Karen and the quiet room




"Alright then," the sarge muttered. "We'll let her deal with it."

In the police station rec room there was a buzz to this. Let Karen loose on
the guy? Fine. No problems, don't ask. Whatever the problem is, going from
sarge to Karen means something big. There weren't many cops around to hear him
say this. By and large such things weren't said around that big an audience,
but word got round. A woman of average height, slender build, wasn't supposed
to be able to whip other guys around like that. Like rag dolls. Slap the shit
out of the heavy handed dolts that knocked their kids around or put their
wives in hospital. Or were just nasty bastards, only not provably so.

"I like to think the average jury has a mind above a six year old kid," said
the sarge one time over coffee. "Just a little cut above. But you know what?
You stand near a jury room some time. The stupidest things. Like, how much
evidence do you need? How many fingerprints? How many ... ." But the sarge was
often one step away from the Dirty Harry school of judicial behaviour. Karen
was a nice woman in her late twenties, probably with enough between her ears
to keep from sharing the sarge's views.

As she entered the room, you could see she was in good shape. Trim figure, not
buxom by any stretch but she had her charms. Always nicely turned out, an
elegant touch in clothing. Well spoken with a good education, and
confrontational in slow stages, a progressive and reasoned opponent. Unless
you were in for full attitude correction.

"I've seen guys leave that room like children. Shaken to the core. Guys ...
don't like women turning on them," murmured a colleague after she walked
past. Killer ass.

A small amount of space opened up between Karen and the sarge. Nobody wanted
to hear. Scaring the shit out of someone is a delicate job role. Every police
officer, every authority figure, has an edge. Some of the officers lifted
weights, did boxing or a martial art in their spare time. A lot supplemented
the initial three months of training to keep their confidence up. That was
standard and expected, dealing with all manner of difficult people lead to a
certain edgy state of mind. It was hoped the officers wouldn't go the route of
weapons love to keep them feeling in control. A officer who wants irritant
spray or 200 foot lbs of steel jacketed 9 under the finger every time they
feel challenged is going to be unbalanced before long.

The truth is nobody likes violence if it can scare them. A situation where you
don't feel personally equal to the challenge is a bad load to have on your
back. Moments like that are uncomfortable and walk around with you far longer
than most people care to admit. Those times have lead to many officers getting
a nasty little monkey on their back uncapping belts of scotch at awkward
times, or planting vicious seeds in the head.

But making such a name for yourself as the one person hard nuts take painful
lessons from gets you more elbow room and a little bit more uncomfortable
silence than most people like. Karen accepted it as part of the role, just
like she put in hours of unpaid time giving counselling and advice, often to
people she thought wouldn't listen, or were maybe a waste of time given the
way they lived their lives.

Their brief talk over, she went straight to the last meeting room in the
questioning suite. At her last station some of the guys made jokes about the
last room on the corridor, Dingley Dell the Confession Cell, as one fella
dubbed it after seeing some TV show. Inside this one was a weasel who knew he
wasn't going to be booked. Karen didn't recognise him. He wasn't to be
prosecuted for political reasons, as his brother in law was a property
developer with plenty of local connections and no time for the embarrassments
court appearances might bring.

Last time in this situation the guy walked due to a dextrous lawyer with a
professionally defused conscience, and several high up cops found themselves
relegated in various social pecking orders, and their self respect nagged at
them. Strings were pulled to keep some asshole in police management at a
better table at the Mason's annual piss up or whatever the fuck it was.

The weasel didn't really look at Karen as she went in. He was smoking at
looked up briefly, knowing he was biding time. When he leaned back as Karen
sat down, he stretched and showed yellowing stains under his armpits. Karen
didn't want to grumble, but if she was going to have to handle such detritus,
hosing him down and giving him clothing that wouldn't offend the dignity of
the average self employed cider testing hobo. And at least those guys tended
to have long, involved arguments with only themselves, although more than once
she'd seem a 'country gent' swing for himself mid row. Actually the guy got
himself on the nose with a sweet right hook, an unusual move not often talk in
boxing but there you go.

Karen opened the file.

"You should be booked with child battery and numerous counts of spousal
assault. If it wasn't for certain conditions you'd be inside for several
years."

The weasel ignored her. She continued.

"Clearly your behaviour is not acceptable and I think you're in need of a
lesson."

"Who the fuck are you?"

The guy laughed and smoked a little jerkily.

"Listen, right, I don't let people tell what I'm fucking doing, okay?"

"Fine."

Karen stood up and before the man could react pulled him sharply from his
chair, one hand gripping each shoulder, then slapped him hard across the face.
The blow made a solid impact and the guy could have been hit in the face with
a piece of wood. His head spun and his vision clouded for a moment. A few
seconds later the room became still and clear again. He could see a prim,
beautiful woman with a determined face before him.

He began some insult and stumbled a charge. Karen whacked him again, this time
with the back of her hand. She had taken off her jewellery - two small, simple
rings, one on each hand - before entering the room. The man fell back, this
time one of his hands, outstretched from the impact, tightened against the
desk for support. He lolled back, off balance.

Karen moved around the desk. In itself, nothing in the movement was sinister.
There was no threat. The man - now in a confused state, straightened up. This
wasn't right. Senses becoming a little more balanced now, gradually tuning
back in. His head told him this wasn't right, only it was countered by a
tension in his gut. It felt like his intestines had lassooed his digestive
system. Fuck. He was going to get pounded by a girl, a bitch! Unless he could
lamp her one, yes, that was it. He hadn't connected yet. That was the trick,
that stupid, snotty bitch. Show her.

Karen blocked it and pushed him back slightly with the same arm. She wasn't
going to throw a right cross in his face, her reach was less than his. Damage
what you can reach if they're hitting back, she knew the score instinctively.

Somewhat off balance, the guy piled into her, trying to reel his way over her.
This works in quite a lot of brawls - you can get someone right in your face,
and even if they don't know how to do damage, it's disorientating. You don't
know where to hit. If you're reasonable in this life you don't attack without
cause so you need to see what's going on. Guys like this rely on the all in
approach when causing trouble, relying on the first shock and a few punches to
get the upper hand.

Karen braced herself and pushed forward. A friend of hers - a Welsh girl who
used to work in the station - had played rugby as a Senior. Karen had a lot of
strength and knew how to throw it. She piled into the guy in return, at the
right moment. She'd corrected more than a few and never been shy when some men
had pushed her or her friends around. With the moron hustled back by a sharp
and precise shoulder slam he was all targets. Fights work quickly and the
instinct has to be ahead of the game. Karen had once collected heavy Victorian
furniture. On finding out one piece was a fake - a heavy and expensive one -
she took it back to the crooked dealer, forced a remind out of him and pulled
it apart before his startled eyes, taking a lot of pleasure breaking each
piece into several more, all by hand.

Now she threw a punch, a very sweet right. Clint Eastwood could have studied
the video and made notes. The guy fell back. No time for him to clear his head
and be a nice guy this time. Karen grabbed him by the upper arms and hit him
again, another solid right. Now she closed in, not with a flurry of blows -
and leave the guy to come round in x hours time wondering what his name was?
Big lesson there.

She held him against the wall, hitting him with the flats of her hands every
five, ten seconds or so. She could dodge and weave easily, but pushed him with
the hand she wasn't striking with so he could feel who was boss. Each slap
rang out like she was making his face leather. A half dozen of those and the
guy was all of an urge to live as hermit for the next ten years or so while
those bastard birds stopped dancing around his head and tweeting, making him
even more sick. Fuck the bastard birds!

Karen had a good set of weights she used a lot and a good wardrobe. Now was
when the mess of using the strength the first gave her was coming into
conflict with the desire to keep one's clothes free of blood stains. The man
was reeled, spun out of his senses, but she wasn't sure how much fight he'd
have when his focus returned. This hadn't been decisive yet - she moved at a
good, steady pace and it wasn't that time already.

She powerhoused to his shoulder, letting her fist sink in. His knees adjusted
for the shock. She took a step back. He was wide eyed, worried now, self
preservation levels running way ahead of pride in the emotion pecking order.
She stood between him and the door. He might bolt while she was undressing.

Karen walked to him and put her left straight in his gut. It was a good jab,
her weaker hand though and not at full strength. Enough to pull the wind right
out of him without mercy. She stepped back as he sank, rocking on his heels,
settling half slumped against the wall.

Psychological time now. She surveyed the man on the floor. Now he was about
willing to be dominated.

Crossing the room briskly she double checked the door. She turned and faced
the man, struggling to his feet. She slipped off her jacket - it was a fine,
simply cut black linen. Very stylish. Beneath was a blouse, not too clinging
so it didn't show her figure too much. Small waist and narrow shoulders, small
and gently swelling breasts. She had undone several buttons before he broke
her train of thought.

"Can't fucking do this like that ... " a undermined caveman whining could be
heard.

"Don't talk. I don't want to hear it." She was about to raise her hand and
tell him she didn't warn twice, but the guy was fuck youing to the bitching
cunt of a cop who was fucking well out of order.

Karen walked up to him, her blouse undone. Small and fine breasts in a simple
cotton bra. She grabbed him under the ribs at both sides and pulled him
upright. He had three inches on her easy and a fair amount of shoulder room.
She slammed him with a easy motion. We're in little effort territory here.

"Listen!" She snapped her hand across his face again. Lighter this time, even
so, it shakes the head. "I'm not going to tell you again - no talking."

She made her point even further by wrapping her hands around his belt, her
fingers making a steel grip against his belly. With a sharp jerk at the elbows
she raised the guy from the floor, stepping back from the wall so he could see
it was all strength keeping him up, not wall momentum. His feet dangled two,
three inches from the ground. After leaving it for a few seconds to sink in,
she raised him a couple inches more from the ground.

The guy dangled and Karen adjusted her grip. She pulled tight and the leather
belt snapped off. She released the dickhead as the belt gave, plunging him to
the floor. He was shaken and scared, plus now his pants didn't fit properly.
Some days it never rains but it pours, eh?

At the station the year before Karen wasn't the only woman with blood on her
knuckles. There was a tall woman called Fiona. She was a little bigger than
Vicky, and taught Karen some rugby moves from her college days. Like Karen
she'd taken to weights, like Karen she was very fit and could pack a shitload
of iron without making her arms too Schwarzenneggar. They trained together for
a while.

At her peak, Karen could raise one side of Fiona's old Mini and, while Fiona
steadied it, grip the axle and hoist the fucker like a freeweight. By this
point she had rocks in her arms breaking through from her regular slender
profile and bulging out when properly exerted. Both had eased it down a little
but still kept a fair amount of power lifting going on.

Fiona was a mild woman most of the time, and had a very patient way of working
through situations. She wasn't to be trifled with either. She once reached
into an offensive motorist's car and buckle the guy's steering wheel,
compressing the bakelite with one slender hand until the top nearly met the
steering column, then evening the force with her other hand, snapping it over
and in two. She then neatly extracted the bits through the window, snapped the
wires free and reduced the halves to quarters, breaking them with a quick
decisive snap. It looked effortless. Fiona could manage longer with the Mini
than Vicky. But Karen was extracted a scaffolding pole from a crude builder's
grasp and knotted it for him, twisting the metal with sickening ease. With the
same iron resolve and brisk pace as she showed now.

"You work with tools, right?" said Vicky. She was now undressed, her simple
panties and bra holding in her hot slender figure. She emptied the guy's tool
sack onto the desk. A variety of metal tools. She picked up a Black and
Decker.

"You interrupt me, and I'll take you and do this."

She tightened her fingers around the grip of the electric drill, its handle
seeming too large for her fist. Doing it slowly for maximum effect, Karen
crushed the handle. Firstly the green plastic grip seemed to swell out. Then
it showed small splitting marks. A stretched, buckling sound accompanied her
fingers narrowing their way in and working through the solid, workmanlike
tool. The buckling noise worked to a grind of overpowered hardware as her
fingers demolished away.

Grabbing the attachment with her free hand, she quickly snapped the machine
over in two. She held it out and dropped it onto the table. The solid landing
clank of the wrecked materials reminded the dickhead guy that it's wasn't a
plastic toy. The shattered casing with the twisted, ruined metal showing
through seemed to look up at the guy mournfully. You're fucked, pal, it said
to him.

The only effort visible in Karen was a growing swell in her upper arms, rising
like lemons only once when she snapped the tool. Her forearms were slender
with only minor raises for muscle. She was an extremely woman, and watching
her do this, in her femininity, the underwear tightening attention around her
body as coverings do, inviting the eye. She had a soft swell of an ass, tight
thighs. Her hair was shoulder length and light brown. Intelligent brown eyes
packed with detail and showing into a vibrant mind, set in a sweet English
rose complexion.

She quickly pushed the guy down in his chair and pulled his arms round the
sides of his body. Even though he struggled she was still able to hold him
tightly in place with one firm hand while the other snaked a two inch thick
wooden stake between his arms and his back. She then secured him with the belt
she'd snapped off him earlier, a simple knot.

"Right. Let's make this quick."

The guy was tied and prone. Karen surveyed the tools on the table. She sat on
the edge of the desk and crossed her legs, weighing the tools in her hands.
Screwdriver - too light. Tyre gauge - too small. She picked up a spanner. She
leaned forward very slowly, her delicate features next to the jerk's ear.

"Next time you come in here, know what I'll do?"

She jabbed him softly a few times in the ribs, so he could feel the cold
metal.

"Feel that?"

She tightened the spanner's teeth around the middle of his nose.

"Want that?"

The guy didn't respond. His eyes said vacant, nobody home. Please leave a
message after the tone.

"Snap out of it! Yoo hoo!" She snapped her fingers. Was the guy faking or had
his brain - such as it was - slipped out for few minutes? She hefted the
spanner in her left hand and reached for the back of his pants with the right.
Placing her feet firmly square on the deck she hoist him out of his seat,
braced, and held him up. This time her arm separated itself into different
sections of ripe primed muscle. The guy dangled a little. Karen's knuckles
whitened and she him over the desk.

"Are you there?"

A quick shake and the guy's frame lolled about. Then his head pulled up.

"What the fuck is up with you?"

She one armed the guy over the table. He landed on the chair opposite, where
Karen had sat, and split the plastic seat. The spindly metal legs frayed
slightly from their frame. Karen went round the table and hauled to his feet,
onto the table, and took the metal chair legs wrapped them neatly round his
ankles. It couldn't be that hard, he reasoned, as she tied him with the narrow
metal so matter of factly.

He tried the full force of his legs against the steel bonds. Nothing moved. He
could feel a groove of wear along his flesh where he tried it.

"Not so easy, is it? Try it again," Karen invited.

There was absolutely no struggle left in the man. Karen pulled him from the
table by the frame wrapped around his legs and tossed him into the corner with
a flick. The thick stake holding his arms made it difficult him to settle
himself, as did the constrictions on his feet. He arranged himself facing her,
his knees scraping the floor as he did so. He looked up at her, prone.

Satisfied he was a receptive audience again, she picked up the spanner and
resumed her demonstration. Looking down at the objects on the table, she split
the heavy duty battery tester with a massive, one handed swipe. The spanner
split the casing down the middle. Karen put down the spanner and picked up the
shattered frame, splitting it aside with a slow groaning pull, like she was
peeling a metal orange. She noticed the spanner had a fresh groove on the tip,
like the metal had been scratched and bled lighter, fresher metal underneath.
She picked it up and sidled to the guy's side.

"See that?"

He looked up at her shakily.

"See that? I could do that to any part of you like a shot. I could just pull
you to bits. Shake you until your ribs xylophoned next to each other and crush
you like an accordion. See this."

She rolled the spanner lightly between her fingers. Putting both hands on it,
she doubled the handle over in a neat fold. None of her movements showed any
doubt that the tool would give. It was twisted in half like a plastic ruler.
She grabbed the guy again and hefted him in her hands, his restricted movement
making it possible for her to hold him like a medicine ball. She even gave him
a couple of test throws, up a couple of feet and then caught. Her hands didn't
give when they received his weight.

Karen finished up. She hauled him overhead and placed her right hand under his
rib cage, and extended her hand until he flew off the end and into the
ceiling. She caught him again and pitched him at the other side of the room.

There wasn't a lot of blood.

Some time later, after his head appeared to have been shaken like a rag doll,
or maybe that was just concussion, things gradually crawled back into some
semblance of focus. The floor was a little unsteady on its feet, and if you
were going to drive a car or operate machinery you might have wanted to ensure
objects in front of you weren't moving around when you focused on them. Little
things like that which tell the average punter the clocks are wrong.

Karen was stood above him, fully clothed and sipping coffee. The guy tried to
move - his bonds still restricted him.

"That's what you looked like."

She held a polaroid of a sorry looking bastard sleeping woozily beneath a dent
in the wall.

"I pitched that shot from over there." She nodded to the other side of the
room.

He said nothing. There was no offering of understanding, defence, excuse,
mitigation, whatever. Only acceptance.

Karen put down her coffee cup and slipped her hands under the metal holding
his feet together. She worked it aside with ease, like it was the minor chore
of untying a baggie. She picked him up by the elbows and slipped the stake
from under his arms.

Dickhead sagged back against the wall, consciousness threatening to boycott
the situation on grounds of general 'what the fuck is going on here' ness.

"Have I your attention?"

A gentle prod with the two inch stake. A nod of yes, god yes.

The stake snapped with a nice easy jerk of Karen's wrists. He couldn't see her
muscles any longer, but the sharp burst of splinters made a point. Each end
was neatly sheared in half. Karen dropped them to the ground where they made a
clonking noise, and she walked out.

The guy looked after her. Killer ass, he thought.

The End

Reading suggestion:

Given recent media stories regarding consumer gullibility (key example - a
packet of peanuts contained the words "warning, may contain nuts"), a few
advisory words are added as a post script.

We want you to enjoy this story as much as possible. If first results are
unsatisfactory, tilt chair back (required position - "Mmm, slanty"), open eyes
to required width, scan lines by moving eyes back and forth. Story best read
left to right and down. Computer should be switched on. Countries with
different voltages may vary. Beverages should be to hand. Smoke if required.
Fondle genitals of funky partner holding sex aid as absorbing story unfolds.
Leave story for the time being, shag like rabbits. Come across story later and
wonder what the hell that was about. Scratch head/arse according to taste.

If upon trying this satisfactory reaction is not forthcoming, refer story to
manufacturer in original wrapping.

Also a disclaimer - do not walk into a police station asking to be beaten up,
or shagged, by a tasty policewoman. The author is not responsible for lost
teeth, prosecution or having objects stuffed up arse. This is a fantasy
situation, even if it is a weird one. I freely admit to this being an unusual
turn on. But for all I know you could be naked, covered in baby oil and
clutching a pistol as you read this. It takes all sorts. Life would be better
if we could all just agree to be right, 100% of the time, and not mind if
other people don't see it. Fuck em, what do you care? They might dress like
Klingons in their spare time. Also, be careful with guns. If gun is blocked do
not peer down barrel Elmer Fudd style and tap side of weapon. Have you had an
accident with a gun and lived? Why not share your safety tips with local
evangelical groups?

People working in offices usually have trouble with the photocopier jamming.
Have you appeased the great photocopier gods by sacrificing paper clips?
Internal memos are a good choice for burnt offerings. I got fired from a law
firm once for being asleep at my desk. At another job I was watching the
screen saver for three hours before someone asked if I'd been to a party the
night before. Although I don't usually get horny at the computer and write
stuff like this. But I enjoyed it, did you? Write and tell me what you think.
Please include suggestions, money, hell, photos of yourself dressed as Darth
Vader if it pleases you. Always remember, if you're having half as good a time
as I am, I'm having twice as much fun as you. Try harder. Excess in
moderation. You don't have to wake up naked in a hedge with a face like Keith
Richards. Some chemical memory is necessary to grasp who we are as people.
Possibly. Or you may just enjoy getting wankered (

Living suggestion:

Why not invite some friends round, provide a buffet, and get smashed together?
Life is good, enjoy it. Smell the gravy.

Are you under too much pressure and feel unable to cope? Life offering you a
crossroads? Don't go postal, go herbal. Nature's little pick me up, offering
sadness cure and increased musical appreciation. Pink Floyd CDs should not be
taken internally. Don't take yourself too seriously, stand in front of a
mirror naked and have a good laugh. No one cares about the little
imperfections, although they might object to beer guts, an overdose of fur and
more than (say) 15 warts. Hairy toes are not sexy. Dribble in moderation.
Orgasms are Nature's way of reminding us that hey, fuck it, maybe we're not
supposed to have all the answers. Enjoy your life and don't spoil it by being
a prat. Respect all people, except those in politics and the fuckers who phone
me up to see if I've got enough windows. If I'm having a shooting party, they
can only come in if they bring their own apples. (That's a William Tell joke.
Don't worry about it). In fact, respect everyone to their faces, you can
always take the piss out of them later. Be inoffensive externally, then you
can think what you like without offending anyone. Women do not usually crush
power tools with their bare hands, although I have my suspicions about a
former colleague with an evil glint in her eye. Unfortunately she wasn't sexy.
This story is certainly not based on real events. Policewomen are not suitable
targets for sexual fantasies. Think of the paperwork. For this reason you may
want to focus on librarians, at least they can index it properly. Pacifism in
all but self defence is the best route through life. Remember, we are all that
offensive unreasonable fucker at some point in our lives. Some of us mellow
out and sit writing bollocks into the wee hours. But like I said, you could be
doing all manner of weird shit and I wouldn't know, would I? Not that I want a
web cam of you reading this while stroking a gerbil in a sinister manner. How
do people get like that, eh? And how does that karma work out? Do they get
carried off by a pack of wild squirrels, never to be seen again?

Author's disclaimer - The last paragraph could be about St John's Wort,
Valerian root or any of that health shop stuff, not weed. I do not encourage
drug use. (I do enjoy it though).

(c) C J Wood 2004

Although if you want to rip this off, it may a good time to get out more.

The time is 5.41 am and Chris has left the building ... .