Mando Bk. 01: Good Ass/Badass Ch. 02

Mando 1, chapter 2

CHAPTER 2: THE DYKE

DANNY continues her story

When I joined the Marines I hadn't yet accepted that I am a Dyke. A lesbian, plain and simple. Since guys treated all women marines as dykes, the label didn't separate me from the other women in uniform.

I had been home a week, after eight years in the Marines, the night I went to a lesbian bar with some friends. We play pool, drink beer, and peddle our bullshit like it is pure gold. Close to midnight four drunk men stagger into the bar, find a table and order drinks. One man quickly looks around and leans in and says in a stage whisper. "Hey guys, we're the only men in this place."

The others do a quick survey and the guy to his right laughed. "Holy shit! Looks like we're in a queer girly bar." They roar with laughter. "Let's get some lesbo pussy, boys."

Another chimes in, "Yeah! Let's introduce these ladies to the joy of being fucked with a real dick." He saunters up to the bar to hit on a girl sipping a bloody Mary. She whirled around to face him. "Fuck off, Buster." He keeps talking shit and tries to kiss her. She backs away and yells, "Get the hell out of my face and leave me alone!"

I've been trained by the Marines, Navy Seals, the CIA, the FBI, and other specialists, to operate as an independent black ops agent. Since I am a high dollar, low profile specialist who takes assignments few can do, I am always on call. I keep my alcohol consumption low, and my gear in my van or hotel room. I view these boys as a nuisance instead of a challenge.

No one takes charge to face these assholes down, so I elect myself sheriff. The second time the girl yelled at him he ignored her objections, and put his arm around her. "All I want is a good fuck, honey. No big deal and no strings attached." He laughs. Meantime the other guys are hitting on two girls on the dance floor. When I hear a fourth girl struggling with these jerks I know we can't let them ruin the girls' evening. I stand up and shout. "Listen up you swinging dicks! You've had your fun, now move on. This is no place to cause trouble. Finish your drinks and find another bar."

Judging from the Tattoos, scruffiness, and age, I think these men are Merchant Marine sailors off one of the many freighters and merchant vessels in port. I peg them to be in their forties. Two are stocky Samoan types with gold chains dangling around their necks and gold-capped front teeth. One is a tall, white, man who is more ink than skin. His flushed face and veins visible in his nose, tell of a life of too much beer, rum, and wild women. His eyes, like the others, are glassy from a pint too many. The fourth is a big, heavy-set Hispanic full of piss and vinegar, ready to fuck and fight, in any order. He has all the scars and carriage of a brawler.

They nod at each other, square their shoulders and come at me from different directions. I move away from the tables and wait. My heart is pounding against my chest in a steady rhythm, as adrenaline pumps through my veins, powering up for a fight - something I'm exceptional at.

One shouts, "Hey bitch, just what do you think you can do against four big ass men? You ain't dyke enough for one, much less four." The rest of them laugh like this is the funniest thing they ever heard.

I intended to avoid a fracas at first, but their condescending tone and "you're just a girl" expressions kindles an angry fire within me. I change my mind and goad them. "Maybe, but this is a bar, not a gym or fight club." The muscles in my face tighten, and the veins pulse in my temples. I grit my teeth going into fight mode. "It's the wrong place to pick a fight. These girls are here for fun, not for pussies with BB's for balls and sawdust for brains to hassle."

They bristle. "So, you think you can take us, bitch?" The sumo wanna-be challenges. He comes toward me. "Me and Howard here are about twice your size. All one of us has to do is sit on you, and your bitch ass is fucked. You'll be at our mercy." The one he called Howard says, "Yeah, bitch, your pussy ass is going down. I eat cunt for breakfast."

The bartender yells. "Hey, you guys; PLEASE take that outside. I don't want my place torn up."

I motion the girls to the opposite wall out of harm's way and wait until they're safe before baiting the men. "In that case, I guess I'll just have to shove your balls up your ass and send you crawling home to your mamas. You sissy bitch's best clear out while you can still walk."

They freeze and glare at me like I'd slapped them with a dead fish. This turned them into hissing tomcats "Let's get that cunt, boys," one of them says.

I make the time-out sign with my hands." Just one minute, boys; if you want to fight in this bar, put a hundred dollar bill each on the counter for damages."

Smart Mouth snaps, "Who the hell do you think you are giving orders, you stupid cunt?"

I cross my arms and don't back down. "Either put your money where your mouths are or take your sissy asses down the yellow brick road. If you feel tough enough to play rough, OK, but pay for damages first. Otherwise, we'll know you bunch of pussies are all talk and no balls."

All four faces turned beet red, and each one plunked five twenties each in front of the bartender. "Please take your fight outside guys." She appeals to me. "Please?"

I nod toward a picture on her wall. She glances at the picture and does a double take. She looks back at me and then the picture of a world boxing champion taken about eight years earlier and arches her eyebrows. I nod and say. "Yes." She grins and relaxes because the last world championship title I won was against men. I challenged their title holder for the world championship boxing title and won. After that, I finished college and joined the Marines.

She smiled at the men and swiped the money off the bar.  All four combatants go to the pool cue rack and grab a cue each and snap them in half. They toss the narrow end away and keep the butt-end for a club. Apparently they have done this routine before.

"Time for your lesson in manners, Dyke. You ready for humiliation? I hope so, 'cause your cunt will get cock-whipped in front of your friends."

I eye the clubs and shake my head. "Weapons, boys? I intended to fight clean, but you've changed that. Fools who draw weapons on me don't walk away with their bones intact." My lips twist into a smile.

"Oh yeah? Are you going to talk us to death, or fight?" They take their first step in my direction and I do what my Marine father taught me after asking me what the fighter's primary mission was. "To win?" I guessed.

"No, Soldier. Winning is for sports fighting. Outside in this dog eat dog world, 'winning' is the result, not the main goal."

This had me confused. "Sir?"

"Avoid fights when possible. But if the challenger won't back off, your only goal is to end the fight as soon as possible on your own terms. Finish in the shortest time possible, like just after it begins."

That sounded weird at the time. "Sir? Why?"

"Danny," he said, "if you end the fight fast on your terms you walk away, but the attacker either crawls away or leaves on a stretcher. When fighting multiple attackers, disable each one and put him down once. Never give a challenger a second chance in a real fight."

"OK, but why Dad?"

He pats me on the head like dads do. "Because each tick of the clock increases your chance of defeat. This is doubly true when multiple opponents are involved. Remember this, Marine: Punches don't end fights, but breaking bones does. You walk away; they crawl or get carried away on a stretcher or ambulance."

Smart man, my Marine father. I snatch two heavy glass ashtrays from the table beside me and hurl them like sailing Frisbee at two men's eyebrows. The hits are solid and both keel over backward. The other two rush me so fast I barely have time to hurl another ashtray at a knee. 

His kneecap crunches with a thwack, and the man curses, grabs his knees and hops on one leg yelling, "You mother fucker, you broke my knee cap! "You'll pay for this, you bitch ass mother fucking cunt!"

The white dude grabs a chair by the back, hefted it over his head, and sends it flying towards me. I sidestep the bulk of it, but a leg caught me on the collar bone sending a sharp pain reverberating in my shoulder. "Son of a bitch!" I yell, and whip a heavy steak knife at his left shoulder. I throw hard enough to sink the blade to the bone. The look of surprise on that bastard's face is comical.

I grimace. "You chose to use weapons, boys? Bad idea. Any other fools want to play?"

Howard does. He throws his club hard and fast. I don't have time to duck, so I block with my left arm and throw a heavy glass ashtray at his head with my right hand. It connects with a 'thunk.' His eyes roll back in his head, and he drops like a sack of wet concrete. My arm hurts, but no broken bones.

Meanwhile, the Spanish brawler with the broken kneecap, goes berserk and throws his club whizzing past my ear. His throwing arm immediately smashes a beer bottle bottom on the bar. The wild-eyed maniac hobbles over to me holding the bottle by the neck, brandishing sharp, jagged teeth-like edges of the lethal weapon. He holds onto the bar stool with one hand to maintain balance, and swipes at my face with the other. I sidestep into him crashing an elbow into his jaw. The crack of breaking bone is unmistakable. His body hits the bar stool and tumbles to the floor. The heavy bar stool ballast tumbles on top of him with a thud. The aggressor stays down holding his jaw, whimpering like a scolded puppy. His friends moved away from him and out of my reach.

"You fools had enough. Are you ready to leave?"

Howard is too agreeable too soon. "Yeah, yeah. You win. I'll call a cab." I watch him retrieve his phone from the trouser pocket, plop down in a chair, and punch one number. It's possible the taxi company's number is on speed dial, but my vote is for him calling a friend or two nearby to clean up their mess.

I yell at the bartender. Barkeep, call a cab for these boys." She raised her eyebrows and cast a glance at Howard and back at me. "Barkeep, please call a taxi for these ladies." I repeat with a calm forceful voice. She shrugs and dials.

Five minutes later two beefy men the size of pro football linemen barge in. I reckon them to be six three or four and weigh around three hundred fifty pounds each. I smile. Now I have a challenge.

The one in front growls. "What's happening here, Howard?"

Part 2:

Howard keeps one hand over his broken nose to stem the flow of blood and says, "That cunt broke Rolando's jaw! Stuck Frog with a knife, and gave me and Blue concussions."

The men aren't explaining or claiming their guilt. I address Howard. "Tell them why." The four are mum, so I explain. "Those four attacked me with clubs. I stopped them before they could reach me. End of story."

The man in front speaks. "Those are our friends, bitch! It's high time you learn who to fuck with and who to let be," He waves his clenched fists at me.

I face both men. "If you feel like frogs, jump." The girls behind me gasp, and a few "oh my gods" reach my ears. These men are powerhouses with arms the size of my thighs. I've learned over the years that powerhouses have a tendency to underestimate opponents they consider weaker or no challenge. Brutes like these don't think there's a woman alive who stands a chance against them, even if they fight blindfolded with one thumb up their ass. I know these boys will come in half-cocked and I'm half nothing. I'm ready.

The one with a gorilla nose, fury eyebrows and thick mustache, pushes his sandy-haired friend aside. "I've got this pushy pussy, Wayne."

I relax my muscles but take no fighter stance. This adds to the brawler's overconfidence. "What's the matter, bitch? Ain't you going to fight me, or are you showing good sense? Never mind, 'cause I'm gonna turn you over my knee, and spank your bare ass for this crowd to watch. What do you think about that?"

"I think you're so full of shit, it's no wonder your eyes are brown."

"Why you..." He rushes in swinging without connecting. He does a good impression of a shadow boxer because he beats and churns the air around him, but nothing else.

Trying to hit me is like swinging at a hummingbird. When he throws his killer power punch, hard enough to crush a wall of flint, he hits nothing but air. Since I'm not there to stop his battering ram arm and fists, they pass me at the velocity of a rifle slug, and don't stop until his arm is brutally yanked from its socket. I duck, weave, bob, and play with him long enough for him to realize, hitting a ghost is easier than hitting the Dancing Hummingbird. That's what sportswriters called me in my professional boxing days.

I swing once and deck his fat ass.

"Hag!" Enraged, he jumps to his feet and runs head-on into my powerhouse right hook. He teeters on his feet long enough for me to plow my right knee into his groin, crushing his stones and depriving him of any future heirs. He grabs his balls, and I finish the show with gifts of cracked ribs, a black eye, and a broken nose. The bastard' s eyelids slipped down over his eyes like window shades. His knees buckle, and he goes down faster than an elephant on roller skates. Now he'll either behave or I'll add a broken arm to his troubles.

He wakes up and looks around for a few seconds before remembering where he is. He attempts to move and winces. "You mother fucker! You broke my arm."

"No, your ribs and nose are broken; your shoulder is merely out of joint," I calmly reply. "But stay tuned big boy, there's more to come."

I hear the rustle of clothing and the sound of feet behind me as his friend charges in to avenge the others. I whirl and dive with my body perpendicular to his legs and my head away from his body. I use my legs like the blades of scissors to catch his left shin just below the knee with my right leg, and above his knee with my left. When I jerk the scissors closed his shinbone goes up, and his thigh goes down. The knee trapped in the middle pops like a pistol shot followed by a shout of pain and a growl of white-hot anger fueled by primeval animal rage.

"Cocksucker! I will rip off your head and shove it up your ass!"

Quick as a gnat can blink I snatch his wrist with both hands and give it a quick twist and jerk. He hollers and grabs his broken wrists. "You goddamn dyke, you'll pay for that!"

I hold eye contact with him. "You're a cripple with one good hand. What's your next move, shit-for-brains?"

When he reaches behind his back with his good hand I know it's not to scratch his ass, he's going for a gun. I leave mine holstered and leap beside him in a kicking stance doing a three-sixty power spin. My heel strikes the base of his skull, propelling his head face down for a rude kiss from the cold, hard floor with a panoramic view of stark reality. He hits the floor with a loud thwack!. The pistol-packing drunk dude is decked and down for a forced nap.

I hustle over to his sidekick, slap the side of his head hard enough to stun the fool, jerk him upright against the wall, grab his belt buckle and jerk his belt out of the loops. Next, I yank his pants and underwear down to his knees, before spinning him around and slamming his face and belly on the nearest table.

"Know what time it is, dick wad?" I ask cheerfully and then snarl, "it's humiliation time!" I double the belt and whip his naked ass redder than a ripe tomato. WHAP! "Is this what you planned for me?" WHAP! "You stupid mother fucker, did your mama drop you on your head after your ugly ass was born?" WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! "Learn when to shit and when to quit, and you just might keep your bones intact."

I put a stop to his struggling by slapping his cracked rib and giving his bad arm a jerk. "You mother fucking cunt. You're dead meat!"

I laugh. "What's the matter? You don't like being treated the way you treat others? You're just getting what you promised me." I give him two more hard whacks and roll him off the table. He hits the floor with a bounce and a grunt and stays still.

"You've not seen the last of me, you punk-ass bitch," He snaps, trying to hold onto his pride.

"Sorry, dude," I shrug. "If you want a piece of me, you'll have to come to San Francisco because I'm leaving tomorrow."

The bartender calls out, "Champ, the cab is here."

"Good. Girls, let's take out the trash." We help the losers to their rides, and I check in with the bartender. "Barkeep, I'm sorry about all this, but don't worry about them bringing a wrecking crew to tear me and your bar apart. I won't be here to attract trouble because I'm just in town a day. Does their money cover all damages?"

She looks around and says, "What damage? I think those fools took all the damage with them." She slaps the four hundred dollars into my hand.

I shove it back to her. "Pool cues ain't cheap, and run a tab for the girls with the balance.'

She grins, clamps the cash in her fist and then shouts, "Hey girls, what about this bad-ass dyke? Who'll buy her a beer or her favorite cheer?"

I know if I guzzle all the beer these girls offer, I'll still be pissing this time tomorrow night. I chuckled at the thought.

She pointed at me and hollers another question. "Who thinks this is one bad-ass dyke?

The girls cheer. "You are a bad bitchin' dyke," Shouts one. "Yeah, baby, you are one ballsy mother fucker."

Another adds, grinning. "No shit, dude. The room is too crowded for me to see this one's face. "You are one mean ass mother fucking ball breaking bitch." The other girls shout out quips like,

"Damn straight."

"Meanest I've seen."

"Fucking A."

"Seeing that mother fucker get spanked is the highlight of my year."

My chest swells with satisfaction and the feeling of being home. That's when I finally accepted myself as a dyke..

The bartender yells out again. "How many of you recognize the champ?"

The girls stare with blank faces. "Champ?"

"Yes." She takes down the picture behind her and shows it to the girls gathered around the bar. A tall, masculine woman scratches her head. "Well tan my hide, Clyde, if you ain't Danny Sterling, the Dancing Hummingbird!"

A girl beside her quips, "Who?"

"The girl that took the World Champion boxing title away from Iceberg Jack Glacier."

"Exclamations like Wow!, "no shit," and "I'll be damned" follow her comment.

"Hey Champ, you were buff back then. What has eight years out to pasture done to that fighting machine body from yesteryear?"

The bartender slugged the tall blond on the shoulder. "Damn you Kanner, don't embarrass our guest."

I chuckle, step up on a chair and announce;  I'll show you, but first, any phone video clips made of the fight must be erased. The fallout could damage the Hummingbird foundation's reputation and donations. Imagine headlines like, Founder of the largest shelter for battered women beats men without mercy. If that is what women are taught at her shelter, who will shelter men from those women? Talk shows and comedians drool over shit like that." I shake my head. "Not to mention the fight being in a lesbian bar. That would label the foundation as a lesbian center and dyke's hospital. All our as graduates would automatically be considered lesbians, and highly qualified female doctors might not join the staff to avoid being assumed to dykes. God fearing may forgo much needed treatment for terminal because of the connection. And on it goes. Are you on board with me on this?"

The bartender bellows. "Shit, you're one tough bitch, and that foundation has been a lifeline for thousands of women over the years, I'm not giving those motherfuckers a goddamn thing to use against it or cause women not to get treatment or reasons for employers not to hire or promote women graduates. We know all about that, don[t we girls?