Amazonika Emerges - Part Four of 'The Housewife Changes'

Sarah comes to realize she has a purpose, other than pleasing her husband, in being strong.

Continued from previous stories, The Housewife Changes, Sarah, and Richard

Richard

"You won't believe the day we had," I said to Sarah as she sauntered into the
kitchen. "Joey and Charity and I had a fantastic morning playing touch
football with the families in the neighborhood. We invited a few families over
for a late fall cookout, almost as if we were tailgating, and then we watched
as the Bills beat New England. A totally wild and unpredictable day."

"Yeah, mine was pretty unusual too. The woman I rode with is one of your
employees, Alanna Hussel."

"You're kidding me."

"No, I'm not kidding you," I said. "I'm telling the God's truth. By the way,
she thinks you're the best thing since sliced bread.

"Well she should. She is a really good engineer, and she gets paid pretty
well. A surprising person, too, because she clearly is from the other side of
the tracks, speaks like she was brought up in the gutter, but her engineering
skills are first rate, and she works hard."

"That about sums her up."

"Well, did you have fun?"

"Um, well, enough that we will do it again. Our ride was great, and she is a
very experienced rider who knows how to train and what routes are good. But
... "

"Oh, wait a minute. I think I see where you're going. She is a lesbian without
a partner, isn't she? Oh dear. Did you let her down lightly."

"You could say that. We had a great ride, some good conversation and a little
wine. I also noticed that the Bills had won, so all in all a good day in
central and western New York.

She looked a bit mysterious, and I felt there was more to the story than she
was telling me, but Sarah is a rock. She can handle things, and if she can't
she knows she can come to me.

"You know you can talk to me, honey, if something is bothering you," I said.
Then I mirrored her as she said what I knew she would say. "It's nothing I
can't handle, honey, but thanks." With that said, we sat down to a dinner of
roast chicken, mashed butternut squash, roasted sweet potatoes, and broccoli.
George Bush might not have liked it, but our family does, so we have it all
the time.

After that, we sat down to watch TV. If it had been the sixties we would have
watched Ed Sullivan, if the 90s, Murder She Wrote, but it was 2018, so we
clicked on Netflix and found a family movie to watch and then curled up in
bed. It had been an eventful weekend, but it was over, and I was ready for
work; the kids were ready for school, and Sarah was ready to resume her
routine, all as if nothing had happened.

Sarah

A few days later, the new weights were scheduled to arrive. The problem with
buying weight equipment is that, by nature, it is very heavy. As a result, the
deliverymen for this type of purchase have to be really strong, especially if
they are supposed to carry it in and set it up. Our deliveryman fit the
stereotype. He was just under six feet tall, but he had a wide back and big
shoulders and arms. Stan, for that was his name, knocked on the door, and when
I answered it, he looked me up and down, a couple of times before saying,
"Where do you want your weight equipment?"

"Oh, our workout room is in the finished basement, but I think we should use
the separate entrance rather than going through the house."

He looked at the fine tile flooring and the chandelier in the hallway and
said, "Yeah, that's probably a good idea. Is it big enough?

"Yes," I said. "In fact it's wider than the interior stairs." I directed him
to the bulkhead, and went to the basement to unlock it from the inside.

"OK, that'll do for width, and they are solid concrete which is good, because
this is some heavy shit you bought. What are you gonna do with all these
weights? Your husband must be some big strong guy to need all those hundred
pound plates."

I hesitated, "Yes, he is," I said. "But we both are going to use this weight
room."

"Yeah," he said with a smirk. "You are gonna need all these weights.!"

"Yes, I might."

He muttered a bunch of stuff to himself, but I could hear him. "It's like tits
on a Bull. I have to do this all the time, deliver all this fine equipment I
can't afford to people who don't even know how to use it." Etc. It went on as
he loaded his dolly and unloaded it.

To shut him up I went to the top of the bulkhead and said, "This is taking
forever, let me help you a little." I saw the stack of hundred pound weights
in their individual boxes. I squatted down to pick some up.

"Be careful lady. You might hurt yourself."

"Thanks," I said. "But I know what I'm doing." I grabbed four of the heavy
weights, balanced myself, and lifted them up and flipped them over so they sat
on my right shoulder and carried them downstairs. That shut him up. I repeated
the act, just in case he thought it was a fluke. As I went back up for the
final load of 100Lb weights, I saw him go over to the stack and try to do the
same with two. He couldn't. I smiled. "He deserved it; what a jerk, I
thought."

When I came down with the final stack of weights and he was finished
delivering. Instead of thanking me for helping he said, "You think you're such
hot shit, why don't I show you whose boss in a little arm-wrestling
demonstration." Then under his breath he muttered, "If my wife ever tried to
pull a stunt like that I'd pop her." He had said it to himself, but again I
heard it, so I decided to take the challenge.

"Why not," I said. "There should be no shame in losing an arm-wrestling match
to a big strong man like you."

We did not go so far as to have an arm-wrestling table in our gym, but we do
have a couple of sturdy high top tables in the basement, and they were perfect
for the purpose. We were close to the same height, so there was no advantage
to either one of us. He pulled the straps of his over-alls down, and I took of
my floppy loose fitting shirt to reveal my workout bra and t-shirt. He gasped
audibly when he saw my build.

"You do, ahh, ... you do have some muscles hiding under that loose fitting
sweater of yours."

I smiled sweetly. "Oh, this is nothing. I've only been working out a few
months."

He put his arm up on the table. His hands were like huge slabs of meat, and I
was glad the arm-wrestling hand-hold did not give an advantage to people who
could merely crush your knuckles. He held my thumb; I held his and our wrists
crossed. I decided to let him attack, which I figured he would. I let my arm
fall back to halfway down before I held him up a little.

"Not lookin' so strong now, lady, are you?" he said, and he pushed my arm a
little further down. I pretended I was struggling when I hadn't even begun to
try. Then inches from the table, I stiffened and began pushing back up. The
look on his face was priceless. He gave one last-ditch effort to push me over,
but I held my arm firm and he couldn't budge it. Then I decisively pressed his
hand down.

"Damn," he said. "Let's go two outta three."

This time I took him down immediately. "OK, three outta five. I wasn't ready
that time."

So we went a third time. I started to press his arm down again; this time I
was going more slowly, and he had time to react. He grabbed with his other
hand to get an advantage, but I was too strong for him. I let him pull the arm
back to parallel, and then I pushed, taking both his arms down to the table in
one motion. His body sprawled on the floor.

He got up with venom in his eyes. There was nobody there to see it other than
us, but I had bruised his fragile male ego. He charged at me as if he wanted
to tackle me to the ground, but I dodged him as a matador dodges a bull. He
turned and stalked me, reaching for my neck, so I grabbed his wrists and held
them. He tried to break free, but I was too strong for him.

I looked at him and said, "I don't know what your problem is. You were rude to
me, and then you challenged me to an arm-wrestling match. I didn't challenge
you; you challenged me. And when I beat you, fair and square, in a match
nobody but us saw, you acted as if I had done something to hurt you. Get out
of here and don't come back. I'm not reporting this to your company, but if I
ever see you again, I will." I held him there a few seconds until he relented.
He huffed his way back up the steps of the bulkhead and left in his truck.

A thought hit me; men like that always take their frustrations out on their
wives. So I looked up his name on the delivery form. I then looked up his name
and address and called the police. "I have an odd request," I said. "A man
named Stan Johnson of Applegate Road in East Syracuse just left my home after
making a delivery. While he was here, he made some very threatening comments
that suggest his wife might be in danger of being abused. Can you keep an eye
on his house?"

"I'm sorry Ma'am we can't really do anything about that on the basis of here
say. I can send the squad car by the house every so often this evening if
that's what you want, but we can't go in or near the house."

I hung up. I was getting nervous that His wife was going to feel the brunt of
his anger, an anger that dwelled in him but I had helped bring out, and I was
determined to prevent that from happening.

I called the delivery company pretending I was to receive a package in the
final delivery and did not know what would be the time of the last delivery of
the day; they told me 4:30. Then, I did some mental math. I could do my
workout, get the kids from school, and still have time to be outside his house
when he got home. I would listen for foul play and stop anything before it
happened. I didn't think it was fair of strong angry men to take advantage of
their strength to terrorize their wives. Spouse abuse was something that
appalled me; it always had.

I stewed over what to do, and then called Richard. After explaining it to him,
I expected him to say "It's none of your business stay out of it," or
something to that effect. Instead, he said "I'll come home early and watch the
kids; you go do what you have to do.

I still wasn't sure he was going to beat his wife or do anything like that. It
was just a gut feeling I had, so after picking the kids up from school, I
brought them home, got them a snack, and started them on their homework. Once
things were settled, I said "Mommy has to go do something, so behave well
until Daddy gets home, OK?" They responded their assent.

I drove my car over to their neighborhood and realized my nice Rover SUV was
going to stand out a bit too much and that Stan might recognize it from this
morning. With this in mind, I parked it about a half mile away in a
convenience store parking lot and jogged over to his house. There were no
shrubs in front to hide in, so I snuck around back. There was a deck about a
foot off the ground with Arbor Vitae covering one side. I squatted down next
to the wall under the window, where no one could see me from inside the house,
and I waited.

Minutes later I heard the sound of the front door opening and some voices.
Then the voices got louder; "I had a bad fuckin' day, and you're gonna pay."
He said. I heard the smacking sound of fist against skin, and soon the female
voice was screaming hysterically. I jumped to the side door, which was locked.
I grabbed it hard and gave a strong yank, pulling the bolt through the wood
and tearing the door off it's hinges. Being strong has its advantages, but I
was fortunate there had been no dead bolt.

I ran inside in time to see Mrs. Johnson cowering behind a living room chair
and Stan pounding his fist with a metal baseball bat he held in his right
hand.

"Stop," I yelled loudly, to distract him and give her a moment to run.

"Who are you?" and "What the fuck are you doing here," escaped from their lips
simultaneously. I had surprised them both.

He came at me with the bat, but I grabbed it before he could do anything. I
pulled it from him and began to break it in my bare hands. I couldn't help it.
I was so angry I had to do something to defend his innocent wife, but I had
forgotten what the little man in the potion shop had said about what would
cause me to become big. A moment later, I felt that familiar feeling of
seizure and growth. Before it went too far, I grabbed Stan and bolted out the
back door to the fenced in yard. Here I could do my work without outgrowing
the house.

When we got outside I held him aloft in one hand as I grew and grew to my full
height, which was still somewhere between 13 and 14 feet. (More than four
meters) My clothes, even the loose fitting and stretchy ones I had bought,
were shredded, and I was standing half naked in the middle of their lawn
holding an almost six foot tall man over my head like a big toy doll.

I grabbed him with both hands, one under each armpit and held him around the
shoulders at arm's length so he had to look me in the eye. "You wimpy coward.
Not so tough now are you." Then I grabbed his legs, forced him into a fetal
position and tossed him in the air like a ball. First, he went about six feet
over my head. Then I caught him and tossed him higher, then even higher still
until he was level with the tree tops. I caught him safely each time, but it
still scared him. Finally I caught him and held him by the armpits again.

"You don't like that do you. You don't like knowing your health and physical
well-being relies on the whims of someone who is in total physical control
over you, do you? Well, that is how your wife feels every day. Think about it.
You felt that way for a few minutes today, and that's her daily reality."

"Put me down," he yelled in a voice so full of fear it didn't sound like Stan.
"What the fuck is happening? Put me down."

"Not until you apologize to your wife and promise never to harm her again."
Then I got corny, "I am Amazonika, Avenger of the Abused. You will never do
this again, for I will know. You will treat her with respect, or I will find
out. AND, what is more, I can give some of my powers to your wife, so never
threaten her again. Never touch her again with violence in your heart. Never
even speak caustically to her. A man like you is lucky to have a wife at all."

I threatened to slam him to the ground, but instead I simply dropped him,
lightly in the pile of leaves he had raked over the weekend. Then I flexed for
him, winked at his wife and, looking back at him, said, "Remember what I
said."

Before leaving, I asked his wife her name. "Linda, ... Linda Johnson," she
said. "Thank you so much. You don't know how afraid I have been. But then, I
heard what you said. Maybe you do."

I looked at her, and I saw old black and blue marks in various places around
her face and on her arms. "Go," I said. "Go to the police and report it. I
can't be here every day and every time. Someday, he might get so violent that
you can't do anything about it, so go now. You have fresh bruises and old
bruises to prove your point."

Then I looked at him. "If you know what's good for you, you will cooperate
with the police and get help. You have a mean streak, and I don't think it is
something you can help without a psychologist's care." Then I glared at him
and flexed again, this time a most muscular pose, and he shrunk from it.

I ran out of their yard and down the street as fast as I could. I had to find
a place that was somewhat private to cool off and meditate, and I had to get
to my car before anyone saw all my flesh through my shredded clothes.

I saw realtor's sign in front of one of the homes; it said price reduced.
There were no cars in the driveway, so I took the chance that it was no longer
occupied and scooted into the fenced in back yard, hiding as well as I could.
I started breathing deeply and steadily and concentrating on positive
thoughts. I thought of warm breezes on tropical islands, calm evenings at home
with my family, and peaceful times we shared with friends. I concentrated on
the color beige. Within a few minutes, I was back to myself. I found a black
garbage bag full of clothes under a small sign that said Goodwill. One of the
items was a large pair of coveralls.

"They will never miss these," I thought to myself. I stepped into them and
transferred my keys into the pockets of the coveralls. I sauntered out onto
the sidewalk as if nothing had happened and walked slowly to my car. I got in,
started the ignition, and drove home. I thought about what I had done. I had
taken a chance. I had exposed myself to danger, but I had also done something
I felt good about, something I knew was the right thing to do. What was it the
old man had said? Purity of heart or something like that. I guess I had found
a calling for my newfound powers. I liked being strong. I loved the process of
getting stronger. I was ecstatic about pleasing my husband with my new body.
But most of all, I was proud to put this body to good use. Hmm, "Amazonika the
Avenger of the Abused," not bad for the spur of the moment. I liked it.

When I got home, Richard had started dinner. He gave me a quizzical look about
my clothes, but I shushed him and said "I'll tell you about it later."

Our family had a delightful dinner of pasta, Richard's homemade pasta sauce,
bread, salad and meatballs. Richard, knowing my love of meat these days, had
made a great many meatballs. We polished off all the food; we talked and
laughed, and we did things that families are supposed to do. Then we all went
to bed and slept safely and soundly.

(To be continued)