Mando Bk. 01: Good Ass/Badass Ch. 04

I stomp my right foot hard enough to crack a walnut. "Know something else, Kammy? I hate hearing myself admitting such a hypocritical thing. A person should have a few personal secrets, though, shouldn't she?" I don't give her time to answer because I'm hyped up. "It's only natural." I laugh. "Not a problem, Kammy because I have the solution. I'm not going, so it's a moot point."

I interrupt myself when another worry question hits me and almost knocks me down for the ten count. "Wait! Oh my god, what if he's married? What if he has a girlfriend? What if he discovers I am a dyke who makes her living as an armed trouble-shooter and extractor? You know what he'll call me, Kammy? A gunslinger for hire. What will I do then? I can't shoot him and risk destroying that magnificent cock. Anyway, if I shoot him, he'll know I carry a gun then and run to the nearest church in search of a confessional."

"Danny, you're doing a good job finding reasons not to go. You're handy with those 'What Ifs. What if he accepts you as you are? What will you do then?"

"You're right. I'm making myself crazy with What if this? What if that? What if, what if, what if?"

Kammy's exasperation is showing and glowing. "Right, so enough already! Get real. You're afraid it'll work out and you will change. Admit it."

I ignore her-or try to. Sometimes she's too smart for my good. Then WHAM! Another "What if" punches me in the nose. "Hell's bells and brass asses, Kammy! What if he has dumped god and goes for me? What if he asks me to marry him? And what if I kiss him and HATE IT? And consider this; I'm the man in my relationship, so what's that make him? Lonely I hope."

She crosses her arms and pats her foot. Her patience is eroding faster than sugar in a candy factory.

"Who am I kidding, Kammy? I can't pretend I'm not a masculine woman. Should I even try?"

"You're a woman, Danny, masculine traits or not. Last time you made a head call without your prosthetic penis you wear for going undercover as a male,   did you squat to pee or scratch your balls and stand at a urinal? If you squatted, you 're a woman through and through. Anyway, I don't think of you as masculine; you're just a bad-ass bitch, right? No mustache, beard, or..."

"OK, wise cracker, I ain't a man with a split instead of a dick. Hell, I'm a woman, for real, but how much of a one I don't know even though I say I do. How should I know anyway? It's a problem I can't solve with a weapon or my fist. I'm out of my depth Kammy, and you goddamn well know it."

She looks smug and says, "I see."

That pisses me off and sends me on a tirade. "Kammy, I don't know what you see, but all I see are questions and no fucking answers. Just as sure as hound dogs lick their balls and scratch for flees, the smartest course of action is to forget the whole thing, change my name and finish going insane. This uncertainty has morphed me from a warrior to a worrier, damn it all to Texas and tax audits."

Now I'm huffing and puffing and walking back and forth in front of Kammy and venting my distress on her. "I'm serious, Kammy, more serious than a coyote in a chicken coup or a one legged man on a galloping horse. I should forget this whole Gino business and tell that reunion coordinator to dry up and blow away. If I don't dump this junk and jail my jumbled thoughts and clear my messed up mind, he'll be a blip on my screen even if I feel like my heart is ripped out of my chest and hurled in the path of stampeding turtles. Know why? I don't want to be screwed up by a god damn identity crises; I want to stay a dyke, damn it!"

I anchor both hands on my hips and yell at that backward priest who is screwing with my head instead of helping me screw it back on. "GET OUTTA MY HEAD, Gino! GO! Scoot! Scat! Good riddance! I'm NOT going to that miserable reunion, so forget it and forget me. You best be listening boy!"

Kammy thinks I'm trying to be funny. Nope. My custom body armor is bulletproof, but I'm not, and I don't like being reminded of it.

"Laugh all you like, Kammy.  I admit I'm curious about that beautiful, lovable, sexy, thick, hard cock, but is it even possible for a dyke to hang up her lean, mean, macho persona, and acknowledge she is a mere mortal and take the weekend off? Damn it all, I'm still vacillating. That bastard didn't vacate my head like a good little Priest should; he's homesteading."

Kammy nods. "Seems like he is, alright. But listen up Danny. Maybe checking out the other side will give you new insights about yourself. It's worth a onetime shot, isn't it?"

"Get real, Kammy, and face the truth."

"And that truth is...?

"Truth is I'm so masculine I'll look like a drag queen dressed in that fancy dress and my face all looking like it's made of porcelain and acrylic paint. And my purse will be a gunny sack because it'll have my guns in it. Why should I even consider going? Makes no sense. Humph!" 

"Maybe not, but if you don't go you're guaranteed not to see the dick of your dreams. Gotta be with the man who owns it before you can hold it again. Right?"

"Of course, right, smart-ass. Now stop being right!"

"****

    "Kammy, did you book our hotel room at the hotel hosting the reunion?"

"Yes. I made the arrangements the same day you registered to attend."

"OK. That means I can go into the room as King Dyke, and leave as a drag queen. Minimum exposure, that'll work. But get a grip, girl; a dyke wearing makeup? Get real, Lucile.  I'll either look like a transvestite trolling for a date or a ten-dollar ho that accepts credit cards. Oh my god, I'll never hear the last of it if my friends see me looking like the girls I date."

I brood over the makeup thing. I swear I ought to fire that bitch. She's so efficient, so loyal, and damn it, sometimes she's right. Too many times. I don't like telling her that though. The heifer will think I've gone soft, and I can't have that.

I suddenly jump from my chair and start clucking like a chicken. "Cluck, cluck, cluck;  my brain laid a golden idea egg."

Kammy rolls her eyes. "Uh-oh. I shudder at the idea of venturing into your mind, what's this stupendous idea?"

"Ha! Hot damn, Kammy, this is the ideal solution. Here's the thing. I'll be a gay fellow wearing designer jeans and a silk shirt with an open collar and walk with a swish and a limp wrist on my way to the hotel room. No one will have a clue who I am."   The second I hear myself tell the plan I realize that egg is a fake. It's an empty plastic egg containing nothing but empty promises. I cross my arms and glare at Kammy. "Like Hell, I will!

    **** 

It's getting close to show time but I have a problem. My master escape plan has a glitch. Kammy left my Bike at the dealership for servicing, the sneaky bitch. It will be no surprise if she posts a security guard in the hall with a whistle. But the sneaky chink is always there for me. She hired a fashion consultant to select my wardrobe, hairstyle, and  makeup. That snooty fashion consultant bitch spent enough money on the dress alone to buy a good sniper rifle or a custom pistol or top notch silencer. Dress nothing. It is an evening gown. An EVENING GOWN for ONE evening? That woman must be on commission is all I can figure. The makeover charge? Sheesh! That is a down payment on a corporate jet. I can't fly it, shoot it, drive it, or blow anything up with it. What a waste. And shoes for twelve hundred dollars? Good god in a fox hole! Even the underwear cost as much as a good officer's uniform. 

I endure the makeover, but have a canary when those coiffure cows pack my face in mud. Having my eyebrows plucked and legs waxed is like POW torture training. The manicure and pedicure are ridiculous enough, but being a one woman fashion show for a bunch of "experts" is humiliating. They carry on, saying how beautiful I am. I finally have enough and yell at them. "What's the matter with you Nazis? How could you do this to me?"

The bitches are upset. "But Ms Sterling, you are spectacular!"

"I know! That's the point! I look like a god damn fashion model."

The mama fashion bitty says, "That is wonderful, no?"

"You don't get it do you? I look... so, um "

"Feminine?" Kammy says. "Like a Lady?"

"Yes, damn it! Like a high brow society lady. What's next? A poodle and high tea with the Queen of god damn England?"

Kammy is laughing so hard the ladies relax and ask her, "Oh. It's OK, then, yes?"

Kammy stops laughing long enough to say, "Yes, she'd be happier if you replaced the wig with a mustache, and the gown for a sharkskin suit and silk tie."

I hurl a huffy retort at Kammy. "OK, smart ass! Get me some goddamn wingtip shoes, a belt with a buckle big enough to use as a weapon, and a fedora to go with that sharkskin suit."

Now the ladies are laughing. "This is for a man, no?"

Kammy shakes her head and I sulk. "Yes, she gets confused sometimes."

Then she gives me a sly, knowing grin. "Danny, just think about that big, um, who you're going to see, and it'll be OK for one night, right?"

I glare at her.

"Right?"

"Oh, alright, Kammy, but I ought to fire you for this wig!"

One of the fairy nice fashion boys says, "But Ms. Stirling, think how easy it'll be to do your hair." That's what that hotly-toddy limp wrist fairy bitch said. He's probably a tyranny she-male drag queen wearing lace panties and a pop-up bra when he/she goes out dining and dancing. Humph! When does the bastard think I'll ever where a wig again or have somewhere to wear it to? I'll use it as kindling to start a campfire. Hmf.

I give up and give in. "Oh, alright, Kammy. But just for this one night. Tomorrow I want leathers, boots, and my painted pony named Harley. Got it?"

She giggles. "You might want to wait until Monday. This may be a hot weekend."

With that I brighten up. "Hey, that's right. I might not be wearing this rig for long! The wig goes off my head when I go to bed. And this gown is going down."

Kammy helps freshen up the makeup and stands back looking pleased with herself for dragging me through this "Lady" malarkey. She smiles, props her left elbow on her right arm and taps her lips with her forefinger as she studies me. "You're a beautiful woman, Danny."

"A WHAT? YOU HUSSY! I don't want to be like those high class women with poodles with perms and Pomeranian puppies with pink ribbons and goddamn pug nose long hair cats that look snootier than their owners. Or be a part of bridge clubs and god damn gossip sessions while getting pedicures, French manicures, getting my hair frosted, and reading Dear fucking Abby or sipping sissy foo-foo drinks like pineapple daiquiris, pin coladas, blue Hawaiian, and fucking Moscow mules, while watching Dr. Phil! If they want to be super feminine models, have at it, but leave me the hell out of being forced to look like the stereotype that suggest that's the way "real women look." I don't have to wear a goddamn dress, wig, and pumps for god's sake to be woman. I'm a woman no matter what!"

I stare at the stranger in the mirror with a beautiful face, stylish hair, red nails, and expensive Jewelry." Damn it, Kammy, I want to be the woman I am, not a queen for the day." The heifer tunes out my bad side. She does that sometime. Now she is smiling and looking smug as she's holding out the dress. "Time for the dress, Cinderella."

"That 's no dress you ninny! It's an elegant evening gown for models, movie stars, and high class rich bitches."

"Um, News flash, Danny, you are a rich bitch."

"Alright already! But I don't have to look like one to be one." I turn away from the mirror and face her. "Why isn't that a suit, or corduroy trouser with a turtle neck knit shirt, sports coat, and snake skin boots?"

"They are still in the redneck section with bubba caps, plaid shirts, coveralls, and shit kicking boots." The smart ass always has a comeback.

"Damn, Kam, that isn't for me, it's for a prissy sissy to wear to the opera with her best friend's husband, and you know it. What's more, it makes me, um, you know."

"Makes you look like a Lady?"

"Yes, damn it,! Like a glitzy fashion model ready for a photo shoot or a ritzy glitzy trophy wife at a  five hundred dollar a plate fundraiser dinner to provide clothes for nudist colonies in Siberia. Like I told you at the fucking POW makeover camp, these clothes are not for an earthy person like me. They make me look fragile and delicate and..and..

"And beautiful. And gorgeous. And successful. And refined. And sophisticated. Danny, this elegant dress is perfect for the evening and perfect for you."

My hands are on my hips, my legs are spread apart, and my furrowed eyebrows hang over my eyelids like awnings. I stare at her and she stares back. Finally, I give in. After all, I've already bought and paid for the stuff, so I'll bite the bullet and wear it-and an ankle holster. If I wear clothes without a gun, I'll still be naked.

Kammy has a mackerel when she sees the gun holster wrapped around my ankle packed with a Smith and Wesson Body Guard 380. That girl knows I hate mackerel.

"OK, god damn it Danny, strap on your cannon. You should have considered that when choosing the dress' length! I don't give a bamboo shoot where you carry your gun as long as you get your ass to the prom. Maybe everyone will consider the gun on your ankle an accessory. I hope your holster matches your god damn Gucci purse and shoes!"

    "OK, Sammy Kammy. How about I get a Gucci holster to match?" I sigh and pull a vindictive acquiescence. "Oh, all right, I'll shove a derringer up my cunt. It'll be in my coochy instead of a Gucci. How about that for a hot fashion statement? It might even start a new trend."

She giggles. "Oh no! If you stash it in there you might shoot his cock off!" Her high pitch laugh and giggles fill the room.

I pretend to be horrified. "My god, Kammy, No!."

She squeals. "If it's that double barrel derringer you'll shoot his cock and his balls off. I think you should rethink that derringer's hideout. It'll be risky when you get frisky." She's laughing and giggling so hard I worry she'll crack a rib or chip a tooth.

"OK, OK! I'll carry my three eighty in my purse and my slim nine caliber in the side pocket for quick access, damn it." Then I flash a happy look at Kammy. "Now that we've solved that problem I'll hurry back to worrying."

Kammy grins. "You've become a pro at that."