Betty is getting a little sick of Fred interfering with her work.

By Mongoose750, mongoose750@yahoo.com

Hello everybody, my name is Betty Conrad, and I'm the owner and (for now) the sole operator of Barefoot Betty's Auto Repair Shop. The garage is named that for two reasons; the first one being that was the name I was given by my parents, and secondly, I don't wear shoes, except when I'm doing heavy engine work. In a nutshell, cars are my life. I work on them, restore them, read about them, some say I even dream about them. No, I don't go that far, but for five days out of the week, that's what I do.

At the risk of sounding puffed up, auto repair is what I do well, having learned the craft from my father since I was his knee-high apprentice. My dad, who owns a chain of garages himself, once told me how proud he was that he has a little girl who wouldn't depend on the charity of strangers when she gets a flat tire at night. The funny thing is it's strangers who depend on my charity when they get a flat tire at night.

In fact, business was doing so well, I realized that I need to start looking for an assistant before I became overwhelmed with my workload. Even a person like me who loves her work needs to take a break sometime. Another reason happened to be a "work of art' as I called it, a ruby red, 1959 Cadillac Convertible. I found the carcass in a junkyard in New Jersey, and I was halfway finished in restoring it. After I finish it, my plans were to drive it around town at least once. I say once because when I usually restore a classic car, people suddenly come out of the woodwork wanting to buy it. It's normally not too big of a problem because I make a good profit selling them, but at the same time, any car I want to make part of my personal fleet, I almost have to fight to keep them.

Speaking of fighting, that is the reason for my story today. As you may have heard in my other two accounts, my success as a mechanic, no, make that a female mechanic hasn't went down too well with some people, particularly a jerk by the name of Fred. For those of you who don't know Fred, he was a guy who's car I fixed once (I think it was a tune-up, oil change, battery, or something minor like that). He told me about this movie at the drive-in that was showing, and asked me if I wanted to go. I told him that I have wanted to see this movie for some time, and I'll go and see it with him ' that is, see the movie, not him. I didn't have any romantic inclinations for him or anybody else for that matter at the time, except for that Cadillac I was restoring.

Well apparently, Fred got the wrong idea. Either that or he wasn't listening to what I said. When the movie was starting to get real good, Fred saw that as a prime opportunity to check under my "hood,' and I don't mean to see if the spark plugs are working either. I said no, reminded him that it wasn't a date, and even if it was, I don't do things like that. It's not a way you treat a lady, and the Good Book is against it.

Unfortunately, sometimes when you live by the Good Book, in order to get someone to listen to you, you have to slam that book against someone's head. Fred was no exception. When he ran the red light and tried to check under my hood again, I took my fist and whacked him across the head, knocking him out. This was during the climatic part of the movie, so I made it quick. After I finished watching the movie, I took sleeping beauty home (it was his car, so I had to drive it to his house), told him what a jerk he was, and walked home. I whacked him again when my friends found out that he did this whole thing on a bet.

I confronted him with it a day later, and he had the nerve to tell me yeah, he did, what was I going to do about it. I just told him you'll also have to explain this, and then I whacked him across the head with a left cross. I left him on the sidewalk with a nice bruise to go along with his story. That was the end of it, I thought.

This was before my garage received its official name. The month before it opened, Fred and his friends, two guys and two girls, I believe, decided to come by the garage and trash it, to "teach me a lesson.' I heard the commotion, entered the garage, and gave the four of them a good whacking and made them clean the place up. I say four of them because Fred escaped while I knocked the other guys' lights out. The two guys I have to thank for giving me the name of the place, because it was the imprint of my bare foot on their white T-shirts that gave me the inspiration.

I should point out before I go any further that my dad taught me to handle myself in case things got rough, because the world doesn't always take so kindly to a woman mechanic. The muscles I built working with heavy equipment as a mechanic plus the boxing techniques my dad taught me came in handy. When I went to college to get my business degree, I also took classes in Tae Kwon Do (that's karate with a lot of kicking for you folks who aren't' familiar with it), eventually earning my black belt. That night in the garage gave me a chance to try out my newfound skills. Turns out I like whacking people across the head with my dirty feet better than I do with my fists.

After the grand opening, I went to Fred's house to give him the whacking that he missed at the garage. To make a long story short, after I laid my foot upside his head, knocked him out, and took him back home, his mother gave me carde blanche, an open invitation to come over to whack Fred across the head anytime. It turned out, no matter how much they try, his parents can't get him to treat people, women especially, with respect.

You would think that after all that, a guy would learn to leave a woman alone, huh? But noooo. Though he didn't dare do it in person, I still had Fred in my hair.

One Monday afternoon, after I finished business with a customer, a big hairy thug came to the shop and demanded he had business with me. Having a funny feeling about this, I invited him into my office so I could find out what he's talking about. It turned out that Fred had written him a check for so much money to come and kick my butt. Even though I thought this guy was half-gorilla, I believe I could've taken him, but why go to all that trouble if you don't have to? I had other things to do; whacking some guy across the head was not on my priority list that day. So I told him whatever Fred paid him, I would double it. That caught his attention.

"Really?" he said.

"Really," I replied, as I pulled out my checkbook. "Besides, as you can see, you know I work for a living. Do you even know if Fred has a job?"

"That's a good question, I never thought about that," he said.

As I finished writing the check and handed it to him, I said, "Here's my amount for your trouble. You may want to check if Fred even has that much in his checking account, because I think his check has more bounces in it than a NCAA championship basketball."

The man thanked me and went on his way. A few days later, I heard from somebody that Fred got beat up because he gave someone a bad check. Served him right.

Business continued to run along smoothly, and quite busily, reminding me that I still need to start looking for an assistant. I finished replacing an EGR valve on a 1994 Pontiac Grand Prix, and sent the customer on his way when five women appeared on my doorstep. Mind you, these weren't just normal women; these were women who looked like they lived in the weight room. They were a small assortment of bodybuilders, powerlifters, weightlifters, and anything else you do to look like She-Hulk. I mean, I've seen female bodybuilders (heck, I'm friends with one), and weightlifters, and they look buff and attractive, with all their feminine curves accentuated. These ladies who came in my shop that day, well they looked plain mean. They all had a scowl on their face like they ate a bushel of lemons for breakfast that morning, along with their daily helping of steroids.

Anyway, they said they had a bone to pick with me, so I invited them in my office to see what bone it was I messed with this time. A tall, strawberry blonde woman with large arm muscles and a facial expression that looked like she would rip off your face and eat it for lunch said that she was told that I was poking fun at female bodybuilders, those five in particular. She said that according to her source, I said that they were nothing but dykes who couldn't get a man, so they try to look like one. This source also said that I could whip the five of them with no problem at all, because their muscles weren't any big deal, and they couldn't fight. They were coming to show me either individually or all at once just what they could do to me because I made light of them.

Oh boy. I sighed and asked the strawberry blonde hulk, since she appeared to be the leader, if this source came by the name of Fred.

"I'm not sure, the name sounds familiar," the blonde, whose name was Sheila, said. I gave her Fred's physical description, and she agreed that was the source that told her that I said these things.

I explained briefly about the history between Fred and I, and I rolled my work shirtsleeve up on my right arm, and flexed a huge biceps muscle. Not as large as theirs, of course, but large enough to show them something.

"I have a lot of respect for women bodybuilders, weightlifters, and the like. I have no problem with that sport or lifestyle. Besides, where would I have room to talk? I'm a mechanic! I deal with weights everyday!"

Aside from my work and Tae Kwon Do, there are two large pistons that I pulled out the engine of an old semi that I use as weights every morning before I go to work. I do about a hundred curls, standard lifts, and about every exercise you can name that involves strengthening the arms. I recommend it to anyone; just make sure you clean the pistons first.

The strawberry blonde, two brunettes who were a little shorter than her, a black woman who was about as tall and as developed with her muscles as the leader, and an older woman, taller than the rest of them, with short, bleached-blond hair, looked at each other, nodded their heads and agreed.

"We're sorry we bothered you," Sheila said.

This looks like this would be an excellent occasion to give a good old-fashioned whack across the head to somebody, then I thought I'm not the one who was fed this garbage. The recipients need to take care of the source.

"If I were you," I said, "I would go tell this person that he was seriously misinformed. I think he would need to be told quite persuasively, don't you think?"

The group, who were silent except for the ringleader, suddenly exploded into a discussion of who wanted to be the one to stuff Fred into a tailpipe. I sat back, enjoying the conversation, but I remembered I have a business to run. I told them that they were free to stay in the office and discuss amongst themselves who would get Fred, but I had to get back to work. They thanked me and got back to business. The idea didn't hit me till later on that day, I should've asked if any of them wanted to work for me.

I found out a day later that Fred left town, at least that was the story. I heard rumors that he was at his brother's house across town, hiding out in one of the men's dormitories, and visiting his cousin, who's a police officer, in the next city. The muscle-bound ladies came to the agreement that, whoever found Fred first, would get to have their way with him, and I don't mean in the romantic sense either. I don't think Fred would have any problem avoiding five strong and mean woman in a city this size; but it would almost be impossible to escape the all-women network, unless he joined a monastery for the next couple of years. Sooner or later, a friend of a friend of a friend would see him and word would get back to one of those five, and then things would start getting ugly. Almost makes me feel sorry for him, but not at the moment. Too bad.

The final straw that broke the camel's back was three weeks later on a Thursday evening. I completed a successful day at work, and some new friends invited me to a night on the town, involving dinner and a round or two of miniature golf. For the occasion, I wore a light blue sleeveless T-shirt dress. It was mid-thigh, and nice and comfortable, allowing me full freedom of movement. I never understood this thing with some women having to wear tight clothes anyway. To top off the outfit, I wore light blue toenail polish. My new friends loved it. Of course my being barefoot didn't bother them; they go barefoot too! I felt right at home.

Well, we'll talk about my barefoot friends later. Anyway, when I came back home, my dog, a full-blooded Chow named Leo, because he looks a little like a lion, was barking quite a bit. After that mishap that happened before the grand opening, I decided to invest some money in a good alarm system, a dog. They're very low tech, pretty reliable, and the only upkeep you have to make is to give them some love, and feed them dog chow on a regular basis. Since I trained him to bark only when he has a reason to, I was concerned.

I walked up to the garage to see if anything was wrong, but it was untouched. There were no signs of unforced entry or any sign of foul play. Not seeing anything wrong, I walked over to Leo to ask him why he was still barking. Now between the garage and where I have Leo chained up, there's a dark shadow of the garage that's left by the overhead light. The idea that this might be a setup occurred to me two seconds too late.

From the dark spot, two arms suddenly wrapped around me, pinning my arms behind my back. Another person stepped out of the shadows, deciding not to waste any time, and started to throw a punch towards my stomach.

One of the neat things you learn in Tae Kwon Do is weak spots and how to hit them. The other neat thing is the human body has so many; no foe is invulnerable to you.

Take bozo number one, here ' the one who's going to hit me. I probably could take a blow to the stomach, since my muscles there are well developed, but why do I want to do that? Anyway, for his blow to make maximum impact, he stepped forward with his right foot to aid in the blow's momentum. That's his mistake. Without thinking about it (that's the secret to success in Tae Kwon Do, you practice these moves until they become second nature), I launched my right foot toward the bottom part of his knee. As a result, my would-be assailant instead of throwing punches was rolling around on the ground, grabbing his knee.

I then swung my right foot back, using the heel to strike the right knee of bozo number two behind me. Not through yet, I continued my momentum to slam my foot down on top of the man's foot. I think he was wearing work shoes or boots, but it didn't matter to me as hard as I slammed down. Quite needless to say, the man stopped holding me, and was hopping around, trying to figure out what to grab first, his hurt knee or his squashed toes. Frankly, I didn't care. He was in for some more pain.

Facing him, I figured a good roundhouse kick would fit the bill. I smacked my right foot across the man's jaw, which wasn't enough to knock him out, but from the way he was whimpering and holding his jaw when he hit the ground, he might have wished I did. I was mad; wouldn't you be too? A woman tries to run her business, and one idiot has nothing better to do but to send people over for the sole reason but to beat her up. Not just one person, but groups of people.

That last thought reminded me because Fred normally sends people over in small crowds. He wouldn't stop at two. Fully on alert now, I look around, pausing for a second to kick bozo number one in the face. The wimp; I didn't do that much damage to his knee, so I gave him something to cry about.

Finally he appears out of the shadows, the king bozo. At 6'6 and well built, he apparently was supposed to be the last line of offense in case the others have failed. He approaches me slowly, his fists up in a boxing stance. He guards himself in such a way that it would be hard for me to score any major damage on him with my shorter frame.

Regarding larger and taller opponents, my teacher, mistress Kim once taught us to not be intimidated by a bigger foe, there's more to hit, so it would be harder to miss. There was also another word of advice regarding situations like this. One of my new friends is Susan Davidson, the local kickboxing legend in this town. While trading fight tips with each other, she told me how she studied her adversary. Stop, focus, and examine your foe. Are they trying to hide a weakness, like a limp, or a weak side? Do they have a confident fighting stance, or is their stance from habit or desperation? And what do they have exposed? If they leave even a small part of themselves unguarded, then you have a small window of opportunity to launch an attack. In a fight, every little bit helps.

While we're circling around, throwing punches and blocks, this checklist runs through my mind. The man seems to have some boxing skills and was apparently an experienced fighter. He also has some knowledge of my fighting skills, because he moves around enough to keep his legs out of reach from my kicks. I'm much shorter than he is, so he has to crouch down a little bit so he could be in a better position to land a blow on me. So what would that small window of opportunity be? What small part of himself does he have unguarded? Then I glance up and see the answer, his head. He assumed that since I'm shorter, I wouldn't be able to reach his head. He was wrong.

First, I let him in, attempting to land a couple of punches on me, and then I leap up to deliver a flying side kick. Since my right foot seen most of the action, I decided to use my left foot this time. My bare sole socks the head bozo right in the face. The man reels back, stunned. Since I have his marbles rattling, I follow up with a reverse punch to the solar plexus, then I deliver a left kick to the knee to help bring him down. As he comes down, I take another look at his face. He had a busted lip and some blood coming from his nose. My next reaction was like how a shark reacts when they see blood.

I deliver a reverse turning kick with my right foot against his forehead. Then I delivered a knife-edge blow to his throat. Then I decided to let my fists do some of the work as I battered him. To be honest, I don't remember if he tried to put up a defense or not after my kick to the forehead. He fell against a tree, and while he was on his knees, tried to right himself, leaving his ribs open to some more snap kicks.

I appeared to be in a red haze, probably the result of leftover anger from all this nonsense that Fred had given me. I was ready to deliver a palm strike to the face when suddenly I hear this voice inside of my head say, "do not kill." Chances are, that's probably what I would've done if I let myself go and struck a few more blows. I look down at the tall man. He was wheezing from my shot to the throat, and had a face that looked like hamburger. He had a sore knee, and probably one or two busted ribs. Then I look at my fists and my feet, and my dress, which had a sprinkling of blood on them that wasn't my own. I may never be able to get those stains out of my dress.

After I give a silent thanks to God for keeping me from breaking the sixth commandment, I grab the tall man by the hair and ask him a question I already knew the answer to, but I ask anyway.

"Who sent you?"

"F-frank," the man said.

Frank? I don't know any Frank! So now, the little weasel has not given his name to his henchmen just in case things fell through. However, there's more to this besides him asking people to come and beat me up. I asked the tall man another question.

"What's in this for you?"

"Cars," was what he said. I was starting to see red again. As a prize for beating me, Fred would have allowed them to take whatever cars I have in my personal fleet.

I chopped the man on the side of the neck, knocking him out, putting him out of his misery. I turn and face the other two men. Bozo number one, who received a bloody nose from my kick to his face, started to crawl away. I catch up to him and slam my right heel down on his left kidney. I then slammed my left fist into his spine. He rolled over, squirming in pain. I put my bare right sole on his throat, putting just enough pressure not to choke him ' yet, but enough to get his attention. I look over to the other guy, who's still holding his jaw, and dare him with my eyes to move.

"So this man, who sent you, said that if you beat me up, you get a choice of one of my cars. My cars that I have rebuilt almost from scratch, which I have slaved and toiled over. This was the prize you would get from beating me up?"

The man beneath my foot started squirming, so I push my foot down.

"I wasn't talking to you," I said to the worm wiggling below me as he gasped for air.

Bozo number two tried to say yes, found great pain when he did so, then nodded his head.

Meantime, I increased the pressure of my foot on bozo number one's neck. His face started turning the color of my dress.

"Don't you three have cars of your own?"

Bozo number two again nodded.

"I see."

Bozo number one's struggles were getting feebler before they stopped momentarily. When he was no longer a problem, I walked toward bozo number two, who seemed to find new life in his bruised knee and tried to hobble away.

"So you like cars, huh? Well after tonight, you three are not going to be able to drive any for a while."

Bozo number two screamed when I caught him trying to run from me.

I had a few more bloodstains to get out of my dress.

I am thankful I have parents who have early bedtimes, and can sleep through an earthquake. I'm sure my mother would nearly faint at the new design that I'm wearing on my dress. Fortunately, I have some stain remover that will take the stripes off a zebra.

As far as the three bozos are concerned, I left one with just enough strength to use their cell phone and call a cab. The idea of feeding them to Leo crossed my mind, but I thought better of it. Cabs and buses were going to be their sole means of transportation. It would be a while before they regain the use of some of their limbs again. I left their worthless carcasses in the yard where I left them. If my parents complain about the mess, I'll clean it up, I promise.

I stood in my room, thinking. Almost every fiber of my being was urging me to go over to Fred's house, and end it right now. Enough was enough. Then I did something that probably saved Fred's life. I undressed and went to bed.

The next day went fine as far as work went. My late night adventure after my evening with the girls left me a little tired, but not too much to affect my performance. Still, to be on top of my game, I need to be at my best, and for that, I need a good night's sleep, which has been robbed from me last night. Yet another thing to beat Fred for.

Susan came by later that day, and noticed that I was dragging a little. She thought her and the other girls left me out too late. I said no, and I explained what happened last night. Susan, no stranger to conflicts like this, asked what I was planning to do. I gave her my intentions plain and simple, find Fred, and beat the fire out of him.

"Will you need a hand with anything, like if the man has bodyguards or something?" Susan said.

"No, I got it, but I appreciate the help, and thanks for that one bit of advice on looking for weak spots."

"You're welcome, I'm glad it helped."

We said our goodbyes and told her to let me know when the gang is getting together again. Since each one of them is a martial artist, I could let each one of them have a piece of Fred. No, it wouldn't be worth it. Fred is my itch to scratch. I noticed when I came out that morning that the bodies were gone. I guess they did make it home, to the emergency room or wherever. I didn't know and I didn't care, and much worse, it bothered me that I thought that way. Susan tended to have good timing by coming near the end of the workday. Talking with her helps make the day end well. Now that the garage is officially closed, it was time to suit up for war.

The previous night, when I took on the three bozos, the dress I was wearing allowed me freedom of movement, but I almost had it ruined by bloodstains. That was rather unexpected. This time I plan to shed blood that's not my own, and not have any nice outfits ruined while I'm doing it. After I took my shower, I put on a simple gray tank top and black shorts. I even went as far as painting my toenails black to match my outfit like ' what's her name? ' Janelle, that's her name. She is a little weird, but a pretty nice person. I took the Mustang last time I whacked Fred across the head; this time I planned to take the classic Thunderbird. It's red, and red is what I was on the border of seeing for the last couple of hours. I jumped in the car, and drove off.

When I pulled off at Fred's house, I barely remembered to turn off the ignition before I got out. I was on a mission, and I did not want anything to detract from it. I rang the doorbell, and Fred's mom answered.

"Why hello, Betty. How are you?" she said.

"I'm fine, where's Fred?"

"He's in his room upstairs, playing video games with some friends."

"Thank you," I said, and went past her to go to the stairs headed to his room.

"I like your outfit."

"Thank you," I said, not even looking back to acknowledge her.

When I reached Fred's room, I opened it without the courtesy of knocking. He was there, playing some video war game with four of his friends. That boy doesn't know the meaning of war, but he will very soon. The friends were surprised at my entrance, understandingly so, but I saw in Fred's eyes the emotion of stark, raving terror. His eyes will see a lot more things before I close them.

"Fred," I said, "I'm here to give you another whack across the head. No, I'm going to give you more than that. You graduated from a whack across the head to a full fledged whoopin'."

And still the man tries to bluff his way out of it. "Hey you can't just barge into my house and threaten me. And I don't think my friends will let you get away with that, right guys."

Apparently, his friends heard of me, because in response to Fred's bluster, they looked at each other, than at me. One guy spoke for all the guys when he held his hands up in surrender, indicating that he did not have a dog in this fight. Good, I wasn't in the mood for red tape.

I reached over and grabbed Fred by his right ear. He fussed, cussed, hollered and everything else when I pulled him out of the room with it. Before I left, I stopped, turned to his friends and asked, "You want to watch?"

His friends couldn't put their game controls down fast enough. In fact, I had to move quicker down the stairs, lest Fred and I got run over by his friends anxious to see his beating. We down the steps, through the foyer, out the front door to the front yard, where I threw Fred to the ground. His four friends sat on the front porch (I noticed they brought their drinks and snacks with them too), while some of the neighbors who noticed a woman pulling a grown man out into the front yard by his ear, stopped to see what was happening. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Fred's mother and father watch what was happening from their bedroom window, but when I looked up, the drapes closed suddenly. Well they can't be too obvious.

After I looked around, I looked down at Fred. He was slowly starting to rise to his feet, glancing at the increasing audience around us. You would think he knew he had seen this coming. You'd think he knew that he would have stood a better chance getting out of town and living with his cousin than to stay here. You would think he would be better off taking his chances with those muscle-bound bimbos out there looking for him than he would with me. Surely, by now he's heard from those three guys who attacked me last night. Still, he thinks he can talk his way out of it.

"Hey, I have connections," Fred said. "You say the word, and I can have just about anything you wanted. Come on, Betty, what do you want?"

"I want to see you bleed, Fred." I said. He recoiled in shock from my response.

"You've sent waves of people to my garage, to my home, to get even with me, just because of what you did on a date that never was! I was able to send them away. But those guys you sent after me last night really pushed it. And what really sent things over the edge was you offered them my cars after they were finished! One of my cars! The things I worked on and put a lot of pride into. I could barely keep myself from beating them to a pulp. And here you are, begging me to give you a slap on the wrist. Well, it's gone beyond that, even a simple whack to the head."

I pointed to the sun and continued.

"Take a good look at that sun, Fred. Take a good look at your neighbors and your neighborhood, because you're not going to see any of this for a long while."

"Hey Betty," he said, "Let me remind you that you are on my property, and I can have you arrested for trespassing. In fact, I'm going to call the cops right now."

He went behind me and started walking toward his house. My immediate reply was a spin kick with my right foot that sent my bare heel against the side of his head. Fred went flying across the lawn, rubbing the side of his face.

"You know what, Fred? I really don't care."

Then he ran.

I tackled him and dragged him by his left foot back to the front yard. He should also know by now that running away from me makes me even angrier. To solve that problem, I used a tactic from last night; I slammed my left elbow into his knee. I waited till he managed to get himself upright. He made a feeble attempt to swing at me a couple of times, which I either blocked or ducked, then delivered a simple one-two combination of punches that left him staggering.

As I came in for the kill, he started hobbling away from me. Will I need to break this man's legs to keep him from running from me? Then I watched him and saw that he wasn't heading toward an escape route, but toward the garage and garbage cans for a weapon. I walked over to see what he would pick up. He picked up a wooden two-by-four. If I wasn't so angry, I would be laughing. We use those same boards in Tae Kwon Do class!

He first used the board as a club, which wasn't too effective, because his mobility was hindered, thanks to my blow to his knee. After I delivered a side kick that landed on his hip, and slammed him against the side of his fathers car in the driveway, he started using the board as a shield. My prime opportunity came when he used the board to block his face. With a loud cry, I shot my right foot toward that board, breaking it in two, and slamming it against Fred's face. Fred flew again against the side of the car, then pitched forward face first onto the ground. My feat with my feet didn't go unnoticed by Fred's friends, who have been giving their own personal testimony during the fight.

"Ooooooo!"

"Wow!"

"How did she do that?"

"I told Fred to stop messing with that girl!"

Despite the board breaking, my blow was not meant to knock Fred out. That would be ending it too quick. I wanted to make it last. I grabbed Fred by his left arm and dragged him back to the front yard to finish this fight. I've only struck a few blows, and he's about as helpless as a newborn kitten. It shouldn't take me much longer to take him apart and finish him off.

When I replace a part on a car, or do a tune-up, I have a blueprint of that car in my head. I run a personal diagnostic as I examine the car, checking out what's wrong, what can be changed, what can be removed or replaced, etc. While I'm looking at Fred's body, in my mind I'm running a personal diagnostic of weak spots, pressure points, and joints. My initial plan was to hit a few of these places, then proceed to rearrange his face.

"Here it comes!" one of Fred's friends said.

"This is more exciting than professional wrestling!" another one said.

"That's because professional wrestling is fake, you moron!"

"I told him to leave her alone, but he just wouldn't listen . . ."

I waited for a moment for Fred to regain his senses, and then I stood over him. Fred started begging and pleading. He also tried to get himself up. With a grim smile on my face, I delivered a hatchet kick that sent the left heel of my bare foot against his left ribs. With a scream of agony, accompanied by some squirming, I knew I hit the spot just right. I sat down on his waist. I wanted free access to his busted ribs whenever I needed to send home my point.

I sent a blow to each of the underarm areas, affecting a few nerve clusters. Fred screamed in more horror, at not just his injured ribs, but the fact that he now can't move his arms to do anything about them.

I now look at Fred's face. It was already becoming one big bruise from that kick I gave earlier. His lips were swollen, his nose was bleeding, an eye was puffy, and from some traces of dirt and some indentations, you could see where my foot landed. I look at my fists, my feet, and my clothes, and I wasn't satisfied. There wasn't enough blood. So I then proceeded to use my fists to strike at his face and his upper body. I think I used every blow I know, plus a few of my own to soften him up. Somewhere during those hits I think he pleaded, but I didn't hear him. I stopped again and examined myself. There still wasn't enough blood.

"Please," a weak voice comes from beneath me.

"Huh?" I said, almost absentmindedly.

"Please stop," Fred said.

My response, more by reflex than anything, was a left jab right in the nose. Fred was no longer a human being to me. He was becoming more of an assignment in an auto shop class I had in high school. The assignment was how to dismantle this engine and solve the problem.

I look again at Fred's face. Now the blood was streaming freely, from his nose, his mouth, his cut on the forehead. I glance at my fists and see that they now have some of Fred's blood on them. However, after I see them, I now realize that it wasn't enough. I wanted more. So I strike a few more blows to his face, his ribs, and anywhere else that wasn't bruised or broken already. Then I stop myself again.

There was no need to check for blood anymore, because I now had plenty of that. I start glancing over all of Fred's upper body. I'm not worried about any reaction from his legs because he's now too weak to use them. Besides, I already damaged one knee, and I was looking for more places to break or take out of commission. I look at his collarbone. I haven't' touched that yet. Breaking it would put him in serious pain and a lengthy stay at the hospital. I see his throat, but unless I hit it just right, he would be gagging for awhile. The sides of the neck wouldn't do either. Maybe the temples ' no, I would have to hit them just right too, and he may not keep his head in that same position. So I look again at the face, specifically at the nose. It wasn't broken yet, and the right blow would dismantle this engine, shut it down, and solve the problem.

At what seems like the edge of my consciousness, I hear Fred's friends again.

"What's she doing?"

"She looks like she's going to hit him with -"

"Oh no, she's going to kill him!"

"What?

"We gotta stop her!"

I look at Fred's face, and nod to myself. Yeah, this will take care of it.

"Betty?" Again, the weak voice.

"Huh?" I said, barely acknowledging it came from Fred.

"Betty, please, I'm sorry, I won't bother you anymore. Please-"

"I know you won't," I said calmly, my voice detached, as I take my right hand and prepare to deliver a palm strike. This shouldn't take but a minute.

Again, I hear voices from far away.

"She's going to kill him, I tell you! We got to stop her!"

"She's just going to knock him out, that's all."

"Well, I'm not going to sit around and find out. The fight is over, let's go!"

"But, how are we going to stop her? I mean, you seen what she done to Fred-"

Wait a minute; that voice. Susan?

"Betty please, don't do it!"

I snap out of my trance and look around. I see Susan running in the yard towards me. Her fiancé, David, was not too far behind her. They had plans of going to dinner and a movie, but I guess she wanted to make sure I was alright. Then it hit me. I look at Fred's face, I look at the damage, and then I look at my right hand, still posed in a palm strike, headed right toward his face. I stand up quickly, as if I was shot, then I notice the blood on my hands.

Oh no, I wasn't going to- Oh no. My Lord, no. I suddenly became more scared at that point than I was at anything in my life. Susan approached me and asked me if I was all right. I remembered looking at her, telling I don't know, then I fell against her, shaking and crying. She embraced me, and told me everything was okay, but I wish I could believe that. All those years of training, of taking some of my martial art's philosophy and making it my own. All those years of working hard to become a black belt, not to mention everything I learned from every sermon and Sunday School lesson at church, and over the course of not even a day, I come within sixty seconds of performing the final solution on a man who can't even fight back. No, everything is not okay.

While all this is going on, there's still some commentary from the peanut gallery.

"Hey, is that her?"

"Who? The blonde?"

"Yeah, is she that kickboxing chick?"

"That has to be her, no question about it."

"How can you be sure?"

"Man, look at those legs! I'd hate to be on the receiving end of those!"

"Speak for yourself."

"Man, she is hot!"

Men. Well, not all men. While I'm recovering from, whatever, David went over to Fred and checked him out to see if he's okay. He notifies Susan that he's still in the land of the living and could use some medical attention. He helps him to his feet, and starts walking him towards the house. David looks up at Fred's friends who are just standing there, that is, standing there staring at Susan.

"Would you guys mind lending a hand here?" David said. The guys snap out of it, and assist him in bringing Fred in the house.

Susan in the meantime is walking me through the yard. She said she's going to take me to her place and get me cleaned up, then we'll go and talk about this over a cup of tea. As we walk to the car, we pass Fred's parents. I stop Susan for a moment and walk up to Fred's mother.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm afraid I let things get out of hand."

"It's not your fault, Betty. Fred drove you to this, and I think he finally learned his lesson. You are still welcome to this house anytime, please don't be a stranger."

"Thank you, I won't." I turn and walk towards Susan's car. David volunteered to drive my car home before we go elsewhere. The thought hit me, I drove an early-1960's Corvette over here. What guy wouldn't volunteer to "drive my car' home? Before I could say anything, he pulled away in a pile of dust.

"Does he know where he's going?" I said.

"Don't worry, we checked by your house before we came here," Susan replied. "We didn't tell your parents anything, just that we were looking for you. I remember you telling us the neighborhood Fred lived in, so it was just a matter of going down a few streets till we saw you, and just in time too."

As we got in her car, I said, "Susan, what has happened to me? Yesterday, I would never dream of hurting another person except in self-defense. Last night and not too long ago, I feel like I'm up there with Charles Manson, Billy the Kid, and, and, if I could think of a famous female murderer, I'd rank up there with her too."

"I'll answer all your questions for you as best I can, but right now, you need to sit back and relax. Fred is still with us for better or worse, so there's a good point to focus on. I assume you didn't give him irreparable injuries, so that's another bright side, and the biggest bright spot is he will never bother you again. He may be a jerk, but he's not insane."

I couldn't help but smile at that last remark. Susan noticed.

"See? It'll be all right. If you have something to smile about, that's something." She said.

We got to Susan's place, where I was able to wash all the mess from the evening's battle off of me, and she lent me a pair of her old sweats so I wouldn't have to go home in bloody clothes. David couldn't stop talking about my car and how well it handled. If it wasn't for the fact that he and Susan are engaged, I'd say he was in love ' with my car. If it wasn't for the fact that they were engaged, I'd be in love with him. When he finally stopped to draw a breath, he excused himself, saying that Susan and I have some things to discuss. He gave her a goodbye kiss, they reminded each other they love each other, and he left.

"That man is one in a million," I said. "I can't wait to have someone like that."

"Yes he is one in a million," Susan said. "And because he is only one in a million, that means you have to take your time and look. But the reward is worth the search. We can talk about men later. Let's talk about what happened to you."

While we sipped lemon tea, Susan related a similar experience that happened to her some time ago. Turned out there was some guy with money who wanted Susan to be his girl real bad. So he came up with some hare-brained scheme to break up the couple, and somehow make it so Susan will be with him. As a result, Susan beat up three of his hired muscle (who started the rumor that it was a gang who beat them up. I always thought that was strange since this town doesn't have any gangs), and came close to making puree out of this guy. The thing that stopped her from performing any bodily harm on the guy was what she heard from of our pastor's sermons about vengeance (unfortunately, I was out of town on that Sunday. Figures). She let him go, and her and David had an even stronger relationship than before.

"If you didn't stop me, my next possibility of a relationship would be during my parole," I said.

"Before you give me all the credit, you need to reserve some for yourself. If you were dead set - whoops, excuse the pun ' if you were going to put his lights out for good, I couldn't have stopped you. You wouldn't have hesitated if that's what you were going to do. For a black belt like yourself, you wouldn't have any problems sending that blow towards its mark."

"Yeah, that's true," I agreed.

"Well, the fact that you stopped yourself from ending a life and ruining your own, is I'm afraid the good news."

"That's the good news? What do you mean?"

"You're a female mechanic, and not only that, an excellent mechanic. But in this world, for a while at least, there will still be some people, men, and even women, who will see you only as a female who only thinks she's a mechanic. That you're masquerading in a role that was only meant for men. As long as you continue doing what you do, there will be people who will test you, and even try to stop you. I can relate to a lesser degree. I'm an accomplished kickboxer, have been for years. But there's still people who don't think I can punch or kick my way out of a wet paper bag, just because I'm a woman."

"But people see your matches on TV, how can they say otherwise?" I said.

"Some people will see what they want to see, even if the truth is right in front of them. I wish I can say you won't be fighting again, but judging from what I see, and what has transpired over the last few months, you gained a reputation. And some people are probably going to try to take that reputation away from you."

"What reputation would that be?"

"I don't know, probably something like being the toughest girl in town."

"You kidding? I don't want that. Even if I did, it wouldn't be true. You and the other girls do something like that for a living. Me, I'm just a simple mechanic. I fix cars, not make war."

"Betty, I could be wrong, but think about it. I fight women in a ring where there's a weight class, rules, rounds, and a bell. There are judges to make a decision on who won the fight. So far, you've fought men and women in your back yard, your garage, out in deserted parks, and even in somebody's front yard. Your opponents were your size, twice your size, and probably considered pretty good fighters. And you beat them all, some to the point where they'll probably run to the other side of the street if you're on the same sidewalk they are. I know they'll be some idiots who'll see you as a challenge, and try to make a name for themselves by attacking you. I know this has all been in self-defense, but like it or not, you made a reputation for yourself. Not as big as your expertise with cars, but a sizeable one nonetheless."

If this was high school, I might be flattered, but I'm an accomplished mechanic, businesswoman, and a college graduate. I don't have time for this nonsense.

"So what do I do?" I asked.

"Whenever possible, live peaceably with all men, to quote a scripture to you," Susan said. "For those who don't want to live peaceably, keep practicing. As you know, our group of friends represent a diverse field of the martial arts. What we have been doing is I guess you could call it a barter or trade-off of a particular feature of one's art for another. For instance, Velvet has taught me her judo throws in exchange for teaching her my shoulder high front kicks. Another friend taught me her Aikido wrist lock in exchange for my right jab. Got it? We'll be more than happy to trade with you."

"But I learned my Tae Kwon Do from Mistress Kim, and she hangs around with us. I don't have anything original to offer."

"But you do," Susan said. "The boxing skills that your dad taught you."

"But you already know how to box." I complained.

"I do, but Janelle, Velvet, and the others don't, so you have something to give them, and I'm sure there's a few things you'll want in return. Regarding your business, since I'm not a businesswoman, this idea might be a little impractical, but I think it's necessary."

"What's that?"

"Close your shop for a day and find an assistant. You're going to run yourself ragged."

"I had plans to do that."

"Well do it soon, like this week, the cars can wait."

It would be nice to say that I followed Susan's advice, gained an assistant, and things went happily ever after, but the story doesn't end there. Unfortunately, Susan was right. At least once every other week, some man or woman with a chip on their shoulder, wanting to prove themselves, or something goofy, wants to take my "reputation' away from me. As a result, I increased my weight training with my pistons, and I drive myself hard in my Tae Kwon Do classes. On top of that, my friends trade some valuable battle tips with me, and it turns out, I actually do have some stuff for them, since my advice had actually been tested in the "real world.' Every time I get together with them, they want to hear about the "fight of the week.' At least Fred didn't bother me anymore. In fact, I heard somewhere that he reformed, and is living a decent life, with a steady girlfriend. I'm glad I knocked some sense into his head, considering how many times I hit it.

But the best news was I found an assistant. Than in itself made for an interesting story. The following week, I had the garage closed Wednesday to nobody but those who wanted to apply for the job. It made for a long day. A quarter of the men and a few of the women had ideas for the position being something other than mechanical.

One man swaggered up to me, winked at me, and said, "Hire me, and I'll put the spark in your plugs, baby." I replied that if he didn't leave immediately, he wasn't going to have any plugs worth sparking.

The most bizarre case was a woman who came to my desk in a revealing, tight dress. While she sat in her chair, she subtly pulled her dress up almost to her panty line (to this day, I still wonder if she was even wearing any panties). During the interview, she wiggled, leaned forward to show me what she had, and answered every question in a soft, husky voice, and licked her lips like she finished eating a lollipop. When I asked her if she had any questions, she put her finger to the top of her dress, pulling it down a little (I don't think she was wearing a bra, either), while at the same time flashing me another shot at her leg, then leaned toward me and whispered, "And what are your fringe benefits?"

That was it. After I picked my jaw up off the floor, I said, "Your fringe benefits are for you to walk out that door in the next ten seconds while you still can under your own power. My doors don't swing that way, and I'm looking for someone who's suited to work on cars, not a street corner."

As the shocked woman walked out, I sat at my desk for a minute till I was able to bring my temper down to a manageable level. I understand I was working in a male-dominated field, but why do people get the idea that because I do so, I'm easy or gay? Fortunately, the majority of applicants were serious ones, but if I got another man or woman who thought they were God's gift to me, someone was going to get hurt, and not in the emotional sense either. Finally, I decided it was time to put my "reputation' to good advantage.

I walked out of the garage, and addressed the remaining number of prospects.

"Now hear this! I am looking for an assistant mechanic, as I specified in my newspaper ad a week ago. I am not looking for a "personal assistant.' If some of you folks are lonely, check the personal ads or join Matchmaker International. If you're interested in a job here, you are welcome to come in for an interview, but if I get propositioned one more time by any of you, that person will get a whack to the head. Do I make myself clear?"

Apparently I did, because almost half of the remaining number turned and left. I then came to the next applicant and welcomed them in.

The interviews lasted until the end of the day, and I didn't feel any closer to finding the right person. I was wondering if I have bitten off more than I could chew by doing this in one day. Just as I was about to call it a day, and consider my next move, there was a knock on the door of my office. I said come in, and a bubbly, petite woman bounced in with her resume and a broad smile on her face. She laid the resume on my desk, and sat in the chair in front of my desk.

"Hello, I am not too late, yes?" Her English was good, but from the accent, I ventured it a safe guess that she was not from around here.

"Your name is Irena Bresnev, and you are from Novosibirsk, Russia," I read on the resume. "You came a long way to apply for a job, didn't you?"

"On the contrary, I am where I need to be."

She then explained to me a brief capsule of her life story. She had worked on cars since she was a kid, taught by her father (sound familiar?), and knew them inside and out. She attended the local university to attain a business degree so she could open her own business, but she had a desire to work on American cars. She thought Russian cars weren't complex enough. She saved her money, came to America, and was directed here when she stated to people what she wanted to do for a living.

"For one who has been in America for a short time, you speak the language real well," I said.

"While I was in the university majoring in Business Management, I minored in English. I've been told that I speak English better than some of the natives here," Irena said.

"I can believe that."

"May I ask you a question? Are you "Barefoot Betty?'"

Having been asked this question often, I reply by putting my feet on top of my desk, where the questioner can get a good look at my callused, dirty soles.

"Does that answer your question?" I said.

"That's great!" Irena replied, then surprised me by propping her feet on my desk, showing soles that were as callused and dirty as mine.

"You're a barefooter too?"

"Yes, back where I live, a lot of us go barefoot all the time. When we were kids, we used to take dares on who could walk barefoot through snow the longest. I always won. When I told people I'm a mechanic, and they looked down and saw my feet, they thought I would fit perfect here."

In my business, you learn to follow your feelings on some things, and at the moment, I was feeling that this woman may be who I was looking for (maybe it was the lack of shoes that did it). To be sure though, I asked her a series of technical questions about the inner workings of some cars, how she would take care of some car problems, and some other questions a little too technical to go into here, unless you work on cars and trucks for a living. She knew her stuff, so she passed with flying colors. I had one more question that I felt was rather embarrassing to ask, but with recent events, I was afraid it would be necessary.

"Can you fight?" I asked, feeling pretty much like an idiot.

"Fight? Oh yes, I love to fight! You want to fight?" she said, sounding as bubbly as ever.

"No, no, no," I said, holding my hands up in surrender. "It's just that around here, there are some people who don't take too kindly to female mechanics, and every so often, we have someone who thinks they have to prove something by trying to beat me up. Did you say you love to fight?"

"Yes, yes," Irena said, with a strange gleam in her eye. "Where I live, it was a tough neighborhood, so I had to fight all the time. I was the toughest kid on my block." I noticed she said that with a touch of pride. "When I was in high school, I took up Combat Sambo-"

"Combat Sambo? What's that?"

"It's a martial art we have in Russia. It's like uh, judo over here. I did that for a while, then I stopped because I was tired of wearing shoes. But not before I became very good at it. To help make money for university, and to pay for my trip here, I participated in some cage fights."

"Cage fights?"

"Yes, that's when they put the two of you in a cage, and you both go at it until someone gives their submission, or are unconscious. I was undefeated in my matches before I came here. I miss fighting, but I like working on cars more."

"Well it looks like you came to the right place." I gave her a good look for a moment. Shoulder length brown hair, two inches shorter than I was at 5'5, and as far as I can tell with her baggy clothes, she seemed to have a petite figure. She did not hit me as a woman who at one time regularly beat the tar out of everybody on her street. Then again, I was once told, sometimes it was the sweet, gentle ones you have to look out for.

"Irena, the job is yours if you want it." I offer my hand to her. She took it and to my surprise, nearly crushed it in her grip. There was nothing dainty about this woman.

"Yes, I want the job very much, thank you. Is there a place I can put my tools?"

"Sure, there's an extra space over in the corner. You can bring them with you tomorrow."

"No, I brought them with me," Irena said. We both walked out the door, to her pickup truck. It was a nice looking truck, apparently one of the types they have in Russian.

"Like it?" She said. "I rebuilt it almost from scratch."

"You restore cars?"

"Yes. It's another one of my favorite things to do, besides fixing cars and fighting."

I then invited her over to the other side of my yard, where I kept my personal fleet of restored classic cars, along with the 1959 Cadillac convertible I was presently working on. I wasn't sure, but I could've sworn I saw her drooling when she saw the Mustang and the Thunderbird.

"Maybe we can rebuild a few cars," she said, being hopeful.

"Sounds great," I said. I was so impressed with whom I found (or who found me), that I introduced her to my parents, and had her stay for dinner. I think Irena and my dad talked shop for the rest of the evening; and probably all night if it wasn't for my mom and I reminding them that they had work in the morning.

Things were finally starting to look up. I had an assistant to help my business move along, and I finally rid myself of a longtime pest. Now if I could get rid of these people who keep challenging me, things would be great!

For any suggestions or questions, email me at shrewsberry@juno.com .