Protection
by Martin Kane
A Delphi Agency tale: There's always a bully bigger than you.



Author's note:

Should anyone out there wish to get in contact with me, I happily 
invite you to do so, via the messageboard for readers and writers.
I welcome any comments.  I only refrain from leaving my e-mail 
address here and now due to previous problems encountered with spam, 
worms and virus.

Copyright is mine.  If you do wish to use this tale elsewhere I ask 
you to please seek permission first.

Needless to say this story is purely a fiction and all characters 
contained herewith are merely the products of an overwrought 
imagination, not to mention an unfortunate quantity of truly bad 
B-movies.

As for the adult content warning... what else would you be expecting?


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'I can't pay you the money,' he told the suit.

The suit shuffled a bit, looking more like the hired thug he truly was 
than the businessman he was dressed as.

'I think I better come in.'

They went inside.  Richard sat down awkwardly.  This was not going to 
be pleasant.

Mr Grocer sat opposite, hunching his shoulders to fit his oversized 
bulk into an armchair designed for normal sized people.  He clutched 
his gangster hat in his lap, looking absurdly embarrassed and 
childlike.

'This isn't easy for me, you understand.'

'I'm sorry,' Richard told him, his voice low and calm.  He managed to 
keep it under control remarkably well.  If it were a true reflection of 
his actual emotional state right now, he would be screaming in 
hysterical panic.  'I don't want any trouble really I don't.'

'Then pay the man what you owe him.'

'Look, I understand the problem, and I know that you're only doing your 
job.  But it's not that simple.  I can't afford to pay.  I really don't 
have the money.'

'Then pay something.  Pay a token gesture.  Show the man willing and 
I'll be able to go back to him and show him that you're trying.  He'll 
not be pleased but he'll appreciate that you're not trying to fuck him 
over.'

He stopped then, thinking slowly.  His demeanour as he did this 
suggested a man who did not think often, slowly or otherwise, and it 
suggested that anyone involved should appreciate the time and effort he 
was making on this occasion.

'You're not trying to fuck the man over, are you?'

'I'm just a guy trying to get by,' Richard told him.  'I don't want any 
trouble with your boss.  I just want to be left alone to run my 
business.'

'That's not what I asked you.  What I asked you was whether you're 
trying to fuck the man over.  I asked that in a clear and simple 
manner.  And instead of answering me in a clear and simple manner, you 
change the subject, talk about trouble and being left alone.  What am I 
supposed to make of that?'

'I don't have the money.'

'See, that's what we'd call a physical problem.  You not having any 
money is a real and concrete issue that we'll deal with at the given 
time.  What I'm talking about now is more complex - more abstract.  I'm 
talking about intention, I'm talking about willing.  You say you've not 
got the money as if that ends it.  You're not offering any 
alternatives, you're not asking for any extension, you're showing no 
intent to pay.'

'I guess it's a question of why I should pay.'

'Well if that's what you require, I can give a reason.  See, that's why 
it's a man like me who comes a-calling, you understand.'

Richard nodded, slowly.  Oh yes, he understood.

'I know you're here to collect money, but all I want you to do is take 
a message...'

'I don't work for you,' Mr Grocer cut in.  'I work for the man and it's 
what the man wants that I do.  What you want doesn't come into it.  
It's like an equation.  We all have our parts to play, all help to 
balance it all out and keep the system running smooth.  The man has the 
power, he's the one who writes the rules.  My part is to collect the 
money and take it back to the man.  Your part is to pay, on time and in 
full.  First of the month, regular, like the rent.'

'I know that you're just doing your job, and I appreciate that, I 
really do.  But I think this situation is one that has to be resolved 
between your boss and me.  As you say, he is the man with the power.  
He's the one I should speak to.'

'See, that's what you want.  What you want doesn't come into it.  I'm 
here as a representative of the man and my concern is for what he 
wants.  What he wants is for me to collect the money that's due him, 
and that's all that concerns me.'

Richard nodded again.  Throughout the exchange he remained remarkably 
calm.  Considering the size of the man sat opposite him, considering 
the implicit threat that was implied, it was truly remarkable.

'So it's a question of what happens now,' Mr Grocer told him.  'Are you 
going to pay me the money, here and now?  Yes or no?'

'No.'

'Are you going to offer any reason or excuse, any promise or intent?  
Are you going to borrow the money from a friend and pay me tomorrow, or 
rob an old lady and bring it around to the club?  Are you going to sell 
something valuable or offer me your girlfriend's jewellery?'

'No.'

'Then you know how this goes?'

'OK, I just want to say something,' Richard said, his hitherto 
remarkable calm beginning to dissolve a little.  'I want to say I think 
Now is the time to resolve this.'

He paused expectantly.  Mr Grocer looked curiously at him.

'Now... it would be good to sort this whole thing out.  Don't you 
think?'

'Are you saying you do have the money?'

'No, but shouldn't... Action... be taken?'

Mr Grocer just looked at the man, his confusion apparent.  He'd seen 
panic and stress make people react in strange ways but he'd never 
witnessed anything like this before.

Richard was glancing around fearfully as though the danger he was in 
had only just made itself apparent to him.  'Please, I need a little 
Help about NOW.'

'I'm perfectly willing to help you,' Mr Grocer told him.  'All you have 
to do is pay, and I'll make the whole thing go away.'  His voice was 
genuinely calm and soothing.  He truly meant what he said.

'Please.  Please Help Me.'

'Are you going to pay?'

Richard looked up at the big man, tears in his eyes now.

'I don't have the money.'  And this time, he looked truly regretful at 
this.

My Grocer nodded, decided.  'I'm sorry about that,' he told the 
quivering man, with absolute sincerity.

He stood and walked over to where Richard was huddled.

Sparked into motion, Richard leapt for his feet and flew at the door.

For a hulking brute, Mr Grocer was surprisingly quick on his feet.  He 
reached Richard before the smaller man got the door open.  He shoved 
the man's back, slamming him hard and heavy into the door.

Richard staged backwards, dazed.  Blood began to ooze from his face.

Mr Grocer turned him around with a hand large enough to encompass his 
shoulder completely.  He squeezed, grinding Richard's collarbone in a 
painful and meaningful manner.

'This is a polite warning.'

He said it as he let loose.  A fist the size of a ham barrelled into 
Richard's stomach and turned his body to jelly.

The meaty grip on his shoulder stopped Richard from collapsing onto the 
floor.  Was it not for that hand holding him up, Richard would retract 
into a small puddle like a butcher's sack of waste animal intestines.

Ouch.  Mr Grocer tried not to smile.  He thought it made him more of a 
professional if he didn’t appear to take any pleasure in his work.  Not 
that he was a sadist or anything, he just enjoyed a good pounding every 
now and again.  It was good for the soul.

Keeping Richard upright he reached for his wrist.  It lay limp beside 
his writhing stomach.  He took the small hand in his large grip and 
lifted it up between them.  Richard offered no resistance of any kind.

He positioned his beefy fingers to pin Richard's hand while keeping his 
own thumb free.  This he used to apply pressure on Richard's index 
finger.

Richard's eyes shot open at the first spasm of electric pain.  Mr 
Grocer was slowly, meticulously, easing his finger backwards, away from 
its natural alignment.

Richard began to cry out, the pain slowly rising and tendons and flesh 
were stretched taut.

'No, please, God noooo,'

His voice descended into a scream as the finger was slowly pushed past 
the point of tolerance.  If he were double jointed, this would be the 
kind of trick to impress and gross people out at parties.  He wasn't 
and as such, was in absolute agony.

His whole arm was molten.  It felt as though his hand would explode at 
any second.  He struggled against the big man, trying to slip out of 
his grip, but he was held fast.

The crack, when it finally came, was almost an anticlimax.  A pathetic 
little pop of the knuckle.  Then there was a tearing of the joint.

Richard thought he was going to throw up.  He was also very close to 
passing out.  Right at this moment, that seemed like a highly promising 
thing.

Mr Grocer released him finally and Richard felt back against the wall.  
His legs failed to support him and he slid slowly down, crumpling like 
a deflated sex-doll.

Then the nausea hit again and this time he did throw up, turning his 
head to the side and letting the acidic poison gush free.

Mr Grocer stood back, replacing his hat.  He checked himself in a 
mirror mounted on the wall, straightening the rim.

'Rest assured I'll pass your remarks on to the man,' he told Richard.  
'I'm sure he'll consider them carefully before deciding what to do.  On 
a personal note, I really would suggest that you consider paying him.  
I know the kind of things he does to those that oppose him and it's not 
always very pleasant.'

He looked down at the broken man, still wiping vomit from his mouth, 
and felt a little bad about the whole thing.  He did enjoy a good 
pounding but couldn't help feeling sorry for the guys he victimised.  
Still, a job was a job.

'We'll be in touch,' he assured and then left.

Richard pushed himself into a sitting position, holding his damaged 
hand against his bruised stomach.  He took time to get his breath back.

'Well he was a pleasant chap,' Sarah remarked as she strolled 
carelessly towards him.  'Are you OK?'

'Where the fuck were you.'

'In the cupboard,' she told him plainly.  'You know that, you were the 
one that suggested it as the best view of the room.'

'I meant where were you while he was laying into me?  Where were you 
when he was ripping my fucking finger off?'

'What do you mean?'

'I thought you were going to help me.'

'I am,' she insisted.

'By watching while he rips pieces off me?'

Sarah shrugged.  'I told you I'd have to examine the whole situation 
carefully before I decided on the best course of action.'

'I thought you were going to burst out like Wonder Woman and rescue 
me.'

'I never said that.'

'Caron said you'd be able to stop them, that you had connections.'

'And I will stop them.'

Richard shook his head in despair.  'Why did I trust you?  Why didn't I 
just pay the man?'

Sarah was a tall woman, tall enough to eclipse the average man.  She 
wasn't as large or bulky as Mr Grocer but her build was broad.  Though 
she'd not offered to prove the fact (and Richard had been far too 
intimidated to ask) she supposedly had serious muscles.  As his friend 
had described, the kind of body that makes Xena look like she has 
anorexia - she looks like Buffy would if they got an actress to play 
her who could actually do all that She-hulk shit.

Richard pulled himself painfully to his feet.  He inspected his stomach 
tentatively, erupting into agony at the slightest touch.

'Are you OK?'  She said this as though it wasn't a really dumb 
question.

Richard didn't answer, lumbering slowly across the room to his 
armchair.  His braced his hand, the broken finger sticking out at a 
decidedly odd angle.

'So what are you going to do now?' he asked her sulkily.

'I thought I might meet up with him later on, have a little chat.  He 
seems like a professional, I think I can deal with this on a civilised 
level.'

'What about his boss?'

'His boss I know by reputation, I don't think he'll be a problem.'

'And if he is?'

'Let's just cross that bridge when we come to it.'

Richard muttered something at this but it was lost amidst a shudder of 
pain.

'You should get that looked at,' she told him.

He just smiled sarcastically at her.

'Look, if my help isn't wanted...'

'I do want your help,' he insisted.  'I'm sorry, I'm just not at my best 
right now.'

'OK then.  I'm going to head off.  Try to get some rest.  And don't 
worry about it, it's as good as sorted.’

She went to shake his hand but thought better of it.  Instead, she gave 
him a quick wave before letting herself out.

Back in her car, Sarah pulled out her mobile and speed-dialled.

'Hi Emma.

'Pretty good; you?

'Cool.  Just a quick question, you've heard of Mr Grocer?  One of Vic 
Video's lesser demons.

'Yeah.

'He drinks in the Goose doesn't he?

'Na.  It's a personal thing.  Favour for a friend.  Friend of a friend 
actually.

'Great.

'Oh, you know, whatever comes up.

'Oh yeah, if you could.

'Nice one.  Get the barman to give me a quick text when he comes in.

'If that happens don't worry about it, I'll speak to her Majesty 
tomorrow.

'Does she ever?

'No, no.  It's not that urgent.

'If you think you should.

'No, it's nothing I can't handle.

'Fuck you too bitch.

'I'd love to, give me a bell whenever you're free.

'OK, thanks babe.

'It's on me.

'Any time.

'Later.'

She closed the phone.

The Golden Goose was an old pub, the typical dark and dingy dive.  It 
had recently been allowed to finally reopen after the incident with Big 
Alfie.  Big Alfie, now known by some callous wits as Little Alfie, had 
been kneecapped in the main bar a month ago.  This had happened during 
opening hours, in full view of the paying punters.  Not one witness 
could be found, despite the police's extensive investigations.  Despite 
it being a full and frilly happy hour, not one of the regulars had been 
present.  And all had sterling steel alibis (all ready and waiting) for 
their whereabouts on that particular night.

It was the kind of place you didn't venture to alone, unless you were 
very sure of yourself.

My Grocer liked the Goose.  It wasn't his closest local but he liked 
the atmosphere there.  It was a lively place full of interesting 
characters.  You could never be sure what was going to happen, or 
indeed to whom.  Plus you could always be sure there wasn't any cops 
hanging around.  The police knew better than to hang around near the 
Goose.

Mr Grocer sat on his usual stool, nodding a hello to a couple of 
familiar faces.

The barman wandered up, pulled him a pint of his regular.

'Grocer.'

'Tony.'

He put the pint down before the big man and scooped the small pile of 
loose change with which he'd paid.  He didn't bother to count it; Mr 
Grocer was one of those supremely honest men who'd hand you back a 
tenner explaining it should have been a five.

'You been a naughty boy?' the barman asked.

'Huh?'

'Apparently you've stirred up some hornets.'

'Huh?'  Despite repeating the same guttural tone, he managed to make 
this one a question.

'You know the Delphi Agency.'  A rhetorical question if ever there was 
one.  'There's someone who wants a word with you.'

'Yeah?'

'I just text messaged to let them know you've arrived.'

Mr Grocer pondered this carefully, taking a slow sip.

'Huh,' he finally concluded.

Mr Grocer was halfway down the glass when a new face breezed through 
the door.  New faces were always of interest to locals in the Goose - a 
kind of careless curiosity as to how long said face would remain 
attached.

The face in question was pretty, a dark haired thirty-something dressed 
in a casual business skirt, white blouse, jacket and stylish glasses.  
The only thing missing was a briefcase.  But this bar was a distance 
out from the commuter capital where she apparently belonged.

She walked across to the bar, irrespective of the looks she attracted.  
She sat primly at the bar, the stool next to Mr Grocer, but she didn't 
acknowledge his scrutiny yet.  She instead waited patiently for the 
barman to walk over.

He asked what she wanted by raising an eyebrow.  Any offence she might 
normally display was swallowed by her eminent professionalism.  He at 
least wasn't aware that the representative due was likely to be a 
woman, and as such, didn't guess who she was.  She was in no mood to 
correct his manners however.

Mr Grocer didn't speak.  He continued watching the suited woman, 
sipping slowly on his pint, waiting for her to make the first move.

'Manhattan,' she ordered.  Then, at reading the bartender's face.  'You 
do know how to make a Manhattan?'

'I think I can manage.'

One of the Goose's less bright patrons had appeared behind her.  A lone 
woman, alone in a place like this.  It was too much for him to resist.

'Hi Honey,' he said in a voice that promised an intent that was 
anything but honourable.

'Go and sit down,' she suggested.  Her voice was bored, not through 
confidence and strength, but through actual boredom.

'Don't be like that,' the man insisted, his voice whiny and annoying.

Mr Grocer was already rolling his eyes and shaking his head slowly.  
He'd seen the guy before, knew he could handle himself, had seen the 
man walk away after a fight which a lesser man would not have survived.  
But he'd been in the business long enough to recognise certain things.  
One of them, was the conclusion to this particular scenario.

She was quick though, he'd give her that.  She moved before he had time 
to register the fact.  Next thing anyone knew, the guy was grounded, 
clutching his crushed throat.

He made a burbling sound, his face turning red.

Sarah brushed a non-existent piece of lint from the elbow of her 
jacket.  The barman put her drink before her, glancing past her at the 
gagging man rolling on the floor.

'On the house,' he assured her.  'Sorry about that.'

Mr Grocer snorted mirth.  He had to admit it - the barman learned fast.

Sarah shrugged.  'It happens.'

The victim's friend helped him up.  From the rasping sound it would 
appear she hadn't actually committed murder.  He was able to breathe 
again, but it was a painful process and would probably remain so for a 
long time to come.

'Some people would say that that was unnecessary,' Mr Grocer remarked.

Sarah shrugged.

'I was never good at being coy,' he admitted.  'Let's just get to it.'

He held his hand out.  'Mr Grocer.  Norman.'

'Ms Stone.  Sarah.'  She shook his hand.

'Which one is it?'

'Richard Dyers.  You visited him this afternoon.'

Mr Grocer nodded.  The regret and apprehension in his manner was 
apparent, but only to one whose professional senses were as attuned as 
were Sarah's.  To all others here present he was as relaxed and callous 
as ever.

'Is this an official visit?'

'Personal.'

He nodded again.

'I'm willing to back it if necessary though,' she added.

'Oh no,' he told her quickly, 'it's not necessary.'

'What about the Popcorn King?'

'No problem there,' he assured her.  'I'm offered certain discretion in 
the course of my duties.  If I tell him to cross a client off the list, 
then he's off the list.'

It was Sarah's turn to nod.  She was willing to accept that.

'I'm taking you at your word out of professional courtesy,' she said.  
'I'm sure I don't need to tell you what happens should you not respect 
that courtesy.'

'Please, don't worry about that.  We understand each other perfectly.'

'Good.'

They both took sips of their drinks, neither meeting each other's 
glance.  There was more to this, but again, you'd have to be 
hypersensitive to be aware of it.

'There is one more thing,' Sarah said finally, cutting the icy silence 
as though her words were a heated blade.

'Oh yes?'

'Mr Dyers.'

Mr Grocer was silent.  This time, it was a silence loaded with the 
question.  By not speaking, he was prompting her to continue.

'His ability to dial a phone.'

The big man nodded, understanding more fully this time.  That was the 
problem with personal jobs, you felt obliged to bring some sense of 
justice into the proceedings.

He shrugged.  'It happens.'  But he wasn't going to curry favour by 
quoting her.

She faced him, her pretty face neutral, but steely in her resolve.  He 
realised that this wasn't going to end with a conversation.

'I don't suppose saying sorry would help?'

'Not unless you prove it.'

'By...'

'Saving me the trouble of inflicting applicable damage by doing so 
yourself.'

'You want me to break my own finger?'

'What I want doesn't come into this.  It's more a case of showing 
willing.'

This made him pause for breath.  He wondered if she'd been present at 
the earlier meeting he had had with the client.  But no, if she had 
been, surely she'd have stepped in.  All it would have taken was the 
right word to halt him in his tracks.

'I'm not going to do that,' he told her, though his tone remained 
eminently respectful.

'Then I'll have to inflict it upon you.  Tenfold,' she told him, her 
voice almost apologetic.

'I won't let you do that,' Mr Grocer told her.  'Nothing to do with the 
business already settled, you understand,' he said quickly, 'but I'm 
not going to let you do something like that without... protesting.'

'Nothing to do with business,' she agreed.  'That's sorted.  This is 
you and me.  This is a way of you apologising.'

'I don't apologise for my actions,' he told her.

She nodded.  She finished her drink.  'Then I'm sorry.  But it's a kind 
of personal policy.'

'I understand,' he assured her.  'But you have to understand that I 
have my own personal policy.  And it includes personal damage against 
my own person.'

'Then I have to repeat, out of a sense of propriety, that I urge you to 
show contrition or I'll force atonement upon you.  Tenfold.'

'It's not going to happen.'

'Fine.  Outside?'

For this he was grateful.  She was respectful, he'd offer her that.  
Not that he believed she was really a threat to his person, but he knew 
that she was more powerful than any man here in this bar could truly 
appreciate, and any suffering she did cause him in the process of 
putting her in her place would result in a degree at least of 
punishment on his part also, which would in turn result in 
necessitating his re-establishing his indomitable reputation here - a 
hardship he did not wish to ensure if it were possibly avoidable.

'Let's go,' he said.

'Finish your pint first,' she insisted.

Courteous to a fault.

When his drink was done, he put down the empty and nodded a silent 
thanks to the barman.  He stood and led Sarah to the side door.

It opened out into the car park.  A dark and silent arena.  They would 
not be disturbed here.

'You understand I hold you in the highest regard,' he assured her.

'And I have nothing but respect for your professional position,' she 
replied.

She removed her jacket and began to unbutton the blouse.  Beneath the 
starched white cotton was a physique that promised the potential to 
carry out her threats.  Muscles that shamed even his mighty bulk.

Mr Grocer took in the sight of her bra-clad torso, her bodybuilt trunk, 
a mighty wedge of sheer feminine power.

She lay her discarded clothing neatly over the bonnet of a parked car.

'I always wondered if it were true,' he remarked, surprisingly cool 
considering the sight he'd been privileged to.

'What's that?'

'That Ms T was employing mutant gym-happy cunts to form a freakshow 
army of circus bimbos.'

'If you're trying to incite me to rage, you're out of luck.  I honestly 
couldn't give a fuck what you think or what you say.'

She rubbed her arms, getting the blood warmed up ready.  It was a 
fairly cool night but she guessed that what was to follow should warm 
her up adequately well.

'What is it about women's lib,' he asked, his tone becoming truly ugly 
for the first time since she'd met him.  'You've got to try fucking 
everything ain't ya.  You want to see this out.  I'll fucking teach you 
about this world if you really want to play with the grown ups.'

Sarah shook her head sadly, all grudging respect she'd felt for this 
man seeping away by the second.

'You got something on your face,' she told him.  It was an old gag but 
he fell for it nonetheless.  No fool like an old fool.

'Huh?'

She punched him.  In the face.  Hard.

Mr Grocer staggered back, spitting blood.  He'd felt something crack.  
That wasn't good.  Either she'd got in a lucky punch or she really was 
more dangerous than he'd given her credit for.

He took off his own cumbersome jacket, wanting the freedom of movement 
that this afforded him.

'OK,' he said, nodding like a nervous twitch.  'You wanna play it like 
that then...'

She punched him in the stomach, a gut wrenching, bile spewing, internal 
bleeding kind of blow that threw him backwards.

He gasped at that one, staggering for footing and for breath.  He'd 
expected her to be tough for a girl.  He hadn't expected her to be this 
tough.  She was making mincemeat of him and didn't appear to be 
struggling to do so.

Well that was because he hadn't... Mr Grocer lay a fist deep into her 
stomach.  At least he would have done so if the layered muscles of her 
abdomen had allowed him access.  As it was, they'd effortlessly held 
him at bay, her belly as solid and hard as plate armour.

He lay another blow into her gut but the slatted abs remained as solid 
and impenetrable as ever.  It was like punching into solid steel.  
Except steel didn't punch back.  Sarah did.

Perhaps out of a sense of equality she replied to his assault by 
punching back into his belly.  This time, the assault was successful, 
slaughtering the defence, rendering his muscles bruised and busted, her 
fists sinking deep into his solar plexus, a torturous and penetrating 
offensive that sent the big man reeling backwards, gasping and 
quivering.

Sarah stepped forward to follow up with a blow to the face.  Mr Grocer 
had dropped his head however, agonised and damaged far more than he 
would have believed.

He lunged forward suddenly, butting her head with his own.  He could 
muster momentum, once he got his considerable bulk into motion.  He 
seemed to realise that this was where his advantage lay and followed 
the butt with a barge, his shoulder slamming into his chest.

Sarah fell back, dazed.  His head was thick.  His shoulder winded her 
and his fist swung up, catching her face, sending her reeling.  He kept 
the assault up, swinging his weight forward in follow up punches to the 
chest.

She took the pounding, choosing to stand her ground and re-establish 
the offensive, her mighty form absorbing his crushing blows, her 
tremendous musculature enduring the punishment.

Her hand snaked out, the heel striking his jaw, fast as a whip and 
powered by her colossal strength.  The crack heard was as satisfying as 
any blow she had landed yet.  The tearing and splatter of blood was a 
bonus.

Mr Grocer fell back, his lower jaw hanging off at a strange angle.  He 
would be expressing his thoughts and feelings without recourse to 
speech for a long time to come.

The pain and shock made him err, his fighting style deteriorating into 
a rage-fuelled madness of limbs and motion.

Sarah batted his flailing blows aside, getting the upper hand and 
taking advantage of the fact by laying a steady blow into his lower 
chest thus ending the fight.

He fell backwards, stunned.  Were this a true conflict, she would end 
it here, stepping forward to crush his throat, or mash his ribs with 
her heel, squashing the organs within.  She would perhaps split his 
skull, shattering the bone by powering her foot down and through to 
splatter his brain like a soft bowl of offal.

But this wasn't to the death, it was a simple test of dominance.  He 
was defending himself against her desire to snap his fingers.  A fair 
enough impulse that she could understand.  She wouldn't punish him too 
heavily for putting up a fight.

But fair was fair and she'd promised to repay him.  Tenfold.

'I do hope you don't play the piano.'

He was on the ground, groaning and struggling to regain his feet.  She 
carelessly kicked him onto his side and rolled him onto his stomach.  
She then lifted his arm, bracing it between her thighs.

He struggled, naturally enough, but she squeezed her legs together, 
pinning the arm helplessly.  She had strength enough to crush the arm 
between her mighty thighs and knew to take care not to squeeze too 
tight, lest she squash the limb to pulp.

She slowly eased the first finger back, easing it past its natural 
tolerance.  The bone cracked with excruciating leisure.  She was 
meticulous in her actions, taking his fingers one at a time, with 
lingering exactitude.

One by one, she took his fingers, bending each of them backwards, 
easing it further and further until Mr Grocer was howling in agony.  
And then the slow and delicious crunching sound of the bone, 
splintering within the flesh - the tearing of ligament and joint.

Each time she was reminded of a Sunday roast, ripping off a leg of 
chicken or a turkey wing.

'Tenfold' she reminded him, letting his wasted hand drop.  His arm fell 
to the ground like a dead limb.

He was sobbing openly.  How quickly the mighty are reduced to such a 
state.  Sarah made a mental note to relate a detailed version of this 
incident to Richard.  It may well please him to hear how his persecutor 
suffered so.

'I said tenfold,' she reminded him.

Mr Grocer didn't seem to appreciate what she was getting at.  He lay 
there, defeated and in more pain then he'd ever known.

'You arm,' she persisted.

'Huh?' he managed, turning his head a little, to see her waiting 
expectantly.

'Now.'

She actually expected him to offer his hand to her.  Yes she did.  She 
truly did.  And he knew the reason too, the fact that she was willing 
and capable to do far more should she so desire, should she not be 
sated.

She knew and she knew that he knew.  And he understood.  So when she 
stood there, expectantly, waiting for him to offer his hand, he 
shuddered but he still lifted his other arm, putting his hand into 
hers.

'Good boy,' she commended, closing her thighs around his forearm, 
holding him steady.

She took the same sadistic relish with these five as she had the 
previous.

But the time she was done, Mr Grocer was sobbing once more, in more 
agony than he had ever deemed possible.  For such a simple torture, it 
was truly effective.  The professional in him made a mental note of the 
fact.  Though, right at this moment he was giving serious consideration 
to retiring.

'Needless to say, this puts us even.  Should you consider an attempt to 
undermine the balance established here this evening, ten broken fingers 
will be the least of your worries.'

Mr Grocer didn't answer, but Sarah knew he'd play by the book.  Men 
like him always did.

She buttoned her blouse and slid her jacket back on.  It was a good 
night's work.  She doubted she'd even need to speak to Victor Smith - 
Grocer's boss - but she liked to do things thoroughly and by the book.

'Can I call you a cab?' she offered.

'I don't live far,' he told her.  He hadn't bothered to move yet, but 
his voice was surprisingly calm.

'Fair enough.'

She buttoned her jacket, smoothed it down, and headed off into the 
night.