Kathy's Christmas Carol, Part 1
By Merz
Kathy Davidson begins a most unusual Christmas


I've adjusted fairly well to the twenty-first century, all in all. The entire
stereo system that rocks my loft would fit inside a shoebox. My phone tucks
neatly into a pocket and plays me a little tune rather than giving a jarring
ring. Tattoos on young girls look ill-advised rather than flat out wrong most
of the time. Byelorussia is a country and is on our side; Saint Petersburg
again instead of Leningrad; anyone can get elected to anything in America
without needing to acquire a majority of votes. Nothing of the new millennium
fazes me anymore.

Until I started getting those messages from the computer on Christmas Eve. My
shop was in chaos as I scrambled to make happy my clientele who ranged from
college athletes looking for a flattering dress for their holiday reunion with
high school boyfriends who couldn't keep up in the weight room, to
professional women wanting to finally bare a bulging arm for subordinates who
had already been cowed by their intelligence, to harried husbands wanting the
perfect frock to show off a Herculean wife. Or to yet again prevent the
relatives from guessing who did the heavy lifting around the house.

To top it all, Carmen had a case of the sniffles that would have laid low a
Clydesdale. She not only moved slower around the shop than her usual blurring
pace but her thinking was muddled to the ordinary human standard. So I
attempted to take up the slack by staying longer at Perfectly Fit, herding
inventory figures in and out of the computer, restocking shelves, and
maintaining my friendly, accommodating demeanor despite every provocation.

The first message could have been dismissed as spam if I had been logged on
the internet. Instead, my spreadsheet disappeared to be replaced by a snowy
text box warning me to mend my ways, that time was short. Time is always short
where my business is concerned so I simply acknowledged the message and got
back to wrestling with the database, grateful that no figures had been lost in
the interruption.

Near closing time on Christmas Eve the message became more specific, alerting
me via the electronic cash register to expect three visitors that night. I
wished to reply that I wasn't accepting company. This year I had even sent off
my best friend to her family celebration alone rather than steal even a day
from the shop. No, there was no one I would open my door for that night. The
last computer message at 9:30 as I was finally locking things down specified
the first arrival at the stroke of twelve and at last I made the Dickens
connection. No matter. My feet throbbed, I hadn't been to the gym in a week,
and I had no interest in ghost stories or holiday traditions outside of my
happily ringing cash register. I'm no miser. Part of my problem this year had
been excessive generosity in sponsoring everything from girls soccer teams to
the entire female category in the local Highland Games where finally women
could show they, too, could toss the caber and lift the silly boulders. Long
hours with short help were needed to pay for generosity, not pad my own
account.

I arrived home exhausted to drag myself up the stairs to my loft where I took
just enough time for my push-ups and crunches before gulping a leftover salad
washed down with sourdough baguette and a nice pinot noir. Then I toppled into
my bed thinking noon would be a good wake-up time. Not too early to phone
Betty at her brother's and get a bit of long distance holiday cheer as well as
chat with Julie if she had the day off from the fire station. The clanging of
midnight chimes jarred me awake less by the racket than by my awareness there
were no churches nor chimes anywhere near my squalid warehouse neighborhood.

My visitor was a well set-up person. A second glance convinced me he was male,
about my own height and build. His belted mid- thigh tunic made a fetching
garment for him just as it would for me, displaying shapely arms and legs. His
smooth face permitted no confident guess at an age, but he seemed in generally
a good humor. I prefer my late night visitors to arrive cheery so I don't have
the entire burden of entertainment. I felt somewhat optimistic. While envious
that he was better dressed at the moment, I stood to my full height in hopes
of showing off my flannel nightgown to best advantage.

"I am the spirit of Christmas Past," he quoted. "Come, take my hand and we can
learn the lessons offered to you in Yuletides gone by. Not everyone gets the
opportunity for a refresher on messages life presents to her. You know the
rules: we won't be visible and we can't touch any solid objects in the scenes
we shall see."

It all seemed harmless enough, and probably not a bit real anyway. I accepted
the offered hand and immediately felt a stomach-churning vertigo as the dim
walls of my loft flickered from sight. We were swept along in a sort of fog.
After a few minutes of roller coaster dips and rises we came to rest in a
familiar, soggy green landscape.

Still holding my hand my guide began walking toward a group of shabby council
flats. Standing my ground I brought him to a dead halt and jerked him back to
face me.

"Really, if you're proposing to show me Christmases of my youth you really
needn't bother. I was there and remember them quite vividly. If your point is
that I thought then that my mother was a Midlands slag and not worthy of
having me as her daughter, you must know we later made such reconciliation as
we were able. And I am sure those few occasions when my father was present
would be dramatic but hardly relevant to anything in my life since then. I've
a sister who tried to be cruel by telling me I was building myself into the
man my parents would have wished me to marry. I didn't take it as an insult,
just another example of her underestimating me and my ambitions. I made
myself, my beginnings didn't."

"Oh, you're a cheeky one you are. I have all night and in your case a good
many years to shop through." Again my stomach somersaulted as we resumed our
passage.

To make a long story a bit shorter we nipped off to Chile and watched my
employee Carmen as a young girl happily celebrating amongst a large family,
and then dropped in on a lower class American clan. There I detected a bit of
tension despite their playing all the traditional roles around their tree. It
was only when the father informed his wife he would tuck their eldest child,
Julie, in for the night that I realized who we were visiting.

"That man is a child molester who is taking advantage of his daughter's love,"
I informed my guide. Perhaps this spirit wasn't up on all the secrets of the
households he spied upon and wasn't aware of the nastiness to which he had
brought me.

"But he loves her, and she loves him. Do you know a Christmas after she left
this home when Julie was happier? Before that deplorable one you shared with
her, of course." His voice had a slightly sweet, sickening lilt to it.

My stomach knotted and I turned away from the sight of the father's fondling
hands and the appreciative daughter's innocent gratitude for his affection. So
the Past was aware of what was going on this Christmas Eve and deliberately
let it play out in front of me. I clenched my fists, furious but not certain
where to direct the volcanic anger raging inside of me. "Get me out of here
right now. Before I do something I shall regret. Be warned that I won't ask
twice and I won't put up with this sort of display again."

The spirit of the Past snickered and once more took my hand to transport me
away. "Perhaps we'll skip Carmen corralled in a Santiago stadium with the
remnants of her family as well then. Instead let's see how a certain
headstrong refusal to acknowledge her proper place led astray someone a little
older. You've seen happy Christmases. Here's the other side of the coin."

We materialized in the basement of what seemed to be a large frame building
crowded with people in their late teens or early twenties. The place reeked of
cigarettes and spilled beer, rocked with shouted conversations and bass-driven
music. Surveying the clothing I placed us in the US at some point in the
1980's.

I drew a deep breath. "This is all really quite reassuring. I haven't
contemplated the last couple decades of fashion as a whole. Now I can see that
things have really gone pretty well. Evolution and natural selection really do
exist in the world of fashion. All the evolutionary dead ends I see here will
be gone in a couple years, although painful and impractical shoes keep
recurring like pox, as do skirts that allow little movement beyond a stately
slither. Look at those hemlines. Any of them could be suitable for the right
person today whereas in the sixties we had that midi-skirt experiment when
nobody seemed capable of designing a decent mid-calf hem. Of course just as
today so many women are choosing the wrong skirt length and cut for their
figures, but education is a never-ending struggle. And even at this age there
is no accounting for the tube top. Or the mullet. The men seem to be a bit
loopy over collars and odd patterns, but that's probably healthy as well. Get
it out of the system while you're young, boys. Best if you learn your limits
before trying to impress us with your drinking capacity and sexual prowess,
not to mention your fashion sense. It's such a bore having to demonstrate how
far they fall short."

"Aren't we smug. Are you quite done? Did you think this trip is to show you
clothing of the past? We are here for the people. So you will see and reflect
on where you're heading, and with what kind of company. Maybe you'll learn
something and mend your ways." The Past sounded a trifle testy.

We stood in the back of the smoky basement, on a stairway a couple steps above
the crowd pressing around a makeshift ring. A beefy young man pushed through
to the mats and ducked under the ropes strung between four supporting timbers,
his mates cheering and hollering as he raised his gloved hands over his head.
He was quite festive with Kelly green shorts and a red and green tie-dyed
t-shirt. His boxing gloves jingled and jangled with bells tied around his
wrists. As he walked the perimeter of the square another fellow wearing an
Italian cut suit pushed through the crowd, a robed figure wearing boxing
gloves following with a hand on his shoulder. They entered the ring, the
leader turned to the new fighter, spoke a few words and removed the robe. The
crowd responded with a chorus of boos and catcalls as we all saw this was a
young woman, dressed in gray sweat shirt and sweat pants, wearing a Lone
Ranger style mask beneath her boxing headgear. Ah, coed boxing. How very
progressive! I needed only a second glance to realize this was Betty, my
dearest friend, as a child in college.

"She's really quite something, isn't she?" I asked my guide to the past. "I
believe she might even be a bit huskier at this age. She tells me she lifted
weights competitively in these years. She would have let her weight increase
even more if she hadn't also been on the women's rowing team. The other
members pointed out to her that she needed to manage her weight because of how
light and flimsy those rowing shells are. I would like to see how she looks at
this age under those ugly sweats."

"I'll remember you said that."

"I see she has bells on her gloves as well. With that mask on I wonder how
many of these people realize she can't see and will be using the sounds his
bells make so she can track her opponent and anticipate his punches. Perhaps I
don't want to see this after all. May we go, please? With your talent for
travel perhaps a quick look around some watering holes in New York or London
could be arranged?"

Betty and her guide seemed to be involved in a heated discussion in her
corner. The well-dressed young man was gesturing wildly to his sightless
fighter while she seemed adamant about her position. Finally I saw her head
and shoulders sag as she allowed the fellow to remove the headgear amateur
boxers wear, exposing her blonde ponytail. Her face around her little mask was
crimson as she turned to face the ring while the other person slipped back
into the crowd.

The two fighters advanced to the middle of the ring where the boy acting as
referee spoke to them briefly before sending them back to their corners. A
bell rang and the action started. Betty came out purposefully, crouched and
shuffling forward with a good deal of upper body movement. She kept her arms
well up, crossed about chest height out in front of her. The other fighter
looked more awkward but came out gamely. He threw the first few punches that
Betty caught on her gloves and forearms as she bobbed and circled. After
blocking a hard blow she responded with a quick flurry, two of which reached
the head of her opponent. He stepped back, shaking his head and she pursued,
snapping jabs at his head and his belly. The bells on their wrists set up a
jangling chorus to add to the chaotic noise in the basement.

"Her father taught her that posture for boxing. He told her a boxer named Ken
Norton used it successfully, including a couple of bouts with Muhammad Ali. It
appears quite effective for Betty as well."

"Why don't we take a closer look. Nobody will object to us standing by the
ring, they can't even see us. And there's plenty of room around her corner."

The shade took me by the elbow and began steering me through the cheering
crowd. As we went by the fraternity champion's corner I heard one young man
say to another, "Hey, Marlowe, Todd's getting his head handed to him!"

"Yeah, I wonder if that really is a girl, or some ringer who slipped in. I'm
going to talk to Syd and see what we can do to fix this thing."

We passed around the roped off square to the corner Betty had started from.
Her opponent was doing a good job of running away from her, giving up any
semblance of boxing or even fighting as she moved methodically after him,
forcing him toward corners from which he would turn and run, his back to her
as he sought simple survival. When he did attempt to fight back he swung
wildly but tentatively, having learned she would launch a solid response if he
stood his ground in front of her instead of retreating quickly. By the time
the bell rang to end the round the crowd was booing him quite loudly and
calling him a variety of names, as well as questioning Betty's character and
parentage. This was not the genteel sporting crowd. I repeated my suggestion
we find another interesting historical spot to visit while we still had time
that evening, but the Past shrugged me off.

Betty returned to her corner and I shouted encouragement to her, although I
realized she couldn't hear me. A student slipped a wooden stool under the rope
for her to sit on, then handed her a bottle of water. The well-dressed fellow
who had escorted her in leaned over the rope.

"Listen, the crowd's getting a little feisty. Our guy isn't doing so good. We
need to give them some more entertainment or they'll want their money back and
you won't get paid. How about you take off the sweats? Some of these guys
don't believe you're a girl. We gotta show them some skin."

"Skin? I agreed to a boxing match, not a strip tease," Betty replied around
her mouthpiece. "We have a deal, Honeycutt."

"Well, not on any piece of paper I know about. I'm not asking, I'm telling.
You want that fifty bucks, you let us peel that shirt off you. The bell rings
in ten seconds and either that shirt's off or the deal's off. Nine, eight,
seven, six. . ."

Betty stood and turned so her sweatshirt could be unzipped and pulled down her
arms and over the fat gloves. Once she had it off and stood in a sport bra,
this Honeycutt motioned for the bell to be rung.

"My God but she's fabulous," I commented to my companion. "Since then she's
dropped about fifteen pounds from that top layer of brawn. But she's so young
here that she's embarrassed to be seen in just her bra by all these japing
hyenas."

Just as Betty began moving out of her corner Honeycutt called out, "One more
thing." Betty turned back and he grabbed the little mask and jerked it,
snapping the thin elastic band so the mask came away in his hand. She turned
to protest to him, but he stepped back into the crowd leaving her shouting to
nobody.

The other fighter had moved to the middle of the ring at the bell and quickly
spotted Betty's distraction and confusion. As she started to turn back from
her corner he threw an arching punch that caught her solidly on the cheek and
sent her staggering back. His audience shouted approval and he moved in
quickly to take advantage, hammering Betty's back as she tried to push herself
away from the post supporting the ropes of the ring. The fellow acting as
referee made some ineffectual suggestions that he wait until she was looking
at him again, then finally stepped in after half a dozen blows had landed on
Betty's head and back.

Clearly some of the punches had been painful as Betty flinched and recoiled
from them. This gave the audience its first clear look at her. First they
gasped at the astounding strength her body displayed. Then some began to
recognize her without the mask and more gasps showed they realized it was a
blind woman who was putting on this boxing exhibition.

The one called Marlowe clearly recognized Betty without her mask. He jumped up
as the male fighter pressed his advantage and set up a cheer, calling for the
crowd to join him. "Blind as a bat! Blind as a bat!" He went into an ugly
pantomime of hand waving and groping before pretending to be knocked to the
floor. I tried to grab a chair with which to dash out his brains but my hands
passed uselessly through it.

The clumsy fighter bore in again, but now Betty was ready and focused. As she
registered the sounds of his approaching belled hands she dropped back into
her defensive crouch and repeated her opening from the first round. He lobbed
in slow, clumsy blows that she deflected until she had her bearings
sufficiently. Then she went through a period of counterpunching that left her
opponent dazed and vulnerable again. As Betty took the offensive I heard the
one called Honeycutt yell for the boy Marlowe.

"Look, she's killing him. We don't want to pay her the fifty bucks and we
can't cover all those bets so we gotta make her lose and lose bad. She's
finding him by the sound of those bells. Go get your can of shave cream and
get back here before she knocks Todd's head off." Marlowe raced away.

"What are they doing?" I demanded of the Past.

"Oh, just a slight modification. Nothing that goes against the letter of any
rulebook. Be patient and watch." The fight continued with the young man in
full retreat, coming very close a couple of times to being trapped in a corner
where Betty was sure to put an end to his boxing career. By the time the bell
finally sounded he was again spending as much time running with his back to
Betty as he did cowering before her.

When the local hero dragged his battered carcass back to his corner his
helpers surveyed the wreckage and barraged him with smelling salts and gulps
of water. A hopeless optimist outside the ring repeatedly assured him he was
wearing Betty down and should finish her in the next round. "I can't hardly
hold my arms up," he wailed in reply. "Can't we stop now? I don't want her to
hit me anymore." Poor pitiful boy. I looked carefully at Betty as she got
minimal attention in her own lonely corner. At least one of the bystanders had
again placed a stool for her to sit on and thrust a water bottle in her
direction. She seemed little the worse for wear.

The bell rang and the fraternity boy was hoisted to his feet. Just as eager
hands were about to propel him forward to further punishment Marlowe burst
through the circle of spectators. "Todd, hold out your hand." To delay having
to meet Betty, the fighter held out one gloved fist. Marlowe applied a liberal
coating of shaving cream to the bracelet of bells on that hand. "Now the
other. She's that blind freak we see around campus. She's finding you by the
sound. We won't be cheating if you keep the bells on, we'll just make it so
they don't do her any good." The fighter's puffy mouth formed a grin around
his mouthpiece.

The referee urged the fighter to come out of his corner to meet Betty who was
waiting in her crouch. He surged out but moved somewhat tentatively when he
got near Betty. At first he just stood in front of her with his hands up in
self-defense. Then he looked back to his cheering corner, stepped wide to the
right and threw an arching punch that got behind Betty's guard.

She staggered and turned in the direction the punch had come from, pivoting
her head to catch any sound from her opponent. He seemed to gain courage and
energy from his success in landing one blow on Betty when she had her gloves
up, so he duplicated the stunt. This time she was bobbing and shifting more
and his glove mostly landed on her thick shoulder but her swing in response
missed him completely. As he made more successful flank attacks his spirits
rose and Betty began to look more and more defensive, her enormous shoulders
and chest tensed against the expected blows, her stomach a stack of hard
paving stones. With so much of her body invulnerable beneath incredible
muscles Betty's opponent concentrated on trying to hit her face and batter her
breasts.

Midway through the round he walked into one counterpunch she was able to throw
and that shook his confidence. Scuttling back to his corner he demanded
Marlowe apply more shaving soap to his wrist bells, then returned to the fray.
Betty was still searching for her opponent, her frustration at not hearing his
location showing on her face. On the sidelines Marlowe had found a billiards
cue and now was entertaining the crowd with a disgusting imitation of a blind
person tapping along and repeatedly running into walls. I ground my teeth
wishing I could hold a cue stick. I'd a burning idea of just where I might
insert it for a good half its length.

When he got back to the fight the oaf again launched one of his lumbering
assaults around the side of Betty's guard. I gasped as his thunderous overhand
right landed squarely in her face and nearly buckled her knees. This time a
bit of the shaving soap flew from his belled wrist and landed on Betty's face.
I saw her nostrils widen, then she wiped at the foam with the back of her
glove and sniffed it. Her brows furrowed, she nodded to herself and began
backpedaling. Finding the rope at her back she shuffled along it, her opponent
following and lobbing in his blows with mixed success. Enough landed that I
could see red welts forming on Betty's exquisite body and a red puffiness
appearing on her face. While not entirely defenseless she couldn't stand a
great deal more of the punishment.

Finally she had backed herself into a corner and made her stand. Her back was
against one rope and she faced along the other that ran close by her right
arm. It appeared in addition to listening intently now she was sniffing the
air as well. At last the fighter stepped to her left side, the only opening
she left to him. As he drew back for another of his hard punches I saw Betty
sniff once, then pivot and launch a wild right lead. She connected solidly but
a bit below his chin. Without hesitating she bore in, jabbing and jabbing to
maintain contact until she had forced the fighter into his own corner. Then
she unleashed half a dozen punches to his head and stomach that ended with him
bouncing off the corner post and into her arms.

She held his weight for a moment, her biceps swelling like melons, her
shoulders flaring, then she carefully lowered him to the mat where he was just
able to hold himself on all fours, his head hanging. Betty felt her way along
the ropes to her own corner as the referee counted to ten, increasing the
interval between counts as he went but failing to coax the beaten fighter back
to his feet. Finally he signaled a knockout and raised Betty's hand in
victory. Meanwhile the Marlowe person was now leading the crowd in a new
chant: "She's a he."

Betty was led away by another student as the place became Bedlam. A certain
portion of the audience were cheering Betty, and she seemed to have picked up
a contingent of female support, much to the consternation of their boyfriends.
My guide milled about for a while before leading me to a back stair and up to
the ground floor of the building. Walking past a group sipping drinks and
making clumsy passes at one another we stepped through a wall to a hallway
where we saw Betty carrying a gym bag, and the Syd Honeycutt person once more.
He led her down the hall with an arm across her shoulders where her sweatshirt
was draped. I noted she had removed her boxing gloves by this point, and he
had removed his trousers. His voice was soothing and calm despite the fact he
was bare arsed below the suit coat and silk necktie. I gave the Past a sharp
sideways glare.

"No, Honeycutt, we had a deal. I've already gone beyond my part of the
bargain. I boxed at your stupid smoker, I won and now I want my fifty dollars.
I already told you I need to get it to the bank tomorrow to cover some checks
I wrote for Christmas presents I sent home. I've never bounced a check and I
won't start now."

"Baby, your financial problems are of no interest to me. But sure, we'll take
care of you. Just step into the library here and we can get it all straight
between us." At the last comment he waved with his other hand as he led Betty
through a doorway. The boy named Marlowe and a few others emerged from the
shadows at the end of the hallway and stole out of the building. Following
them we saw they had gathered around a window that looked into the library
where Syd and Betty stood face to face.

"Man, that Syd is great. He's going to pay her fifty for the blowjob she's
about to give him, and we'll sell the pictures for a lot more than that!"
Marlowe was dancing with glee. "Wait till her folks see these shots of their
little freak away at college!"

"No need for us to see anything further here," the Past murmured in my ear as
he gripped my arm to begin dragging me off. "We have a couple more stops and I
think you get the idea here."

I shoved him away. "Don't be an idiot. I'm not leaving her like this." I
started back into the building. The Past jerked me around and slapped me quite
hard across the mouth. Without thinking I uncoiled a fist against his cheek. A
nanosecond before it landed I realized the small bones of my hand were no
match for a cheek bone, but the expected crack and pain never came. It felt
like punching a sack of grain or sand, and he sat down hard on the ground. "I
said I am not leaving my friend. Even if I can't do anything for her and if
she doesn't even know I'm here, I will not abandon her." I turned and began
pushing my way through the wall and into the library.

The Past landed a hard shot above my left kidney and snatched me back through
the wall. "I don't know about bigger, but is it supposed to feel as hard as
this?" I heard Betty ask before the Past got me back outside. I went with the
direction of his pull, but shifted at the last moment to drive my elbow into
his chin, then three good blows into his stomach. He dropped to one knee and I
quickly hopped through the wall. Syd had a check in his hands and was feeling
Betty's enormous bicep as she flexed for him. The Past came through the wall,
grabbed me and began hauling me back outside.

In a rage I spun and seized the Past by the throat, my thumbs digging into his
windpipe and my fingers crackling with my effort to crush the bones in his
neck. With a roar I heaved him against the wall, but it gave only a squishy
sort of resistance before passing us through to the flowerbed beyond. As he
fell to his back, the scant color draining from his pasty face, I felt the
crunch of his larynx. I leapt up from the corpse and studied the group pressed
against the window, then scanned the area in search of any weapon I could use
to stop the atrocity inside. I meant to exact bloody vengeance from this lot.
Everything slipped through my hand when I tried to grip it. My shouts and
curses went unheard. In desperation I threw myself back into the library with
Syd and Betty.

Now Betty held the check as Syd tried to stretch both his hands around her
flexing upper arm. Her puffy, battered face bore a half smile as she indulged
him a moment more of rubbing and fondling. Then she shook him off and gripped
his arm. A look of pain lit his face.

The Past came through the wall and tackled me hard to the floor. We rolled a
couple of times, then I got a leg up to push him off me. Bare footed, I kicked
him hard in the ribs then drove my knee into his kidneys with all my weight
behind it. I had no illusion now that I could defeat the Past or keep the Past
dead, but I was desperate to do something for Betty. This helpless watching
was ripping my heart to shreds.

"Gosh, Syd, yours isn't as hard. Feel mine again." The trapped boy once more
placed a trembling hand on top of her peaked bicep as she flexed and relaxed
it. "Oooo, something hot is squirting onto my stomach. Are you finished now?
Earlier this evening I could practically count the change you were jingling in
your pocket. Did you think I wouldn't hear that you weren't wearing your
trousers any more?

"Listen, Honeycutt." The knuckles on her squeezing hand whitened from her
effort as Syd squirmed in her grip. He tried futilely to pry open her fingers
as he sank slowly to the floor. "If I have any trouble with this check at the
bank tomorrow I'll be back. I'll bring some folks from the school paper and
they can get the story of how I beat the shit out of your boxer and then I'll
do the same to you. And I'll bet now there are some photos of you exposing
yourself in front of me. I hear your friend Marlowe likes taking pictures,
doesn't he? Those could be worth a little jail time for you when I get my
hands on them, if I decide to turn them over to the police."

I stood up, holding the Past pinned on the floor under my foot. It seemed
Betty had things handled without me. "You didn't want me to see how this came
out, did you?" I asked him and pressed a little harder. "So your game is to
show bits and pieces as you see fit, hoping to change how I view events and
people? I don't believe we need go any further."

Betty had released Honeycutt and felt her way to the door where she called for
someone to lead her to the exit. As she unfolded her white cane from her gym
bag she passed Marlowe on her way out, apparently recognizing his voice as he
conferred with his accomplices. "The camera," she barked at him. "Now." And he
meekly placed a cheap Kodak in her hand as she left the building.

"I don't care if it takes me a hundred years, she's going to pay for this,"
Syd Honeycutt told his friend as Marlowe knelt next to him. "And I don't mean
just the money and I don't mean one bad night, and I don't even mean her in
particular. She made me feel like a wimp, like a weak little girl. You watch.
The day will come when I get back at every muscle freak like her."

Of course you will, I thought to myself. You're rich and beautiful and
certainly well connected so who could possibly stop you from taking whatever
revenge you think fitting? Who indeed. I looked down at the Past beneath me.
"I believe it's time you took me home," I told him and extended my hand.