The Shamber Chronicles, Part 2
By Chaucer.  (mawgren@hotmail.com)
After working her way inside, Shamber's fists begin making a difference

       "Greg, are you like sure about this place?"  To be inconspicuous she 
lowered her head, talked directly into her concealed microphone in a fierce 
whisper, tried to keep her lips from moving, and looked about nervously in all 
directions.  As a result, she was extremely conspicuous. "I mean like what's up 
with those two silly guards?  If this place is such a big deal and stuff, why 
guard it with like those two guys?"
       Greg hated it when she tried to analyze things. "My guess would be 
huge, flashy, high-tech security precautions tip everyone off that this is more 
than a foundry.  Sticking two schmoes out front makes it look like a foundry."  
       "Oh . . . I get it . . . I think."  She began mulling it over:  pre-, precau-, 
precau?  Precaushuns? 
       "Of course, they're just schmoes but they can still cause trouble for us."
       "Not to worry, Greg, dear."  Her face twisted into a sadistic leer.  She 
loved this.  She sensed that he was afraid of her.  "I punched them . . . real hard.  
I made sure they're out.  Cold."  She let this sink in for a moment.  "You heard 
them yell . . . and beg . . . didn't you?" The large concrete slab startled her.  
"Oh . . . oh my goodness; I'm here."
       "Where?"
       "At the place, the thingy, the . . . "
       "Casting foundry!"  Greg slipped up.  He let his frustration with her 
show. Happily, she missed it.
       "Yeah."   She looked at the sheer cliff of corrugated metal in front of 
her.  "There are no like doors over here."  Somehow, she had gotten on the 
wrong side of the building. Her eyes caught sight of a towering metal stair case 
zigzagging to the top.  "But there's one up there."
       "Up where?"  In an instant Greg was in full, professional, damage 
control mode.
       "At the top of the steps."
       "OK, yeah, I see where you are."  Greg had all the floor plans and 
schematics on screen at once.  He could make sense of the flickering confusion 
better than anyone.  Perhaps that's why Shamber was his responsibility. "Does 
that door have a lock you can pick?"  
       She squinted upward; a hand shielding her eyes from the searing 
sunlight.  "The door has a knob on it.  I can see that."
       "It's worth a try; better for you to be above the guys anyway."  He 
couldn't believe they were improvising.  They had planned everything so 
carefully.  This sort of thing always seemed to happen with Shamber.  Now 
here she was; this gorgeous, way-sexy chick in a mini-skirt and high heels 
prancing up utility stairs on the OUTSIDE of the plant.  She was supposed to 
enter through a specific door.  Her dress was chosen for the effect it would have 
on one specific guy.  Going around the building now involved the risk of being 
seen from the offices or taking too much time and missing the shift change.  He 
expressed his frustration in a typically professional manner, "Aaauuughh!"
       "What?"
       "Uh, nothing," Greg had to cover quickly.  He couldn't let her know he 
was disgusted with her. "I just dropped the -uh, the, the-uh, the thingy."
       "The electronic file finder?"
       He looked down and saw the file finder in his hand, "yeah, exactly, the 
file finder."  It amazed him how women in general and Shamber in particular 
always knew precisely what 'thingy' meant.
       "I'm really getting into my rhythm on these steps, Greg; really doing 
the girly-girl thing."
       "Why . . ." Greg could see her beautiful, round, luscious hips sway 
from side to side alluringly with each step, ". . . would you do such a thing?"  
He could see her spine snaking back and forth as her hips moved.  He could see 
the incredible S-curves of her thighs and calves appearing, disappearing, and 
reappearing.  He could see the wiggle, he could see the hemline deliciously 
stretching and undulating across her upper thighs.  He dropped the file finder.
       "Oh, just getting in some practice in case there's ever a cute guy 
standing on the ground and like watching me walk up the steps."  Yeah, right; 
standing there while his tent pole threatens to rip his pants. "What are you 
thinking about, Greg?"
       "I'm, I'm trying to figure out what to do with you-I mean where to 
send you once you're through the door."
       "You know, Greg . . . I've always wondered . . . are you like gay?"
       "Well," he shifted his position to relieve the pain his pants were 
causing, "there are times it would be a good thing."
       "Nope, Medeco."
       "What?"
       "It's a Medeco lock.  I don't have the picks for it, or the narrow tension 
wrench.  It's a bugger even with the right stuff."  This too was typical.  She 
always had a staggering array of small lock picks with her but never the ones 
she needed.
       "Well, uh, time's tight." His eyes moved back and forth at the speed of 
light.  "Can you see another door, slightly below yours and well off to the left."
       "No . . . no I can't.  But, it's like all right"
       "Why?"
       "This one isn't locked."  Now Greg threw the file finder on the floor.  
"Ooo, it's cool looking in here.  How many guys are there?" She stood above 
an intricate, busy network of piping and furnaces and overhead cranes, all of 
which were accented by rising flumes of black smoke.  It almost seemed like a 
movie set.
       "Let's see . . . grinding . . . molding . . . where you are now, there 
should be-" the plans confused him suddenly, "I can't say for sure, but there 
should be 40 or 50 guys in that section."
       "Fifty faces . . . I should grow some more fists."
       Greg's breath caught in a spasm of incredulity.  "I don't know, 
Shamber.  Fifty guys against you seems like a fair fight to me."  The long silent 
pause loudly proclaimed how flattered she was. "All right, gal.  Head down the 
ramp to your left and do your thing.  But remember, you're there because you 
attract attention without arousing suspicion.  Put 'em down only when you have 
to."  It was hollow encouragement.  How many secretaries show up here?  Who 
would believe she's a secretary anyway?
       "Aw, well, we'll like see about that."  Good; in truth, he wanted her to 
put them all down. This slimy operation really bothered him.
       "Hey, sweet thing," four, maybe five steps after she reached the main 
floor, that's all she'd managed, "what you doin' here with us rowdies?  Office 
girls are usually too . . . tame for us."  The scrawny, filthy, gray-haired, bug-
eyed dirty old man couldn't stop smiling. 
	"Oh, hi there. I'm Ellen. I'm new in the office. Someone said like the 
people were lots of fun here." In this world of black sand and smoke, her 
glistening white teeth shone like the noon-day sun.
	"Well, now, we sure can be with the right kind of . . . activity."  His 
eyes threatened to pop from his head like ping pong balls and wedge 
themselves into her cleavage. 
	"I bet you're like the most fun of all . . ." She noticed an odd crease in 
his cheek just above the jaw line.  Her knuckles would fit very nicely there. ". . 
. Am I right?"  She could hear him screaming now.  
	"'Sup?"  Now a new presence arrived, young, refreshingly good 
looking, suspicious, aware.
	"Hey, Brad, isn't this here pretty?"  The old man was so pleased with 
himself he couldn't stand still.
	"Yeah, who are you?"  Brad had no trouble keeping still, or keeping 
from smiling.
	"Well, now, does that like matter?"  Shamber flashed a killer look of 
sheer lust. The old man turned to Brad with his eyes begging, yeah, why does 
that matter?
	"I'm afraid it does."  Perhaps Brad truly was gay.  "We need to get her 
to the center."
	"Whoa-ho there, fella," the old man was adamant, and suddenly in 
charge, "we prance in there with Ellen here and she turns out to be the VP's 
new secretary or somethin' and we look like idiots."  Brad was slowed, but not 
deterred.  "Why don't you go tell them about this here . . . event . . . and I'll 
stay here with her.  That way it will look like we're on the job without making 
too many decisions."
	Brad shifted his gaze back and forth several times.  "Yeah, OK, stay 
here." He was gone.
	"Kids, sometimes they don't understand what people . . . do with each 
other."  The old man wanted to cut to the chase.  Time was short.
	"Well . . ." for a brief moment, Shamber could have coaxed an erection 
from a park statue.  She drew very close to him, ". . . here's what I'm going to 
like do with you . . ." she placed her hand gently over his mouth and nose, then 
pressed harder, ". . . keep you quiet and stuff."  She pulled her other arm 
backward, beyond level, and powered an uppercut into the old man's gut. His 
body twitched and shuddered as though great volts of electricity tore through 
him.  His face contorted grotesquely and volumes of coursing air warbled 
between her fingers.  She quickly drew back and drove her fist into the same 
spot a second time.  Nauseous with pain and fear, he tottered around aimlessly 
bouncing from cartons and conduit.  Not one whisper of air remained in him.  
"I really wanted to take my time with you, and like listen to you react to this . . 
." She uncoiled a vicious punch directly into his fabled cheek crease.  His 
deforming mouth heaved silent howls into the smoky air as he splatted against a 
steel beam and slid to the floor, unconscious.  "But there's like no time."
	In an instant she was off, moving silently in the shadows, with cat-like 
quickness, completely controlling her treacherous heels.  Brad's broad back 
grew very large in her sight.  She opened a steel door to the left, grabbed Brad 
by his elbow, spun him through the door, stepped inside and snapped the door 
shut behind her.  It was a utility closet.  She smiled.  It was fairly large and well 
lighted.  She smiled wider.  There was a particularly noisy machine clunking 
away on the other side of the door.  She fairly beamed.  "Hi there, sweet 
cheeks; like, what's the rush?"
	"I knew you were a creep."  Brad smoldered with hatred and 
resentment.
	"CREEP?"  Shamber was horribly offended. "A . . . Kah-Ree-eep!  Did 
you really say that?"  He stood silently, staring malevolent holes through her.  
"This is going to be like whole bunches of fun," she approached him, swaying 
and displaying, being as feminine as possible. "I'm REALLY going to take my 
time now."
	"Uh, Shamber . . ." Greg generally kept his silence when she needed to 
concentrate.  But this rare interruption was necessary.  Time was a touchy 
subject.  Brad reached out, grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him as if to 
stretch her across his knee and spank her.  As she moved closer, she popped a 
short jab into his nose.  His head snapped back and returned.  She repeated the 
jab with the same result.  His expression hadn't changed.  She twisted free from 
his grasp and sent a whistling right cross through his chin.  His head spun to the 
side, stayed there, and slowly returned to face her.  He tried to smile, but gave it 
up, fearing it looked phony.
	For the first time he launched his own attack, a looping punch that had 
pain and destruction written all over it.  Shamber drove her left wrist into his 
forearm deflecting his formidable missile and crunched her right fist into his rib 
cage.  He winced in pain, but made no sound.  Good; this was good.  She was 
using just the right amount of force. He powered another hay-maker straight for 
her nose.  It surprised her.  Too late to counter it, she scrambled aside.  His fist 
grazed her cheek bone.  Had it connected, she would be in serious trouble.  The 
possibility of losing this fight infused her with intense, auto-pilot efficiency.  It 
changed her breathing.  Greg recognized it.  He knew not to utter another 
sound.  
	She leaned way back and arched a horrid-looking fist at his face, 
traveling almost directly above her head.  She saw his eyes flick to follow it.  
That's when she cranked her real punch with the other hand; a floor to ceiling 
upper-cut.  It scorched upward and caught him cleanly under the chin.  His head 
tilted to the ceiling, his arms shot towards the ceiling, his feet jolted towards the 
wall and he fell to the floor.  He clamored to his feet immediately, but there was 
a tell-tale pause before his legs straightened completely.  It was a woozy, 
slightly lost, out-of-focus moment that delighted her.  He threw another punch, 
perhaps too quickly.  It was easy for her to avoid.  She sent two rapid fire fists 
directly into the center of his face.  He chirped two brief shouts of pain. The 
intensity was such that even Greg could feel it. He was torn. He needed 
Shamber to hurry, but he really wanted her to stomp this guy.  
	Brad moved in, both hands clenched into large, nasty-looking fists.  
Shamber punched his cheek bone with a left from nowhere.  All his fingers shot 
open, twisting and bending and quivering; supporting the wail of agony flowing 
freely from his throat.  
	"How does it feel to tangle with my fists, Brad?"  She scorched his chin 
with a straight right that sent thunder-claps of torture surging through his body.  
He howled miserably and fell hard.  "Does it feel good?"  She straddled him 
with her long, sturdy, sexy legs stretching the hemline of her short skirt to the 
ripping point and pulled him to his feet.  He rose quickly, his mind churning 
with nonsense and confusion.  She sent a quick shot into his ribs and watched 
his face contort. Then she shattered his nose with a round-house right and 
listened as his screams followed him to the floor.  She straddled him again and 
pulled him upward again.  This time it took a while longer.  He wobbled and 
lost his balance.  She steadied him and stared into his tortured eyes. 
	"No . . . it's over . . . you win."  He was overwhelmed with 
embarrassment.
	"Oh, yeah, like I win."  She smiled.  "But like it's not over."  She 
twisted herself into a tense coil and unwound with a blistering shot into the side 
of his head.  His pathetic groan was mostly escaping air.  He flew downward 
and bounced from the floor.  Once again she straddled him.  Once again she 
severely tested the fabric of her dress.  Once again she yanked and pulled and 
encouraged and tugged to get him to his feet.  He clutched her for support.  He 
tried to get his feet under him. He waggled back and forth as if completely 
drunk.  He breathed heavily and tried to object.  He fell against her.  He fell 
away from her with so much momentum that he almost pulled her down.  He 
held his hands up feebly in objection.  He pawed at her wrists.  He did things 
that made no sense to any rational person.  Finally, after great effort, he stood 
before her, sort of, and only with her help.  He tried desperately to plead, to 
beg, to do or say anything he possibly could to implore her to stop punching 
him.  He could take no more.  He poured enormous effort into telling her that, 
but nothing came from his mouth other than gasps and croaks and dry little 
wisps.
	"Nothing to say, Brad?  No?" He worked his mouth in a vain attempt to 
produce words.  "Aw, don't be sad.  It's OK.  Really it is."  She comforted a 
small child who would not be solaced.  "Besides, like I have something to say."  
She removed one of her hands from his shirt, relying on the other to hold him 
up.  She drew her free hand back and down and crouched low.  "Now, it's 
over."  She brought a flaming upper cut from the floor.  Brad's eyes flashed 
abject terror for an instant, then they disappeared from view.  Shamber directed 
every ounce of effort and intensity into her bicep muscle as her fist plowed 
through his chin.  At that point, he truly was in danger of dying.
       The only sound was Brad hitting the floor like a sack of bones.  Then, 
there was no sound.
       "Shamber, is he breathing?"
       "WHO CARES?!"  She stood quivering with adrenalin.  Then Greg 
heard a long slow breath escape her lips with difficulty.  Then another, more 
easily, more controlled.  "Yeah.  Yeah, the CREEP'S breathing.  Sleeping like a 
baby.  Well, like not like a baby, but he's sleeping."  She gathered herself and 
straightened and adjusted.  "Like, I hate getting so mad."  She made sure she 
was ready to be seen again. "Like I can't take time doing stuff when I'm like so 
mad."  Gregg purposely said nothing.  "Do I need to get to the center, that 
center thingy?"
       "Yes."
       "Was I going the right way?"
       "Yes you were; straight shot.  I don't think you can miss it."  Greg 
heard the door open along with the sudden increase in machine noise.  Then the 
noise slowly subsided as she moved down the aisle way. Both were alone with 
their thoughts for a moment.  Shamber's were mixed and varied and rather 
incomprehensible.  Greg's were simple . . . "Good Grief."