The INVISIBLE TOMBOY 4: Boxer Rebellion
By HENSPURS  cockscomb@juno.com 
Cornered, our unseen heroine knuckles down with an elusive opponent and grabs some new wheels.


I could have killed that guy.

Yes, KILLED him. Oh, wow!

Bare knuckle fighting is a mean, merciless, low-down style of delivering
high-yield sadism to your opponent. But...it beats giving up without a
struggle and going along quietly.

Over the years, I have learned more than a girl is expected to know about
causing brain-damage, tooth loss and organ failure.

To me, bare knuckle fighting is less a sport than a means to save my own
invisible neck. Even with the element of surprise, I have one serious
disadvantage when I'm not wearing clothes.

I can't see my own fucking fists!

One of the goals in bare-knuckling is to avoid hitting hard spots and
concentrate on punishing soft ones: solar plexus, tip of the nose, ear, soft
ribs, flanks, right in the eyes.

A guy's nuts aren't off my list, but since they're such a

common target, the average man is already thinking along the lines of saving
them and adjusts his angle accordingly.

That's what Mr. Head did. What he didn't do was cover all the bases. I held
off until he stood unmoving in what I was sure was the range of my right arm.

BIFF! I got Mr. Head squarely on the nose with the first jab and followed that
conservative move up with a blow to his flank, looking to fuck up his
liver---WHAP!

While he was coping with those two bursts of pain, I got a solid, straight-on
punch to his lips. SMACK!

And why not? His face was a great target---a bobbing sphere of muted pink on
an otherwise glass-like body. That coloration made the impact far more
obvious.

"Gesshhhhh!" He hissed inarticulately.

His teeth---I felt his front teeth. They seemed crooked already. And
translucent or not, I swear I saw Mr. Head blink. Now he was trying to land
one on me, but I blocked the useless punch and slugged him deep in the armpit.

Then I got him in the soft ribs, deeper this time---and stronger. The long
walk I had taken to get to this house hadn't tired me out after all; it had
just been a warm-up for this. I could go the distance. And if I had to run, I
figured I could do that too.

I loosened my fists, ready to tighten them again into hard blocks of
knuckle-bones. My firm, but unsupported jugs
jiggled around and slapped against my skin when they bounced; there was
nothing to do about that but ride out the motion.

"Hold it! Hold it!" Mr. Head raised his hands palm outward. No good in my
book; he was still blocking my exit. And while he was fending just so, I could
get in another slug to his belly.

BAM! Right on the money. How do you like me now?

Those hits had knocked him out of reach. I was no longer cornered. I had some
real fighting room; I took advantage of every square centimeter (or inch, if
you like) I had.

My next jab missed completely.

He reached for me, letting his guard down for the meager chance of catching me
in some sort of lame, faggy take-down move he had seen on TV, but had no idea
how to pull off in real life. Too bad for him. The hollow of his midsection
came near and I ducked to put another punch to his gut that would make him
blow air like a popped tire. Not good enough. He turned as I hit; my knuckles
ran into the lower ribs and bounced, not doing the damage I had hoped for.

Back Mr. Head went. The veneer of makeup painting his face let me see every
wince.

Right about then, the little Yorkie who had been content to growl the whole
time, started barking in earnest, fucking up my concentration, getting
underfoot. Yorkie got a bare-toed kick for his troubles and let out a strident
yap as he retreated from the bathroom, howling in pain.

I could tell Mr. Head looked in my direction. He could see enough of me to
plan an attack.

For a few seconds, he showed some sense in bringing up his own fists in a
classic defense posture. Too bad for Mr. Head, he didn't keep his guard
up---in fact, he got everything wrong. His punches, inspired by video games or
maybe cartoons, should have come with sound effects. They were telegraphed so
badly it was shit simple to duck them.

If he had a super-move in his program, he didn't use it.

Time for another combination, but to do that, I had to close with him on a
slick floor.

The water on my skin and in my hair would give away my
position.

My hair, worst of all. Oh, wow. I had thought about shaving it off, but never
did it.

The beads of water on my skin would give me a telltale sheen--until, that is,
it dripped away or I shook it off.

I also had to remember what a really dangerous place (statistically speaking)
a bathroom is: Smooth, wet surfaces. Sharp corners, metal bars, hard
porcelain. Horsing around in a bathroom is as dangerous as playing on steep
steps.

Combined with the dye already splattered on me, I
had to be as visible to Mr. Head as he had been to me.

The pain from the first few shots would build in time.

Stiffened fingers from my left hand spiked his larynx, but not brutally.

Doubled up, protecting himself, Mr. Head finally backed off another pace. But
I hadn't won yet. This was his turf. If he got somewhere else in the house, he
might have had a nasty surprise prepared. How many times did I wish for an
invisible knife or gun? I quickly lost count. I have used plain objects as
weapons, but I have to hold the damn things still until my target lets his
guard down or looks the other way---then, WHAM! Sneak attack.

Mr. Head, the latest asshole I had to dead with had given a lot to worry
about--maybe too much. True, he wasn't invisible as much as I was, but still
enough to worry me into thinking there were more of him in the house.

And the attack dog. A bluff, I figured.

But there was no time to think about that.

So far, the fight was mine, but I wasn't beating him down without a real risk.
Bones can break, and invisible body parts are hard to treat medically.

The fight traveled from the bathroom to the bedroom. Some of the water from
the shower had dripped off me. Not enough. And the colorful splatter of dye on
my back gave me away like a fluorescent orange vest complete with reflective
stripes.

Mr. Head made it an all-or-nothing affair when he lowered his body and
charged, taking a gliding sock to the shoulder. He drove straight into me and
we collided with the wall, making a framed picture drop. The thin glass broke.

Visible signs of a struggle. No way I could hide that.

Oh, wow. He wanted to wrestle. Fine, I know some of that shtick, too. Mr. Head
had a light build. We came to grips, but my wet skin fouled things up right
away. His pink-painted face showed off his exertion. I used a foot to push
away from the wall and throw him onto his back on the bed. I landed on him,
knocking the wind out of him for the second time. Mr. Head was not only
skinny, he was hairy. At least he didn't have a hard-on, but I felt his
fear-slackened dilly all the same against my leg. YUCK.

I felt him gathering strength to throw me off.

Right about then, I Burked him, using the old body-snatcher's smother---you
know, clamping the mouth and nose shut with both my hands, using my weight to
pin him. He tried to throw me off, but my desperation was stronger than his,
more focused, more real. Mr. Head let out some snake-hisses and did some wild
things with his body, trying to get away, but it was no good.

If I knew anything, he would try to fake a blackout to avoid being strangled
to death. Reading his painted face, I could see his eyelids flutter and close.
I couldn't be so generous. Thirty seconds was more than enough to kill. I gave
him twenty one, clamping his nostrils and his lips shut to prevent him from
snatching a breath.

"I'll make you sorry if you fake it," I told him. "Stay down."

There's a street-fighting rule that says when the fight's over, don't forget
to tell your opponent.

I straddled his diaphragm, waiting for it to bulge with a sudden breath, but
it didn't. His body was warm; I got a reminder that I hadn't gotten down in a
long while. My nipples were hard---from the cold water or the fear of the
sensation of being in bed with a warm body. I couldn't be sure. I still don't
know.

When he stopped moving, I got to work with the broken glass from the picture,
cutting and ripping up the bed sheets to tie him down.

A chair he might be able to tip over. There was one seat nearby he wouldn't
find so easy to upset. I dragged him back into the bathroom, threw up the
toilet lid and seat and lashed him to the toilet. If he had to use the john, I
wouldn't have to untie him.

* * *

I didn't kill Mr. Head. I didn't want to.

Hungry, I went downstairs. Yorkie was already there, making little growls
between whimpers.

I took the time to scope out the framed pictures in the living room. Lots of
handsome young men. And standing with them with arms around their shoulders
was a balding, always smiling fatso with frameless glasses. The rest of the
house was fastidious. Nothing out of place.

The cutlery drawer had the order of a surgeon's tray in an operating room. I
helped myself to some choice knives.

Raiding the refrigerator, I whipped up twenty sandwiches, wrapped them for
traveling and went back upstairs. Taking my time, I put the grub away and got
dressed.

Somehow, I had to bring myself to eat. To think things I didn't want to. To
make plans to escape again. I didn't want any of that. What a world. Men on
the moon, Mars probes, nanotechnology, genetic mapping, nuclear fusion around
the corner. I, and Mr. Head, despite the differences in our bodies, were
worthy of inclusion in that list of miracles. We were now living in a world
where science could turn living tissue invisible. And I wasn't a baby anymore.
What about in five years? In ten? Twenty? If we were flukes, and the
experiments that produced us couldn't be repeated, I could live with that
reality. Mr. Head had found a niche in this place. I didn't expect another
invisible person to be here.

How did Rory have this address? Conspiracy nightmares whirled in my mind. How
long could I safely stay here? A day, an hour? Another ten minutes? It all
smelled like a trap. Two invisibles here. Maybe "they" were waiting until
three or four were under this roof before "they" sprang the trap.

Mr. Head? His body likely had a pricetag of at least 100 million dollars U.S.
Shit, the cost a Hollywood movie!

Mine? Since my invisibility was far better, I had to be worth five or fifteen
times as much as him. He was awake when I stepped in the door.

"What's your name?" I started in on one of the sandwiches.

"Miller," he said with sloppy, after-a-bruising diction. "Glenn Miller."

"You're not as good at vanishing as your namesake."

"Hunh?"

"Never mind. That was just bullshit."

"I thought we Irish called it blarney," Miller said.

"I'm Canadian. The name's Peer. Daisy Peer."

"Daisy Peer! That's fucking funny, eh? Disappear...."

"Piss off. You're in the right place for it."

"They investigated my ancestry," Miller went on. "They were looking for a
certain genetic strain that would work with their experiments. Immigrant
families from a certain region of Northern Ireland; Derry. I guess they traced
your folks, too."

"Now who's cranking out the blarney?" His arms were tied under the toilet
tank. I gave him a slap. Not too hard, but hard. "And who's this doctor guy?
Toby Grimes?"

"He's a fairy. Moved here from America. Divorced. Rich wife caught him in the
house getting a blow-job from a college boy. Grimes is going to be in tonight.
He isn't a problem."

"Already I don't trust him!"

And why should I? Sixty years ago, even thirty, a houseful of queens would
have been a godsend for a fugitive like me. No one would have breathed a
word---I would have gotten some sympathy. I would have been kept a dead
secret. Not now.

This character Grimes had already blown it. Or someone had blown it for him.

"There's a conspiracy," Miller said.

"Shut up!" I whacked him one.

"You could have choked me to death back there---"

"Rough, aren't I? I didn't ask to be invisible. And I don't think you did. I
live like a criminal out of sheer necessity. I can't live a normal life...

"Conspiracy, Mr. Head? Well, I'm way ahead of you. Somewhere, my mother is
locked up. One of these days, I might get locked up. And then vivisected. But
if they're going to do that to me, it's going to be because I did a lot of
shit to deserve it...not just for being hard to see. Someday, when I'm better
set up, I'll make people pay."

"Then you know about Epimetheus Laboratory---"

"Until you blurted it out just now, I never heard of it. But I think I'll
leave government-funded fuckery to you and leave myself out of the loop. I'm
moving on."

"Wait, you completely invisible. You could help."

"Not with the big spot of dye on my ass. This had better come out soon."

"It will fade in a week. Maybe less than a week."

I made up a convincing lie on the spot. "I have family in New Brunswick."
(Like hell I did.) I'll hide out with an uncle who can take me in."

Somewhere in the house, a phone rang.

"Grimes is coming home. He always phones ahead to be safe."

"He's the chub in those pictures in the living room?"

Miller nodded.

"What the fuck does he drive, Mr. Head?"

No answer. I gave him another slap---a good one this time.

Miller spilled, "New model SUV. Gray. American job..."

He gave me the details. Grimes was at a coffee shop four blocks away. He had
just arrived. If things were hinky, Grimes might change his plans. But he had
wheels.

* * *

I had a lot to think about on the jog over to the coffee shop. Four blocks
passed like four big steps. I made it there on time. Grimes was in the parking
lot, looking around, still trying his mobile phone, wearing a fretful look
while trying to look friendly and nonchalant.

When, with a tired sigh he opened the door to his huge SUV, I made my move,
snatching his keys before he could close the door. With threatening body
language and a minimum of words, I got in on the opposite side with my gear,
flung a single ignition key to him and told him to drive. I pulled my jacket
hood down to show him what he was dealing with.

He was so shaken it was if it was his first time behind the wheel and he
didn't know what did what.

"That key---THERE!" I pointed to the ignition slot.

The doctor had a long trickle of sweat traveling down his face. While he
dithered, I dug into his freshly-dry-cleaned coat pocket for his phone. The
big SUV started up.

"Wh-who are you?" A high voice with an oddly musical tone broke the silence.

"Glass. Claire Glass. Start the engine and run the Goddamned heater, it's cold
in here. And when you've fired up, drive carefully to this place...."

I showed him a hand-drawn map. The location I wanted was unremarkable,
misleading. I was only wanting to get rid of Grimes and drive this thing on
another errand.

"What's all that crap in the back? Welding something?"

"Sc-scuba gear."

"Looks new," I said, not wanting to hint that I was planning to use it, only
sell it. "Worth a lot. You have a nice house, by the way. There's a jerk
upstairs in the john and a dog that might appreciate a trip to the vet. You're
down a loaf of bread and other groceries. And a few knives."

At the next stop, I demanded his wallet.

Yank money. Lots of it. And some multicolored Canadian dollars. The good,
high-denomination bills. The queen maybe liked to cross the border regularly.
I looked at his collection of business cards.

Eateries, bars, nightclubs. All gay by the look of them. And then:
SNORKLEDORF---Ottawa's Premiere Scuba shop.

An idea, but for another time.

"Parking garage." A pointed a finger at a dark, foreboding concrete hive.
"Pull in there."

Grimes, trembling, put on his blinkers and joined a line of cars lined up at
the entrance to the garage. I got out of the passenger's seat and hid in the
darkness behind the driver's seat.

Something white and ominous rolled our way, going slow, prowling, looking for
something. The sleek, white, Detroit-made four door emblazoned with the
markings of the QPP slowed, but passed us on the other side of the road.

"You just keep looking at the garage entrance, Fat Boy," I said to Grimes.
Finding a handkerchief in his coat pocket, I wiped the sweat off his face.
"Play it cool. Play it cool and everything will go smoothly."

Oh yeah. I was cranking out the blarney. Cranking hard.

I suspected the QPP car had gone on, but I knew better.

Something in my stomach felt rotten. I had an urge to puke and had to fight
it.

I took the opportunity to look over Grimes' shoulder at the rearview mirror.
Well before the traffic light at the end of the street, the police car made a
sweeping U-turn, going slow enough and close enough for me to see the black
and gold racing stripes along the side and the gold seal with the white French
fleur in a blue circle---the image always looked to me like a white hand
giving the "FUCK YOU" middle finger.

The QPP straightened, giving me a view of the wide, dark windshield. It pulled
into the line of cars behind us.

In another second, the light bar on its roof began to flash.

TO BE CONTINUED.