The Shamber Chronicles, Part 1
By Chaucer  mawgren@hotmail.com 
Security guards meet a gorgeous, dizzy blonde and her devastating fists


"Stinkin' heat," George removed his hat and wiped around the inside of the
fake leather band one more time, "drives me crazy."

"Yeah and there's no breeze," Rick had long since thrown his hat into the
corner of their guard shack. "Stifling; can't breathe." They had been on duty
together since 8 a.m. The first four hours seemed like five. The last two
seemed like six. The sun baked the black-top into a thick, yielding, scorching
goop. The white pebbles reflected a blinding glare. The chain link fence
promised 2nd degree burns to anyone foolish enough to touch it and the shack
was uninhabitable. This was no fun.

"We should do rounds now, don't you think?" George was actually hoping Rick
would say something like, 'nah, let's go swimming.'

"Yeah we'd better; shift change is coming up." Rick turned a disgusting eye to
their oven/shack with its clipboards and clock keys. "We gotta get it done
before these guys leave." This was no fun at all. He turned, screwed up his
courage, and actually went through the shack's door into the tiny no-man's
land. George wanted to thank Rick for doing that brave thing, but it was too
hot. He simply walked over and stood in the doorway, smiling.

"Yoo-Hoo!" The two men looked at each other in disbelief. "Oh, Yooo-Hooo!" The
high feminine voice was trying to shout, but it couldn't quite manage.

George didn't even want to turn around. "Do human type people actually say
yoo- hoo?"

"Well, up until this moment, I didn't think so." They both walked outside
dreading the thought of actually having to confront someone so annoying. They
stopped dead in their tracks. Two mouths dropped open at the same instant. The
simultaneous popping of four eyes was almost audible. Approaching them,
shimmering in the undulating waves rising from the parking lot was a white
dress. It was a crisp, cool white dress. It was a short, SHORT white dress. It
hugged broad, curvaceous hips that narrowed suddenly to a tiny, tight waist
and then broadened just as suddenly to full, lush, round, large breasts. Below
were two long, smooth, shapely, sexy, curvy, sexy legs which narrowed to
slender shapely, sexy, curvy ankles and disappeared into glistening white
stiletto heels. Above the dress was a stunning face centered between exquisite
dangling earrings. Large wide-set green eyes, full pouting lips, perfect bone
structure, and smooth, luscious skin were partially obscured by flowing,
thick, bouncing blonde hair. Arms and legs moved together; slowly, sensuously,
with perfect rhythm and coordination. Her swaying progress created music, an
orgasmic symphony, a velvet coated pair of pliers that glommed on to both
men's hormones and twisted them mercilessly. As she drew closer, the men
wondered if they should, at some particular point, resume breathing.

". . . hh-hhuuh--hh," was the best George could manage.

"You got that right," was Rick's response.

"Oh hi, fellas, like I'm real glad you're here." A brilliant array of
straight, immaculate teeth gleamed from her winning smile.

"Hh-uhh, how can we, I mean what can we-," George shifted his weight to the
other foot. Perhaps that would straighten up his wind pipe a little. "Need
somethin'?" His pipe straightening could use a little work but it was
functional.

"Like sure. I want to go to that . . . that thingy, there, that place." Even
though there was nothing besides the plant in the direction she indicated,
both men turned around to follow her pointing finger to its destination.

"You mean the casting foundry?" Rick at least had a grasp of English.

"Well, of course, you silly thing . . . like what else is there?" She was so
beautiful. George was content just to watch her talk.

"Oh, I'm sorry, young lady. We can't let you in there." George couldn't
believe this crazy Rick refusing her something she wants.

"Like I'm sure. If the president came here right now, like you wouldn't let
him in?"

"Well, the president's a different matter." Even arguing with this beauty was
a delight.

"Yes he is, Mister Smarty. But he's in South Dakota today," her eyes turned
dim, "Or is it South Carolina? I always get those two mixed up." Rick watched
breathlessly as she sorted things out. "Anyway he's like somewhere out west so
he won't like be here."

"Uhh, no I guess not." Rick saw the look of victory from her great put-down
fade into confusion.

"OK, then, so that means, like, I get to go in now."

George approached her. His look had changed. He didn't know what it was, but
his years of experience rang a little bell. This wasn't right. Something
wasn't right with her. "No, ma'am, I'm sorry. There's a very small list of
people we can allow inside." He shifted his weight again. This time it was
deliberate and meaningful. "I'm afraid you're not on it."

"Well, then . . ." She regarded him coolly, "I'm just going to have to like
knock you out." Her brilliant smile returned as quickly as it had departed.

George leaned back and mocked her smile. Then he straightened. "And how are
you going to do that, I wonder?"

"Well, silly, with this, of course." She lifted her right hand in front of his
face. It was clenched into a fist, but it was also covered by a bright,
flouncy, pink and orange poof that had a neon green chord attached with a car
key swaying from the end. "Oh, no, that's not it." She grabbed the poof with
her left hand and formed another fist. "This is it." Now her left fist was in
his face holding the same poof. "Oh, for heaven's sakes . . ." She pushed her
left hand down with her right, then stuck her right fist back into his face
with a flourish, "now THIS is it."

"I see . . . I see . . . it." George waited for a response. There was none.
"Am I supposed to run away now?"

"You know, that would like be a good idea I think." George glared into her
eyes. He was through playing games. He opened his mouth to tell it like it is,
but she interrupted him. "Sorry, too late." George shouted in surprise as her
fist flicked into his mouth in the wink of an eye. It had traveled only a few
inches. It had also hurt. He groaned loudly as her left, poof and all, swooped
in a large flowing arch and obliterated the right side of his face. He bounced
onto the ground, clutching his face with both hands, vainly trying to stop the
white hot pain her fists had brought. With quickness, grace, and power she
pulled him to his feet by his shirt collar and sent her fist into his nose. He
screamed in agony as a gush of blood shot into the humid air. He would have
fallen, but her other hand held him firmly in place.

"NO-OO!!!" he howled in protest just before her fist collided with his chin.
The force of her punch ripped his shirt from its moorings and sent him
sprawling, scattering pebbles in all directions. Straddling him, she sat on
his chest and cocked her fist, a craggy mass of pointy, pain-laden knuckles.

"Please, stop, oh please. Don't do this." His panting, puffing words were
mixed with tears. "I can't take this . . . don't hit me again." He tried
twisting his face away from her. Maybe he could burrow into the parking lot.
"I'm afraid you're going to kill me."

"Oh you silly thing," she smiled benignly, about to give candy to a six year
old. "I didn't say kill," she lifted his face to the right position. "I
clearly said, like . . . knock out."

George widened his eyes in terror and pushed a plaintive, desperate bleat from
his mouth just before her iron hard fist tore into the remains of his mouth,
shattering teeth and splattering blood.

George was silent. George was still. She rose, glaring down at her trophy.
"Shoulda run when you like had the chance." Then she turned her face to Rick.
He had stood transfixed between the gate and the guard shack the whole time.
Now he ran wildly in six or seven directions at the same time, which meant
that he remained between the shack and the gate. Before he knew it she stood
inches from him.

"Really, I'm like glad it worked this way, I mean that you didn't like help
your friend. Now we can talk." Rick averted his eyes in shame. "See, when you
wake up, the two of you are going to have to come up with a story for your
boss." Rick, trembling and sweating began to protest this "wake up" business.
"Oh, I know I can trust you when I'm here." She smiled spryly and waggled a
finger in his face. "But when I'm like not here, I can't trust you anymore
because you're not a big brave man." Tears began to well up in Rick's eyes.
His breath came in short huffs. "SO," she flicked her finger dramatically,
"I'm going to have to give you big brave man lessons." Rick found himself
almost wishing she would knock him out right now to spare him this
humiliation. "Tell them you were attacked by three guys; definitely no more
than four. 'Cause, like, more than four sounds like made up. And then they
might investigate and then they might find out that it was like one little
girl." Rick couldn't look at her, try as he might. "And then what will you do?
How can you tell them she like did this all with her little fists?" Rick
couldn't hold his head up. But then he had to. She was tilting it to the best
angle.

"Please . . ." his voice was tiny and weak, "hurry . . . don't make me feel
it." He clamped his eyes tightly shut.

"Aw," she looked sad and winsome as she drew back her fist. "Isn't that
sweet?" Rick's eyes suddenly flew open wide as her fist drove deeply into his
stomach, completely depriving him of air. "Well, you do have a spine at least
. . . I can like feel it." She pulled her fist back. Rick hunched and tottered
spastically, resembling a praying mantis on insecticide. "But now your face
isn't in the right place anymore." Rick roared in pain as an uppercut left him
staring skyward. "Oh my goodness, that will never do." She punched his face
quickly, twice, shunting it into position. Each blow brought searing pain and
bright electric pulses to his vision. "Not perfect, but like good enough."
Then it ended with a brutal overhand left and its accompanying clanging agony.
He was out before he hit the pavement.

"Hey Greg, I'm like heading for this thingy, this thingy place." The
microphone beneath her dress transmitted her voice to Greg Townsend's headset
at the control center. The speaker in her earring crackled with his reply.

"I believe it's the Norwich Casting Foundry, Shamber. At least that's what it
is to the general public." He knew darn well what it was and he was frustrated
that she couldn't remember. But he spoke respectfully and without a hint of
sarcasm. He had seen, often, what her fists did to men and he wasn't taking
any chances.

"Yeah, that thingy," she approached slowly now, in full rhythm and
male-destroying jiggle, "can't tell if anyone's watching; place looks
deserted."

"I'm sure there's lots of activity inside." How many times had they gone over
this? "Just be careful going in, please." How many times did he have to remind
her of that?

"Oh, yeah, Greg, like gotcha covered." She fell silent so she wouldn't be seen
talking to herself. She smiled a cheery smile. One of these days she was going
to punch that stuffed shirt's lights out; slowly and painfully.