm James.'

'Good to meet you.'

They shook.

'So are you in the habit of going around saving people?'

She grinned.  'Oh yeah, I'm a regular wonder woman.'

When she said this he has a flash memory of her bicep flexing and he 
felt his loins ache.

'You know,' she mused, 'some men wouldn't have appreciated being saved 
by a woman.'

'I don't mind so much,' he assured her.

'That's good to know.'

She gave him a sly smile.

'But seriously, most people wouldn't have bothered.  Other than watch 
from a safe distance in case anything interesting happened.'

'People are assholes,' she offered.  It was with a resigned sigh, as 
though that was the nature of things and to rile against it was a 
pointless waste of energy.

'But what if he'd got nastier?'

'Unlikely,' she said, confident of the fact.  'If he was aggressive it 
was just because he was upset.  Besides, I can handle myself OK.  I'm 
actually stronger than I look.'

'Really?  Because you do actually look pretty strong.'

She raised her eyebrows at this, but didn't peruse it.

'I'm a nurse, I guess it's just second nature for me to step up when I 
see something like that going on.  Plus, I'm so used to dealing with 
people like him that it's really no chore.'

'A nurse?  I should have guessed.'

'Yeah?  Why's that?'

James shrugged.  'Your cool efficiency.  The fact that you're so level 
headed in a crisis.  The confident but gentle way you dealt with him.'

She accepted this with an easy smile.

'So, you enjoy it?'

'Gruelling hours, shit wages, surrounded constantly by sickness.  Oh, 
what's not to love?'

He laughed.

'What about you?' she asked.  'What's it like to be a balloon seller?

'Days like this its great.  Out in the open air, the summer sun.  Who 
wants to be cooped up inside when the weather's so gorgeous?'

'Oh yeah, coz hot weather's so wonderful.  Skin cancer?  Sun stroke?  
Heat exhaustion?  You should see some of the cases I have, people 
wheeled in with the skin looking practically flayed just because they 
like the sun so much.'

He laughed.  'OK, I guess you can have too much of a good thing.'

'It's just the healthy glow of a good tan is supposed to be such a 
great thing, media bullshit.  In reality it's fucking up your flesh.  
People never use enough protection.  You sit too long in the heat and 
it screws up you head.  I get headaches like that, if I'm in direct 
sunlight.'

'All true,' he conceded.   'But people like the sun.  That ain't about 
to change.'

'I look out across as I walk through this park and see all the gorgeous 
young women, with their perfect little bodies.  I think about the 
damage their doing to themselves and think to myself, "fry you dumb 
bints, fry."'

'You know you've got kind of a dark side.'

'I've been told that.'  She mused on the fact a few moments before 
admitting, 'It probably puts a lot of people off me.'

'Really.  I wouldn't have thought that.'

'No?'

'It's kind of appealing.'

That curious smile again.  Sly, subtle, almost inward looking.

'So where are we?'  She said, her tone completely equivocal.

'Where are we where?'

'You've been rescued by a woman.  Something you admit to being 
completely happy with.  I'm a strong woman, something you're also 
completely happy with.  I'm not you're typical bimbo, despite the 
hair.'

'So where are we then?  He asked.  He had to admit, it looked pretty 
good from his angle.

'And then there's the other thing,' she said.

'What other thing?'

She answered him by flexing her biceps in front of her chest, a strong 
and confident pose.  It sent James' pulse into overdrive, despite the 
fact that it was completely concealed by the billowing sleeve.  If he 
hadn't known better, she could have nothing more spectacular under 
there than a malnourished, atrophied limb, as skinny as bone.

Claire watched his reaction to her pose with some amusement.

'You keep glancing at my arms,' she told him.  'Even though you can't 
see a thing because of this shirt.  You want to know what's happening 
under here, don't you.'

'More than you know.'

'You're one of those guys that gets off on muscley chicks, aren't you.'

'I'm afraid so.'

She half laughed, shaking her head as though in wonder.

'Sorry, am I missing a private joke here?'

'Don't be sorry,' she told him.  'And yes, you're missing a private 
joke.  I should be sorry, not you.'

'Why?  What is it?'

But she was already standing up.  James felt his heart lurch again, 
this time in horror.  'Wait, what's wrong?'

'Nothing's wrong.  I'm sorry James, you're a really sweet guy.  I'm 
glad I was able to help you.'

James stood to go after her.  Never mind the balloons and the canister.  
But she stopped him.

'Please don't.  I'm leaving now.  Alone.  I'm sorry.  Have a good 
life.'

And she left.

This time James just stood and watched her go.  She didn't look back.

Mournfully he sat down again.

Why?  What had gone wrong?  What had he done wrong?

He had suddenly leant to believe in love at first sight, and then had 
that love snatched cruelly away again.

He poked around at the ice-cream in the small paper pot, suddenly not 
the slightest bit hungry.  In fact, if anything, he felt sick.  He felt 
the heat of the sun as hard and vicious, felt it eat into his flesh - 
do its sinful damage.  Fry you fucker, fry.

The energy that normally filled his limbs had departed, leaving him 
spent and empty.  He knew he was done with work for the day but the walk 
back to his car in the carpark just seemed too much to endure.

So he sat and stared and wished he had the last half-hour of his life 
to play over again, in the hope that this time he'd get it right.

He saw the nutter, shuffling about, sifting through his bag of 
newspapers.  That tragic figure, robbed of everything.  His home, his 
sanity, his dignity, his comforts, his reason.  What sort of hand to 
mouth existence did he have?  And how could you even pretend to call it 
living?

Then he saw the thugs, three of them, and knew they'd be trouble.  The 
homeless man saw them too, and knew it too.  And they were both right.

The lead thug was probably twentyish, leather jacket, despite the heat.  
He said something.  The man shook his head.  Even from a distance it 
was clear he was frightened.  The other two thugs stood to either side.

The only people in the area departed quickly, not wanting any trouble.  
Fewer rubbernecks this time too.  Probably scared of being drawn in.

James knew there was nothing he could do and desperately wanted to bury 
his head in his hands and ignore it.  But also knew he shouldn't.  Just 
as everyone else knew that they shouldn't ignore it.  They should do 
something to help.  But they wouldn't.

James stood and walked over to the thugs.

'Fuck you want?' the first youth demanded.

'Nothing at all,' James told him, trying to put a calm in his tone that 
he did not feel.  'Just checking this gentleman's OK.'

'What do you care?'

'I'm just a caring kinda guy.'

'Fuck off.'

'Leave him alone.'

'Fuck off.  Now.'  He punctuated himself with the click of a flick-
knife.  Showing that he meant business.

Inside, James began to quiver.  Jesus, what the fuck was he doing.  
Where was a bodybuilding nurse when you really needed one?

Right behind him as it happened.  She stepped forward, grabbed the 
knife-bearer by the wrist and twisted, forcing the thug to his knees, 
his arm straight out above him.

James could almost hear the bones creak, and he finally relinquished 
the blade.

Then the other two leapt forward.

James tried to face one down but got socked in the jaw for his trouble.  
He went down, dazed.  He saw the other get kicked in the belly by 
Claire, her body moving with fluid power.  She smashed her knee into 
the man she was holding and then turned to the one who'd hit James.

The thug was setting to with James, laying kicks into his vulnerable 
body.  A powerful arm swept around his throat and a fist slammed into 
his side once, twice, three times.

She released him and the man practically slithered to the ground.

All three were conscious but grounded.  A smashed face, a busted gut 
and God knew what damage she'd done with those kidney blows.

She held an arm to James, who gratefully accepted it.  He felt little 
surprise at the ease with which she pulled him up, her strength was no 
longer in question.

'Thanks,' he said.

She was breathing heavily and when she spoke her voice was slow and 
pervasive.  'What do you think of my dark side now?' and the tone in 
which she asked this question was dark indeed.

'I think I'm in love with it,' he told her, but the quip was buried by 
something else he was feeling - something far more primal.

They looked at the homeless man, sitting in a quivering pile.  He 
mumbled something to himself, gathered up his newspapers and shuffled 
quickly away without looking back at them.

'You've got a car?' she asked him.

'Yeah.'

'Drive me home?'

'Sure.'

They didn't say much, on the journey, basic directions.  Their longest 
exchange was James telling her he was grateful.  And that he was truly 
glad she had such muscles.

'Muscles make you physically strong,' she said.  'They don't make you 
naturally disposed to beating the shit out of people.'

'True, but if you are naturally disposed to beating the shit out of 
people, muscles make it easier to do so.'

That at least got a smile out of her.

They went inside.  It was a small flatshare, but her flatmates were 
out.

Once the front door was slammed shut, and their privacy assured, she 
finally ripped the shirt off, tossing it aside, revealing to him the 
physique she hid beneath it.

Muscles.  A belly flat and rippling.  The tight waist branching outward 
like a triangle as her torso flared, broad and thick.  Breasts, all but 
subdued by her musculature, small and flat, sitting on a hugely 
inflated chest.  Shoulders round and smooth, larger than he'd even 
imagined.  Arms, the subliminal flex he'd earlier witnessed doing 
nothing to justify their actual size and density.

Her modesty was kept intact by a sports bra, which she unhooked now and 
tossed.  Her breasts tiny but perfect, nipples angry and intent.

James stood and stared, breathless with excitement, unable to believe 
this was happening to him.

The met and they kissed.  Their arms around each other, their bodies 
pressed together.  Her chest was naked, his still shirted.  And she 
rectified this imbalance by ripping the shirt away from his flesh, 
simply tearing it to shreds in her powerful hands.

And then they were kissing again, deeply, hungrily, needfully.  His 
hands were all over her, trying to encompass such a body, take it all 
in.

She dropped the skirt, opening her muscled thighs to press herself 
desperately against him.  Then she was fumbling with his trousers, her 
fevered hands all but useless in the urgent haste.

Patience not being observed here she ripped his trousers off too, then 
ripped off his underwear, tearing the clothing apart rather than pulling
it off.

She took his erection, pressed it against her dampened panties, 
delighting at its touch - its motion.

Then he was in her arms - her hugely muscled arms - as she lifted him, 
the obvious intent of carrying him to the bedroom, his hands and mouth 
active over her body all the way.

They made it about halfway there, collapsing in a tangled and clumsy 
heap of writhing and electric flesh - simply unable to part from one 
another.  So they lay where they fell, rolling and wriggling against 
each other, tumbling together on the carpet.

Her hands were strong and rough - his simply trying to sample as much 
of her mammoth physique as they possibly could, running everywhere.

Until she exerted her superiority over him, pushing him over onto his 
back and holding him still a moment.  She wrapped one thigh across him 
to sit astride his body.  Effortlessly she held back his ever-hungry 
hands, tightening her grip about his wrists.

Then she transferred one pinned wrist to join its companion in one 
hand, leaving her other free to rip her own underwear off of her body.

Naked and desperate, wanton and wild.

'Fuck me,' she commanded, and she released him, letting him do just 
that.

And that was the word for it.  Fucking.  Violent and abandoned.  A 
primal, animalistic act of unrestrained and ungoverned carnality.  
Uninhibited and debauched.

                                * * *

James was surprised that she was as exhausted as he was.  But then, she 
hadn't exactly held back, as his bruises well attested.

Breathless she stared up at the ceiling.  'Thank you.  You can go now.'

'What?'  He didn't know what to say to that.

'I'm sorry.  But I'm tired I need to sleep.  Please, I just want to be 
alone.'

And so he got up off the bed and walked out.

He went back into the living room and retrieved his clothes from the 
various corners of the living room, actually shocked to see how badly 
torn they were.  His shirt was barely more than a collection of 
shredded rags, his trousers had hardly fared better.

He put them on as best he was able and left, glad that his car was 
just parked outside.

He hesitated by the door, uncertain what he should do.


Finally he left.


[A street vendor selling helium balloons.  But lurking in the shadows, 
complete with twigs and leaves on his head as camouflage, a piece of 
wood with a nail through it as a weapon, a stranger waits. "The balloon 
was his enemy."]

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

13 - Claire (part 2)

'In school they used to tell me I think too much.  They used to say it 
as an insult or a criticism.  And really honestly think of it as a 
criticism.  I didn't follow the status quo, I didn't blindly accept 
everything I was told as gospel.  I'd rile at what I saw as mindless 
fashion fads, media bullshit, the hideous liberties taken with the 
teenage generation, and they'd all think I was weird.  They didn't see 
it as I did, which was that I refused to conform like the rest of the 
cattle.  They told me I had no style because I didn't blow my allowance 
on the overpriced junk they took for granted.  When I criticised 
something, I was told I didn't understand it, while they lapped up 
media propaganda with a silver spoon.

'I got a minor spattering of admiration, a marginal allowance of 
respect because I had a habit of arguing with certain teachers.  I 
didn't believe in holding my tongue when something was said I didn't 
agree with.  Naturally most of the teachers invited open discussion, 
made intelligently and articulately.  However, there were some that 
didn't.'

'You think too much.' James repeated.  'Yeah, a strange criticism.  I 
think it would have been more accurate for the accusation to be: "You 
think more than I do."'

Claire smiled at that.  She rolled over in bed, propped herself up on 
one arm.

James poked playfully at the resultant bicep, huge and hard.  'Ooo, 
look at that.'

'After what we've just done, you're still after cheap thrills.'

'They're the best kind.  Besides, I'm making up for lost time, you did 
insist on playing hard to get.'

'Hard to get?  How long did it take us to get into bed?  Half an hour?  
One hour tops.  How is that hard to get?'

He poked her again, his finger bouncing ineffectually off of her 
muscled flesh.  'You know what I mean.  Refusing to even see me.'

'I didn't think we could have a relationship after that.'

'You're crazy, you know that?'

'Nobody's perfect.'

'So you were just using me, is that it?  Using me for my body.  Gosh, I 
feel so cheap.'

She laughed, but it was just to cut the tension she really felt.  'Part 
of you was aroused by me beating those guys.  It wasn't like in a safe 
fantasy environment but the reality of violence, there right in front 
of you.  Despite the blood and fear and pain and damage.  You still got 
off on it.  This is a fucked up world.  And we are all part of it.

'And so how do we deal with it?  We deal with it by not thinking about 
it, ever heard the phrase, "Love makes the world go round but apathy 
allows you to live in it"?

'Everyone is complicit in this conspiracy.  We all play our role within 
the machine.  "You think too much."  A criticism - an accusation - 
delivered with a woeful lack of irony.  As though my questioning of 
these things around me were a fault, as though my doubt and cynicism at 
society, at the things I am told, were a shortfall or flaw in my 
personality.

'And yet, here I am.  I'm no better.  I'm no smarter, or purer.  I sit 
and drink.  I live my life like the white mice in the lab, the doped 
college class.  I run the rat race in the commuter maze, I eat the 
cheese and power the wheel.  I drink, I close my eyes, I watch TV, I 
read the tabloids, I attend sporting events, I play the lottery, I buy 
Stuff.  I go to church, I eat junk food, I pay my taxes, I listen to 
tuneless pop pap.  Government approved Rock and Roll, can you think of 
anything more hideous?  I watch dumb-fuck blockbuster movies, I read my 
horoscope.  I do not "Think Too Much".'

'You don't do half of those things,' he told her.

'I might as well do.'

'You refuse to read Newspapers on moral grounds.  You hate television, 
which I think is a shame, because there are actually some good things 
on, if you wade through the shit.  I think you miss a lot of stuff 
you'd really enjoy.'

She rolled her eyes.  'Oh yeah, television's great.  Channel hop, and 
what's on?  A fly-on the wall documentary re-edited into soap opera, 
the comings and goings of a busy boutique in Manchester, narrated by 
TVs own Jamie Theakston.  A make-over show, members of the public are 
unknowingly spied upon while dodgy cockney builders wreck their homes, 
in secret refitting the interiors with tastefully eclectic pastels.  A 
gardening celebrity cookery show, where Ainsley Harriet judges recipes 
made up in four and a half minutes, using only ingredients taken from 
the Blue Peter garden.  An American sit-com featuring the complications 
of a gay man and his pretence at being betrothed to his best friend's 
girlfriend in order to inherit from his old fashioned, narrow-minded, 
stuck-up lush of a mother, while helping to bring up a cuddly, black, 
wise-cracking Brooklyn daughter of his best friend's widowed, lesbian 
sister.  A late-night one-off special feature documentary proclaiming 
itself "the real Sex and the City" finding out how "Real" women compare 
to those we know and love from the long running favourite.  The 100 
greatest celebrity cameo roles in the movies.  Queer Eye for the 
straight thigh, where bitchy camp stereotypes comment on the fashion 
and image of minor celebrities, over footage taken from premiers, 
fashion shows, charity events and supermodel restaurant openings.  A 
dark, brooding, violent, oh so fucking deep and sinister serial killer 
detective drama where the hero goes undercover in a boy band to track 
the killer down.  The big football match.  On three channels.  At the 
same time.  Identical goings on shot from three slightly different 
angles by three different camera teams with three different 
commentaries and three different has-beens chatting about it at 
halftime.  A compilation show of the best "coming soon" TV program 
trailers, as voted by you, the viewers.  I'm a celebrity chef, big 
brother, prisoner, blind date, survivor, pop idol, get me revisited.'

He was giggling when she finished, a little breathless.  He conceded 
the point.  But she was in the mood to argue now, especially on her pet 
hates.

'Have you ever just sat and listened to the conversations of complete 
strangers?  Overheard conversation and animated chatter reveals the 
most addled and pointless thoughts.  The populace regurgitating the 
condensed crap spoon-fed them by the tabloids.  On the few, hideous 
occasions when the babble moves away from gossip and soap operas, to 
delve instead into current affairs, you can actually recognise the 
arguments from the headlines blazoned across the news-stands.

'Even our adverts sell an image of individuality and rebellion, 
inducing conformity within the collective unconscious of that ideal.  
We conform to individuality and independence.  If it wasn't so hideous 
it would be funny.
 
'We are a civilisation doped on TV and the National Lottery and the 
Christmas No 1.  Big Brother is watching you?  No.  The future is far 
more insidious than any prophet could have envisioned: Big Brother is 
watching you watch Big Brother - a self-replicating, self-reinforcing 
cycle of mental castration and emotional sterility.  Society is not 
going to hell.  Society IS hell.

'In truth, there is no grand master, no overseer, but merely a series 
of corporate committees, each passing the buck.  There is no 
conspiracy; nobody is in charge.  It's a business strategy labouring 
under the illusion of a masterplan.  If there is a purpose to it all 
then it got lost or mis-communicated in a reshuffle.  

'We are ruled by marketing demographics.  Corporations run the world - 
our worship and obedience is in consumerism and conformity.  Big 
Brother is NOT watching you.'

They were both silent.  In truth, James didn't quite know what to say 
to that.  It was cut with humour, the dry and cynical wit he was slowly 
getting used to, but obvious that she fully believed what she was 
saying.  And he had to admit, she had a point.

Claire laughed.  'OK, now you think I'm crazy.  I'm more patient than 
nurse, been spending a little too long in the asylum.

James smiled sweetly.  'No,' he told her gently.  'You're not mad - you're 
unhappy.  Which is hardly strange or unusual in this society.  There's 
a psychiatric wing in your hospital; tell me, of all the various forms 
of social and mental disorders, which is the most common?'

It was a rhetorical question but she answered it for him, acknowledging 
the point he was making by doing so.

'Depression.'

'You're right about this being a fucked up world, but it can be good 
too.  You shouldn't spend your lifetime searching for big answers to 
life the universe and everything, because there isn't one.  At least, 
not one that we mere mortals will ever get our heads around.  


'We should make the most of what we do have, take pleasure where we 
find it, enjoy what little joy is offered us.  I honestly believe that 
where we find happiness is in the smallest places.  A chocolate-chip 
cookie.  A dirty-joke shared.  An evening spent with friends.'

She flexed a biceps pose for him to fondle, as she knew he loved to.

'Happiness is cheap thrills?' she suggested, as his fingers embraced 
the huge hardness.

She reached down beneath the covers, seeking out his throbbing member.  
She took a tight hold of it.  Not to jerk him off, but just to hold it, 
to hold him, so real, and alive and vital.

'What we spent most of the evening doing has to count pretty high too,' 
she said.

'Oh yeah,' he agreed.  One hand remained clutching about that wondrous 
peak, while he shifted a shoulder to let his other hand snake down her 
body and press against the velvet cleft between her thighs.

They kissed, slowly and tenderly.  Claire began to pump the bicep in 
his hand, letting the gigantic peak swell and fall beneath his fingers, 
harden and soften to his touch, as though it were breathing within his 
grip.

And as she did so, they both began to manipulate the other, losing 
themselves in the act of mutual masturbation.

They spent time exploring each other.  James was intent at becoming as 
adept at provoking her body into orgasm as she already was with his.  
And she was more than willing to help him learn, guiding him around her 
every crease and crevice, 

                                * * *

'I have one question.  What do you see in me?'

'Hmm?' she asked, lazy and sated - the cat that got the cream.

'You're this amazing woman.  You have a body that I couldn't ever come 
close to equalling.  What would someone as beautiful and accomplished 
as you see in a guy like me?'

'Do you honestly think that I of all people only see as far as the 
flesh?'

'No, but I'm hardly the sharpest mind either.  I mean, you rail against 
the dumb populace, but I'm a part of that mass.  I don't spend hours 
brooding over the plight of society or what's wrong with human nature 
at its root.  I'm not consumed with existential angst.  I'm one of the 
dumb doped lab-rats, mindlessly living my simple and admittedly 
pointless little life.'

'Don't put yourself down,' she said.  'You're smarter than you pretend 
to be.'

'I wish that were true.'

She smiled slyly at him.  'And you're smarter than most of the world in 
one very important respect,' she told him.

'What's that.'

'You truly and honestly appreciate the beauty that is female 
bodybuilding.  You've no idea how important that is.  Most men look at 
me as though I'm ugly or deformed.  Where as you... well I think we 
both know what happens when you look at me.'

'You say that, and yet you walked away, when we first met, for that 
very reason.  You were put off completely by that one fact.'

She was awake now.

'Yeah,' she admitted.  'I'd had a string of boyfriends who looked at me 
and saw me as nothing more than a horny hardbody, some muscle pin-up 
for their fantasies.  They didn't want a strong woman anywhere except 
in the bedroom.  Who I was, the fact that I was strong irrespective of 
my physique caused them a problem.'

She rolled over, touched his face.

'Where as you, you looked beyond that, saw who I was beneath all the 
sweat and muscle and desired what was within as much as that without.  
You really do appreciate a strong woman.  Irrespective of what type of 
body she has.'

And then they kissed.  Sweet this time - slow and soulful.


[A herd of cows all shuffling tightly against once another, penned 
together in a huge yard.  All wear the same dumb, placid, happy cattle 
expression.  Except one, which has a hugely inflated head, which is 
looking around, appearing particularly concerned.  "Only Claire, with 
her oversized brain, wore an expression of concern."]

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

14 - Armoured and dangerous

Henry didn't like mingling.  So, instead, he wandered the large room, 
regarding the huge oil paintings, antique drapes and the suit of 
armour.  The armour he liked especially, shiny and sharp.  He imagined 
what it would have been like, in days gone past, to get up in the huge 
heavy gear and just romp around, beating the shit out of people.

A business associate - deadly rival in actual fact - approached him.  
He was sipping delicately at a glass of Champaign and looking far more 
comfortable here than Henry did.  Henry missed very much the heavy 
reassuring bulk of his Glock thirty-four 9mm, that would normally be 
nestled in his armpit.  All firearms had been checked in at the door 
however.

Of course, that meant the smarmster now approaching was also unarmed, 
but he had with him his chief adviser, and it was known the skinny geek 
in question doubled as a private bodyguard.  Henry had rarely bothered 
with bodyguards, but then, he always had a piece in his hand, and never 
took chances.

They passed a few minutes with small talk, business courtesy as much as 
feeling out the other's mettle, as these situations inevitably 
necessitated.  The two men departed again, the asshole parting with a 
sneer, his scrawny lackey-thug following.  And Henry was glad - he 
didn't like mingling.

He looked around the room, the eighty or so guests.  Almost all were 
men.  Of the few very few women that actually were there, he made two 
as bodyguards.  Highly muscled calves betraying a profession suited to 
the physical.  It amused him, this small nod towards the changing 
society in a world that was, for the most part, still strictly a male 
preserve.

Though he personally would never hire a broad to do dirty work.  In his 
opinion there was something wrong in that, something that ran against 
all he knew and understood about life in general.  He thought of it as 
his parents bringing him up right - he was brought up to respect women, 
the little darlings.

The dinner itself was a formal affair, a sit-down meal of the highest 
quality, the drink flowing freely.  Don Molin himself was in 
attendance, hence the precautionary security.  This would probably be 
his last public outing before he moved into full retirement.  Speeches 
were made, tributes given.  Even with the tense atmosphere of distrust 
between so many conflicting businessmen, it was a pleasant and 
important evening.

After the meal, the coffee, the cognac, the cigars, there was more 
mingling.  Henry hated mingling.

He wandered around the circumference again, enjoying the art.  He came 
to the suit of armour, a large and sturdy piece of kit.  Christ, what 
would it be like to go into battle with that shit on?  It must weight a 
ton.  The olde knights must have had muscles like a weightlifter if 
they went around kitted up all the time.

The armour itself was poised ready for battle.  Right arm out to the 
side, brandishing a huge broadsword, the left lifting a battleaxe, 
resting its huge weight on one mighty metal shoulder.

So much for the weapon check.  Here was a heavily armoured individual.  
But the idea of an assassin hiding in the armour was just too hokey.  
Besides to stand still the entire length of the meal was a feat of 
endurance too great to imagine.

Still, once the idea had occurred to him, he couldn't help but to peer 
more closely at the shadow of the slotted eyepiece.

The armour gave the tiniest of creaks.  Henry had time to register "oh 
fuck" but not actually utter the words before the suit of armour moved 
for real, sweeping that huge axe downwards, the momentum behind it so 
heavy that it split the man in two, from his shoulder down through to 
the opposite hip.

Blood and chaos spilt forth.

In truth, Julie was relieved the man had investigated further, deducing 
her hiding place.  It meant she could finally move.  Had she not been 
discovered, she'd have waited until midnight, as per her brief.  Though 
the instructions had specified that should her presence be discovered 
prior to the assigned hour, then let all hell break loose.

Her muscles were aching, as you would expect from nearly eighteen hours 
of non-usage.  The simple joy now, of not having to hold her body stock 
still, gave her a sensation of release almost akin to sexual.  And to 
combine that with the thrill of adrenaline and the pleasure of 
unleashing her muscular fury, her body was thrumming with physical joy.

The first man had his curiosity rewarded by her axe cleaving his torso.  
She saw his shocked expression as that half of his chest flapped away.  
She withdrew the axe and scoped the room by twisting her head around, 
the tiny slit covering precious little.

Despite the room being filled with hard men, there were screams to 
match Henry's as the axe fell right through him.  Despite a profession 
of violence and threat, despite the constant anticipation of attack, 
they were shocked, routed to the spot as this animated antiquated 
museum-piece erupted into violence.

There were two suits standing stepping distance from the armour, Donnie 
and Samuel Michaels, both men frozen as inanimate as the armour itself 
had been all evening.

Julie swung the huge broadsword in a wide arc, loving the power it 
seemed to exhale as it swished through the air.  She took off both the 
Michaels brothers' heads in one momentous stroke, the broad blade 
barely slowing as it passed through ligament and bone.

These truly were weapons of choice only for the excessively muscular.  
Doubtless there were men here present who would have genuine 
difficulties even lifting either the axe of sword, and here she was 
wielding both as though they were no more than paper facsimiles.

And then she was moving, a thumping clanging stomp as she heaved the 
weighty armour off the shallow pedestal and into the chaos and panic.

Fear swept through the room like wildfire as blood sprayed and men 
became aware of their own mortality.  Three gruesome and unequivocal 
deaths had occurred before most folks realised there was anything 
amiss.  Now, the requisite second's reaction time having passed, all 
hell broke loose.

Though unarmed, old man John Dawson's private bodyguard - a heavy built 
man with arms like great girders - stepped aside from his boss, coming 
between the man and the surprising assailant.

She matched him for size and power, but her fist was iron clad, and his 
wasn't.  When she punched him in the face the effect was devastating.  
She threw her full strength into the blow, powerful enough, she knew 
from experience, to kill the average man were he not prepared, and 
struck with the full force of her devastating might.  Given the 
additional advantage of a brass-knuckle glove, her assailant didn't 
stand a chance.

Stumbling backwards, seeing the defensive wall of his hired thug so 
effectively demolished, John Dawson fell, crumpling onto the ground 
mere feet before the encroaching menace.

He tried to back away, his feeble and shock-addled limbs pulling him 
backwards along the ground while the monstrous iron statue stomped ever 
forward.

In truth, Julie didn't even see the old man, and certainly wasn't 
overly concerned by him.  The slits she had for eyeholes were tiny and 
gave her minimal coverage.  She only realised the age-old gangster was 
at her feet because she nearly tripped over the fucker.

She moved the head down, a comical motion of leaning joints and 
creaking metal.  Took in the sight of him, frail and decrepit at her 
feet.  Terror of a dozen territories in his time.  He'd personally 
killed untold number of men, been responsible indirectly for countless 
more.  And here he was now, cowering and helpless at the feet of an 
armour-clad assassin, who was herself utterly indifferent to him.  The 
punchline in a surrealist joke.

She righted and continued her path, stomping down heavily, powerful 
thigh muscles bringing the iron hoof upon his chest, devastating it, 
crushing bone and organ alike with a sick and liquid squishing sound.

By this time the panicked mass had only one desire - to get the fuck 
outta dodge.  Many had fled past her as she was distracted by the first 
hapless few.  The only way out of the room was the giant doorway at the 
far end, and those who could make it had already done so.  Others had 
taken the chance on her limited visibility and ran.  Or simply ran 
anyway, panic driving them.

There was one man however, who would not get past her.  He was 
currently located at the other end, where the head of the table had 
been.  Don Molin was the target here, as feared, and the only way he 
was leaving this room tonight was in the purely metaphysical sense.

His two guards were up and active, handguns out and firing.  Two shots 
went wild, one clinked off of her armour, bucking her a little.  But it 
didn't screw her aim as she swung the huge axe around behind one huge 
shoulder and heaved it overhand with her brawny arm.  

She swung her body down and forward to assist in her throw, powering 
the great axe through the air.  It spun impressively as it flew, 
carrying weight enough to knock a man senseless even if the double 
blade failed to lead the blow.  But lead it did, running the first 
bodyguard through and barely slowing as it did so, continuing its spin 
to embed itself in the wall behind him.  

The sight of it, shuddering a twanging note, half-buried in the 
brickwork, was shockingly vivid as viewed by those standing in front of 
the guard, witnessing it via the huge and jagged hole that had suddenly 
appeared where his entire chest had been, just moments before.

Julie sheaved her broadsword by stabbing a man foolishly close enough, 
cleanly in the breast, holding off on her power so that, though the 
blade speared right through, the tip poking neatly through his spine, 
cleanly separating two vertebrae, it didn't continue through, spreading 
the wound into a gaping well.  Instead, she released her grip, letting 
the man fall backwards, his torso remaining intact enough to hold the 
heavy sword upright and ready, close by her hand.

Now disarmed, Julie pulled one glove off.  It was like trying to remove 
boxing gloves without undoing them first, but she had practised.  There 
was a quick release which could be pulled out even by such thick 
thimble fingers.  She shook loose her hand, like unsheathing a small 
and tender mammal trapped in a rock-like shell.

The surviving gunman had paused to register the shocking dispatch of 
his fellow guard but had returned to position with renewed zeal.  He 
had placed his body in front of Don Molin and was firing a rapid stream 
of shots from his semi-auto, hitting her dead centre.

She pulled out the throwing-knives and began throwing knives.

One sweep of her arm proved she was as slickly skilled at talented 
assassination as she was at thumpingly brutal murder.  All but one of 
her first handful of blades snuck into his flesh with a soft snicking 
sound, making simultaneous strikes down his face and upper torso.

She swept up the next handful of tiny blades and threw them without 
breaking pace, sending a second volley into his flesh.  He went down 
hard, face forward, driving the porcupine spattered array of jagged 
razors down further into his body.

The gunmen felled, Julie gratefully ripped the restraining helm from 
her face.  She had discovered a new definition of hell over the past 
hours and despite the defence it offered her vulnerable head, she 
lifted the helmet off and cast it away.

No time to wonder at once again being able to see and breath.  She 
threw the glove aside, knowing it would be too fiddly to re-secure it 
here and now, and knowing also that it would be next to useless unless 
she had full manipulation of the fingers.

She grabbed the broadsword, tugging it out of its makeshift stand.  A 
small spurt of blood and death-rattle gasp came with it, but it was 
only meat - the man was already dead.

Only a few victims remained in the room now, most having fled.  Some 
had been clipped by stray shots but they were not her concern.

Another personal bodyguard leapt to the offensive as defence, letting 
another ageing mobster get away.

Julie was actually heartened that the bodyguard was a woman, a good 
build, sinuous, and muscled legs.  She whipped off the jacket as a 
defensive weapon and her stunning upper-body was revealed.  Even with 
the businesswoman shirt, you could see the broad taper of an athlete's 
torso - arms hard and smooth, like polished wood.

Despite any kinship she might feel for this woman, existing as she did 
in what was almost exclusively a man's world, she was a professional 
and wasn't about to treat anyone different just because of their 
gender.  She raised the sword, preparing to strike.

The woman was quick and lithe, skirting aside and whipping the heavy 
jacket around the broad blade as it swung.  She used the weapon's 
momentum against its wielder, working her own assault through the 
exposed opportunity now opened up to her.

But she didn't realise it was intended as such.  Though shocked by the 
excesses of this woman's strength - she wasn't THAT built - Julie was 
still confident from the first glance that she was the stronger of the 
two.

She swept the weapon backhanded, slicing right through the suit, right 
through the woman, neatly bisecting her below the ribcage.

Julie moved on, not bothering with the escape of the woman's charge, 
who didn't look back.  He for one, had just had his confidence in a 
female bodyguard proven valid, and was actually a little sad she'd died 
in such a gruesome way.

Julie was finally closing in on the one real target here.  She focused 
her assault directly upon him and headed straight and unwavering 
towards him, letting literally nothing sway her driving assault.

A table lay between them, a huge and heavy wooden slab.  The mighty man 
himself was sat covering on the other side, looking as sad and pathetic 
as age and frailty can reduce a man to, added to the certainty that his 
long overdue comeuppance was finally to be delivered.

Julie strode up and drove the massive broadsword down into the wooden 
tabletop, splitting it, the blade buried almost to the hilt.  She then 
grasped the table and tossed it aside, as though its huge weight were 
nothing more than a mere inconvenience.

It flipped and crashed down, a huge clack of thunder, knelling this 
man's final march unto death.  Truly there was nothing that could stop 
her.

In a state of shock he stumbled back, pressing his frail form against 
the far wall.  There was nowhere further for him to go.  He was alone 
and trapped here.  No more reprieves, no more time-outs or bargains.  
He was done.

She reached a gloved hand for his shoulder, gripping him tightly.

'No please,' he murmured, his voice barely a whisper.  'Whatever you're 
being paid, I can match.  I can double it - triple it.  Whatever you 
want, whatever you ask of me is yours.  Please.'

Julie paused a moment, as though considering.  'Actually, you know I 
don't even know how much the man was paying for this little job.  I 
work for an agency and have a standard pay scale, according to job 
classification, you see?'

The fingers of the iron glove closed, as though pneumatically powered, 
closing mercilessly around his joint until the bone cracked, 
splintering under her relentless strength.

Don Molin screamed, the agony overwhelming his body.  The only thing 
keeping him on his feet was the iron claw itself, mangled within his 
pulped shoulder.

'I should just tell you one thing actually,' Julie said brightly.  
'This was supposed to go down at midnight.  That was somehow 
significant.'

Despite his agony, the old man's brain was still ticking.  She saw this 
triggered a realisation within him.  When he spoke again, it was with 
sadness as much as pain.

'Anthony?  Anthony did this?  He was the one that hired you?'

Julie shrugged.  'You know, I never thought to ask.'

She reached up her other hand, placed it across his mouth, silencing 
him.  With a hard flex of muscle, she twisted his head about, silencing 
him forever.

She dropped the frail and broken corpse and quickly stripped the armour 
off, peeling the heavy plates away.  As the breastplate came away she 
checked the vest beneath, a modern day equivalent, effortlessly 
stopping the one shot the armour had failed to subdue.

Feeling fifty pounds lighter, in fact, that was probable a fairly loose 
estimate, she picked up the two handguns from the bloody corpses of the 
guards, reloaded.

She'd made her way into the job with subtlety and discretion.  She was 
leaving by a manner far more suited to her spirit.  There were 
doubtless other guards in this building, and they'd had time enough to 
collect themselves.  Despite the horror of it, despite the insanity and 
the danger, despite the suspending her very life into the balance, she 
had to admit, in a very real and palpable sense, she loved this bit.  
Her body thumping with violent adrenaline, she ran headlong into the 
maelstrom.


[A man walks into the living room, nose buried in a newspaper, happily 
oblivious of the snake coiled in the middle of the couch.  The snake's 
colouring is strange in that it camouflages perfectly into the chintz 
fabric.  "The deadly couch cobra - coiled and alert in its natural 
habitat."]

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

15 - Laying low

'Do me a favour,' Mickey C said.  'Who taught you how to play this 
game, your fucking granny?'

'What?' Dave whined.  He'd just laid his cards, a pair of eights, 
'and,' he added proudly, 'jack, queen, king.'

'This,' Mickey told him and he picked up the royals, 'is bollocks.'

'It's a run,' Dave insisted, getting defensive now.

'It's bollocks,' Mickey told him and tossed the cards in the other 
man's face.  'A run only counts if it's all five cards.  Unless it's 
all five cards, it's not a run.  It's like four aces with three of them 
missing.  It's bollocks.  You've got a pair, and not a very good pair 
at that.  I almost feel guilty about beating it with my flush.'

Almost, maybe, but not enough to stop him from doing so, winning the 
hand and collecting the pot.

Dave was generally known as Dave the fish, cause of what he once did to 
this fella with a fishhook.  It was to distinguish him from Dave the 
horse, who was a bookie who worked out of Bethnal.

Mickey C, was Mickey Tremont, he was called Mickey C as a hangover from 
schooldays, where they took the piss out of the way he talked.  His old 
man was a barrow-boy made good, who'd married upwards and the misses 
had persuaded him to send young Mickey to the finest boarding school 
money could buy.  He'd naturally hated it and got himself chucked out 
after a term, but by then he'd got the name.  They called him Mickey, 
see?  It weren't funny then, either, but it stuck with him.

Here they were, sitting around a table made of milk crates, hiding in a 
squat in Docklands.

Mickey C dealt another hand.  To his left sat Johnny Walker, who never 
drank whiskey, then Barry, or Baz to just about everyone, including his 
old mum, Nik Tenor and Sir Ralf.  Then there was Dave the fish, and 
then back to Mickey.

They been sat here playing cards, lying low and pissing away time, for 
a few days, and there wasn't one of them who wasn't sick of it.

'This is fucked, man, how long we gonna have to stay here.'

'Look a few more days, then I'll speak to the Dean and see how the 
water lies.  You wanna chance your arse before then, be my guest, but 
if you get caught, you're on you own.  And if you squeal on this place 
then you'll have me to deal with.  Now shut-up and put your money in.'

They each took a draw, however many cards were necessary to improve 
their hands.

'Four,' Dave said, tossing his useless cards forward.

'Do me a favour,' Mickey hissed and chucked the remaining deck at Dave.  
He stood and stomped off over to the slatted boards that served them as 
a window.

'What?' Dave asked in all innocence.

'Fucking muppet,' Johnny Walker told him and followed Mickey.

'I'm going stir, John,' Mickey said, staring out at the warehouse 
district, back-streets and dodgy dealings beyond the squat.  'I can't 
stay here much longer.'

'I know what you mean.  Come on, we'll have a drink, settle down.  Give 
the Dean a call tomorrow morning.  If it's still no go on the home 
manner, we'll just split for a while.  Fuck these muppets, let 'em stay 
here or go wherever they want to.'

Mickey sighed and headed back to the group.

'You know,' Sir Ralf told him, 'Jean-Paul Sartre once said that hell in 
an eternity with your friends.'

'Yeah,' Mickey said, 'but all his mates were French.'

They settled down, had a few drinks, stopped playing cards.

Mickey was happy with the thought that this ordeal would be over by 
this time tomorrow.  Hell indeed.  That was assuming, they made it 
through to the morning.

'The fuck was that?'  This from Nik Tenor, the most nervous of the 
bunch.  But all had heard the scraping bump.  Something fit for a 
horror movie, the monster in the house.

'It's an old building.  It's falling apart,' Johnny - ever mister 
rational - insisted.  

'Course it's gonna make strange noises, it's a fucking derelict.'

'Even so,' Mickey C said, his voice low, 'Baz, go check it out.'

'Why me?'

'Coz you're a dozy fucking Aussie who no one'll miss if a mad axeman 
splits your head in two.'

'Jesus, chill out already.'

Barry went to investigate.

'Do me a favour,' Mickey hissed.  'Why am I surrounded by fucking 
children?'

Barry didn't come back.  He left the room, they heard him check the 
wrecked room next door, the place where there once lay a kitchen.  Then 
he hit the stairs, the rotting wood creaking beneath his feet.

Then they heard what might have been a muffled cry, what might have 
been a shuffling struggle, what might have been the thump of brass 
knuckles contacting flesh.

The five of them exchanged looks.  Those that had weapons grabbed them.  
Sir Ralf pulled out a machete, Dave picked up a baseball bat, Nik, 
Johnny and Mickey contented themselves with lumps of wood taken from 
the various pieces of wreckage around the room.  Mickey then found a 
length of pipe and gratefully swapped.

A nod and they headed out and into the hallway.  A glance around and 
then upstairs.

First Sir Ralf, on account of his machete, then Mickey C, followed 
closely by Johnny, then Nik Tenor and finally Dave the fish trailing 
behind.

They crept up the rickety stairs so carefully and quietly, so intent on 
what they were doing, so focused on what was waiting above them, that 
they didn't notice Dave lagging.

Dave didn't notice anyone behind him.

As his foot trod carefully on the first stair, Sir Ralf in front 
practically at the top by now, the first thing he knew of anything 
amiss was a muscular arm sliding smoothly around him from behind, like 
a constrictor serpent, thick and immensely powerful.  A meaty hand 
closed over his mouth and tightened, making the hold airtight, thumb 
and forefinger reaching just a little further to close off his nose 
too, stealing his precious oxygen supply.  A second arm moved 
simultaneously from the other side, pinning his arms to his side with a 
crushing force.

The assailant then pulled him back off the stair, using her whole body 
to restrain him.  He knew it was a woman because she was crushing his 
body to her own with unabashed intimacy.  But no ordinary woman.  He 
felt her breasts full and solid smashed up hard against his shoulders, 
but the rest of her torso lacked such pliancy and give.  The hard wall 
of muscle he was pinned helplessly against was in keeping with the arms 
that bound him - developed to the extreme.

He panicked, trapped and helpless, unable to breath or even cry out a 
warning or plea.  But before he could thrash about, before he could 
struggle for freedom, or at the very least attention, the woman eased 
his head back against her huge, round shoulder and she twisted.

The body went suddenly limp in her arms.  She stepped back a few paces 
and lay it down as quietly as she possibly could, then stepped over him 
to follow the remaining four up the stairs.

Sir Ralf reached the landing and stepped carefully into the master 
bedroom.  It had a huge hole in the centre of it, jagged floorboards 
smashed, leading down into darkness.  Before the hole lay Barry, his 
head split open at the forehead, the skull cracked, his dead eyes 
staring up at the cracked ceiling.

'Fuck,' Ralf hissed.

'Oh do me a favour, this can't be fucking happening.'

Johnny pushed past to see what they were looking at and just stopped 
mid-stride, and stared at his fallen friend.

'No.  On no.'

Ralf looked like he was about to be sick and ran back to the door, 
nearly knocking Nik Tenor down in the process.  He supported himself 
against the doorframe and tried to regain his composure.

Nik walked into the room, pushed past Mickey and Johnny to see what the 
fuss was all about and nearly had a heart attack.

'Fucking hell!  Who done that?'  He spun around as though someone was 
creeping up behind him even then.  'Where they fuck are they.  Shit 
man, we're all dead, we're fucking dead.  This is totally fucked up.  
This is fucking totally fucked up.'

'Oye!  Shut it.  Keep your head or you really will get yourself 
killed,' Mickey told him.  'Now where the fuck is that cunt Dave?'

They all looked about, except Ralf, who was still hunched over, 
shoulder resting on the doorframe, looking almost as bad as Baz.

'Dave?  Where the fuck are you?  Ralf, can you see him?  Ralf?  Ralfy 
boy?'

Sir Ralf turned slowly around to face them, looking glazed and 
incognisant.

A flower seemed to be blooming in the centre of his chest, a scarlet 
poppy, spreading a seeping liquid halo.  The machete rose from his 
heart, growing up and out until it had reached its full penetrating 
length, over a foot of steel running before him.

She stepped forward, still holding Sir Ralf aloft via his huge blade.  
She brought one muscular arm around the front of his torso, her mighty 
bicep swelling up huge and hard as she gripped the man to her own 
powerful chest, then she ripped the blade free.

She didn't withdraw it, retracting it from his flesh back the way it 
had came, but instead cut the blade out sideways, tearing the hole into 
a long gash, splitting his very torso open.  She then tossed the messy 
corpse aside and regarded them face to face for the first time, Ralf's 
weapon still in her hand, still running with thick gore.

She was tall, but that isn't what made his appearance so startling.  
This woman was shocking because of her body, built as it was of muscles 
on muscles on muscles.  Not one of them had ever met anyone as hugely 
developed as this woman was, arms like cannon barrels, legs like... 
well, bigger cannon barrels.

They all moved and worked in circles around all hard men and thugs and 
yet still none had encountered anyone to come close to touching this 
woman for sheer excessive musculature.  The only way to even approach 
this woman, you had to compare her to the bodybuilders you see in 
magazines or at shows.  She had to be as every bit as big as the most 
accomplished and savagely built professional.

She was dressed in a tiny vest, the obvious intent was to display those 
tremendous muscles to the full, to shock and intimidate her victims 
from the get go, just by the sight of her.  And it worked.

'Shit,' Mickey hissed.

'Fuck,' Johnny muttered.

'Chr-' Nik was cut off as, being the closest, she had grabbed him and 
spun him around, pressing his back to her and wrapping her arm about 
him, trapping his head in the crook on her shoulder and her massively 
developed biceps peak.

She reached down and placed the machete into his hands.  Numbly his 
fingers accepted, not even conscious of what he was doing.

'Hold this for me,' she said.  Then punched him.  She was wearing brass 
knuckles and she thrust her fist squarely into his face, obliterating 
his features with the first blow.  But that was just the start.  The 
second blow made that which was broken into that which was pulped.  And 
then again.  And again.  And again.

The other just stood and stared, unable to take in what they were 
witnessing, as this monstrous woman smashed Nik Tenor into a gory 
stain.

Johnny lifted his two-by-four, his eyes streaming, his head spinning.

He let out a scream - a war cry of horror and hate and sheer hell 
unleashed.

The woman didn't blink.  Simply plucking the machete out of Nik Tenor's 
dead fingers and swinging it about as Johnny closed.

She batted his makeshift wooden club aside, smashing it with her meaty 
forearm while swinging the blade sidewise into the man's head.

Mickey closed his eyes, not wanting to witness the sight, but he 
couldn't close his ears - couldn't avoid the sick wet schluck of steel 
through bone.

Nor could he avoid the spray - hot and urgent.  He opened his eyes and 
realised he was breathing the red mist.

He screamed.

She waited.

'Are you gonna give me that pipe or am I gonna come over there and take 
it off you?'

Mickey stared at the woman as if she were insane.  She had to be 
insane.  

From my cold dead hands.

And with an almost fatalistic fury, Mickey C took his last stand, made 
his last charge, the last of his gang, the last man standing.

With ridiculous ease, she caught the swung pipe, her muscle easily 
absorbing the fury of the blow.  She tugged it neatly from his grasp 
and then backhanded him, sending him reeling backwards, falling over 
onto the ground.

A little dazed, but no more damaged than a bloody mouth, his stared up 
at her as she carelessly regarded the pipe then tossed it away 
disinterestedly.

She didn't move.  She didn't speak.

'How did you find us?' he asked, finally, just to break the silence.

'Eddie Dean,' she said.  Then smiled at his hurt expression.  'Oh, 
what?  You thought he was gonna be loyal to a bunch of punks like you, 
once he found out what you'd done?  I've known the guy for years.  My 
dad was pulling jobs with the Dean before you were even born, so don't 
think for a minute his loyalties are gonna lie with a bunch of fucking 
low-life jokes like you.'

Mickey C didn't speak.

'You think this is unjust?' she asked him.  'I saw the slaughterhouse 
you guys left behind.  I saw what you did to my friends and associates.  
Did you really think that would be left to stand?  Did you think we 
wouldn't find you?  We wouldn't settle the score?'

'How did you know it was us?' he asked.

'You left a witness, Mickey-boy,'

'No we never, they was all well dead, I checked myself.'

He saw a sudden flair of anger in her eye and he realised that it 
probably wasn't the smartest thing to say to her.

'You left a witness.  The family you murdered had a pet - a parrot.  It 
learned itself a new phrase after than night.  Parrots are more apt to 
remember something when the situation is intense, you know that?  Coz 
all this parrot kept repeating was "Do me a favour."'

'What?  That ain't proof.'

'I don't need proof, I just need to know who's guilty.  And that's what 
led me to you.  What?  Are you gonna suddenly tell me now that you 
never done it?'

Mickey C just shook his head, unable to believe he was gonna die 
because of something so ridiculous.

She closed.

He looked up at her, his eyes wide and justly frightened, but also 
resigned.  There was no escape and he knew it.

And he looked to her then like the stupid, pointless, punk kid he was.  
A child.

'Make it quick,' he asked her.  Not a pleading or whining but a simple 
calm and polite request.

She reached down and lifted him up, her mighty arms easily heaving him 
into the air, bulging as they did so.

Holding him aloft with one huge arm, squirming like a bug on a spit, 
she drew back the other and clenched a fist.

Then she speared him, driving her fist right up into his gut, ripping 
through the stomach.  He bucked hideously as she drove her arm right 
through and up into him.

And she let go with the arm holding him aloft, having effectively 
impaled him on the other.

And once she dropped him again, his torn heart in her hand, there was 
little doubt that the job was done.


[A darkened petstore, three hoods sit around a table.  They are 
eclipsed by caged parrots, sitting attentively on perches around the 
room.  "Okay, listen up.  The cops are closing in on this place so 
here's our new hideout: 455 Elm Street... Let's all say it together 
about a hundred times so they'll be no more screw-ups."]