Puerto Rican Princess
by MBP  MWFAN318@aol.com 
In the Bronx, a man runs afoul of a gang.


My name is Andrew and I'm a troubleshooter for a large computer consulting
company. My present assignment was for a term of four months. The assignment
was to repair a computer system that just wasn't functioning properly. The
Oracle back end performed poorly; the Visual Basic front end had all kinds of
bugs. I needed to be on-site in The Bronx (New York City).

I was subletting an apartment in Manhattan and took the "D" train to the 161st
street station in the Bronx. This is the stop for Yankee stadium. I could see
it in the distance as I walked in the opposite direction to the site. The
surrounding area, which many considered to be dangerous, was actually not a
problem. There was a large outdoor/indoor mall with a movie multiplex and a
food court. Attached was a supermarket, a bank, and plenty of stores. Vendors
sold bagels and hot coffee. There were many different groups of people working
and living in the area. It was cosmopolitan, and it felt safe.

I was nearing my office after working there three days when I heard a
commotion and went over to investigate. There was a group of girls rolling
around on the ground. Under that group, a young black boy was pinned. Several
girls were holding him while the others punched him. Without thinking, I ran
over and grabbed several of the girls and pulled them off the boy. He took
advantage of the confusion and took off. I turned, as one of the girls said
something.

"Let him go," the girl admonished. "We'll get Jamal later." She glanced at the
other girls. In unison, the girls formed a circle around me. I moved to leave
the circle, but the arms of the girls stayed intertwined and I was forbidden
to leave. I began to get nervous.

I looked over the girls surrounding me. There were nine of them. They appeared
to be Hispanic and of Junior High school age, probably between 12 and 14. It
didn't look like an official gang, as some of the girls were in skirts and
sandals, while others were in blue jeans and sneakers. They did wear one thing
in common: white tee-shirts that stated in bold, black letters - Puerto Rican
Princesses.

One of the girls stepped forward. It was the one who originally spoke. She was
also in a skirt and sandals, but her tee-shirt was pink. I decided she was
probably the leader. She was around 13, less than 5 feet tall, and very
pretty. She looked up at me from a disadvantage of more than a foot.

"The big hero comes to the rescue," the girl said, thrusting out her jaw in
one of those movie tough-guy impressions. She stood there looking at me,
amused.

"Look, I don't want any trouble," I said as calmly as I could with my heart
racing. "Just let me be on my way."

The girl laughed. "Now he wants no trouble," she said, causing the others to
giggle. "The big hero doesn't want to fight."

Hell, no, I didn't want to fight. I was at least a foot taller than any of
them and twice as old, but there were nine of them. I couldn't fight with
little girls. I looked around for assistance, but the passers-by pointedly
walked straight ahead without a glance. There were no police in sight. I edged
to the end of the circle, but the girls held firm.

"The only way out of the circle is through me," the girl said.

I looked at her in disbelief. "You're crazy. There's no way I'm going to fight
you."

"You're gonna fight," she said, giving me a hard push. She followed with
another one and I fell back into the circle. The girls pushed me back.

"No," I said glancing around again for help. The only people watching were
well away from the fray.

The girl kicked at me unexpectedly, just missing catching me flush on my
groin. I moved away from her but I couldn't go far, as the circle was intact.
I pushed at the girls but was unable to free myself.

"I'm not going to fight a little girl!" I cried, as loudly as possible. Nobody
seemed to hear.

"No one is going to help you," the girl sneered, a wicked grin on her pretty
face. "They don't want to get hurt. But you are."

With that, the girl kicked at me again. This time I was ready and blocked the
kick. She fell to the ground and got up seething.

"You're going to pay for that," she said angrily, advancing towards me
menacingly. I did my best to stay away from her, but the circle was small.

She threw a punch which turned out to be a fake. As I moved to block it, she
brought her knee up into my stomach. The blow hurt as she followed it up with
another one. I felt some wind get knocked out of me as I backed away. The
circle kept me close, though, so I moved away from her, watching for movement.
I couldn't swing at her; could not get myself to do it, so I waited for action
from her. She did not disappoint.

The girl threw a fast, surprisingly hard punch at my chest. I couldn't block
or evade it and it landed solidly. I heard myself grunt, but I also took
advantage of her closeness to grab hold of her, spinning the girl so her back
was against me. I held her arms tightly, wrapped around her midsection, very
closely, so it was difficult for her to move. The other girls came towards me
but she said "No!" and they reformed the circle. The girl and I struggled as I
attempted to immobilize her.

Holding her proved extremely difficult. She was in constant motion and very
strong: nearly as strong as me. But I held on gamely, so she tried a different
tactic. She drove her sandal into my instep, causing severe pain. This freed
one of her arms which she used to drive a fist into my groin. Although it did
not connect solidly, the girl was now completely free. She grabbed the fingers
of my right hand with her own and twisted. I felt something pop, and screamed.
Continuing with the same arm, she pulled at it while pushing against me with
one leg and anchoring with the other. I felt my shoulder dislocate as my
screaming continued. The girl stepped back to review her handiwork.

My right arm was completely useless and I was in a lot of pain. My young
opponent got into a boxing stance, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet.
I had no choice but to try to hit her. I swung at her but missed wildly. It's
very difficult to fight one-handed; there is no way to really balance
yourself. The girl bounced in and threw some jabs and combinations. I could
not defend myself with one arm, so I just keep trying to punch. But I wasn't
landing anything. She waded in and connected solidly with punch after punch. I
couldn't stop it, and I couldn't hit her. I tried holding her, but with only
one good arm, I couldn't even clinch effectively. I felt blood all over my
face as she continued to pepper me with blows. Finally, she took a half-step
away from me to get a little leverage and caught me with a beautiful right
hand. I went down hard, my head swimming, barely conscious.

I was aware of the other girls gathering around her, congratulating her on her
victory. To their credit, they could have taken advantage of my helplessness
and beaten me senseless. But they didn't. The girls moved away from me
laughing as I struggled to get up. It wasn't easy, but I managed. I was also
lucky. A gypsy cab passed by and stopped at my wave. The driver took one look
at me and said he would take me to a hospital. I got in the taxi, and finally
passed out.

I awoke in the hospital, in bed, with a police officer nearby, just outside my
room. My right arm was in a sling; my fingers covered with gauze and bandages.
I could feel ointment and bandages on my face. But I was in no pain. The IV
needles were pumping in some strong stuff; later I was given Tylenol Codeine,
and eventually graduated down to Advil.

The cop came in to ask me some questions. I would have been willing to bet he
knew of the Princesses. This would have allowed an easy arrest. But what was I
going to tell him: that some little girl beat the crap out of me all by
herself? So I did what anyone would do in this situation: I lied. I told the
officer I was hit on the head during the mugging so I didn't see my assailant
(or assailants). He knew I was lying. I still had my wallet (an honest cab
driver - go figure), and there was no bump on my noggin. I gave him nothing to
go on, so he just gave me his card and told me I should come to the station
"if I remember anything." I watched him leave, shaking his head at the waste
of his time. I was in the hospital just one more day, before I was let out.

It was two weeks before I could leave my apartment. It probably wasn't too
bright, but I decided to finish my stint in the Bronx. I was still wearing the
sling, plus a bandage on one of my fingers. I went to work every day and
minded my own business, and had no problems for a week.

Then one day, I glanced across the street as I neared my office, and there was
the girl. She was wearing the usual pink shirt, with a black skirt and black
flip-flops. She smiled broadly as she saw me. I simply stopped and stared,
trying to understand, as I had tried the past couple of weeks, how this pretty
young girl had put me into a hospital. She knew what I was thinking and posed
a bit; she thought it was pretty funny. It probably was, but I wasn't
laughing.

I saw her every day in the same spot for the next week, but nothing happened.
She wasn't with her friends. Every morning she'd acknowledge my presence, and
I'd nod back. Then one morning I looked over and she wasn't in the usual spot.
I was looking while I was walking, and walked into her. I looked over to say
"excuse me" but there she was. I could feel fear coursing through me; I was
petrified. She reached over to take my hand; I covered up.

"Don't worry," the girl said. "I'm not going to hit you. Come with me."

I couldn't refuse. We walked hand-in-hand for fewer than two minutes. I didn't
know where she was taking me, but I was scared shitless. We entered an old
building that looked abandoned where she led me into a large room. There were
lots of old sofas and chairs around, plus a few beds. There were also quite a
few girls there, probably more than 20. They were wearing the now-familiar
white tee-shirt along with their other clothing. In one corner of the room, I
noticed something interesting.

There was a young girl, no more than 10 or 11, with a tall, black kid who
looked about 15. She had him under control, with his arm up behind his back
and his head pushed against a table. She wasn't dressed like the others; I
figured this was her initiation. The girl held the boy there while another
girl came over with what looked like a branding iron that is used with cattle.
The latter pulled up his shorts to reveal the boy's upper thigh. She pressed
the iron against it. The boy screamed and I could smell burning flesh. I was
too engrossed to remember who I was with. She pulled at my hand, and took me
over to the table.